C.S. Lewis must have lied.

I know that most of C.S. Lewis' little books are supposed to be bite-sized and easily digestible. I can't even write that and believe it, because they most commonly are neither of those. The Perelandra series has taken me 3 years to read, The Great Divorce took me 2 years to read, I'm still in Abolition and only pages through Pain, and in the case of Hideous and the ENTIRE Narnia series, I submitted to the the unabridged audio versions. I'm glad to say that A Grief Observed is actually a quick read. Then again, I've never really lost a loved one the way Lewis had. Maybe the book lasts an unbearable eternity for someone in a similar situation.
Now I feel bad. I bought the book over the weekend while I was in Philly visiting with M. <---(haha, Homage is great. ) I finished the book just before my brothers came to pick me up from the airport. It took all of sixty dedicated minutes (spread out amongst waiting at terminals and on tarmacs. For some reason, I chose only to read as the plane was taking off and landing). Anyhow, I breezed through the book, and underlined a lot towards the end. And it was a refreshing read because by the end, we were really moving, and I was really understanding Lewis, and there it appropriately and abruptly stopped.

But it wasn't just a piece of writing; it was a mourning journal. It was a journal period. The writing was erratic and contradictory just the way I like it. It felt like reading a journal. There were references to 'what I wrote last night' and 'a few days ago, I wrote..." and it just felt very alive and mortal. And as far as its dramatic structure, the stated determination to continue the book with the available journals, and nothing beyond, made it feel like reading Keanu Reeve's SPEED. I mean, there was a CLOCK, man...is he going to be reconciled with death by the end of the last page of the journal? Now that I think of it, C.S. Lewis needsmust have lied to us! There's no way that he filled the whole journal. The implication is clearly that he either wrote more than he promised or that, for the sake of not ending the middle of his very intelligent and flow'ry sentences, decided to write this much and no more. Now I feel either cheated or duped. Blogging is like my thought-process' colon...I wouldn't have thought of this otherwise. But knowing that the bastard undid himself, first by letting a very eternal woe conform to an organic's linerar perspective and by even writing it down and letting others see it, I think I respect Lewis even more. I think that in the case of pathalogical writers like us, we're NEVER writing without the faintest smolder of the thought that what we write will lose its virginity on other eyes. THat's why this blog means so much and so little to me at the same time. It's like talking AT a person. You know the way: cocking the head slightly to this side or that side, and saying things to nobody, knowing that somebody (even specific nobodies) might recieve your words.

So nothing written is ever a sacred as the 99 thoughts that DON'T get written down. So what does get written down must make sense.

I was in the airport and I saw a girl with a huge BIBLE of a book of blank pages...for writing. And she was halfway through. This thing was like the size of Prospero's books...it was huge, and she was paraoid that people were looking at her, and so she stopped writing in it. I wouldn't be surprised if that's just one of dozens of such books.

I'm bored. eat pennies.