The arts are the best Time Machine we have.” C. S. Lewis.

Charles Williams loved his son with reservations, complaining that “a child is a guest of a somewhat inconsistent temperament, rather difficult to get rid of, almost pushing; a poor relation rather than a pleasant kind.

Oxford in the Inklings’ day was not so different in look and smell from the Oxford of today. Then, as now, one was tempted to fantasize one’s surroundings as a Camelot of intellectual knight-errantry or an Eden of serene contemplation. Then, as now, there was bound to be disappointment.

I said to all the things that throng about the gateways of the senses: “Tell me of my God, since you are not He. Tell me something of Him.” And they cried out in a great voice: “He made us.” CS Lewis.

Words contain the “souls” or minds of people in the past; as such, they tell the story of consciousness.

Now a theist, he thought he should behave like one, even if it meant him during “the fussy, time-wasting, botheration of it all! the bells, the crowds, the umbrellas, the notices, the bustle, the perpetual arranging and organizing,” and, worst of all, the hymns and organ music.

He had found his vocation: to fight the Lord’s battles in the Academy and the world at large.

After reading binge prompted by convalescence, “As if to balance the ledger, letters poured out at an equally prodigious pace.

In the infancy of society every author is necessarily a poet, because language itself is poetry. – Owen Barfield.

It’s not easy being a missionary, even with the key to the cosmos in your hand.