On C.S. Lewis

For rushthatspeaks :

I dreamed once that I was in my attic room, with all the books heaped under tarpaulins & a sad snarl of picture wire.  I was painting the walls a sort of duck’s egg blue.  C.S. Lewis was there himself, in tweeds:  burly & blustery, beefred.  He was supposed to be helping, but was clumsily entangled.  We are arguing about women’s rights, blood rights, and I was furious & he was hectoring.  Then I looked out and saw the sky.  It was a clear bluegreen, ethereal:  the colour of the walls, transcended.  We were trying to paint transcendence.  There was a gold moon on its keel, quite thin; I saw it was a ship.  Delicate, illumined, it was sailing, with a little crowd of players, all of moongold, of itself.  A ship of fools.  Then I woke.

Nine