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A Grief Observed by C.S. Lewis is a poignant and deeply personal reflection on the fundamental issues of life, death, and faith in the midst of loss. Written after his wife's tragic death, this book is an honest and unflinchingly truthful account of how loss can lead even a stalwart believer to lose all sense of meaning in the universe. It is an inspirational tale of how Lewis gradually regains his bearings and finds solace in his faith.
Who Uses It?
Primarily, this book is used by those who have experienced significant loss and are seeking a thoughtful and spiritual perspective on grief. It is also a valuable resource for students of theology, philosophy, and literature, as well as anyone interested in understanding the complexities of human emotion and faith.
History and Editions
First published in 1961 under the pseudonym N.W. Clerk, *A Grief Observed* has been a classic work on grief for over six decades. The book has been widely read and studied for its profound insights into the human experience of loss and its impact on one's faith. The 2001 edition, published by HarperOne, remains a widely available and respected version of the text.
Author and Other Works
C.S. Lewis was a renowned author, philosopher, and theologian. He is best known for his works such as *The Chronicles of Narnia*, *Mere Christianity*, and *The Problem of Pain*. His writing style is characterized by clarity, depth, and a unique ability to make complex theological concepts accessible to a broad audience.
ISBNs and Formats
Publication Details
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Chapter One
No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear. I am not afraid, but the sensation is like being afraid. The same fluttering in the stomach, the same restlessness, the yawning. I keep on swallowing.
At other times it feels like being mildly drunk, or concussed. There is a sort of invisible blanket between the world and me. I find it hard to take in what anyone says. Or perhaps, hard to want to take it in. It is so uninteresting. Yet I want the others to be about me. I dread the moments when the house is empty. If only they would talk to one another and not to me.
There are moments, most unexpectedly, when something inside me tries to assure me that I don't really mind so much, not so very much, after all. Love is not the whole of a man's life. I was happy before I ever met H. I've plenty of what are called 'resources.' People get over these things. Come, I shan't do so badly. One is ashamed to listen to this voice but it seems for a little to be making out a good case. Then comes a sudden jab of red-hot memory -- and all this 'commonsense' vanishes like an ant in the mouth of a furnace.
On the rebound one passes into tears and pathos. Maudlin tears. I almost prefer the moments of agony. These are at least clean and honest. But the bath of self-pity, the wallow, the loathsome sticky-sweet pleasure of indulging it -- that disgusts me. And even while I'm doing it I know it leads me to misrepresent H. herself. Give that mood its head and in a few minutes I shall have substituted for the real woman a mere doll to be blubbered over. Thank God the memory of her is still too strong (will it always be too strong?) to let me get away with it.
For H. wasn't like that at all. Her mind was lithe and quick and muscular as a leopard. Passion, tenderness, and pain were all equally unable to disarm it. It scented the first whiff of cant or slush; then sprang,and knocked you over before you knew what was happening. How many bubbles of mine she pricked! I soon learned not to talk rot to her unless I did it for the sheer pleasure -- and there's another red-hot jab -- of being exposed and laughed at. I was never less silly than as H.'s lover.
And no one ever told me about the laziness of grief. Except at my job -- where the machine seems to run on much as usual -- I loathe the slightest effort. Not only writing but even reading a letter is too much. Even shaving. What does it matter now whether my cheek is rough or smooth? They say an unhappy man wants distractions -- something to take him out of himself. Only as a dog-tired man wants an extra blanket on a cold night; he'd rather lie there shivering than get up and find one. It's easy to see why the lonely become untidy, finally, dirty and disgusting.
Meanwhile, where is God? This is one of the most disquieting symptoms. When you are happy, so happy that you have no sense of needing Him, so happy that you are tempted to feel His claims upon you as an interruption, if you remember yourself and turn to Him with gratitude and praise, you will be -- or so it feels -- welcomed with open arms. But go to Him when your need is desperate, when all other help is vain, and what do you find? A door slammed in your face, and a sound of bolting and double bolting on the inside. After that, silence. You may as well turn away. The longer you wait, the more emphatic the silence will become. There are no lights in the windows. It might be an empty house. Was it ever inhabited? It seemed so once. And that seeming was as strong as this. What can this mean? Why is He so present a commander in our time of prosperity and so very absent a help in time of trouble?
I tried to put some of these thoughts to C. this afternoon. He reminded me that the same thing seems to have happened to Christ: 'Why hast thou forsaken me?' I know. Does that make it easier to understand?
Not that I am (I think) in much danger of ceasing to believe in God. The real danger is of coming to believe such dreadful things about Him. The conclusion I dread is not 'So there's no God after all,' but 'So this is what God's really like. Deceive yourself no longer.'
Our elders submitted and said, 'Thy will be done.' How often had bitter resentment been stifled through sheer terror and an act of love -- yes, in every sense, an act -- put on to hide the operation?
Of course it's easy enough to say that God seems absent at our greatest need because He is absent -- non-existent. But then why does He seem so present when, to put it quite frankly, we don't ask for Him?
One thing, however, marriage has done for me. I can never again believe that religion is manufactured out of our unconscious, starved desires and is a substitute for sex. For those few years H. and I feasted on love, every mode of it -- solemn and merry, romantic and realistic, sometimes as dramatic as a thunderstorm, sometimes as comfortable and unemphatic as putting on your soft slippers. No cranny of heart or body remained unsatisfied. If God were a substitute for love we ought to have lost all interest in Him. Who'd bother about substitutes when he has the thing itself? But that isn't what happens. We both knew we wanted something besides one another -- quite a different kind of something, a quite different kind of want...
Grief Observed. Copyright © by C. Lewis. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.
Excerpted from A Grief Observed by C. S. Lewis
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