Yesterday, I had occasion to talk with my students about a wonderful short essay “On Three Ways of Writing for Children” by C.S. Lewis. I love many things about this piece. For one thing, Lewis argues against critics of fantasy, writing that if children must face troubles in their lives, let them at least be armed with tales of heroes: “Since it is so likely that they will meet cruel enemies, let them at least have heard of brave knights and heroic courage. Otherwise you are making their destiny not brighter but darker” (216). I agree with this claim for fantasy’s use, and it makes books feel important. A fantastical adventure is not an escape; rather, it is a lesson and an inspiration.
The part of the essay that always gives me chills, though, is this:
It would be much truer to say that fairyland arouses a longing for he knows not what. It stirs and troubles him (to his lifelong enrichment) with the dim sense of something beyond his reach and, far from dulling or emptying the actual world, gives it a new dimension of depth. He does not despise real woods because he has read of enchanted woods: the reading makes all real woods a little enchanted. (214)
That literature has the power to make magic in the real world, even in the most mundane places, like wardrobes, is extraordinary. Lewis understood this, and I think children understand it.
I suppose it is my task in my Young Adult Fiction class and on this blog to help adults remember this magic. Or maybe many grown ups do remember but need permission to look into their wardrobes for other worlds, and softly, under their breaths, to whisper “Accio!” and to hope that it will summon something. And to recognize that the charm summons magic even when it doesn’t work, because we had enough faith to give it a try. In that longing lies the enchantment Lewis describes.