“That astonishingly dull Narnia! I can’t imagine that any kid who read the books and wanted to go to Narnia — and I assume that any kid who’d read the books would want to go — ever wanted to go to that Narnia. As a kid, you edit out The Last Battle in a way because it’s not true.”
The perfected Narnia that Lucy and her friends arrive at can never actually be Narnia, because it is a place without conflict, without danger, without error, without change. Without any of those things, you can’t have a story. And without stories, there is no Narnia.
If you read enough, and C. S. Lewis certainly did that, you come to see that every great story contains elements — talking beasts and brave orphans, lonely girls and dying gods, trackless forests and perilous cities — that can and have been used and reused over and over again, without becoming exhausted. If anything, they grow denser, richer, more potent with each new telling. Every great storyteller contributes a little to this patina, but storytellers are human, and inevitably those contributions have flaws. Myths and stories are repositories of human desires and fears, which means that they contain our sexual anxieties, our preoccupation with status, and our xenophobia as well as our heroism, our generosity, and our curiosity. A perfect story is no more interesting or possible than a perfect human being.
A long time ago, I opened a book, and this is what I found inside: a whole new world. It isn’t the world I live in, although sometimes it looks a lot like it. Sometimes, though, it feels closest to my world when it doesn’t look like it at all. This world is enormous, yet it all fits inside an everyday object. I don’t have to keep everything I find there, but what I choose to take with me is more precious than anything I own, and there is always more where that came from. The world I found was inside a book, and then that world turned out to be made of even more books, each of which led to yet another world. It goes on forever and ever. At nine I thought I must get to Narnia or die. It would be a long time before I understood that I was already there.
Acknowledgments
Among the many people who shared their memories with me, I would like to thank in particular those individuals who agreed to be interviewed for this book: Wilanne Belden, Tiffany Lee Brown, Susanna Clarke, Jonathan Franzen, Neil Gaiman, and Pam Marks. The Marion E. Wade Center at Wheaton College proved invaluable in my research into the life of C. S. Lewis, especially the efforts of Laura Schmidt, archivist. In Headington, Oxfordshire, Chelsea Carter and Theresa Kipp of the C. S. Lewis Foundation gave me a welcoming and informative tour of the Kilns and its grounds, and in San Diego, Nancy Miller helped me reconnect with the past.
Several people took the time to discuss various aspects of this book with me. Thanks to Michael Chabon, John Clute, Richard Dienst, Jennifer Egan, Gavin Grant, Colin Greenland, P. J. Marks, Jennifer Reese, and Gary Wolfe. For general encouragement, I’m very grateful to Mignon Khargie, Jonathan Lethem, Daniel Mendelsohn, and Lorin Stein. Lydia Wills helped me wrestle a mass of ideas into coherence, and Michael Pietsch brought the whole thing into focus.
A few people provided inspiration without realizing it. One is Philip Pullman, whose intelligence, curiosity, and good humor are well worth emulating. Two more are Corinne and Desmond O’Hehir, who I hope will someday read about themselves here and forgive me for it. Special thanks to their parents, Leslie Kauffman and Andrew O’Hehir.
Laura Miller is a journalist and critic. She is a cofounder of Salon.com, where she is currently a staff writer, and is the editor of The Salon.com Readers Guide to Contemporary Authors. A regular contributor to the New York Times Book Review, her work has also appeared in The New Yorker, the Los Angeles Times, Time, and other publications. She lives in New York.