I wrote recently about a little book I had found at the local thrift store, and while a nifty little story, the main attraction was its introduction of Charles Williams, a hitherto unknown to myself compatriot of C.S.Lewis, J.R.R.Tolkien and the other 'Inklings.' Curious, as the aforementioned authors are some of my personal favorites, I plunged into some of his writings. Whereas Lewis and Tolkien write fantasy set in another world, place, or time, Williams prefers to haunt 1930s England with his own visions. I read all seven of his novels and discovered an excellent writer, his writings are as deep and vivid and perplexing as 'That Hideous Strength' and 'The Man Who Was Thursday,' but a disquiet shadow, barely discerned, looms over them.
When asked about his 'Screwtape Letters,' Lewis remarked that it was quite easy to keep going on in that infernal vein once one got in the habit, but it was so disconcerting that he daren't continue overlong in such a study for his own sake and that of his readers. I wonder if that is what haunts William's novels, especially his last two. I haven't read up on his history or writing or personal beliefs or the reaction of his contemporaries to his works, but I did read a brief overview on a blog dedicated to the subject and was rather disturbed to find him an avid occultist, one with questionable intentions towards young ladies, in that light his final two novels don't surprise me in the least.
From his writing I can discern that he was a man of supreme spiritual vision, with the ability to craft a story that draws his reader into that fabulous and terrifying world, but underlying it all seems to be a gradual drift in thought away from the good and the right and the true, into a spectral grey world of ambivalent evil and banal light, wherein there is only Power and all ends the same. Did that gifted writer, that great spiritual visionary, unlike Lewis, drift ever more gradually into the darkness, did he take Lewis's surest road to Hell, unmarked, gradual, easy underfoot? Was he so blinded by spiritual splendors and terrors beyond his comprehension and his fascination therewith that he gradually drifted into a sort of moral stupor in which the Power was everything and the Truth nothing, in which all ends were the same and the means certainly justified thereby? An addict of spiritual phenomena drawn inevitably to destruction like so many others drawn likewise by the more common addictions of drink, drugs, lust, or gambling?
Would I recommend his books? Lewis really liked 'The Place of the Lion," and I believe it had some influence upon his 'That Hideous Strength.' I certainly rank them highly as far as literary experience, quality of the writing, philosophical questions posed, and overall a satisfying experience, but they are haunted and haunting. 'The Shadows of Ecstasy' is probably his most problematic book in that light and I found very little redeeming virtues therein. 'The Greater Trumps' is a fascinating and beautiful work, if falling utterly flat at the end and failing to make much sense of what started out to be an intriguing idea. The others are excellent books in their own right, and I would not hesitate to recommend them save for that lingering whiff of brimstone, barely discerned in most of them, but ever stronger in each successive work. If you are looking for something to fascinate and challenge your spiritual sensibilities and you have already tackled Lewis and Chesterton, then you might be ready for Williams. If you are wishy-washy in your faith or lax in your literary habits, start with Lewis, not 'That Hideous Strength,' and build up your spiritual and literary muscles before tackling something so alluring yet also potentially dangerous as Williams, lest you find yourself following unwittingly down that easy road to Hell, so enamored of the terrific visions that you lose sight of the 'Way, the Truth, and the Life.'
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