So what is The Magician’s Nephew?



What is the sunrise? What is the miracle of spring surviving winter? What is the shape-shifting of the moon or the sound of fresh snow fallen upon the earth?

You might just say it's Creation.

Or you might say it’s magic.

So I say, as a writer and a man who will forever be bound to the incessant need to communicate what I see (imaginary or otherwise) through the use of written words, that it is the magic of creation; that beautiful moment of spontaneous freedom so cleverly architected by a master craftsman it appears to be as natural as breathing air and yet as exciting as that special relationship between author and reader can possibly be.



The first book in C.S. Lewis’ indelible gift to humanity, The Chronicles of Narnia, The Magician’s Nephew resonates with the ambient tones of an awakening world that readers of any age will never want to leave, as Lewis takes us, through the eyes of two unreasonably adorable companions, on a remarkably rich and profound journey despite its scant fifteen chapters, promising only the grandest of voyages, battles, characters, and ideals to come. So perfectly universal is Lewis’ writing, unlike his sometimes overwrought and challengingly dense contemporary Tolkien, who achieved far more success in acolytes and film franchises, that I was amazed just how much I enjoyed it. Fact is, I can’t get over it. I had a moment. An epiphany. Aslan walked through my mind and sang and trees sprang from the ground. Because I understood, as a writer and a human being, what the essence of storytelling (at least this sort of story) truly is.

It’s giving the gift of magic.

So strong was the need to read the book aloud to children using my plethora of accents and impressions that I ended up reading parts of it to myself, knowing that someday, when I have children, we will both be able to share the joy of experiencing the world that lies just beyond our own, only accessible before one goes to sleep, and the sound of its coming is that of a bound spine croaking open, and the scrape and flap of pages being turned. Not only did I want to read the story aloud, but I wanted to write it. I wanted to be in Narnia and give it to everyone else. I wanted magic to shoot into my fingertips and glitter the skies of every reader’s imagination with the undying joy of being able to trust that little wedge of paper and ink to take you away, far away, into a world framed with the simplest beauties of our collective humanity.



To me, that is part of Creation itself. There is an act, a moment, a blink, a whisper. But what comes of it? Is the seed that has been sown selfish or selfless?

For the magic of storytelling is pure and undefiled, perfect and complete. Unquenchable like a swollen sea of water.

Let the writer be judged by what story he tells.