Source of book: I own this.
A few years back, my wife got me a beautiful hardback set of C. S. Lewis’ space trilogy. I read the first two many, many years ago - as a child then teen - but decided to re-read them as a middle aged adult. And also read the final book eventually, which I never read. (Mostly because I didn’t own it.)
You can read my post about the first book, Out of the Silent Planet, from five years ago. I noted then that I found that I had either forgotten - or more likely missed - significant ideas from that book. Very likely some of that was age, but others were because I had learned more about historical theology (some of which Lewis references) and had changed my own views of God over time.
For those unfamiliar with the premise of Perelandra, professor Elwin Ransom, the hero of the series, is transported by the Eldil (angels, essentially) to Perelandra (Venus), for some unknown task. There, he finds a watery paradise with floating islands, and meets the Lady, an Eve figure. (The King - Adam - is separated from them, and is not seen until near the end.) After conversing with her for a while, they see an object crash into the sea - an object that turns out to be the spaceship of Edward Weston, the villain of the previous book. He has come to Perelandra to...well, something about spreading ideas and helping evolution along or something.
What it really turns out is that Weston has been in contact with some, um, voices, who wish to use him for this purpose. And, as it soon becomes clear, he is the form the “serpent” will take to tempt the new Eve into sinning. Ransom has been sent there as the emissary of God, essentially, to prevent (if possible), the Fall of a new race on a new planet.
As one might expect, this is a book filled with multiple layers of allegory and theology, as well as great philosophical questions. For example, we tend to think of the Temptation of Adam and Eve as a single event, but Lewis envisions it as a never-ending battle that can only end in failure...eventually. And then, the logical corresponding question: could one save mankind by eliminating the temptor? As Ransom speculates, what if an elephant had stepped on the serpent? So yes, the book is a look at the nature of sin, the circumstances of the Fall, and the “what ifs” that might have been.
It is also a beautifully written book, imaginative and thoughtful, and by no means a simplistic homily.
While I still found myself arguing with Lewis a few times in Perelandra, I actually found that this book lacked most of the grating moments of the first one. Just to name a few, the subconscious colonialist ideas in the first book were missing, and instead Lewis pushed back hard against colonialist and racist ideas. One reason for this might be that Perelandra was written during World War Two, and seems to have had anti-fascism as a significant theme. Not being entirely aware of the exact date of writing when I read it before, I hadn’t considered that Ransom’s solution to the Un-Man/Weston is a variation on “what if someone had killed Hitler before the war?”
My primary quibbles with Lewis instead stem from one theological issue and one cultural issue. On the theological side, he is pretty conservative in his view of the Fall, viewing it as violation of a command, full stop. He does, to be fair, explore the question of the “knowledge of good and evil” at length, which is a lot more than most Evangelicals ever do. But it ultimately seems to come back to the old dichotomy of obedience of a seemingly arbitrary rule versus using one’s intellect to determine behavior. I get that this is generally the historical belief on this point, but I also find it deeply unsatisfying for two reasons. First, the idea that obedience to rules is the central point of our relationship to God is problematic for me. As is the claim that the relationship was broken because of the failure to unquestioningly obey. Second, and it is related, this is the exact idea that has enabled abusive theology for centuries, whether directed toward enslaved persons or toward impoverished and subjugated peoples. Or women, or LGBTQ people. The idea of religion as being fundamentally about hierarchy and control is arguably the worst thing ever to happen to religion - and human culture.
I particularly disliked the insistence on the command being inexplicable and seemingly arbitrary. As the Lady puts it, “He is not telling me why He has forbidden it to us.” My own view, although I do not hold it with a high degree of confidence, is that the Fall is more about a premature development of moral consciousness which humans then immediately directed into violence against other humans. (In essence, I see the story of the Fall all the way through the Flood as one story of ever-escalating violence.)
The cultural issue is a longstanding quibble with Lewis: he believes in fairly rigid gender roles, and at least a sort of patriarchy. That’s not unusual for a man of his era, but it still grates at times. In this book, the two moments that bothered me the most were the way the Lady (essentially Eve) behaves more like the stereotyped Victorian female ideal - naive, gentle, trusting, subservient - than like a real woman. I know Lewis is going for some pre-Fall childlikeness, but it is telling that only the woman appears to Ransom in this state. We only meet the man when he has come into his full masculine power and glory. Yes, that bothered me a bit.
The other passage was near the end, when Lewis riffs on Femininity and Masculinity, which he thinks are universal polar opposites that extend far beyond biological sex into the very nature of the universe. (That is why, despite not having sex organs, the Oyarsas for Mars and Venus are male and female respectively in some deeper way.) This is literally Gender Essentialism writ large.
So, those are the bits that bothered me about Lewis’ beliefs.
That said, I was reminded why I loved Perelandra more than Out of the Silent Planet - Lewis’ world and the way he writes it are beyond beautiful. Malacandra (Mars) is fascinating, but somehow Lewis writes about Perelandra (Venus) at a different level of writing and thinking.
I love too how Lewis incorporates evolution and an old (and temporary) universe into his world-building. Myth, science, theology, imagination - it all fits together seamlessly because it isn’t rigid. Ransom observes pre-human aquatic primates (for lack of a better word) and speculates whether the Adam and Eve of Perelandra evolved from them. The creatures of the mythical depths of the earth exist in real life, and this does not upset either the theology or the science. A natural life/death cycle is assumed, with sentient beings merely transitioning to a different plane of existence after death. Lewis considers the possibilities that some of the more intelligent animals might evolve sentience. It is so refreshing to experience a theology that isn’t threatened by science, myth, or ideas outside of the orthodoxy. I don’t always agree with Lewis, but still find him delightful for that reason.
One thing that I think I “got” a lot more this time is the point of the long speeches of both Weston, and later, the Un-Man that takes over his body. (Essentially a demon that appropriates Weston’s body after Weston invites him in.) Weston, as the sophist academic, is recognizable to me as following (more or less) the school of Henri Bergson. That was a bit of a surprise, as Lewis was actually greatly influenced by Bergson, as is obvious from his ramblings about time and change in this book. Weston is, essentially, so very close to the pre-Christian Lewis, and not that far off from the Christian Lewis that I am still pondering exactly what Lewis was doing with the Weston character. There is a crucial difference, though, between Weston and Bergson/Lewis. Weston has become fully syncretic, equating God and the Devil with the same animating force. And, maybe more important than that, Weston remains every bit as egotistical as he was back in the first book, when he was a naked colonialist and imperialist. He is still concerned with “utility” - that is, at some level, exploitation by the human race. Rather than, as he reflects, feeling the necessity of the “liquidation of the non-human inhabitants of Malacandra which was, of course, the necessary preliminary to its occupation by our own species,” he transfers that imperialistic impulse to the realm of ideas. And, for that matter, he remains completely amoral, which I think was Lewis’ main point, not a takedown of Bergson.
The Un-Man, in contrast, uses Weston’s speaking style, but his substance is a lot different. He appeals to vanity, to ego, to intellect, and so on, as one would expect a tempter to do. The means isn’t important compared to the end. The arguments are, to a degree, inconsistent - the Un-Man is, as we lawyers say about arguments, “throwing spaghetti against the wall to see what sticks.”
Part of Lewis’ brilliance in both the Weston and Un-Man monologues is how he uses almost-truth so well. It is a bit of a cliche in Evangelical circles that the Devil doesn’t tell lies, he tells half-truths, and we tend to lose sight of the power of this. (And also, we forget that the Devil also tells big lies - and that it is all too easy to swallow those too. See: Donald Trump and Q-Anon.) But Lewis has both say so many things that are true. Ransom finds himself mostly agreeing, which is why he struggles to answer the arguments effectively. A fundamentalist would have no difficulty doing so, of course, but would also be profoundly disconnected from the actual argument, and thus even less effective.
I think the crux of what goes wrong is that Weston and the Un-Man make everything about self. Ego, vanity, desire for praise and greatness. It is this selfishness that turns everything evil, not the rest of it.
As a final observation before I get into some quotes, the last chapter, with its gorgeous description of the “great dance,” the workings of the universe and God together, is just amazing. It felt like hearing one of the great symphonies - and indeed that was what it was describing. It was the music of the spheres, the gesamtkunstwerk that Wagner aspired to, the all-encompassing art and love and God and humanity and transcendence. Lewis got it. He understood. He may have failed to overcome his sexism and other blind spots, but at some level, he had a vision of the Divine that really resonates with me.
In contrast to this is the moment, before the final battle between Ransom and the Un-Man, where the real Weston seems to break through briefly, and expresses his terror of what can best be described as hell. But not hell like Evangelicals believe in. Weston describes life as a thin rind, as of a fruit. We slowly descend through that rind, and fall into the interior when we die, and in that interior is nothing good, and no presence of God. (Even though Weston does not believe in God.) It is a fantastic picture, actually, and the idea of that barrier of separation from the transcendent is in its way terrifying. This is not mere oblivion, but the loss of all that is good. Certainly, this is an intriguing metaphor for the Christian belief that ultimate death is separation from God, not oblivion as such. But it also is an illustration of why the old creeds mention Christ’s descent into Hell to free the captives. Contrary to Weston’s claim, there is no barrier that cannot be crossed. In Lewis’ view, the Hell Weston envisions is locked on the inside - not the outside.
These two final pictures are so memorably drawn that it is difficult to think of anything elsewhere in literature that is quite as striking on the subject of eternity and transcendence. I remembered a bit about these from 25 years ago, but not quite the power that they have to me now.
In addition to a few things I mentioned above, some lines really stood out. For example, after Weston accuses Ransom of being frightened by reality, Ransom has an astute response.
“What proof have you that you are being guided or supported by anything except your own individual mind and other people’s books?”
Weston responds that he essentially has some unknown voice speaking to him - the demon which will soon possess him completely. But I want to circle back to Ransom’s question. Because I think it is entirely relevant to my own experience. I have myself asked it many times. Certainly, I try my best to think about whether I am merely parroting an opinion from a book (or my tribe), or if I have really thought about it.
But I think it goes deeper here. When we purport to speak for God, we must always ask ourselves if we are substituting our own mind or the opinions of the teachers we follow. I think in the case of the cultural baggage that has so damaged me and mine over the years, it was much more a case of people hearing the “voice of god” telling them to dress a certain way, do this performance of “femininity” or whatever - and it wasn’t God, it was their own preferences and the teachings of the false prophets they followed. This is really the essence of “taking the lord’s name in vain” - claiming to speak for God where they have not spoken. It is a warning to be careful about that level of certainty. For the most part, the best we can say is “I have thought about things, and think that this is more likely than not the best for me and most helpful to others.” And then be willing to change as the evidence requires. This is part of the contrast between Weston and Ransom. Weston is so damned sure of himself, so convinced that he is right. Ransom is subject to crippling doubts, to questioning his own beliefs, to misgivings about his abilities. And this allows him to learn, grow, empathize, and adapt.
Another line really illustrates Weston’s certainty. He has admitted - proudly - that he admits of no ethical obstacles to his goals. He would kill Ransom, sell England to the Germans, lie and cheat without guilt. The end justifies every possible means.
“You are still wedded to your conventionalities, still dealing in abstractions. Can you not even conceive a total commitment - a commitment to something which utterly overrides all our petty ethical pigeon-holes?”
Although pretty universal, I think Lewis is taking a definite dig at the Nazis here. The supposedly noble goal of “patriotism” was allowed to override all those pesky ethical ideas - the goal justified a world war, a genocide, and every other attrocity. I also think this is so relevant to the Religious Right today - it is shocking how every single ethical idea I was raised with has fallen away in the Trump Era, with only raw power (and racism) left. Weston’s words are chillingly apropos.
Weston is amoral enough, but he is still human. When he is possessed and becomes the Un-Man, he is able to terrify Ransom because of his lack of dividedness. I thought Lewis captured this well.
It looked at Ransom in silence and at last began to smile. We have all often spoken - Ransom himself had often spoken - of a devilish smile. Now he realized that he had never taken the words seriously. The smile was not bitter, nor raging, nor, in an ordinary sense, sinister; it was not even mocking. It seemed to summon Ransom, with horrible naivete of welcome, into the world of its own pleasures, as if all men were at one in those pleasures, as if they were the most natural thing in the world and no dispute could ever have occurred about them. It was not furtive, nor ashamed, it had nothing of the conspirator in it. It did not defy goodness, it ignored it to the point of annihilation. Ransom perceived that he had never before seen anything but half-hearted and uneasy attempts at evil. This creature was whole-hearted. The extremity of its evil had passed beyond all struggle into some state which bore a horrible similarity to innocence. It was beyond vice as the Lady was beyond virtue.
I cannot say I have ever experienced this level of evil - I am not sure many (if any) humans are capable of it. But the closest I have come was being around narcissists, particularly religious narcissists. I have less experience with true sociopaths, but I would guess they are even closer to that platonic form of evil. The combination of an utter lack of conscience with a belief in one’s inherent goodness seems the closest to this. For most mere mortals, we tend to be evil in a “half hearted and uneasy” way. Perhaps only the inquisitor can attain that level of pure evil.
I want to mention one final passage, which parallels one in Out of the Silent Planet. One of my personal pet peeves is a meme that makes the rounds of the interwebs and social media from time to time. It purports to be a quote by Lewis to the effect that we are not a body with a soul, but a soul with a body. This is so contrary to Lewis’ own belief that it is offensive to have his name attached. In my own view, this gnostic dualism is one of the most damaging beliefs of Fundamentalism, which has a hostility toward the body (and particularly toward sex and emotions - except violence of course) that prevents wholeness. Lewis definitely saw things differently.
Long since landing on Mars, and more strongly since he came to Perelandra, Ransom had been perceiving that the triple distinction of truth from myth and of both from fact was purely terrestrial - was part and parcel of that unhappy division between soul and body which resulted from the Fall. Even on earth the sacraments existed as a permanent reminder that the division was neither wholesome nor final. The Incarnation had been the beginning of its disappearance. In Perelandra it would have no meaning at all.
It is easy to see that Lewis’ embrace of science has influenced him as well here. To the degree that we have a soul - a self so to speak - it isn’t some alien residing in our flesh. Rather, we were created as embodied beings. For someone like Lewis who believes in an immortal soul, this embodiment is part of how we were created, not an accident of fate. Two implications of this are clear. First, this is why the idea of a “bodily resurrection” has traditionally been important in the Christian tradition. We will not just have disembodied souls, but we will have our souls reunited with our bodies and we will be integrated human beings again. Second, any theology which partitions off our bodies as an impediment to our souls, which treats our bodies as suspect, evil, bad, and so on, will be unhealthy and harmful. Fundamentalism does this, of course, out of a fear of sexuality, and a need to control others. If you make the bodies - the things that we are and experience with - the problem, then those bodies can be controlled - or even killed - for the “greater good” of the soul.
It is always interesting when I end up reading books which intersect. I am nearly done with Transcendent Kingdom by Yaa Gyasi - it’s outstanding - and it has some extended discussion of the intellect/reason, emotion (the “heart”), and the soul - the self. To science, these all are processes of the brain, but Gyasi, like Lewis, treats them as integrated parts of being. The transcendent, the religious, the scientific, the mythical even, are all part of the greater reality. And they are not in conflict.
I am glad to have read this book again with a bit more age and experience and background knowledge. There is a lot more subtlety than I remembered, and, despite the issues of sexism and theological disagreement, I found that it was a fascinating and thoughtful look at a number of issues that we humans cannot stop pondering. Lewis is one of those very rare Christians who aren’t stuck in a defensive mode, but remained open to the magic and poetry and mythology of the human experience. While I obviously didn’t agree with every detail of the allegory in this book, I think it remains one of the most thoughtful and imaginative books to take on the mythology of the Fall and reimagine the world that might have been.
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