MAY I READ YOU A FEW LINES FROM PEPYS' DIARY? / Tom Andrews for Guy Davenport and Charles Wright The green is everywhere, over Hinksey Hill and Cumnor, through the path-lining trees of Addison's Walk, past stray deer and coughing cows, the full fern and sprawling leaves, and Greyhound Meadow on the River Cherwell, over which looms Magdalen Tower of Magdalen College, Oxford. A green greener than any particular. Here, in gray stone walls overlooking this green, CS. Lewis, the Christian Platonist, tutors, gives lectures, writes his letters, his sermons, his poems, his essays, presides over the Oxford Socratic Club and enjoys the verbal swordplay of his friends. Opposition, Barfield reminds him, is true friendship. Rain and more rain on the cobblewalks. The drops pocking the ponds, singing on the lawns, the girl in the sunbonnet blue a study in the curious watershyness of Americans as she ducks the drops under the arched umbrella of a stranger. I beg your parden! snorts the stranger. Bloody tourists. Here he has thought to use Aquinas as an epigraph for the second chapter of his book on pain. Would not the tidbit from Scotus do? No. Aquinas it will be. Nothing which implies contradiction falls under the omnipotence of God. Here he has read in the mornings, cherishing the old, scorning the new, the new critics, the new novelists, the new poets. I would like my love to die and the rain to be falling on the graveyard and on me walking the streets mourning the first and last to love me Chopin on the rickety piano. The Preludes. Mrs. The Missouri Review · 255 Kirkpatrick of Great Bookham of Surrey playing. Waves make one kind of music on rocks and another on sand and I don't know which of the two I'd rather have. Young Jack Lewis sitting at a teakwood desk writing Arthur Greeves, friend and defender of the homely. Of Tristram Shandy: It gives you the impression of an escaped lunatic's conversation while chasing his hat on a windy day. . . John Henry Cardinal Newman preached here. Church of St. Mary the Virgin, University Church. Lewis, reading glasses leaning into his broad nose, stands behind the pulpit, an absolutely attentive, overcrowded congregation before him. Outside, the autumnal red of the tall trees gleans the green of the lowcut lawns. He has stared through his windows in Magdalen at this red, this green, as he wrote these words. Looking now to the deer chewing cud on the grass, now to his notebook. And nothing, not even a gable or a spire, to remind me that I am in a town. Twaddle, he says to a student. Occam's razor to Plato's beard. A connection every undergraduate knows, or is laughed at. Jack, initially disappointed with his students, came to expect not so much. Do you see, now, why this is twaddle? There is so much to see, to feel, to learn. No, sir, not yet I don't. The rain on the roof, like a distant cock's crowing. How can it be that the rain falls as the sun shines? Well now, Jack says. What are we to do with you? An American reader writes him a long letter, in admiration for The Discarded Image. P.S. Are you the sibling of Wyndham Lewis, whom Eliot called more primitive yet more civilized than his contemporaries? Thank you indeed, Jack writes. My dear brother Warnie is, I'm afraid, every bit as primitive and as civilized as his contemporaries. Memory in Augustine. A rooting out, sleuthing the soul and the past for the directive hand, God's fingerprint. Christians are wrong, but all the rest are bores. Jack raises a wine glass to his lips but does not drink. Show me, he says to his brother Warnie, this machine, this motorcycle. The rough road rises and dips, shears the countryside in two. A 256 · The Missouri Review Tom Andrezos gold sun sets on the tilled green. When I set out I did not believe that Jesus Christ was the Son of God, but when we reached the zoo I did. 1914. A recurring dream. Philosophers, orderers and cataloguers...
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