Literary criticism, love story and good poetry

I hadn't realised that Joy Davidman, who married C S Lewis, was such an acerbic but accurate critic in her own right.  Her letters are entertaining, educational, funny, understanding of what makes a human life well lived or not, and have a value beyond whatever light they throw on Lewis and her relationship with him. This book helps to establish her as a strong personality, and a complex rich character with her own indivoduality. An intellectually gifted woman of philosophical and literary sharpness, a writer for whom honesty and integrity  are essential for a valid and worthwhile aesthetic, and therefore a centre stage player alongside Lewis, not a foil for his cleverness nor a hanger on who eventually became a permanent fixture in Lewis's life and affections.

These letters help explain why a man who was curmudgeon and children's writer, literary scholar and Oxbridge snob, Christian and confirmed bachelor with views that still anger even moderate contemporary feminists, ended up surrendering bachelorhood and all the other defining characteristics in the embrace of a friendship that grew into one of the great love stories that preserves love from facile romance or low commitment partnership. This was a marriage, the joining in companionship of two soul friends, a coalescing of life interests and startling life differences that had no chance of working except as two protagonists negotiated the risks attendant on an act of folly made only as secure as the commitments of love ever make anything. 

And out of that relationship the late flowering and fulfilling of two people each having a second chance – Davidman post divorce and Lewis post bachelorhood. The love story that gave us A Grief Observed; there's a book to reckon with – little more than a long essay, but the most touching report from the far country of grief, concerning intense sorrow, theological dispute with the Almighty, and the searing honesty and bewilderment of a heart and mind cruelly robbed of their greatest treasure. The dramatisations in Shadowlands only approaches the impact of the book – but though Joss Ackland and Anthony Hopkins in two separate productions, capture the joy and grief of Lewis, neither productions does the same justice to Joy and her capacity to avoid the shadow of Lewis, and at times her ability to out Lewis Lewis.

These letters are a delight to read. The several long ones to Aaron Kramer are amongst the most incisive criticism I've read in years. She must have been hard to keep as a friend, because she was hard on her friends. But Kramer had the sense to believe her when she tore into him "for his own good". I hadn't heard of Kramer before, and in a footnote she commends one of his 4 line poems –

Tired

Tired are my feet, that felt today the pavement;

Tired are my ears, that heard of tragic things –

Tired are my eyes, that saw so much enslavement;

Only my voice is not too tired. It sings.

How good is that. The last line is almost Isaianic in its defiant optimism, its hopeful perspective, its trust in music and the human voice as means of reconfiguring a world awry and broken by the unholy trinity of power, greed and inhumanity. This is a book that educates at different levels, and in several directions. That's often the case with the correspondence of the best letter writers.