I don’t remember a time when I couldn’t read; books have always been the lenses through which I view the world. The Book, the Word, the Light, brings into being my very faculty of sight. Some books are corrective glasses, clearing up distortions and bringing into focus all things needful for me to see. Others are binoculars, extending my field of vision to identify far off things of which I would otherwise have only blurry glimpses. Certain books are microscopes, showing me minute particulars which despite their seeming smallness are of vital significance. Still others are telescopes, directing my gaze past this finite world to wonders of the great Beyond. Some books are windows, letting light and air into the rooms in which I am too apt to shut myself up. And some are mirrors, holding up before me the honest reflection of my true self which I would not otherwise see.

Thursday, December 15, 2011

Short Story Review: "The Man Born Blind" by C. S. Lewis

Synopsis:

Robin is a man, blind from birth, who has recently had an operation facilitating sight, growing increasingly frustrated with his inability to see Light. On a day when he finds himself free of the company and solicitude of his wife, he spends the morning in the old comfortable habits of blindness, then sets out to find, once and for all, the mysterious thing called Light. His failure to understand that light is what one sees by, rather than a tangible object that one sees, leads to disastrous consequences.

Comments:

Just five pages in length, this story is dense with metaphor and meaning. In his essay “On Stories,” Lewis says, “We do not enjoy a story fully at the first reading. Not till the curiosity, the sheer narrative lust, has been given its sop and laid asleep, are we at leisure to savour the real beauties.” I would modify that a bit and say that “The Man Born Blind” cannot be fully grasped, its depths not fully sounded, at the first reading.

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