![]() It is possible to read his fiction simply for the story and still be satisfied, but I think you're missing the point. Non-fiction, literary criticism, memoir, children's literature, science fiction, myth-he wrote it all and he wrote it all well. A man of soaring intellect and a man of deep faith, he wrote in a way that challenges the mind. Lewis was, and still is, a towering figure. Maybe I'll begin reading with only my eyes and forget all that this book has given me.Ĭ.S. How do explain what this book does for me, heart, soul, and mind? How do I explain that I have other favorites that I will turn to like familiar friends, but I avoid reading Till We Have Faces often? I'm not afraid that familiarity will breed contempt, but, perhaps, complacency. I have a favorite ice cream, a favorite color, but books-particularly this book-are so much more to me. Even the word “favorite” does it a disservice. And yet, anything I say to explain it falls short. Lewis is a favorite author of mine, and Till We Have Faces is, bar none, the best book I've ever read. We read my favorite book of all time for book club, and how could I do it justice? C.S. ![]() ![]() Last month, I faced what I believed to be an impossible task. ![]()
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