AGriefObserved

© Don W. King

A version of this essay first appeared in the Bulletin of the New York C. S. Lewis Society 32 (March 2001): 1-7.

A Grief Observed as Free Verse

Notwithstanding Lewis’ early desire to achieve acclaim as a poet, a candid survey of his verse reveals he did not.[1] Indeed, while he consciously considered himself a poet when writing Spirits in Bondage, Dymer, and many of his topical poems, he wrote his best “poetry” in prose. That is, Lewis’ poetic legacy is seen most clearly in his prose where poetic qualities abound—rich lyrical passages; vivid description; striking similes, metaphors, and analogies; careful diction; and concern for the sound of words. In addition, the fact Lewis saw himself early in life primarily as a poet begs that we take a new approach in our understanding of his mature prose, both non‑fiction and fiction. In fact, Lewis’ prose needs to be explored from the perspective of his being an earnest if minor poet. Jerry Daniel points the way here when he notes that Lewis has “the soul of a poet . . . [and] all works were ‘poetry’ to him in the sense that the ‘feel’ or ‘taste’ was primary.”[2] In light of this, Lewis’ poetic prose[3] throughout the Ransom trilogy is noteworthy, and elsewhere I explore how much of his prose in Perelandra “works” like poetry.[4] Additional critical scrutiny of the rhythm and cadence of his prose reflects his deeply-felt poetic sensibility; in particular, the prose imagery of A Grief Observed suggests it was inspired by his deeply felt poetic imagination.

A Grief Observed, first published in 1961, is an unsettling book.[5] So disturbing is its tone that some argue it is not about Lewis’ anguish over Joy’s death but instead a fictional account of grief. Mary Borhek summarizes the position of those who hold this view: “The only reasons I can see for believing the book to be a fictionalized account are a desire to distance oneself from the extreme discomfort of confronting naked agony and an unwillingness to grant a revered spiritual leader and teacher permission to be a real, fallible, intensely real human being.”[6] Others object to Lewis’ candid expressions of anger at God, suggesting the book demonstrates Lewis’ loss of faith: “There is no case for Christianity in this book. Gone are the persuasive arguments and the witty analogies. Gone, too, are the confidence and urbanity evident in The Problem of Pain . . . . The fundamental crisis of the book is a crisis of meaning, a crisis of such paralyzing magnitude that Lewis tries to distance himself from it in every possible way.”[7] An excellent recent study by Noelene Kidd argues the book “is not simply a record of Lewis’s grief at the loss of his beloved wife . . . but a dissection of grief itself. The work is chiefly an apology concealed by art.”[8] Still others find the book, while a deeply moving account of loss, overly introspective and emotional, verging on the maudlin. Yet Lewis avoids bathos in the book at least in part because of a clipped, prose style characterized by short, simple sentences and brief, almost snapshot-like paragraphs. These stylistic devices prevent his wallowing in excessive self-pity; in effect, he becomes a surgeon analyzing a patient’s medical chart. Ironically, of course, he is at the same time both surgeon and patient.

A close consideration of the prose style of A Grief Observed suggests the book may be read as vers libre or free verse, poetry relying not upon a regular metrical pattern but instead upon pace or cadence. Furthermore, whereas conventional poetry places a premium upon the foot and the line, free verse finds its rhythm in the stanza. Accordingly, the short paragraphs of A Grief Observed function as stanzas linking it with other ostensibly prose works such as Psalms and the Song of Songs. If we read Lewis’ book this way, we may find that while his focus upon traditional poetic conventions in his consciously conceived poetry actually restrains his poetic impulse—that is, his concern with form overshadows his poetic sensibilities—the release he experiences unconsciously in free verse liberates his poetic impulse so that A Grief Observed becomes his greatest poem. Basic to this study, therefore, will be a discussion of word, sentence, paragraph/stanza patterns; in addition, recurring metaphors serving to link paragraph/stanzas will be examined. Finally, we will consider the book’s markedly negative view of God as reminiscent of many poems in Spirits in Bondage.

As we explore Lewis’ use of words, it quickly becomes apparent he relies upon monosyllabic ones. This pattern is established in the first paragraph/stanza: “No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear. I am not afraid, but the sensation is like being afraid. The same fluttering in the stomach, the same restlessness, the yawning. I keep swallowing.”[9] Of the thirty seven words, twenty seven are monosyllabic. Similarly, in the second paragraph/stanza, sixty one of seventy six words are monosyllabic. Such a heavy reliance upon monosyllabics is consistent throughout, perhaps climaxing in the final paragraph/stanza where of forty words, thirty five are single syllable. In effect these monosyllabic words create a terse quantitative cadence giving the entire work a chopped, clipped rhythm. When we move to the sentence level, this staccato style carries over. The recurring syntax is the simple sentence—that is, a single, short clause with a simple subject (one subject) and a simple predicate (one verb). For example, in an early musing upon God, Lewis writes: “Sometimes it is hard not to say ‘God forgive God.’ Sometimes it is hard to say so much. But if our faith is true, He didn’t. He crucified Him” (25). Three of the four sentences are simple, and even the one complex sentence (“But if our faith is true, He didn’t”) is terse and abbreviated. Lewis frequently uses syntax to create cadence as in the following three compound sentences: “Talk to me about the truth of religion and I’ll listen gladly. Talk to me about the duty of religion and I’ll listen submissively. But don’t come talking to me about the consolations of religion or I shall suspect that you don’t understand” (23). The final thing to notice at the sentence level is that while Lewis is not intent upon establishing a regular meter, often sentences employ trochees (stressed syllable followed by unstressed syllable). Examples include “cancer, and cancer, and cancer” (14), “What reason have we, except our own desperate wishes, to believe that God is, by any standard we can conceive, ‘good’?” (26), and “feelings, and feelings, and feelings” (31). This stress pattern is often referred to as a “falling meter” and is an apt one since it parallels the book’s emotional tone.

At the paragraph/stanza level we see the clipped, abbreviated cadence continued. For instance, in Part One, of thirty one paragraph/stanzas, twelve contain five or fewer sentences while only one has fifteen or more sentences; in Part Two, of thirty three paragraph/stanzas, ten contain five or fewer sentences while four have fifteen or more sentences; in Part Three, of forty eight paragraph/stanzas, nineteen contain five or fewer sentences while four have fifteen or more sentences; and in Part Four, of forty paragraph/stanzas, nineteen contain five or fewer sentences while four have fifteen or more sentences. The cumulative impact of monosyllabic words, simple sentences, and brief paragraph/stanzas is to create a prose poem filled with emotion, but not emotional. That is, the clipped, terse, abbreviated cadence of A Grief Observed reveals Lewis’ pained sensibilities; rather than the sustained reflection he affects in The Problem of Pain, here he is a wounded creature shrinking from pain. He is in a state of spiritual shock. All he can manage are quick, truncated jottings—raw reactions to pain. The short paragraph/stanzas, therefore, are akin to the brief lyrics of Tennyson’s In Memoriam, another personal and literary response to grief and obviously a poem influencing Lewis’ prose poem. In fact, “Lyric 7” from In Memoriam could serve as the preface to A Grief Observed:

I sometimes hold it half a sin

To put in words the grief I feel;

For words, like Nature, half reveal

And half conceal the Soul within.

But, for the unquiet heart and brain,

A use in measured language lies;

The sad mechanic exercise,

Like dull narcotics, numbing pain.

In words, like weeds, I’ll wrap me o’er

Like coarsest clothes against the cold;

But that large grief which these enfold

Is given in outline and no more.

A writer all his life, Lewis’ characteristic response to crisis is the “sad mechanic exercise” of putting on paper the “unquiet” of his heart and, as he works through his grief, his mind.[10] For while A Grief Observed contains the ravings of a wounded creature, it also moves at its end toward the thoughtful, if numbed, reflections of a rational mind.

The frequent similes and metaphors dealing with grief and reality, Joy, himself, and Heaven/God also illustrate this movement. Grief, he writes, is like fear and being drunk or concussed. It is marked by suspense and waiting, and is a downward spiral or a festering wound. Employing a war simile, he says it is like preparing for a falling bomb. It is “the monotonous, tread-mill march of the mind round one subject” (12), and “like a long valley, a winding valley where any bend may reveal a totally new landscape” (47). Grief, he says, has a way of showing us the reality of human existence, undercutting our fantasies about significance, purpose, and meaning with its “red-hot jabs.” Reality reveals we are living “under the harrow [a heavy plough made of spikes or sharp-edged disks used to break up and level ground] and can’t escape” (25). In addition, he says reality is like a knot that comes undone when it is pulled by grief. He notes in several places how grief makes him feel like a rat in a trap, eventually introducing a recurring metaphor: “I am more afraid that we are really rats in a trap. Or, worse still, rats in a laboratory. Someone said, I believe, ‘God always geometrizes.’ Supposing the truth were ‘God always vivisects?’” (26). When he remembers their love, he recalls it being as fierce as a thunderstorm and as soft as slippers; life together had been an open road, but now it is a culs de sac. Love cut short is like a dance stopped mid-step or a blossom prematurely snapped off. Perhaps the most poignant analogy is linked to the sea: “One flesh. Or, if you prefer, one ship. The starboard engine has gone. I, the port engine, must chug along somehow till we make harbour. Or rather, till the journey ends. How can I assume a harbour?” (29).

His figurative language about Joy is rich though brief. She had a mind like a leopard, “lithe and quick and muscular . . . [able to scent] the first whiff of cant or slush; then [it] sprang, and knocked you over before you knew what was happening” (8). In one sustained passage he catalogs all she was to him: daughter, mother, pupil, teacher, subject, sovereign, trusty comrade, best friend, shipmate, fellow-soldier, mistress, sister, and brother. The most striking simile he uses about Joy occurs when he writes she was “a splendid thing; a soul straight, bright, and tempered like a sword” (35). Later he imagines God “grasps the hilt; weighs the new weapon; makes lightnings with it in the air. ‘A right Jerusalem blade’” (50). Lewis’ relatively sparse use of figurative language about Joy is due in part to his over emphasis upon himself, a fault he confesses: “The notes have been about myself, and about H., and about God. In that order. The order and the proportions exactly what they ought not to have been” (49). Regardless, he describes himself as a widower greeted by friends and acquaintances as if he were a dentist or leper; some regard him as a death-head. When he thinks of himself, he is like an empty house, a snail out of its shell, or a drowning man. His grief eats away at him, so he wonders “didn’t the eagle find a fresh liver to tear in Prometheus every time it dined?” (46).

As he considers the nature of his faith, he calls it a frayed rope, broken at the first real crisis in his life when he puts his full weight upon it. An even stronger simile appears when he repeatedly emphasizes his faith was like a house of cards. Initially he believes Joy’s death and his grief knock this flimsy house to pieces, seeing some benefit in this: “The sooner it was knocked down the better” (32). Still, he does not trust whatever “new” house of faith he might build since he knows himself too well: “However often the house of cards falls, shall I set about rebuilding it?” (32). In the end he sees it was not Joy’s death nor his grief that knocked down his house of cards, but instead it was God who “always knew that my temple was a house of cards. His only way of making me realize the fact was to knock it down” (42-43). His faith has also been like a card game with no money riding on the outcome: “Apparently it’s like that. Your bid—for God or no God, for a good God or the Cosmic Sadist, for eternal life or nonentity—will not be serious if nothing much is staked on it. And you will never discover how serious it was until the stakes are raised horribly high; until you find that you are playing not for counters or for sixpence but for every penny you have in the world” (32). The most powerful and memorable metaphor Lewis uses is a surgical one: he is an amputee. He contrasts a patient who has had a relatively minor operation for appendicitis with one who has had his leg cut off. The man with appendicitis will soon recover, none the worse for wear. Not so the amputee. While the stump will gradually heal and the pain abate, he will never “get over it.” He “will always be a one-legged man” (43). In his every waking moment he will know his handicap: “His whole way of life will be changed. All sorts of pleasures and activities that he once took for granted will have to be simply written off. Duties too. At present I am learning to get about on crutches. Perhaps I shall presently be given a wooden leg. But I shall never be a biped again” (43). Later, in noting how quickly grief can well up unexpectedly, he says “the same leg cut off time after time. The first plunge of the knife into the flesh is felt again and again” (46). In fact, his crippled nature constantly surprises him: “I was wrong to say the stump was recovering from the pain of amputation. I was deceived because it has so many ways to hurt me that I discover them only one by one” (48). While we can read to the conclusion of A Grief Observed and sense Lewis has reconciled his anger with God, he never steps back from this view of himself as an amputee; he is maimed for the rest of his life.

Lewis’ metaphorical language about Heaven is highly critical. Heaven is an iron curtain, a vacuum, absolute zero. While he once thought it a refuge, now he says it is no harbor: “A lee shore, more likely, a black night, a deafening gale, breakers ahead—and any lights shown from the land probably being waved by wreckers” (29). His most memorable simile posits Heaven is an uninhabited house with locked doors: “Go to Him when your need is desperate, when all other help is vain, and what do you find? A door slammed in your face, and a sound of bolting and double bolting on the inside. After that, silence. You may as well turn away. The longer you wait, the more emphatic the silence will become. There are no lights in the windows. It might be an empty house. Was it ever inhabited?” (9). He ameliorates his view later, noting “I have gradually been coming to feel that the door is no longer shut and bolted. Was it my own frantic need that slammed it in my face? . . . Perhaps [my] own reiterated cries deafen [me] to the voice [I] hoped to hear” (38). Still later he adds “my mind no longer meets that locked door” (49). The last time he refers to the door, he seems reconciled to the lack of an answer: “[It is] a rather special sort of ‘No answer.’ It is not the locked door. It is more like a silent, certainly not uncompassionate, gaze. As though He shook His head not in refusal but waiving the question. Like, ‘Peace, child; you don’t understand” (54-55).

While Lewis’ view of Heaven is critical, his view of God is bitter, verging upon the blasphemous.[11] He is a cruel clown, a practical joker, a spiteful imbecile, a spiteful potentate, an interfering hostess or teacher, a denier, an experimenter, and a celestial kill-joy. One running metaphor is God as surgeon or dentist. He is the doctor who cuts off the leg or removes the cancer; he is the oral surgeon who removes the cavity by drilling deeply into the nerve. He even sees a grim humor in this: “What do people mean when they say ‘I am not afraid of God because I know He is good?’ Have they never even been to a dentist?” (36). More often than not, however, Lewis cannot see his situation in light of doctor and patient; rather, he returns to the trapped animal metaphor viewing God a torturer or Cosmic Sadist at worst or a vivisector at best. As he so succinctly puts in the shortest paragraph/stanza in the book, “Either way, we’re for it” (36). Actually, it is Lewis’ metaphors concerning the character of God that are the most disturbing elements in A Grief Observed. He sees his loss in terms of torture God must inflict because “only torture will bring out the truth [about the nature of Lewis’ faith]. Only under torture does [a man] discover [the character of his faith] himself” (32). Nor does God come out any better as a vivisector since he posits Christ’s last words upon the cross may have been a similar realization: “He had found that the Being He called Father was horribly and infinitely different from what He had supposed. The trap, so long and carefully prepared and so subtly baited, was at last sprung, on the cross. The vile practical joke had succeeded” (26).

Before leaving Lewis’ metaphorical conceptions of God, it is worth noting how his bitter views of God in A Grief Observed echo his earlier view in Spirits in Bondage. For example, in “Satan Speaks I” Lewis’ cruel God says “I am the fact and the crushing reason / To thwart your fantasy’s new-born reason.”[12] “Ode to New Year’s Day” has its “red God” who appears to delight in the human pain:

And what should the great Lord know of it [the idea of goodness]

Who tosses the dust of chaos and gives the suns their parts?

Hither and thither he moves them; for an hour we see the show of it:

Only a little hour, and the life of the race is done.

And here he builds a nebula, and there he slays a sun

And works his own fierce pleasure. All things he shall fulfill,

And O, my poor Despoina, do you think he ever hears

The wail of hearts he has broken, the sound of human ill?

He cares not for our virtues, our little hopes and fears,

And how could it all go on, love, if he knew of laughter and tears? (15)

It is the “rankling hate” of such a God he mocks in “De Profundis”: “Laugh then and slay. Shatter all things of worth, / Heap torment still on torment for thy mirth— / Thou art not Lord while there are Men on earth” (21). Finally, “Dungeon Grates” expresses well Lewis’ sense of desolation in A Grief Observed:

So piteously the lonely soul of man

Shudders before this universal plan,

So grievous is the burden and the pain,

So heavy weighs the long, material chain

From cause to cause, too merciless for hate,

The nightmare march of unrelenting fate,

I think that he must die thereof . . . (25)

Happily Lewis’ dark view of God lifts a bit toward the end of A Grief Observed so that he is able to suggest He may be a gardener—so careful of his plants that he prunes them when necessary—or a smith—so expert with the anvil and hammer that he beats the raw metal into perfect shapes. This view is best seen when Lewis comes to see God as “the great iconoclast” since he is nothing like what metaphors intimate:

Not my idea of God, but God. Not my idea of H., but H. Yes, and also not my idea of my neighbour, but my neighbour. For don’t we often make this mistake as regards people who are still alive—who are with us in the same room? Talking and acting not to the man himself but to the picture—almost the precis—we’ve made of Him in our own minds? And he has to depart from it pretty widely before we even notice the fact. In real life—that’s one way it differs from novels—his words and acts are, if we observe closely, hardly ever quite ‘in character,’ that is, in what we call his character. There’s always a card in his hand we didn’t know about. (53)

As the book ends Lewis moves away from considering the character of God. Instead, he focuses again upon Joy. The final paragraph/stanza underscores the poetic nature of his elegy for her: “How wicked it would be, if we could, to call the dead back! She said not to me but to the chaplain, ‘I am at peace with God.’ She smiled, but not at me. Poi si torno all, eterna fontana” (60). Here Lewis lovingly compares Joy with Dante’s Beatrice; the line is translated “Then she turned herself back toward the eternal fountain” (from Paradiso, Canto XXXI, 30). Beatrice’s last words to Dante had been in the preceding canto, and the line just before the one Lewis quotes is “And she, however far away she seemed, smiled, and looked at me.” In A Grief Observed Lewis works through his grief to a new understanding and a renewed faith; it is his free verse lament for Joy, himself, and his understanding of God.

A final point should be noted. If we can accept the notion that A Grief Observed is free verse, this means Lewis both began and ended his publishing career by writing poetry. As a young adolescent soldier facing the looming shadow of and then the actual battlefield experiences of World War I, he produced Spirits in Bondage, a volume of lyrical verse reflecting anger, theological uncertainty, and yet a longing for beauty. As an older, broken lover who has experienced the crucible of Joy’s suffering and pain (as well as his own) A Grief Observed is free verse reflecting a similar anger, theological uncertainty, and yet now a longing for peace. While the former may have been written in part because of teenage angst, the latter is a moving testimony of one who has experienced the dark night of the soul and yet come through it to the place where the loving gardener, not the Cosmic Sadist, abides.