SOURCE: Hyles, Vernon R. “Campbell and the Inklings—Tolkien, Lewis, and Williams.” In Uses of Comparative Mythology: Essays on the Work of Joseph Campbell, edited by Kenneth L. Golden, pp. 211-22. New York: Garland Publishing, 1992.

[In the following essay, Hyles finds parallels in the treatment of mythology in the works of Campbell, J. R. R. Tolkien, C. S. Lewis, and Charles Williams.]

As a comparative mythologist, Joseph Campbell charts the myth of the hero to develop his concept of bliss and to explain the place of sacrifice in myth. These dominant issues continue in all of Campbell's work, culminating in his series of interviews with Bill Moyers, The Power of Myth. Rebirth and archetypal repetition are part of the way Campbell looks at mythic patterns. Poets such as Blake, Yeats, and Hart Crane, and mythofabulists such as Joyce, García-Márquez, Barth, and the Inklings—J. R. R. Tolkien, C. S. Lewis, and Charles Williams—return to such primary themes. The myth of the hero, bliss, and sacrifice are dominant in the fiction of Tolkien, Lewis, and Williams, as they are in Campbell's comparative approach.

The creating of myths, that mythopoeic faculty that Campbell studied and that the Inklings practiced in fiction, seems to be inherent in the human life process, answering a basic human need. Myths form the matrix, the fabric, the soup out of which literature both historically and psychologically emerges; consequently, the narratives, characters, themes, and images of such works as Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings, Lewis's “Space Trilogy,” and Charles Williams's War in Heaven and Descent Into Hell are simply complications and displacements of similar elements in myths, legends, and folktales. The way in which mythical elements merge into literature Campbell variously explains by Jungian archetypes, historical diffusion, or what he simply calls the essential sameness of humanity and the human condition in all ages and in all cultures. Most significant for Campbell is the way that myth stimulates the creative artist to produce works which move profoundly because of their mythic qualities. Art does so because, as Campbell insists, it possesses “mana,” the “numinous,” or the mystery in the face of which we feel awe, delight, or terror. According to Campbell, the real function of literature in human affairs is to reanimate myth's ancient and primal endeavor to create a fruitful living place for humanity in a world that is at best oblivious to it and, at worst, malevolent toward it.

Campbell extrapolated his ideas about the mythical hero from many so-called primitive and ancient cultures, each of which views the hero, the heroic, and the heroic quest as archetypal forerunners of modern man's own search for self and for a relationship with some ultimate source. The stages that occur in the birth, life, death, and resurrection of the hero become, for Campbell, constitutent elements in the personal development of all individuals. During its development, the individual human psyche must pass through the same archetypal stages that have patterned the evolution of consciousness in the life of the race, and the myth of the hero exemplifies that course of development. Campbell supposes that all hero myths stem from a single monomyth. Under his “hero with a thousand faces” exists but a single archetype, just as Campbell suggests later that a single god wears many “masks.” Primarily, Campbell approaches hero myths either psychologically or metaphysically, and goes further than most comparative mythologists by not only pointing out similarities among hero myths but also by explaining their origin and function and by interpreting their meaning. In order to analyze hero myths, Campbell first proposed using both Freudian and Jungian psychoanalytical concepts as tools. This commitment to myth as a reflection of the individual psyche also commits him to a metaphorical and a symbolic, rather than to a literal, interpretation.

The primary difference between Campbell and the Freud/Jung interpretation of myth is worth noting. Freud and Jung both begin with myths as stemming from the unconscious with analysis moving them to the conscious level. For Campbell, the prime meaning was originally conscious, became unconscious, and must now revert to its original stage. Ancient man was in direct contact with myth, so psychology as understood today simply was not needed; modern man, though, needs this tool to reinvent or to recreate myth in something like its original form.¹

Heroism in human culture occurs for two reasons. The hero ventures forth from the mundane into the fabulous, possessed of the courage to do what no one else will. If a hero discovers strange and fantastic external worlds, he may also discover strange and fantastic internal ones. Literally, he discovers that the world exists on more levels than just the external, physical level. He finds more depth to exist in the total individual than that contained in his conscious ego. He first discovers a new world while at the same time rediscovering one within that is much older. In retracing the same steps taken by the great mythical heroes—e.g., Odysseus, Jesus, or the Buddha—literary characters such as Giles Goat-Boy (Barth) or Frodo (Tolkien) or Ransom (Lewis) reaffirm that the purpose of the heroic adventure remains always the same—to join mystically the individual with the Supreme and, ultimately, with the entire cosmos.

The act of sacrifice is closely related to the heroic quest. All sacrificial acts in primitive myths focus upon some sort of ritual killing. Freud suggests that unconsciously these are acts of revenge, but for Campbell the act of sacrifice seems supremely one of self-sacrifice. Knowledge of what must be done comes to the hero in stages. The first sacrificial stage is the breaking away from the everyday world and the moving on to a new, dangerous one. Once it becomes comfortable, that world too must be sacrificed. The hero is tempted first to remain in the known, but he cannot; he must sacrifice the new world and his position in it in order to return to his original position in the world. Implicitly, Campbell makes the same point as Jung; that is, the strongest temptation is the temptation to cling to the ego. For in order to merge with and fully affirm the cosmos, the hero must go beyond the door guardians of fear and desire.

Psychologically, the heroic journey ends with the realization or rediscovery of the unconscious out of which consciousness originally emerged. Transformative reintegration of the larger self and the ego provides psychological balance. Campbell notes in many myths the return of the hero to his own world is not to save himself but to offer salvation through his new-found knowledge to others. Heroes, then, are heroic because they serve others through self-sacrifice, as in the cases of Campbell's own personal heroes—such as the Buddha and Parzival.

The result of the heroic quest and the act of sacrifice are what Campbell terms achieving a state of bliss. Once the hero, or anyone for that matter, decides to follow his bliss, he has begun the hero's journey. Campbell suggests that if we listen to that inner voice and follow its direction, then things will work out, even if it seems that they will not. He calls it believing in a mythologically inspired life that is ordered by spontaneity (Power [The Power of Myth] 86). All life is driven by this innermost part of the psyche, so mythology functions by helping the individual discover his own bliss—that which truly inspires him—and by providing a guide to it. This inner bliss does not preclude cognition, but it does require a change in an individual's thinking process. Rather than a life governed by laws, order, and concepts, the blissful life entails a state of dynamic tension. Several times in separate interviews, Campbell repeats the lines from Sinclair Lewis where Babbitt says that he has never done anything in his life that he wanted to do (Power 88). Following one's bliss for Campbell meant more than simply not worrying about consequences; it has to do more with an individual's knowing where that bliss deep within the psyche originates. Campbell insists that “[y]ou follow that [bliss] and doors will open where there were no doors before, where you would not have thought there were going to be doors, and where there wouldn't be a door for anybody else” (Journey [The Hero's Journey] 214).

In 1931, Hugo Dyson, J. R. R. Tolkien, and C. S. Lewis spent what was later to be viewed as a remarkable evening, for they began, unknowingly and years before Campbell's own works appeared, to outline what suggests something like a fictional response to Campbell's ideas on heroism, sacrifice, and bliss.² The subjects of the evening were mythology and metaphor. Neither Lewis nor Tolkien had ever underestimated the power of myth. Lewis's earliest love was the Norse myth of the dying god Balder, and he recognized the ability of that story to awe, delight, and inspire; however, with Campbell, he did not believe in its literal truth. Stories such as these, then, from a literal point of view, were ultimately lies. As Lewis explained, myths are fictional and “therefore worthless, even though breathed through silver.”³ Tolkien, however, argued for the symbolic truth of myth, an argument that ultimately prevailed in the fictional work of all the Inklings. A philologist, he predicated his case upon the value and significance of words themselves. We perceive trees, rocks, and stars as objects, but those things were named by primitive peoples with views of the world very different from ours. For modern man, a tree is simply a living organism within the plant family with similar morphology and physiology to other members of the same phylum; a star is inanimate, a ball of exploding gases moving through space in precise mathematical and astronomical manner. Yet primitives saw the world alive with mythical significance. The stars became living silver inflamed in answer to some cosmological orchestration; the earth became the fecund womb that brings forth life; the clouds became the jeweled canopy covering creation. All of creation, in fact, both organic and inorganic, was imbued with consciousness, “myth-woven and elf-patterned.”⁴ Tolkien was able to convince Lewis of this position and, from that point on, though Lewis continued in all his works as Christian apologist, he moved from a merely intellectual acceptance of God as prime mover toward an emotional relationship with an obviously Christian deity.

Tolkien argued that although man may pervert God's thoughts and ideas into lies, God is not ultimately a liar. Man comes from God, so all of man's creations, abstract thoughts, and imaginative inventions have their origin in the Absolute and thus reflect eternal truth. Mythopoesis or what Tolkien called sub-creation actually fulfills God's purpose and reflects fragmentary aspects of True Light. Campbell held similar views: as Bill Moyers, in the introduction to The Power of Myth, points out, “All our names and images of God are masks, he said, signifying the ultimate reality that by definition transcends language and art” (xvii). In developing fantastic worlds and peopling those worlds with hobbits, wizards, and orcs, the writer of fantasy is accomplishing the same end as the pagan who brought gods to the earth, made rocks weep, and caused the heavens to sing. Neither the myth nor the fantasy production is a lie; both always reflect or contain symbolic truth of some degree or aspect.

Perhaps Lewis's acceptance of the symbolic truth of myth gave full solidity to his Christianity. Earlier he had found it hard to understand how the life and death of Jesus could have meaning two thousand years after the fact. Christ's place as a teacher of ethical and moral truth has never been, as Lewis understood, the central point of Christianity; instead, sacrifice, blood, and propitiation were the centerpieces, and these concepts had previously seemed silly to Lewis. Tolkien's conclusion was that, since pagan myths were God's epiphanies becoming manifest through the minds of poets and seers setting forth aspects of universal truths, Christianity must be true or at least partially true as well. The death and resurrection of Christ is Balder's story repeated, but in Christianity the dying God has obtained reality with a precise location in history and with precise historical consequences. Tolkien had convinced Lewis that Christianity is myth become fact yet also a mythic story.

In The Hero with a Thousand Faces, Campbell refers to the pattern appearing in heroic adventures as a monomyth with the action divided into separation, initiation, and return (Hero 30). Garcia Ellwood suggests that this same monomythic pattern is central to The Lord of the Rings.⁵ What Campbell calls the hero's journey is the basic pattern for Tolkien beginning with Frodo and Sam's comfortable lives in the Shire, their call to adventure, their descent into Mordor, the ascent to Mount Doom, and their final return.

Typical hero myths begin with a trivial or random event involving a call to adventure (Hero 51-53). After Bilbo's birthday party, Frodo inherits the ring of power and later is confronted by Gandalf the Wizard who outlines what Frodo must do. As always, the hero—and in Tolkien's case there are many—can reject the call, but for Frodo and the other pilgrims from the Shire, acceptance reveals a fantastically full, unsuspected other world. Gandalf—who calls Frodo to go on the quest—is what Ellwood calls a “preliminary manifestation of the powers that are breaking into play.”⁶

As the hero is called away from the mundane, his “spiritual center of gravity is changed to an unknown zone of fantastic tortures, impossible delights.”⁷ The quest for the ring is what Campbell would call an outward journey symbolizing an inner search for that which each hero must eventually find within himself. The hero must renounce security and the known in order to confront the unknown, the heart of his own darkness. According to Campbell, unexpected help for mythic heroes sometimes comes in the form of the supernatural, a wise old man, or even a mother figure. Tolkien's vast canvas provides not only many heroes but also several examples of mythic figures typically encountered by the hero. For example, Gandalf is the sage, giving crucial help and advice, while Galadriel provides the magic glass, the talisman for defense against the dark powers.

Separation is a form of death, and the hobbits of the Shire recognize that Frodo and Sam, Merry and Pippin must pass through the boundaries of the known into the unknown which is equivalent to being swallowed by darkness or destroyed by a monster. Images of darkness appear throughout the narrative and, because of their repeated appearance, provide the central motif of the return to the womb, not for security or peace, but for preparation. Self-destruction, the harrowing of hell, the terror of the pit are all preparatory for rebirth. Like the dying god Balder, Tolkien's heroes, too, experience symbolic death: Gandalf in his struggle with the Balrog in the Mines of Moria, Frodo in Shelob's lair, and Aragorn in the Paths of the Dead. Once these horrors are faced, fear dissolves: Gandalf the Grey becomes Gandalf the White, Sam defeats Shelob with the magic sword, and Aragorn puts on his kingly robes. Self-sacrifice makes possible the final victory over Sauron, the dark lord and the archetype of evil in Tolkien's Middle Earth.

The hero's victory, the destruction of the ring in the fires of Mount Doom, marks a rebirth for the world as well as for the hero. Celebrations occur immediately, as with the sudden enlightenment of the Buddha, but the recognition of change comes slowly to a suspicious modern populace. In The Lord of the Rings, both types of recognition of the heroic exist as in the immediate festivals in Cormallen and Minas Tirith and in the slow realization of the Shire. Myths also use weddings as manifestations of the rebirth of social order. The wedding not only serves as an expression of joy but also suggests new and pure beginnings. In The Lord of the Rings, such an image appears in the marriage of Aragorn and Arwen.

Clearly, Campbell's “creative mythology” and Tolkien's “subcreation” have definite similarities. Novelists and poets tend to suffer the lack of an acceptable or widely believed body of mythic material to give order to imaginative restatements of experience, so some set out consciously to set up mythic frames within their works. Campbell's work as a comparative mythologist provided for him a way to order life by using primitive myths to express something deeply felt by an individual which will, he hopes, prove to have universal relevance.

Characters in Tolkien mirror heroes Campbell discusses: Aragorn echoes Arthur; Gandalf, Merlin; and Frodo, in both deed and character, mirrors Christ. The journey to Mordor is Christ's journey to Golgotha. Gollum's reappearance in the third volume of the trilogy and the part he plays in the destruction of the Ring is preparatory for the Way of the Cross imagery. Gollum is a tool of Sauron, but he grows to love Frodo because of the hobbit's kindness, so he is torn between good and evil. Gollum finally betrays Frodo, and this betrayal by one who is trusted enables Frodo to become the true suffering hero. As Christ was betrayed by Judas, so, too, is Frodo by Gollum, and Gollum's end echoes the same kind of warning that Judas's suicide tells Christians; namely, if we toy with the power of evil, we become enslaved by it rather than becoming its master. Although Frodo's death is a symbolic, not a literal, crucifixion, his physical sufferings parallel those of Christ; he is thrown into prison, his garments are stolen, he is mocked, and finally he is whipped. He becomes more and more weary as the Ring becomes the intolerable burden of the Cross. Bilbo, Frodo, and Sam are ordinary hobbits rising to heroism because they are called to acts of loyalty and love—and to the realization of their own limitations. Their common sense and humility keep them from the excesses, the megalomania that flaws conventional heroic figures like Boromir. They have moral as well as physical courage; they come into touch with the Self, not just the ego. Most significantly, both Frodo and Sam know where their bliss is and follow it. Further, their self-sacrifices in the name of love might well be comparable to the “no greater love” of Christian ethics, which concerns C. S. Lewis in his space trilogy.

While Tolkien's work certainly can be read as Christian allegory—and Campbell found Christianity to embody major motifs common to the human spirit—C. S. Lewis, in his fiction, dealt with mythic tenets of historical Christianity. In all of his works, he tried, not always successfully, to avoid propagating a specific denominational view; indeed, he recognized the value found not only in Christian myth but also in pagan stories. Campbell, unlike Lewis, makes no distinction between Christian and pagan myth; they all stem from the same source in the unconscious. For Lewis, Tolkien, and Campbell, myth was, is, and always will be the conduit of truths which cannot be perceived through any other medium. The essential nature of myth is as a pointer to that which can never be known rationally.

Lewis's Out of the Silent Planet, Perelandra, and That Hideous Strength, although issued and marketed as science fiction novels, represent a single attempt at mythopoesis dealing with the same broad themes treated by Tolkien in The Lord of the Rings and later by Campbell in his search for the monomyth out of which all stories stem. Malacandra, Lewis's name for Mars, is the pre-Edenic world treated in Out of the Silent Planet. It is threatened by a man ironically named Divine, an egoistical cad prompted by greed, and by Weston, a demented scientist. Ransom is the reluctant hero kidnapped by the two villains who believe the Martians require a human sacrifice. Ransom's call is the same reluctantly obeyed call to heroism as is Frodo's, and symbols of birth and rebirth figure prominently. The spacecraft upon which Ransom is abducted is remarkably womb-like, with the heat forcing Ransom to strip off all his clothes. Outside the craft is the womb of space:

The very name “Space” seemed a blasphemous libel for this empyrean ocean of radiance in which they swam. He could not call it “dead”; he felt life pouring into him from it every moment. How indeed should it be otherwise, since out of this ocean the world and all their life had come? He had thought it barren: he saw now that it was the womb of worlds.⁸

On the approach to Mars, Ransom exhibits symptoms of pregnancy, his excess weight caused by the planet's gravitational field, and he experiences much the same kind of pain and discomfort associated with childbirth. Finally, after landing, the three men are born into the Martian atmosphere by emerging, head and shoulders first, out of the vaginal tube and opening of the “man-hole.” This extended birth motif suggests that Ransom is being prepared for his heroic quest, that his experiences on Malacandra constitute a heroic re-education. Then, as this first novel of Lewis's trilogy ends, Ransom elects to return to the earth in order to serve his cosmic purpose, as Campbell later suggests that all heroes must return to the society that begat them. Of course, Campbell would be extremely uncomfortable with Lewis's good/evil dichotomy, yet he certainly recognizes the existence of polar opposites in everything from Buddhist mysticism to George Lucas's “Star Wars.”

Charles Williams, perhaps paradoxically, seeks out the magic and myth not of a “sub-created” Middle Earth or in the far reaches of space but in the real, mundane world, and is thus a precursor of the magical realism of such figures as García-Márquez, Borges, and Calvino. Williams does not find wonder in the creations of fantasy but awe in things of the world that are—if seen from the right perspective—themselves imbued with the marvelous. The natural and the supernatural exist congruently and concurrently in what Williams calls a condition of “co-inherence,” in a state of constant exchange.

A realization of “co-inherence,” then, involves continuous charity, affirmation, compassion. Campbell says in a gloss of Joyce: “The Son of God came down into this world to be crucified to awaken our hearts to compassion, and thus to turn our minds from the gross concerns … to the specifically human values of self-giving in shared suffering” (Power 116). All living things can exist only in a state of inter-dependence, a cosmic great chain of being, with structures relying on gravity to keep them standing, men relying on women for life, and labor relying on management for both giving and receiving. The unheroic deed, for Williams, is for man to refuse exchange as did Adam, but, if he participates in this supernatural act, man can be returned into the “co-inherent” state lost with Adam but made real in Christ's Incarnation, Passion, Death, and Resurrection. If men do not act heroically, then they distance themselves from the cosmic; a life of exchange immerses man in that cosmos. Again, this “co-inherent” state enables man, through sacrifice and through a knowledge of humanity's basic needs, to move toward Campbell's bliss across space and time.

In Williams's War in Heaven (1930), the Holy Grail is found in modern England but must be removed by Prester John, its supernatural guardian, when the dark powers attempt to bend its power to their own end. In Descent into Hell (1937), Pauline Anstruther substitutes for a martyred ancestor by taking up both his burden and his suffering, and she helps a contemporary suicide at the same time. The invasion of the natural by evil creates a larger issue in that it necessitates heroic or Christ-like action in order to save self, others, and the natural order of the world. In War in Heaven, the Archdeacon suggests self-sacrifice for friends; in Descent into Hell, several characters take on both physical and spiritual pain for others. Generally, Williams's “co-inherency” speaks of the universe as a flowing, dance-like pulsation where individuals act and react with others transcending time and place. Characters become actors in a great, never-ending morality play. Perhaps even more than Tolkien and Lewis, Williams accepts in his novels—even if not consciously—views similar to those of Campbell's views on sacrifice, heroism, and bliss. In fact, Williams's idea of “co-inherency,” although Biblical as Williams views it, is not much different from Campbell's notion of the sacrificial rites of pagan cultures.

In War in Heaven, Williams attempts to portray what it is like to be, to exist, within the “co-inherent” structure of the universe. In Descent into Hell, the concern is with action; the central theme is Hamlet's dilemma, whether or not to act, whether to accept or to refuse exchange. For Williams, of course, the archetypal exchange occurred on the cross with Christ exchanging his divinity for common manhood. What remains significant to Campbell is that these examples of sharing and exchange occur across all cultures and all times. Events in War in Heaven and Descent into Hell, even though set in modern times, are as fantastic as any occurring in Middle Earth or on Mars, and Williams operates out of that same desire to return fiction to its original roots of fantasy and myth current in the contemporary fiction of Barth, Borges, and Pynchon.

The major theme in all of Williams's novels is one of the themes Campbell saw in myths around the world. The goodness, the rightness, and the solidity of the universe stand against the horrors, allurements, and personages of the darker side. Williams, then, is in the good company of Milton and Dante in their affirmation of the Creation and the Incarnation, products of the pure good, the Absolute or God, and of Campbell in his recognition of the affirmative spirit, the symbolic and psychological truths of many traditional cultures. In Williams's novels, characters tend to be of two kinds and to go in two different directions: the character who denies creation moves toward ennui, solitude, loneliness, and finally oblivion, while the character who affirms creation travels the road toward “co-inherence,” joy, and salvation. In Campbell's view, the hero decides himself what role to take and what road to travel in his attempt to find and to know bliss. In Tolkien's world, sub-created as it is, that road goes on forever, and the great stories, in Sam Gamgee's words, are told over and over again. In the end, what seems to be most Campbell-like in the fiction of Tolkien, Lewis, and Williams is its affirmation of life in all its fruitfulness and vitality.

Surely Tolkien, Lewis, and Williams were enchanted with the same need as Joseph Campbell in their desire to return fiction to its original mononarrative, the desire to merge myth with reality, fantasy with the everyday, and the marvelous with the mundane. The Inklings used “subcreation” to create in fictional worlds the same sacred places of which Campbell spoke. For the earliest storytellers, the whole world was a sacred place, but economics, technology, and practicality have caused modern humanity to lose that sense of the sacred. Our whole lives seem to be ruled by social duty.

What has turned our world into the wasteland described by Eliot is the idea from the Middle Ages that the supernatural is something over, above, and beyond the natural. It causes us to live what Campbell called the inauthentic life, never doing what we truly want but being directed by supernatural laws inspired not by God but by some socially devised authority. Our Judeo-Christian story of the Fall in the Garden makes the natural world corrupt for human beings; consequently, all spontaneity is potential sin. Lives and cultures differ primarily in the manner in which their myths either present nature as fallen or as a manifestation of the divine. It thus becomes the function of the artist to communicate life-affirming myths today.

Although the myth that the Inklings chose to communicate was the Christian one, many myths from other ancient traditions—as Campbell would point out—lie just below the surface of our common consciousness and reinforce, unconsciously, the primary myth upon which Tolkien, Lewis, and Williams based much of their fiction. All three drew upon these rich cross-cultural sources, giving their work a universal dimension.

It is the function of myth to connect us with our bliss and thereby to relate the primitive rituals of sacrifice to our modern world. Pagan sacrificial rituals are repetitions of the original act of killing a god who then provides food for the populace. In the sacrifice of the Mass, we do the same. Campbell explains that in hunting cultures, sacrifice is the gift of sending animals back to wherever they came from so that, in gladness, the animals will continue to provide what human beings need. In planting cultures, though, it is the god himself who is sacrificed (Journey 180-184). The crucifixion of Christ is one permutation of this archetypal sacrificial act. Many mythical motifs of the kind Campbell wrote about exist in the work of the Inklings which, if we can understand their significance, may assist in the renewal of life.

What this awakening to myth accomplishes is simply to allow the heart to transform passion into compassion. This is the whole meaning of the Grail stories, to develop compassion for the wounded king; and it is one explanation of Christ's ultimate sacrifice where God's son becomes human in order to suffer, to die, and to be reborn so that all humanity might become compassionate as well. Once compassion is evoked, once we replace concern with the ego with an enlightened self-giving and shared suffering, the dead wasteland can be resurrected. In this way, we return to our bliss. Tales of heroes are the stories “worth writing about” (Power 123), for heroes always find that they have done something above and beyond the normal range of achievement yet have given themselves to something greater than to ego only.

Notes

1. Cf. Robert A. Segal, Joseph Campbell: An Introduction, rev. ed. (New York: Penguin, 1990), 31-32; also 257, 269.

2. George Roche, A World without Heroes (Hillsdale, Mich.: Hillsdale College Press, 1987), 120-121.

3. Humphrey Carpenter, The Inklings (New York: Ballantine, 1978), 46.

4. Carpenter, 46.

5. Garcia Fay Ellwood, Good News from Tolkien's Middle Earth (Grand Rapids, Mich.: William B. Eerdmans Publishing, 1970).

6. Ibid., 95.

7. Ibid.

8. C. S. Lewis, Out of the Silent Planet (1935; New York: Macmillan, 1965), 32.