Many people know the 2008 movie The Secret of Moonacre, which is very loosely based on The Little White Horse by Elizabeth Goudge and, though a popular film, a less than adequate adaptation. But there has been another one: the series Moonacre from 1994, starring Camilla Power as Maria Merryweather, who is known to Friends of Narnia as Jill Pole in the BBC adaptation of The Silver Chair.
I have been looking for episodes of this series, but, until yesterday, never found one. Now I have found the first episode, uploaded on YouTube just a few weeks ago, and while it is far from perfect, it does have its own charm.
There is no Wiggins, which is a pity, and Maria has a cute but somehow misplaced little brother. Sir Benjamin is too gloomy and serious, and the parson shows up much too soon. Wrolf is a lovely wolfhound, though in all fairness it would have been quite a challenge for a television production from the 90s to include a lion, no matter if real or animated. We all know the wonderful animatronic Aslan from the BBC version of Narnia, but that worked so well because it is made quite clear that he is a lion—it would be odd indeed to call a visibly false lion a dog.
All those flaws aside, this first episode has really captured the mood of the story, the gothic novel turned fairy tale, through a curious orphan girl called Maria who grows as she helps others grow, just like Mary in The Secret Garden. The brightness and warmth, and the blue and the night, of the Sun Merryweathers and the Moon Merryweathers, is captured surprisingly well, and Maria’s room is gorgeous. But most of all, I am delighted by the inclusion of the parson and the village and its people, and by the way all characters, at least those seen so far, are treated with respect.
As it is, my suspicions that there is no truly adequate adaptation of The Little White Horse have now been confirmed, but I am glad to have learned that one is close enough in its beauty and charm.
I used to think it a pity that while The Little White Horse got two adaptations, Elizabeth Goudge’s other novels (safe for Green Dolphin Country) got none, and technically I still think so, but now I also think we really need another adaptation of The Little White Horse.
One that doesn’t suddenly disappear, and one that actually gets the book right.
I want a Christian (or in this respect very tolerant and sensible) director and screenwriter. No, seriously, I want it to be a piece of Christian media in the same way that The Chronicles of Narnia and The Lord of the Rings are. In a good way. And I mean in a really good and sensible way, not a sort of low budget production from a vaguely cult-ish American production firm nobody ever heard about and that also includes “Christian” things that were never intended by the author (that is, sadly, the downside of a certain kind of Christian media).
I want all the things included that don’t fit the mainstream Hollywood taste—the “middle aged love” as a Guardian article once called it, the blend of history and faith, the creative approach to magic, the way the backstory really works. I want all the characters to really look the way they were described in the book, I want a fat and jolly Benjamin, and a Puck- or Peter Pan-like Robin, I want the parson and the villagers, and Miss Heliotrope as a serious character, and Marmaduke Scarlet as a mysterious character, and all the little animals. I want the writers to understand that the characters are not separated into the categories “dark and mysterious” and “comic relief”. And I want Maria to be flawed and grow as a character.
I want all the odd and strange and silly aspects played straight. Wrolf is not a black dog who magically turns into a lion, he is a big golden lion that is somehow accepted by everyone to be a dog. The pink geraniums are a very, very important plot point. Maria’s spiritual connection to the very real boy Robin is an important part of their relationship.
I want the movie, from an aesthetic point of view, to be the ultimate dream fantasy of your average little girl. Pretty dresses, pony riding, lots of glorious food, flowers, enchanted rooms, the whole of it all. But I want the spiritual and emotional themes to be addressed in a very mature, serious manner, and with all the depth of the book. No toning down. None of that terrible business of children’s book adaptations making the tone darker and more mature, and the themes and values sillier and easier.
We need that. I think, in some ways this really might work better nowadays than just a few years ago: the cottagecore trend could help with the style, and older romantic couples are slowly and steadily becoming more acceptable again. A mini series might work better than a movie-they usually do—but I think a movie could capture it neatly, too.
Who is Bombadil? He is. According to his wife, Goldberry, and his creator, J. R. R. Tolkien, we are to be content with this. I, for one, am, because I trust the author about his own intentions and take his words as the final word about them.
But that doesn’t mean that I cannot have my own thoughts regarding such a particularly mysterious, and intriguing figure. And, as it is, I like Bombadil. Though most readers of Tolkien’s work will agree that he is a mystery, he is often found to be annoying, disruptive and, even, incongruous with the story’s style.
[…] and even in a mythical Age there must be some enigmas, as there always are. Tom Bombadil is one (intentionally).
The Letters of J. R. R. Tolkien, Letter #144
Tom Bombadil is an enigma, and that is just right as it is. There is no need to explain.
I suppose he has some importance as a ‘comment’ […] and he represents something that I feel important, though I would not be prepared to analyse the feeling precisely […] Ultimately only the victory of the West will allow Bombadil to continue, or even to survive. Nothing would be left for him in the world of Sauron.
The Letters of J. R. R. Tolkien, Letter #153
Bombadil is a comment, a symbol of what is good and ought to be preserved, and a thing for itself, outside the story. Yet, despite his apparent immunity to major powers, such as the Ring itself, he would not be left unaffected by the actual destruction of his environment. This is of consequence, but I will come to it later on.
A common theory about Tom Bombadil’s true identity is that he is supposed to be Eru Ilúvatar himself—or at least, his incarnation in Middle-earth. Tolkien denied this, and I don’t see why I or anyone should dispute this. It is an understandable theory, as Tom Bombadil is ancient, of incomparable power and nature, and inexplicable. But he is a being for himself and his surroundings, not involved or interested in the dealings the rest of the world and its peoples.
And I, personally, don’t think it would suit Tolkien to portray his creator of Arda in such a manner—though I don’t want to make assumptions about him in that regard, just as I don’t agree with those who argue that Bombadil would not fit Tolkien’s style and narrate, because what an author includes in his work suits his style and narrative. But, aside from Tolkien’s own denial of this particular theory, I have another reason for my own thoughts regarding it: Tom Bombadil is, though older than all of Arda, not necessarily older than anyone or anything else.
“Eldest, that’s what I am. Mark my words, my friends: Tom was here before the river and the trees; Tom remembers the first raindrop and the first acorn. He made paths before the Big People, and saw the Little People arriving. He was here before the Kings and the graves and the Barrow-wights. When the Elves passed westward, Tom was here already, before the seas were bent. He knew the dark under the stars when it was fearless—before the Dark Lord came from Outside.”
The Fellowship of the Ring
Tom Bombadil lived before the world was created, or, at least, before it was as one knew it. He knew a time before “the Dark Lord came from the Outside”, which might refer to Sauron or Morgoth, although it isn’t clear whether or not he lived before their rebellion, or even before their creation.
All this does not mean that Bombadil is the great creator himself. Nor does it mean that he is one of the Ainur, as is another popular theory. As the Maiar are not immune to the One Ring’s influence, and all Valar are named and known, I consider this unlikely. Nor would it be in accordance with his singularity, and his deep connection to the place his is in.
Now, there’s a few who like the idea of Tom being evil. But it doesn’t appear to be in his nature, it doesn’t agree with Tolkien’s own comments, and wouldn’t explain what made him so different from all other life in Middle-earth. A special evil being or spirit, of greater power than is otherwise known—yes, that might be an appealing idea if one finds a jolly old man to be too boring without a sinister background, but it would still leave us where we are. Who is he? What is he? Why is he—like that?—so other?
But one of those evil theories, that he is indeed the evil spirit of the forest, comes remarkably close to my own thoughts about him.
Tom Bombadil, as Goldberry said, “is”. He represents himself, and his right to be in the story does not need an explanation, nor an apology, as it was only up to the author to make this decision. He existed, in a way, before many a part of the Legendarium, and in that sense, his own explanation of himself and his great age might be even a nod to the reader. The Lord of the Rings is, after all, a fictional translation, and many a thing just a means for the reader from our world to understand the going-ons in another. Who knows what his counterpart in the “original” Red Book of Westmarch would be, with no Dutch doll to inspire the “translator”? But I should not dive too deep into a story which, in this sense, doesn’t exist.
Shoving the art of writing and the science of stories aside for a moment, and look at the story from within, as if it were real. What could explain Tom’s nature?
I assume my idea is not better than most. But it does appeal more to me. It has so for a while, though I just now got around to writing it down.
He is older than all that is known and seen in Middle-earth, though not likely older than anything else. He is not affected by the One Ring as any mortal (or even immortal) man or otherwise sentient being would be, yet “there would be nothing left for him” under Sauron’s rule. His wife is “the River-woman’s daughter” and likely a spirit. He claims the land does not belong to him, but to itself, yet it seems also inseparable from him. He is not evil, it does not appeal to him or have immediate power over him, yet it does also not agree with him. He is not precisely good, nor does he care much about the dealings and doings of other people and beings.
His demeanour and nature are lively, earthly, and robust. And thoroughly physical—although apparently a spirit or spiritual being, he is exceedingly bodily and alive, concerned first and foremost with his wife, his land, and his food and drink. So physical, indeed, that no supernatural power seems to appeal to him so much as to fall for it, so different is his own interest, his own nature incompatible with a thing such as the One Ring.
Now I get to the tricky part—because I don’t want to make any sort of assumption about J. R. R. Tolkien’s own ideas, nor would I claim my theory to be in accordance with his intentions. But I want to say what my own idea is anyway, and I like it, because, even though I don’t think that that’s what’s supposed to be true in the book, at least not directly so—not clearly, specifically, though possibly, just possibly, at the edge of it—it is beautifully fit, compatible so to speak, not really wrong.
Tom Bombadil is Middle-earth. In one way, or another. Its spirit, perhaps, or its man-like form, its protective soul, or a representative, for the reader only, or even for its inhabitants. He, as Verlyn Flieger said, does not desire to dominate, and hence cannot be dominated. I think that is, perhaps, because he dominates all that is in his nature to dominate, and is dominated by all that his in his nature to be dominated by. Not more, nor less.
He came to Middle-earth with its creation, and he is Middle-earth in all its states and stages. He does not want more than Middle-earth, but he cannot have less than Middle-earth, because it is he and he is it. He is. Mind you—not Arda, not Eä, only Middle-earth. But Middle-earth, in its entirety.
Made and sent by Eru, but not as a person, but as a place, he cannot exist in accordance with pure evil—there would be nothing left for him—but not intervening in the doings of and dealings of his own inhabitants. At least, not going further than nature itself, in the shape of a jolly old man, could or would do.
So much for my theory.
But in truth and canon and fact, Old Tom Bombadil is a merry fellow, bright blue his jacket is, and his boots are yellow. None has ever caught him yet, for Tom, he is the Master: His songs are stronger songs, and his feet are faster. That, I suppose, is all we ought to know.
I think there’s two very precise reasons for her unpopularity.
The first is, how real and relatable she is. She behaves very natural, very much like a child in her situation would, and she feels very, very real. I’ve seen many posts by people who don’t like her who actually admit they relate to her, and I am sure there are far, far more who wouldn’t realise it. Not all the things Jill says or does are good, but all of them are absolutely plausible things for her to do, given her situation and background and age.
Jill’s nine years old in The Silver Chair. She went to the same school as Eustace and appears to have been raised by parents with a similar mindset as the Scrubbs, though while Eustace was pampered, Jill was encouraged to be more tough and active. She was raised without any religion or definitive moral compass (no, I do not mean that being brought up secularly meant being raised without morals; I am only talking about the context of Jill’s life)—her premise was, in short, pretty much the same as Eustace’s. And definitely different to the Pevensies’.
Which brings me to the second reason (these two blend in each other). Jill didn’t behaved perfectly, and she better—but she never behaved bad enough to undergo a significant change/redemption, nor did she behave well enough to be liked for just who she is.
When all Pevensies went to Narnia they already were, in a way, rooted there. Lucy had met Tumnus, Edmund had been enchanted by the witch, and Tumnus had been caught. The Pevensies met the Beavers, and they learnt of Aslan. They all were raised with a strong sense of duty, and Lucy was naturally faithful and open. Edmund behaved badly lately, and was then enchanted, but he received the same upbringing as his siblings. Peter and Susan were significantly older and more mature than any of the other children who went to Narnia.
Eustace was also only nine years old, and he behaved horridly, but he had his cousins, at least, and he grew immensely through his experiences in Narnia, while being led by others, and finally meeting Aslan.
But Jill? Jill had and knew nothing. A nine year old girl, bullied in a boarding school. Coming, most likely, from a similar background as Eustace, but still behaving much friendlier and nicer than him. (Actually, really friendly. Jill was a nice girl. People like to claim she wasn’t but that’s not true.) A boy she vaguely knew to be rather nasty all of a sudden told her of a magical world. They suddenly went there. She showed off, he fell down. She met a lion and couldn’t know who He was, yet after a while trusted him. She had to.
And later on? She trusted those who were nice to her, she was arrogant, she forgot things she ought to remember. She did all the little bad things that all the other children did, but they were not so dramatically bad and then redeemed as they were with Eustace and Edmund, nor were they simply accepted as every person’s right to not be perfect all the time, as with the other three Pevensies.
(I am not going to bring up Caspian, Shasta/Cor, and Aravis—children who were brought up in Narnia have an entire different set of things to their advantage or disadvantage.)
Jill is kind and courageous and plucky, but she has to navigate through Narnia with very little help—because Eustace can’t really help her, and all the Narnians who do (or don’t) are complete strangers to her, and she has to decide whether to trust them or not, and whether to agree with them or not, and she often decides wrong.
Lucy has a natural gut feeling about that, which isn’t unrealistic, because some children really have that. But I am sure that Lucy knew just as well who to trust back in England. Jill never really learned how and who to trust, and knew that people could be horribly cruel. But she was also a very small child with the natural desire and ability to trust. So, yes, she trusted the wrong people for the very shallow reasons that a child with no proper guidance has for trusting people. She also disagreed with people she deservedly trusted (like Puddleglum) for the natural shallow reasons that most children just can’t bear negativity or restraint too long.
She had no spiritual love for Narnia, not at first (though it developed greatly later on) and simply had to make her way through a strange landscape, without being granted the sense of magic and hope and special-ness that the Pevensies and even Eustace, had he accepted it from the beginning, were granted.
Jill was also whiny and, though never unfriendly or rude, odd-mannered and impatient. She was always supposed to be tough, and she was physically tough, but she was also emotionally sensitive, and very lonely. She had no friends, and she had a lot of fear, and absolutely no sense of home or safety. She cried several times in the book, which is an absolutely normal thing, even when one isn’t a child, even when one isn’t in a terribly dangerous situation, even when one isn’t constantly worried about one’s own decisions. And even though Lewis went so far as to excuse her for it, which shouldn’t even be necessary, there’s many posts on the internet saying how annoying she is for crying.
And her behaviour is typical for someone who is naturally friendly, but never learned proper manners, and who has a limited self-control; combined with that very certain air of someone who is used to being picked out to be the disliked one, not bullied for a certain thing but chosen because she was, in some way, particularly suitable for being a victim. Both the original “reason” as well as the… results of such don’t leave a person so quickly. They stuck with Jill and it shows.
But there’s another thing to Jill. A constant inner struggle. Not short moments of temptation, no a shocking experience to better her. From the very moment she steps into Narnia, until the moment she leaves, she thinks about what she does wrong, what she does right, with a great deal of denial thrown in—a denial she is often conscious of, and often not. A way from good but flawed, to, well good but flawed, though better, and more aware, and very willing to learn. A gradual, seemingly insignificant development, which began very early, and never really ended, and of which she was aware, and with which she didn’t really know what to do, and which she didn’t always want—until she understood, at least a bit.
And I think all this makes it so difficult to like her for many people. She’s incredibly human without being an obvious heroine, or even an anti-heroine, she is constantly developing, with interruptions and regressions, but with no clear redemption arc of any sort, never stops making mistakes, never stops learning from them; she behaves like a normal child would do in a difficult situation, and she has to face very specific difficulties under very specific conditions which, in that way, never happened to any of the other children.
And yet—she learned to love Narnia and Aslan so much. She spent years in England just to prepare herself for another visit to Narnia. She learnt nothing of (religious) faith in England, yet proceeded to believe in Aslan as much as she could, she kept a loyalty to Narnia and made friends with the other Friends of Narnia for years after her visit there, even though her connections to Narnia were the loosest of all the children, and she had to wait for her return much longer than any of them (not counting Digory and Polly, of course!). She never gained as much of the insight as the Pevensies and Eustace, and Digory and Polly, had, never really had a relationship to it that resembled theirs, but stuck to Narnia with all her strength.
It’s late July, and most of this summer was, and will—and should—be spent at home. Fortunately, reading books is a fabulous way to let one’s imagination wander a bit further, and I thought I’d like to make a list of ten lovely summer reads. That is…ten or so, since I don’t keep strictly to stand-alones.
The Eliots of Damerosehay: The Bird in the Tree, The Herb of Grace—aka Pilgrim’s Inn—and The Heart of the Family by Elizabeth Goudge
A beautiful trilogy, although the second book can be (and often is) read as a stand-alone. The books take place over all seasons, and the second ends with a particularly glorious Christmas celebration, but there is an air of summer about them, throughout them; captivating and uplifting, they make wonderful companions for long days with misty mornings and sunny evenings.
(And as for Elizabeth Goudge, one of her Torminster books, called Henrietta’s House, is a pure high-summer-read, a delightful little gem for all ages.)
Over Sea, Under Stone by Susan Cooper, the first in The Dark is Rising Sequence
The only one that could be regarded as a beach read, being set during the summer holidays in Cornwall. But it’s an adventure, not only for children, that will make one feel instantly at home in the story, and the village of Trewissick. It’s also the first in a series of five, followed by winter in Buckinghamshire, spring in Cornwall, autumn in Wales, and finally, summer again, this time in Wales. A perfect blend of myths and nature.
Summer Lightning, a Blandings novel by P. G. Wodehouse
Wodehouse is a promise of hilarity, and his Blandings novels are particularly charming. This one in particular is pure bliss—false identities, tangled-up romances, scandalous memoirs, and prize-winning pigs are all one needs for lighter, but very intelligent reading. It doesn’t matter if you’ve read any other Blandings novel before, as it stands really well on its own, and it’s really great fun from start to finish.
Brideshead Revisited: The Sacred and Profane Memories of Captain Charles Ryder by Evelyn Waugh
In some ways an autumnal read, though of course no book is strictly bound to any seasons, and it is in its tone and theme similar to the aforementioned Eliot chronicles, which also feature the colder seasons very much, and yet draw much from summer. And Brideshead, you see, the book, and the Castle, have an air of summer about them, the first part in particular, the fruit always ripe…a warm breeze that returns with the final twitch upon the thread at the end of that glorious book.
The Voyage of the Dawn Treader by C. S. Lewis, the third, or fifth, of The Chronicles of Narnia
If you’ve been to Narnia before, and now wondering what book to read, you might consider to return for a while, and why not on such a beautiful ship? But in case you’ve never been to Narnia before, then let me assure you that the first time has an incredibly loveliness. No matter if you’ll start with The Magician’s Nephew—a lovely summer read by itself; and my favourite book in the world, or with The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe—a wonderful classic, perfect for summer as much as for Christmas—you will soon enough find yourself on deck of the Dawn Treader.
Miss Buncle’s Book by D. E. Stevenson
A novel about a woman who wrote a novel about a woman who wrote a novel…or something of that sort. A hilarious account of small town life, whimsical characters, and an endearing woman who is convinced that she’s got no imagination, and yet writes a bestseller which causes all sort of agitation. Miss Buncle’s Book can be read as a stand-alone, but it’s actually the first of a lovely trilogy, being followed by Miss Buncle Married and The Two Mrs Abbotts—and technically also the vaguely related The Four Graces. All of them make wonderfully light-hearted, yet intelligent entertainment. And it’s got one of the loveliest proposals I’ve ever read.
Anne of Green Gables by L. M. Montgomery
A classic tale, beloved by readers of all ages. Perfectly appropriate for summer as much as any season, with nature seen through Anne Shirley’s large grey eyes, translated into Lucy Maud Montgomery’s beautiful prose. No matter if you’re revisiting, or taking your first glimpse at Green Gables and Avonlea, you are sure to be enchanted by an imaginative, spirited girl with red hair, and her dream world on Prince Edward Island.
The Corinthian by Georgette Heyer
A perfectly silly romance novel, and a perfectly sweet adventure. Georgette Heyer means fun, and this tale of two people—a man strongly suspected of being a dandy, and the sweetest polly oliver—who travel the country together to avoid having their upcoming and unwanted marriages. Their journey is interrupted by nuisances such as theft, murder, and annoying acquaintances, and in the end, they both find that they have fallen in love with someone unexpected—that is, unexpected to them, though not to the reader.
Charmed Life by Diana Wynne Jones
The first Chrestomanci novel, and though one might argue that The Magicians of Caprona is an even sunnier read, and just as recommended for sure, it is, in my opinion, inherently summer-y. There’s castles and gardens and berries and tea and no school (though class, of course, but it’s magical and much better than school, and Cat doesn’t have to write with his right hand) and scrumping apples, and colourful dressing gowns, and even a dragon, so you see, one’s got to read it.
A Midsummer Night’s Dream by William Shakespeare
Technically not a book, but one can read it very well, and it naturally belongs in the summer. Madness and magic, love and lust, a good deal of humour, and beautiful language, all in a delightfully quick read. It’s always great fun, and a good place to start for those who are curious, but reluctant about reading Shakespeare. And even if one doesn’t get to see it on stage, it does let one’s imagination wander and conjure up enchanting pictures.
And remember: drink a lot of water, eat lots of fresh fruit, stay at home if you can, and always put on a mask in public.
One of the most enchanting little books one could possibly imagine!
Linnets & Valerians—also published as The Runaways—by Elizabeth Goudge is a perfect read for early summer; a children’s book for all ages, made of beautiful prose, everyday magic, and strawberry jam. I couldn’t recommend it more, and I couldn’t resist making a little playlist for it. It’s such a sweet, and such a beautiful novel, full of forests and flowers and animals and birds and bees and music and adventure. 🌿
The Problem of Susan is frequently talked about and usually boiled down to the same wrong arguments its built on, which have, by sensible and insightful readers, been disproven again and again, only for it all to be rolled up again.
I think of it myself, periodically, and often write a few words on the subject, sometimes respond to comments that bother me in particular. It still baffles me to find how many people still believe in the misconceptions, at best, and sheer lies, at worst, that have been made up on the subject.
Of course, the problem has to be tackled at the root. So many people argue about why Susan had been “kicked out” of Narnia, overlooking a simple fact that makes all these discussions completely superfluous: Susan has never been kicked out of Narnia. She has not been denied her way to the Real Narnia, she has not been sent anywhere else. Susan simply did not die. At least, not when her siblings did. Because she had dropped her faith in Narnia.
Of course this is usually equated with a general lack of religious faith, with which I cannot agree, and which is considered either a sign of her downfall or liberation. But it is altogether unclear in what religious context the Pevensies saw Narnia and Aslan—at the end of The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, at the very least, Lucy and Edmund had no definite idea of Aslan’s true identity. Unlike Eustace and Jill the Pevensies were raised Christian, not in any specially devout manner, it seems, just like normal British children of their time, and it’s difficult to say in what way they related their very tangible experiences in Narnia to more abstract religious teaching. It is not even unlikely that Susan, as the sensible, grown-up one of them, was a regular, though not particularly spiritual, church goer, while the other three might have considered, at first, nothing in our world as fulfilling as Narnia. This is just one possibility, and it could easily be entirely different, but the popular idea that Susan had all of a sudden become an atheist while her siblings were Good Little Christians is not in the least plausible, especially how one of Susan’s defining characteristics as she grew out of Narnia, was her desire to completely conform to society. Near The Last Battle, of course, the other Pevensies and Friends of Narniaknew who He was, but Susan had since then lost touch, and might even have considered the suggestion of their “old games” true nature to be blasphemous.
And then, of course, the old talk of Femininity and Sexuality. Both of these bother me dreadfully, in different ways each.
The Femininity, because it’s such an important argument used in the entirely wrong place. It’s odd how nowadays women are regularly shames for being feminine or liking feminine things, how in fiction, especially children’s’ fiction, all good examples for girls to look up to are supposed to reject all things associated with femininity—that is an extremely important problem to discuss, but in the case of Susan, it’s entirely out of place. This mindset usually employed by modern pseudo-feminists, and sadly way to common, but The Chronicles of Narnia were written in the 1950s and traditional femininity was encouraged. These books stand out today just as they did sixty years ago in the way girls of very different sorts are treated as absolute equals to each other and to the boys. That aside, Susan was shown to be very feminine and interested in beautiful things that are commonly associated with femininity in her years as a Queen of Narnia—the difference was just that she had not denied and forgotten what she knew to be true, nor had she valued these things above it.
And Sexuality—exclusively brought up by people who have misfortune of lacking all reading comprehension and common sense. The idea that nylons and lipsticks and invitations were a metaphor for sexuality is the most absurd idea imaginable. There is not the least indication, either from the books, nor from the historical context regarding the connotations of these things. They are wordly things, modern things, grown-up things, but by no means of a sexual nature. The specific use of these things are another reason why C. S. Lewis is so frequently accused of being sexist, but in the end, it was merely a rather simple collection of things that were popular at the time—were it Peter who had lost his faith in Narnia, then it might have been football and cars and wristwatches. And there was never an issue with these things to begin with—they were a symbol for the new life Susan had began, a grown-up life in the most shallow and immature way, in which there was no more room for Narnia and Aslan.
But what should be a much greater point of discussion is Susan’s deliberate rejection of Narnia. She might have considered it an old game—but what had made her do so? Was it her way of protecting herself from grief and worry, a way to cope, or was it out of sheer disinterest? Was it much less a personal thought of Susan, and an example for the way people so often teach themselves not to believe in what they know is real and true, a symbol of Lewis’ own overcome atheism?
But taking out all literary analysis and focusing only on Susan’s inner life and the unusual workings of Narnia, I have my own theory on the matter. It is so noticeable that Susan entirely forgot about the reality of Narnia, even though she had been there when she was far too old to forget about it. If she had been ten years younger, then she might have mixed up her vague memories with imagination and play. But Susan’s rejection of the experiences of her teenage years border on an actual amnesia, which indicates a deeper reason. The aforementioned grief and sorrow aside, I think there is a rather magical reason to it.
The Pevensies had forgotten about their life in England sometime during the fifteen years in which they ruled Narnia. They remembered Narnia upon their return, perhaps, because it seemed so much nearer to them, much more real and important, so they didn’t forget—whereas Susan, after some time, began to feel about Narnia the way they all had felt about England. It mattered less, and its magic, an effect perhaps drawn from the Wood between the Worlds, made her forget as though it was only imagined.
Of true importance is only this: Susan had, by the end of The Last Battle, still a long way ahead of her, and many sorrows and difficulties to face. But it was also an open way, and I am sure it led to the Real Narnia, in the end, despite all the curves and crossroads and dead ends it contained.
The Dark is Rising by Susan Cooper is a wonderful book, although it is not quite as well-known as it should be. It is the second, eponymous, volume in a remarkably beautiful middle-grade series, influenced by nature, season and local mythology.
This little playlist shall capture the atmosphere of this book, the snow and the wind, and the long dark nights of Christmastime. The protagonist, an eleven year old boy named Will Stanton, comes from a musical family, is an Anglican choir boy—a charmingly unusual trait for the hero of a fantasy novel!—and traditional Caroling and Wassailing, as well as the use of music as a means of magic, make an important theme.
The melodies of Greensleeves and Good King Wenceslas in particular are highlighted and involved in the story.
Here blows, despite, or maybe because of, my excitement for the beginning of Spring, the last, cold Winter wind.
John Rutter’s Suite Antique: Prelude
Fantasia on Greensleeves
In The Bleak Midwinter (Holst)
Blow, Blow Thou Winter Wind
The Sheep Beneath The Snow, The Cutty Wren, St. Stephen’s Day