“Why do I make room in my mind for such filth and nonsense? Do I hope that if feeling disguises itself as thought I shall feel less? Aren’t all these notes the senseless writhings of a man who won’t accept the fact that there is nothing we can do with suffering except to suffer it?” – A Grief Observed, C.S. Lewis

I can see why he wrote, published under a pseudonym, yet was appalled at some of his own notes.

I’ll stop vacillating between “publish” and “draft”. I hate the impulse to cut and curate for no good purpose other than to serve my own vanity.

It’s not the parts about God. At least they face God, however imperfectly.

The fears or tears (here, so it now appears) are about me. Loss of what is mine. The concern for anyone else involved, little that there is, matters “chiefly for its effect on myself”.

“And all the time the joke is that the word “Mine” in its fully possessive sense cannot be uttered by a human being about anything. In the long run either Our Father or the Enemy will say “Mine” of each thing that exists, and specially of each man. They will find out in the end, never fear, to whom their time, their souls, and their bodies really belong – certainly not to them, whatever happens.” – Screwtape Letters (letters from a senior to a junior devil), C.S. Lewis


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