versions of themselves. They might read nothing but novels about single women looking for mates in the big city, or tales of angry, disaffected young men who refuse to kowtow to the Man. But there’s a difference between wanting all stories you read to be about
you
in the most literal sense, and reading with the hope that you can find a bit of yourself in all stories, however alien they may seem on the surface. When our capacity to identify withers, so does a portion of our humanity. What Androcles (or Andy) sees when he comes across the wounded lion is not a dangerous beast, but a fellow creature in pain. Knowing how the thorn must hurt, he pulls it out and bandages the paw. Identification, or sympathy, is the birth of friendship.
To me, Lucy Pevensie was both an alter ego and a clear glass. Through her I could see the action of the first three Chronicles undistorted; her response to everything felt as fresh and natural as a breeze, because it was so close to my own. She is that rare creation, a character who is good without being a prig or a bore. Her virtues are a kind of reflex or second nature, and her spirit — sincere, blithe, playful, trusty, warm — is so in tune with Narnia itself, that she is almost instantly at home there.
Even today I find it hard to secure any perspective on her. “Lucy goes straight to your heart,” Neil Gaiman observes, and once she is ensconced there, it’s impossible to step far enough away from her to take her in. Upon first hearing the name of Aslan in the Beavers’ house, each of the four children has a distinct reaction. Edmund, naturally, feels horribly guilty, Peter feels brave, and Susan experiences an almost sensuous pleasure, “as if a delicious smell or some delightful strain of music had just floated by.” Lucy gets “the feeling you have when you wake up in the morning and realize that it is the beginning of the holidays or the beginning of summer.” Hers is a child’s excitement, “your” excitement, as the passage explicitly puts it. And the sensation Lewis describes, that flush of freedom on the first day of summer vacation: Is there any child who doesn’t know exactly how that feels? Or any adult who doesn’t try to recreate it during the pitifully brief holidays we get from our working lives?
As much as I wanted to be Lucy Pevensie, I also wanted to be her friend. I thought I’d do a much better job of it than Marjorie Preston, who makes a cameo appearance in
The Voyage of the Dawn Treader.
Alone in the magician’s house, reading her way through his big book of spells, Lucy finds herself tempted to use a charm that will “maketh beautiful her that uttereth it beyond the lot of mortals.” (This is a particularly appealing prospect given that in this department she feels overshadowed by Susan.) Although the illustrations accompanying the spell suggest that its results will be destructive, and Lucy’s own better judgment warns her against it, the only thing that really stops her is the sudden apparition of Aslan’s disapproving face. Turning the page, Lucy comes upon a charm that allows you to know what your friends think of you, and she resolves that this magic, at least, she ought to be able to try. After she recites the spell, the pictures on the page begin to move, showing her Marjorie, a friend from last term at school, bad-mouthing Lucy to a more popular girl.
Lucy has been sent into the magician’s house to search his book for an anti-invisibility spell; after she recites it, Aslan appears. He reproaches Lucy for spying on Marjorie, and tells her that her friend didn’t really mean what she said: “She is weak, but she loves you.” In spite of this, they both agree that Lucy will never be able to forget what she heard the girl say, and something precious has been lost. “Have I spoiled everything?” Lucy asks Aslan. “Do you mean we would have gone on being friends if it hadn’t been for this — and been really great friends — all our
you
in the most literal sense, and reading with the hope that you can find a bit of yourself in all stories, however alien they may seem on the surface. When our capacity to identify withers, so does a portion of our humanity. What Androcles (or Andy) sees when he comes across the wounded lion is not a dangerous beast, but a fellow creature in pain. Knowing how the thorn must hurt, he pulls it out and bandages the paw. Identification, or sympathy, is the birth of friendship.
To me, Lucy Pevensie was both an alter ego and a clear glass. Through her I could see the action of the first three Chronicles undistorted; her response to everything felt as fresh and natural as a breeze, because it was so close to my own. She is that rare creation, a character who is good without being a prig or a bore. Her virtues are a kind of reflex or second nature, and her spirit — sincere, blithe, playful, trusty, warm — is so in tune with Narnia itself, that she is almost instantly at home there.
Even today I find it hard to secure any perspective on her. “Lucy goes straight to your heart,” Neil Gaiman observes, and once she is ensconced there, it’s impossible to step far enough away from her to take her in. Upon first hearing the name of Aslan in the Beavers’ house, each of the four children has a distinct reaction. Edmund, naturally, feels horribly guilty, Peter feels brave, and Susan experiences an almost sensuous pleasure, “as if a delicious smell or some delightful strain of music had just floated by.” Lucy gets “the feeling you have when you wake up in the morning and realize that it is the beginning of the holidays or the beginning of summer.” Hers is a child’s excitement, “your” excitement, as the passage explicitly puts it. And the sensation Lewis describes, that flush of freedom on the first day of summer vacation: Is there any child who doesn’t know exactly how that feels? Or any adult who doesn’t try to recreate it during the pitifully brief holidays we get from our working lives?
As much as I wanted to be Lucy Pevensie, I also wanted to be her friend. I thought I’d do a much better job of it than Marjorie Preston, who makes a cameo appearance in
The Voyage of the Dawn Treader.
Alone in the magician’s house, reading her way through his big book of spells, Lucy finds herself tempted to use a charm that will “maketh beautiful her that uttereth it beyond the lot of mortals.” (This is a particularly appealing prospect given that in this department she feels overshadowed by Susan.) Although the illustrations accompanying the spell suggest that its results will be destructive, and Lucy’s own better judgment warns her against it, the only thing that really stops her is the sudden apparition of Aslan’s disapproving face. Turning the page, Lucy comes upon a charm that allows you to know what your friends think of you, and she resolves that this magic, at least, she ought to be able to try. After she recites the spell, the pictures on the page begin to move, showing her Marjorie, a friend from last term at school, bad-mouthing Lucy to a more popular girl.
Lucy has been sent into the magician’s house to search his book for an anti-invisibility spell; after she recites it, Aslan appears. He reproaches Lucy for spying on Marjorie, and tells her that her friend didn’t really mean what she said: “She is weak, but she loves you.” In spite of this, they both agree that Lucy will never be able to forget what she heard the girl say, and something precious has been lost. “Have I spoiled everything?” Lucy asks Aslan. “Do you mean we would have gone on being friends if it hadn’t been for this — and been really great friends — all our
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