CS Lewis: A Literary Analysis

I know that not everyone ever realizes this, but the moment when you realize how amazing it is to sit and read a book, to immerse yourself in a world other than your own, for the very first time is a truly magical moment. I remember when I was just starting kindergarten, and, having learned to read from my parents very early on, starting to read chapter books all by myself. While my brother and his friend were in the pool in the summer, I would take one of CS Lewis’s Chronicles of Narnia books from my brothers collection, which I remember as a vast, overwhelming utopia of books, but in reality was just a couple shelves with a few books in it, and sit and read. Did I understand Lewis’s deep Christian allegory and symbolism at the time? Of course not. But that didn’t keep me from loving a story about four children not much older than myself becoming kings and queens. I was a reader.

But it was not until the next year that I found myself truly hooked on a story, hanging on the author’s every word, refusing to sleep until I knew more about my favorite characters.

For me, like many students born around the 90s, that story took the form of JK Rowling’s Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. As a first grader, the story was just beyond my grasp, so my dad read to me from that sacred text, one chapter a night, sometimes two when I begged. And piece by piece, I was dragged into this whole new world. By the time we were halfway through the next book in the series, I was reading of Harry’s heroic acts as often as my dad was reading them to me, and by The Prisoner of Azkaban I was reading them on my own

time.

As I aged, Harry aged with me, new books coming out every two or three years. But the time of the last book release thirteen-year-old was attending the midnight release parties with all of the adult fans of the series, brought together by our love of the story. Everyone there participated in the same games, enjoyed the same contests, and could talk on any matter of the book with absolute authority. I began to understand that part of the magic of a story lay with the reader, not just with the writer, for, despite the fact that all had read the same words on the page, almost everyone saw different clues, pointing toward different endings for the grand finalé.

As I went home and slept that night, anxiously awaiting my parents’ approval of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows as being suitable for middle school students like myself, I thought how amazing it was that one woman had created something that now belonged to so many people, each seeing her world in a slightly different way. The next morning I awoke to a certain book sitting on the kitchen table. My eyes looked questioningly to my mom for permission; her quick nod and knowing smile were all the answer I needed. I wolfed down my breakfast and locked myself in my room for the day. I had a story to finish.