All My Road Before Me

C. S. Lewis

• Publisher: HarperOne
• Year: 2017
• ISBN:
  9780062565617
• Topic: Theology & Religion
• Subtopic: Religious Biographies

A repackaged edition of the revered author's diary from his early twenties—a thought-provoking work that reveals his earliest thinking about war, atheism, religion, and humanity.

While serving his country in the Great War, C. S. Lewis' the great British writer, scholar, lay theologian, broadcaster, and Christian apologist—made a pact with a close friend and fellow soldier. If one of them died, the survivor would take care of his family—a promise Lewis honored. Developing a deep friendship with his fallen friend's mother, Jane King Moore, Lewis moved into the Moore household after the war. Returning to Oxford, the twenty-three-year old Lewis—then a staunch atheist—struggled to adapt to life in post-war England. Eager to help the tormented young man, Jane encouraged him keep a diary of his day-to-day life. Those reflections are collected in this illuminating journal.

Covering five remarkable years in Lewis's life, All My Road Before Me charts the inspirations and intellectual and spiritual development of a man whose theology and writing—including Mere Christianity, The Screwtape Letters, The Great Divorce, The Chronicles of Narnia, and many other beloved classics—has had immense influence on the Christian world.

THE DIARY

You stranger, long before your glance can light

Upon these words, time will have washed away

The moment when I first took pen to write,

With all my road before me—yet to-day,

Here, if at all, we meet . . .

—C. S. Lewis, Dymer, I, 1

1922

At this time Lewis was sharing a house with Mrs Moore and her daughter, Maureen, in 28 Warneford Road, two miles from the centre of Oxford.¹ Maureen was a day pupil in Headington School. In 1920 Lewis had taken a First Class Degree in Classical Moderations—Greek and Latin Classical writers. Now he was preparing for his examination (8–14 June) in Literae Humaniores or ‘Greats’—Greek and Latin historians and philosophers. He was hoping to find a Fellowship in one of the Oxford colleges, and for this he would have a better chance with another First. ‘D’ was Mrs Moore.

Saturday 1 April: I walked to Iffley in the morning and called in at the Askins.² The Doc has foolishly knocked himself up by walking too far and wd. not come to Headington in the afternoon. He talked about Atlantis, on which there is apparently a plentiful philosophical literature: nobody seems to realise that a Platonic myth is fiction, not legend, and therefore no base for speculation. We also spoke of the Old Testament and anthropology: ridiculous remarks by Mary. A fine day.

Went to the show at Headington School after tea . . . They did a scene from Nicholas Nickelby wh. was not badly acted and for a moment made me remember the Wynyard terrors—a high, but subjective tribute to amateurs.³ They also did Arnold’s Tristram (v. badly) and Yeats’ Land of Heart’s Desire: even school girl acting could not quite spoil its wonderful beauty.

Sunday 2 April: A beautiful spring day. D busy cutting oranges for marmalade. I sat in my own bedroom by an open window in bright sunshine and started a poem on ‘Dymer’ in rhyme royal. I walked on Shotover in the afternoon, much disturbed by all the boys and girls out for their Sunday walk. In the evening we played bridge—very dull hands all round, and Maureen talking all the time. I read Colonel Repington’s book aloud, which we are enjoying very much.⁴ Late getting to bed. Still very worried by the non-arrival of D’s pass book.⁵

Monday 3 April: Got a letter from home in the morning . . . My father seems in good form. It snowed hard all day: in the afternoon I had good fun shovelling and trying to get the roof clear, as it was sending down sudden drifts in front of the hall door, with a noise like thunder. I worked at Roman history notes all the morning and at Adamson’s chapters on Aristotle after lunch.⁶ A rather depressing day: in the evening more history and more Repington. Maureen in wonderful spirits.

Tuesday 4 April: I walked into Oxford and left two poems (‘Misfire’ and the ‘Offa’ one) to be typewritten. Remembering yesterday, I set out in a coat and suffered from heat—the day turning out sunny and beautiful—all the more so for the drifts of snow lying under the hedges etc.

Worked at Adamson before lunch: I am beginning to get the hang of Aristotle’s theory of eidee. Form and matter are almost the same as actuality and potentiality . . . This leads to Soul as the realisation of organic potentialities: the ‘living body’, a great advance on the old Animism of Body plus Ghost, tho’ seemingly fatal to immortality. Can’t see why nous whd. be on a different footing.

A letter came from Arthur today asking me to spend a few days with him in London: wh. wd. be rather pleasant but is not possible.⁷ Roman History all afternoon and some in evening, besides Bk. II of the Republic. In bed shortly after 12.

Wednesday 5 April: Started revising Greek History today. At first I found my notes etc. in great confusion, but when that was straightened out I worked with more interest and pleasure than I had expected.

A pretty woman called this morning with the enlargement of Paddy’s photo:⁸ it is not ‘finished’ yet and (perhaps for that reason) seems to me to be more lively and interesting than the old one. After lunch I called on Miss Baker to get the details about a performance at Cumnor in which Masefield is to act as Lear: she did not know, and Maureen is to find out from the O’Maleys.

I also got the two poems (typed v. accurately for 1/-) and saw Stead in order to get the address of the London Mercury.⁹ He told me with a solemn face and admirable naivety how he had got his accepted. Two or three were sent back by return post, whereupon he went up to London and called on the Editor, saying, ‘Look here Mr Squire, you haven’t taken these poems of mine and I want to know what’s wrong with them!!’¹⁰ If the story ended there, it would be merely a side light on Stead, but the joke is that Squire said, ‘I’m glad you’ve come to talk it over: that’s just what I want people to do’ and actually accepted what he’d formerly refused. Truly the ways of editors are past finding out!

Stead gave me the proof of his new book, The Sweet Miracle, wh. I took away. So far it seems rather dull. Worked for the rest of the day, except for a nightcap of Repington.

Thursday 6 April: D woke me up with alarming news from Ireland. It appears that ‘Hi’¹¹ has called at the bank and that the bank’s letters to D have been returned, once more by the stupidity of the Bristol post office. It is therefore very probable that the Beast¹² has been informed, and the bank’s mention of letters (as opposed to pass book) suggests that D is overdrawn. Of course we have the wind up, since, if the Beast ceases payment it will be very hard to see our way: Maureen’s school, for instance, must go to blazes: our joint incomes will hardly suffice for bare rent and food.

We move today to Red Gables, which Lady Gonner has very kindly lent us during her fortnight’s absence (it only needs a few more such kindnesses to land us in the workhouse!).¹³

A day disturbed with packing, besides mental anxiety, yet I managed to do a fair morning’s work. It was a strange, lurid afternoon, ready to thunder. We reached Red Gables at 6 p.m. by taxi. It is a very charming house with an excellent library, where I found and started Mallock’s New Republic. After supper I had meant to do History Notes but was very tired: so read the 4th Bk. of the Republic instead. Maureen has got tomorrow’s post. D rather done up by the move and the wind up: only Maureen, thro’ stupidity or heroism, remains in excellent spirits . . .

Friday 7 April: Nothing from Ireland by this morning’s post—only my two poems returned by the Mercury. Settled down after breakfast and had done two hours very satisfactory work memorising Gk. History notes up to date, when I was interrupted by the arrival of Joy Whicher and her mother . . .

I went to Warneford Rd. in the hope of letters, but there was no one in the house. I find that Maureen tried again after supper and very foolishly burgled the house from the back: it is to be hoped that Miss Featherstone will not mind. D and I propounded the strongest letter we could to the Bristol P.O. thro’ whose bungling the whole situation has come about. With the absence of news, the wind up continues. D is very worn out with the move and indigestion.

I woke up with a sore throat but it seems to have gone. As I said this afternoon, I wish life and death were not the only alternatives, for I don’t like either: one could imagine a via media . . .

Saturday 8 April: D woke me up this morning coming into my room with the joyful news that the pass book had come: no financial or personal crisis having materialised. I went to town immediately after breakfast for meat: got back shortly before eleven and put in good work on Gk. History till lunch, and after lunch again until tea time . . .

Maureen tells me that while she was in a shop today an unknown undergraduate entered and announced to all and sundry that he had taken his degree—this beats ‘Corsica’ Boswell!

Heard from Dorothy that Miss Featherstone is talking of coming back to Warneford Rd., which is serious news. After supper I read most of the 5th Bk. of the Republic. A beastly headache and feeling generally fagged: D rather better, but not as well as before we left. As an intellectual nightcap have been puzzling over our accounts, which come out to a different figure each time. Not a pleasant day, but thank God for this morning’s news.

(Finished The Everlasting Mercy, in my opinion much the poorest thing of Masefield that I have read yet—nearly all of it could have been composed extempore; but perhaps I was a dull reader today.)

Have just remembered to record that Pasley and ‘Johnnie’ Hamber were married today. It must be one of the horrors of marriage to reflect at such a time how many kind friends know exactly what you are doing.¹⁴

Sunday 9 April: Today I finished Masefield’s Pompey the Great, with very great pleasure: it has the merit of forcing you to ACT each speech as you go along, it is finely realistic and moving. Next to Dauber and parts of Reynard, the best thing of his I have read. Afterwards I walked on Shotover, getting back before lunch.

I tried very hard to write something today, but it was like drawing blood from a stone. In spite of promising myself not to be influenced by the decision of the Mercury—and I know from what they publish that their canon is wrong—the rejection of my things has made me rather despond . . .

Monday 10 April: A letter from Pasley written on the second day of his honeymoon—the eighth he had written that afternoon. D considers it a curious way of spending such a time, but he sounds pleased.

Put in a very satisfactory morning’s work, going over Roman Hist. (the wars of ad 69, I’m glad to find the Gk. hasn’t put them out of my head) and then Gk. notes up to date. Went out a little before lunch to enjoy the sunshine and drink a bottle of Guinness next door in the ‘White Horse’.

After lunch I copied out the poem beginning ‘The last star of the night’ meaning with it to try the Mercury again, and to send the Mercury’s refusals to the English Review. I accordingly walked into Oxford: a beautiful warm day. Left the poem at the typists and sent off the two others: looking in a copy of the English Review for its address, I was disgusted by the poetry in it—all in the worst modern tradition—and half thought of not sending mine. But I decided I need not be nice, as I shall almost certainly be rejected anyway . . .

Tuesday 11 April: We were all much amused by the arrival of Maureen’s report today, in which she is marked as ‘improving’ in two subjects she doesn’t do—a good example of the methods of this school.

Put in a good morning’s work on Gk. History and read most of the 6th Bk. of the Republic after lunch. Went into Oxford after tea . . .

Found the Doc here when I came back, looking very much better: he soon goes to Clevedon. He stayed for supper: afterwards we talked of the Napoleonic wars, a subject on which he has funds of information . . . I walked to the bus with him afterwards: we began on Christina dreams, but, as always with him, ended on immortality.¹⁵ . . .

Friday 14 April: Last night I had a ridiculous dream of Squire’s sending back my poem and saying he could not accept it because I spelt the word ‘receive’ wrongly: and sure enough, the first post brought the poem back! I intend to hammer away for a bit at him yet.

Did Gk. History until lunch time—rather a slow morning. In the afternoon I walked up the field path which represents the Roman road, along the road which skirts Stowe Woods, and back by the footpath starting through Elsfield church . . .

Put in good work after tea and again after supper. Another beautiful day, with a very fine sunset at supper time: a wind was just rising then, soon followed by rain, and there is a glorious storm now. D has a wonderful Dundalk newspaper from one of her ‘gens’ in Ireland called the Democrat: among other treasures, we found someone in the Deaths column described as ‘a thoroughly decent woman’ . . .

Saturday 15 April: D reminds me that it was this day four years ago I was wounded at Mt. Bernenchon. Worked in the morning. After lunch I walked into Oxford to call in College and buy some things. A beautiful sunny and windy day, but in town detestable on account of the dust and crowds of holiday makers. College looking very deserted and dismal. I took from the library Grundy’s Persian War which is indispensable . . .

Tried to work at ‘Dymer’ and covered some paper: but I am very dispirited about my work at present—especially as I find it impossible to invent a new opening for the ‘Wild Hunt’. The old one is full of clichés and will never do. I have leaned much too much on the idea of being able to write poetry and if this is a frost I shall be rather stranded.

Another fine sunset. I see I have never yet mentioned the cat in this house: it is very large, and bleats like a sheep in the most irritating way. Read some more Repington. A dissatisfying day, but, praise God, no more headaches. (This stay at Lady Gonner’s is, as we expected, proving terribly expensive: while Miss Featherstone is turning the other house upside down in our absence.)

Sunday 16 April: Today being Easter Sunday I was somehow persuaded to go with Maureen to Highfield Church. I was struck with the extraordinary sternness of Mr Clarke in his official capacity—he looked a regular fighting priest. He preached a good little sermon with a flavour of metaphysic wh. one would not expect from his conversation—but perhaps it was out of a book. He is a jerky little man, like a wagtail, and it is surprising that ...