As recently discussed in this space, I've been on the receiving end of quite a few items from the old homestead of late. (Yes, the Legos arrived.) Most recently, the UPS truck brought a package containing a battered but complete set of the Chronicles of Narnia.

It's safe to say that The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe was my first truly compelling experience with narrative fantasy. The first time Iread them through I was simply beguiled by the whole package: the journey to another world, getting to be knights with swords, talking animals, and the most competent parent-figure ever invented in literature. By the time I got the news that there was a layer of Christian allegory rather smoothly woven throughout, I was too happy with Lewis's world to mind very much -- it made a touch less personally magical, but later added a certain level of interpretive puzzle to work on. Even Lewis's version of the Apocalypse seemed more reassuring than the grotesque vision of the Rapture that sprung up in the evangelical pamphlets I found in my friends' homes.

Rereading the books now, two things strike me as worthy of comment. The first is how much Lewis owed to (and attempted to transform) the rhetoric and setting of Victorian and Edwardian books of the post-Tom Brown's School Days variety. The moral lessons imparted to children in Narnia distinctly partake of the fair-play, no-squealing ethos of the boarding school world. While the narrative frame of The Silver Chair is explicitly concerned with the tyranny of school bullies, Lewis's children in general must learn to suffer their privations with honor, and though he doesn't blame them for crying when homesick, he privileges "pluck" over tenderness.

Leaving behind Lewis's didactic concerns, though, what's striking in comparison to the work of a contemporary and friend is how narratively speedy Lewis is. The man knows how to keep a story going, and though he'll pause a moment or two to remind one of how impressive Aslan's mane or the deliciousness of a large breakfast (Never was there a fantasy series so repeatedly devoted to the pleasure of a big breakfast, by the way. More of the scarring of the old public school education of poor old Clive, one supposes), there's little lingering. Event follows event, Narnia is saved ---and before one knows it, it's a quick lecture from Aslan, and back through the bloody wardrobe. It's a good thing he turned out a whole pile of these books, or he'd have had a lot of very frustrated children on his hands. And please don't tell me to follow the last one with a romp through Mere Christianity. In case you didn't know, the Lion ain't in it.