British author and scholar C.S. Lewis (1898-1963) once quipped that “you couldn’t get [him] a cup of tea large enough or a book long enough to suit [him].” Lewis was not only a prolific writer; he was also a voracious reader. With his formidable literary appetite and formal training in Literature at Oxford, he became a skilled critic with the ability even to analyze the art of criticism. In this collection of essays, Lewis takes out his scalpel and applies his gift for criticism to famous (and at the time, contemporary, works) like 1984, Animal Farm, and The Lord of the Rings. He also reflects on the joys of reading stories for Story’s sake, takes on persistent misunderstandings about children’s literature (and about children themselves), and argues that many critics are actually quite bad at criticizing.

Professor Tolkien has succeeded in creating something that retains the most evocative qualities of ancient myths but is also wholly original. The Lord of the Rings has the weightiness of the ancient—even the primordial—but carries the freshness of artistic innovation. Critics rightly note that there’s nothing quite like it. In an era of epidemic anti-romanticism, Tolkien has unleashed a heroic romance that is unabashedly epic and courageous. In doing so, he shows himself an exemplar of what he himself has called “sub-creators,” those who create worlds in imitation of their Creator.

This sub-creator par excellence has created a world like no other, and one that feels more “real” than our own. Whether you wander through the Shire, across the Plains of Rohan, or are fortunate enough to stumble into an elven realm like Lothlorien, each place erupts with the weightiness of culture and history. Professor Tolkien has not only created a world, but given it its own mythology, theology, and different races of creatures, each with their own rich history and language.

The names of characters and places themselves hold tremendous richness. They evoke a variety of sentiments, from regal and lofty (Boromir, Elendil) to charmingly homey (the Shire, the South Farthing); from brooding and hideous (Barad Dur, Mirkwood) to otherworldly and majestic (Galadriel, Lothlorien).

The most common critique critics have leveled at The Lord of the Rings, oneis that Tolkien’s mythology is too black and white, that the boundary lines between good and evil are too starkly delineated. Professor Tolkien has made tension between good and evil the foundation of his world, but neither good nor evil nestles so comfortably in the heart of a character that it can’t be dislodged by the opposing force. Until we get to the end of the story, Smeagol retains glimmers of deep goodness and devotion. Boromir’s fiercest struggle against evil is a war waged in his own chest. Motives are often mixed, even among those fighting most passionately against Sauron. Let’s not assume that just because there is white and black on a chess board, that all pieces are confined to only black or white squares. The bishop is the only piece that stays on his color.

If someone insisted on drawing out a guiding moral from The Lord of the Rings, it would be a call to the courage that sits, sometimes precariously, between glib optimism and paralyzed pessimism. There is anguish in that wilderness between them, and there’s no doubt that anguish is the central note throughout the book. Fantasy can connote escapism, but there is hardly anything more real or confrontational than a story of growing darkness reaching out to cover the world and snuff out what’s vulnerable and innocent. At its finest, myth pulls away the “veil of familiarity” that blocks us from recognizing the rich meaning hidden in our everyday lives. Middle Earth doesn’t take us away from Earth—it reacquaints us with it.

To put it mildly, The Lord of the Rings is a masterpiece. The world and the story are suffused with beauty that will break your heart and leave you grateful they did.

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It seems there are 10 people who have read 1984 for every one person who has read Animal Farm. At their core, both stories are frank and acrid treatments of totalitarianism, but one has proven far more popular. It is perplexing (and even disheartening) that 1984 would be the work to so arrest the public’s attention. It is an interesting but defective book, whereas Animal Farm is pure genius.

Animal Farm does far more with far less. 1984 is longer than it needs to be. Orwell devotes inordinate time and attention to themes that don’t relate to the book’s overall effect. The State’s anti-sexuality propaganda is a prime example. It could have been the case that the puppeteers behind Orwell’s State have a strong aversion to sexuality, but Orwell gives us no sign that the anti-sex propaganda stems from State leaders’ hatred of sex. This all raises the question of whether the anti-sex propaganda shows us what totalitarianism is like, or what Orwell’s personal antipathies are like.

Lewis’ hunch is that Orwell grew up amidst a swell of so-called “anti-Puritanism,” and saw an opportunity to take aim at a specter of his youth. Not only are these figures in 1984 totalitarians, but they are totalitarians who hate sex—just the kind of people Orwell might especially love to hate. While depicting evils related to totalitarianism he hates so much, he throws in other elements that he considers especially vile-–even if they have little to do with totalitarianism or the totalitarians implementing those policies. The main problem with the book’s erotic passages is not “bad morals” so much as it presents a red herring, drawing the reader’s attention to evils that are not inherently totalitarian—but which the author personally hates and wants to smuggle in nonetheless. This is just one of many examples of the author’s psychology getting in the way of his artistry.

By contrast, Animal Farm is just about perfect. Orwell makes every line count. The line “All animals are equal but some are more equal than others” cuts to the heart of things with greater incisiveness than 1984 in its entirety. He says no more and no less than what needs to be said.

Paradoxically, the animals in the Farm are far more human and believable than the hero and heroine in 1984. When we read about this small society of animals, we strangely feel we are in an actual place. These images of gluttonous pigs, hostile hounds, and noble steeds remind us of encounters we’ve had with people—of the best and worst that erupts from humanity. The story is mythological in the most elevated sense of the word.  

Children have sometimes been described (and often been treated) as “a different breed” from adults. One area where this thinking shows up is in children’s literature—a mushrooming industry built on the assumption that children’s tastes are a phase that they eventually outgrow and (as society insinuates) should be embarrassed to return to. 

But this notion fails to square with the fact that children have all kinds of literary preferences—their likes and dislikes are just as varied as our own. Just like adults, some children love sensational, epic stories, while others prefer informational books. Still others like a variety of texts. Like some adults, there are some children who avoid books altogether if they can find something else they consider more diverting.  

If a book read in childhood is not worth rereading as an adult, it was not worth reading in childhood in the first place. Children and adults differ in experience and information, not fundamentally in essence. According to many in modern society, the stories full of adventure and wonder are a childish indulgence that have no place in “the real world.” But if you look at the mythologies and epics of people throughout the world and across history, adventure and wonder were considered the realest things at the heart of life itself. These tales were not considered for children, but for humans.

In fact, children were never considered the primary audience for fairy tales until recently. Fairy tales were a formal feature of Louis XIV’s court, which delighted its (adult) listeners. It has only been recently in our history that adult sensibilities have shifted away from those “old stories” and relegated them to the nursery. It’s not strange that many children like fairy tales. Those children that love fairy stories are very much aligned with what people across the ages have been drawn to. 

What is truly strange is that today’s adults tend to be dismissive of such tales. It’s stranger still that many children have persisted in their love of fairy tales despite a cultural current so decidedly against such stories. Children are not the strange ones—we are. Being dismissive of fairy tales because children enjoy them is about as silly as rejecting a good night’s sleep because children are sleeping through the night.

In a word, it is a mistake to conflate fairy tales and “children’s stories.” The tastes of children are not childish, but very human—more human than those of adults, who are so susceptible to the latest literary fads and movements. The power of the Fantastic and Mythical is available to anyone open to being put under its spell. Perhaps the strongest case for the power of these stories is the strength of the reactions it provokes—either of deep anger and suspicion or of delight and wonder. No one is neutral about it.

The more you hate something, the worse you will be at explaining what that thing is. You will care less about making distinctions and lose your sense of nuance. Anything that resembles that thing you hate, you will cynically lump in with all other things that remind you of it.

We see this in the realm of science fiction. Most reviews are unhelpful because instead of condemning the book itself, they show us the critics’ dislike of a whole genre. Criticism of a specific work devolves into a criticism of the kind in general to which the work belongs.

Lewis doesn’t care for detective stories. He knows that if he tried to review such a story, it would be rubbish because all detective stories seem the same to him. Someone who knows what it is like to experience the joy of a good detective story is far better positioned to explain why a new detective novel evoked that joy or why it might have failed to.

Never forget that it is a risky thing to write about the things you hate. When a visceral hate rises up, don’t take it as an invitation to unleash your venom on a subject. Take that emotion as a caution signal, and a reminder to tread lightly or even pass over the subject in silence.

When critics discuss a book, they tend to focus on style, plot, the development of characters, or any number of dimensions of a story, but most pass over the Story itself. Besides Aristotle from antiquity, Boccaccio from the early Renaissance, and Carl Jung from the modern era (as well as a handful of their followers), no one has given Story itself serious attention. Often, critics look at what the piece is hoping to accomplish, treating Story as a means to some other end, like societal critique or moralizing. Story is rarely entered into as an end in itself.

Many view enjoyment of story for its own sake as a merely childish pursuit. It is not. Others have misconceptions regarding the kind of enjoyment Story for its own sake brings. Both of these misunderstandings need our attention.

When reading a book purely for the story, there are two distinct ways in which people enjoy it. Some people enjoy the moment of danger and suspense, breathlessly wondering what will happen next. Whether it’s an outlaw sneaking up on a policeman, or a burglar breaking into a home, or an ancient hero in a swordfight with his rival, the enjoyment resides in the nerve-rattling moments of uncertainty. Another, subtler way of enjoying the story comes less from the particular moment of action and more from seeing how that moment is situated in the whole world to which it’s connected.

The difference in these two types of enjoyment and excitement come out in The Three Musketeers. Though many consider this to be the most exciting story ever written, Lewis confesses that he doesn’t like it at all. For him, the story offers no sense of the atmosphere in which the constant flurry of daring deeds takes place. There’s no mention of countryside or weather, no sense of the significance of places. London and Paris are effectively the same place beyond being a new location for more daring feats. Lewis chooses to take others at their word that The Three Musketeers is, in fact, a wonderful story.

The dilemma of enjoying a story for the rush of excitement is that the level of excitement is what becomes paramount. The higher the stakes, the riskier the endeavor, the more daring the feat, the better. But when we enjoy a book primarily for the excitement, it is usually only good for one read. It will never deliver the same thrill as the first time. Not only will we not enjoy it as much the second time, but we lose touch with the different kinds of danger that exist.

When we appreciate the world and atmosphere surrounding that moment, we come to appreciate different kinds of danger, not just differing intensities. For example, there’s a fear that borders on awe, like a soldier hearing guns thundering around him for the first time. Then there’s the fear that seems like disgust, as when you find a spider in your bedsheets. This is different from the tense and focused fear of taming a stallion or navigating a ferocious storm. Different from all these is the fear that overcomes a patient when the doctor gives a fatal prognosis. That’s more of a crushing, deadening kind of fear. If you were to imagine a musical score to accompany each of these fearful scenes, the music would sound very different for each.

Could it be that the thrilling and titillating aspects of excitement subvert a subtler form of imaginative enjoyment? This subtler form requires us to sit with a situation or with the entirety of the atmosphere long enough to let the weight and meaning settle into your soul.