The Infinity of Suffering
"I will not be Ungit," said I. I got up, shivering as with fever, from my bed and bolted the door. I took down my old sword, the very same that Bardia had taught me to use, and drew it. It looked such a happy thing ( and it was indeed a most true, perfect, fortunate blade) that tears came into my eyes. "Sword," said I, "you have had a happy life. You killed Argan. You saved Bardia. Now, for your masterpiece."
It was all foolishness, though. The sword was too heavy for me now. My grip--think of a veined, claw-like hand, skinny knuckles--was childish. I would never be able to strike home; and I had seen enough of wars to know what a feeble thrust would do. This way of ceasing to be Ungit was now too hard for me. I sat down--the cold, small, helpless thing I was--on the edge of my bed and thought again.
There must, whether the gods see it or not, be something great in the mortal soul. For suffering, it seems, is infinite, and our capacity without limit.
~C.S. Lewis, Till We Have Faces, (1956)
On this day:
1926 Dymer was published by J. M. Dent, London, under the pseudonym of Clive Hamilton.
1942 Lewis delivered the first of nine talks on "Christian Behavior" over BBC radio. These talks were later expanded and became Book Three of Mere Christianity.
(from A Year With C.S. Lewis)