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The Discarded Mage: 
Lewis the Scholar-Novelist on
Merlin's Moral Taint

That Hideous Strength is Lewis's only work of fiction set in the time and place in which he lived, and its principal concerns continue to have currency and relevance. In this novel we find an Orwellian anxiety about the all-pervasive powers of the modern State; a satire on uncritical reverence for technology as the cure for all human ills; a concern for the rights of animal and human subjects in the laboratory; and an examination of contemporary attitudes toward sex and marriage. In general, That Hideous Strength offers a searching critique of what has been called The Modern Temper. How curious then, and how very like Lewis, that this story should also be considered a major twentieth-century contribution to the heritage of Arthurian literature. 

Nathan Comfort Starr in King Arthur Today speaks for many readers when he declares that the third novel of the Ransom trilogy "deserves an honored place in the Arthurian legend, for it is a highly original restatement of old truths applied to our violent, distraught world, and it is conceived in terms of vaulting imagination" (187). Indeed, it would take a vaulting imagination to set forth a tale of space travelers, totalitarian schemers, and ruthless technocrats, and then to bring Merlin the magician onto stage, newly awakened from fifteen centuries of enchanted slumber. On one side of the story's conflict are those at the National Institute of Coordinated Experiments (NICE) who propose to combine the powers of modern Science with those of ancient Magic. On the other side are Ransom and his company at St. Anne's, who hope to recruit Merlin if they may, stop him if they must. And then there is Merlin himself, awakened not only for the service of his secret arts, but also that he himself may find redemption.

Merlin is unquestionably one of the most revered characters in Arthurian lore. In Geoffrey of Monmouth's History of the Kings of Britain, Merlin is the one who puts Arthur on the throne and who sustains him there. In Malory's Le Morte Darthur  he is chief advisor not only to Arthur and his father before him, but also to the Archbishop of Canterbury. Tennyson's Idylls of the King refers to Merlin as a "gentle wizard" of "vast wit" and "high purpose" (121, 137). Even Dante makes a glancing reference to Merlin as a "good enchanter" (Lacy 128).  For some readers then, it may come as something of a shock in That Hideous Strength when Lewis has Ransom tell Merlin bluntly, "Because Our Lord does all things for each, one of the purposes of your reawakening was that your soul should be saved" (289). 

Why would C. S. Lewis, that great admirer of Camelot and all it stood for, present its chief sponsor and sustainer as a soul in need of saving? To answer that question, readers must consider Lewis's work not only as novelist, but also as critic, cultural historian, and Christian essayist. Such a project casts new light upon Merlin's appearance in That Hideous Strength; it also uncovers one of the bedrock convictions upon which Lewis's life and writings were founded. 

For those familiar with Merlin's role in Arthurian tradition, it is not hard to discover clues as to why he might be seen as one in need of redemption. Recounting the lore of Bragdon Wood (Merlin's supposed resting place in That Hideous Strength), Lewis invents a historical character, "the fabulously learned and saintly Richard Crowe," who lauds Arthur's wizard for being "a true King's man as ever ate bread" even though he is "the Devil's son" (22). The first half of this formula fits our usual image of Merlin; the second half may come as a surprise--yet it is a tradition of long standing in the Matter of Britain

In the first great Arthurian work, Geoffrey of Monmouth's History of the Kings of Britain, completed in 1137, Merlin is described as the offspring of an incubus and a Welsh princess (Thorpe 20). Despite his sinister origins, Merlin is a stout-hearted figure in Geoffrey's pseudo-history, one who consistently uses his preternatural powers in the service of king and country. Consequently, writers who came after Geoffrey seemed to want to soften the story of Merlin's origins as described in this early source. Robert de Boron, a French priest whose Joseph of Arimathea comes about a half century after Geoffrey's monumental work, concedes that Merlin is the son of a devil, but suggests that both he and his mother are innocent of any wickedness. In Robert's version, the infant Merlin is a prodigy of eloquence and clairvoyance, who, even while a babe in arms, proves his mother's blamelessness in court and secures her acquittal by telling the judge that he knows of that official's own dubious parentage (Goodrich 43-46). The English poet Layamon goes a step further in Brut (1205) declaring that Merlin's father was not a demon at all, but one of the mischievous creatures who dwells in the sky (Mason 145). 

Both as a scholar and as a story-teller, Lewis followed Layamon's lead. In The Discarded Image Lewis notes that in the early Middle Ages, it was believed there were the creatures of the air who could be either good or bad, like humans, but that gradually these beings, called Daemons, became associated with fallen angels, or demons (118). Lewis's mouthpiece in That Hideous Strength, Dr. Dimble, comments more fully on the mystery of Merlin's origins and character: "Has it ever struck you what an odd creation Merlin is? He's not evil; yet he's a magician. He is obviously a druid; yet he knows all about the Grail. He's 'the devil's son'; but then Layamon goes out of his way to tell that the kind of being who fathered Merlin needn't have been bad after all. You remember, 'There dwell in the sky many kinds of wights. Some of them are good, and some work evil"  (31-32). 

Later in the novel,  Dimble coins the term "Neutrals" in talking to his wife about beings which do not fall into any convenient theological category: "There used to be things on this Earth pursuing their own business, so to speak. They weren't ministering angels sent to help fallen humanity; but neither were they enemies preying upon us. Even in St. Paul one gets glimpses of a population that won't exactly fit into our two columns of angels and devils. And if you go back further . . . all the gods, elves, dwarves, water-people, fate, longaevi. You and I know too much to think they were just illusions" (284-285). 

As he so often does, Lewis in this passage uses his fiction to provide an imaginative embodiment for ideas which he elucidates in his scholarly works. In The Discarded Image he offers a fuller discussion of Dimble's "Neutrals," as well as those unusual terms fate and longaevi (though in that context he is not so free as Dr. Dimble to speculate about the veracity of ancient folk traditions). There he surveys all of these varieties of Longaevi, "long-livers,"  explaining that Fairies were much more splendid and fascinating beings in the Middle Ages than the modern notion of fairies as toy angels. He says that the Italian Fata Morgana was fully Fairy, whereas the elusive, almost playful Morgan le Fay in Malory and other English writers is much more humanized. Lewis goes on to suggest that Merlin belongs to this order of beings, better understood as half-fairy than half-devil (130). So when Merlin proclaims near the end of That Hideous Strength  that he is no devil's son (289), we may take him at his word. 

If rumors of Merlin's demonic descent are false, then the question remains why he is in need of redemption. It does not take more than a cursory survey of Arthurian lore to reveal a number of stains on his scutcheon. Again it is the early source, Geoffrey of Monmouth's History, which recounts some of his most dubious deeds. In Geoffrey's version, Merlin is a faithful servant to the royal family, but one whose service is not cluttered by any moral idealism. When Arthur's uncle Aurelius wants a battle monument for Salisbury, Merlin suggests they go over Ireland and take a circle of giant stones that he has seen there. This they do without any compunctions, defeating the Irish king and carrying the stone pillars back to England by Merlin's magic to create Stonehenge. After Aurelius' death, his brother Uther falls in love with Ygerna, the wife of one of his most loyal vassals, Gorlois, Duke of Cornwall.  Again, Merlin works the king's will without any thought to morality, transforming Uther into the likeness of of Gorlois, so that he can make a midnight visit to Ygerna, who later begets Arthur. (Again, we see later writers taking care to spruce up Merlin's image: in Malory he is ignorant of Uther's seduction scheme. In Tennyson, this episode is left out entirely.) 

But in presenting Merlin as one who stands in need of salvation, Lewis does not seem to have in mind any particular misdoings on his part. After all, as an orthodox Christian, Lewis would certainly affirm that salvation comes by faith, not by perfection of works. In That Hideous Strength Lewis does not refer to Merlin's questionable actions as recorded by various romancers. He is less interested in what Merlin has done than in who he is. And ultimately we see that the soul  of Merlin the Magician has not been sullied by this or that misdeed, but by the very fact that he is a magician. 

One of the paradoxes Dr. Dimble expressed about Merlin is that "he's not evil; yet he's a magician" (31), implying, of course, that by definition magicians are generally evil. For Lewis, their sin is not just that they dabble in forbidden arts; more seriously, they have succumbed to the serpent's oldest temptation, "Ye shall be as gods." Those who read widely in Lewis's books will notice certain key words that take on personal meanings in his work, terms which retain the same specialized connotations in a variety of contexts. Words such as joy, pagan, comfort,  and taste  all have specific and philosophically-rich colorings in the Lewis lexicon. Magic and magician are words of this sort, both in Lewis's fiction and his non-fiction. Andrew Ketterley in The Magician's Nephew is typical, one who wants to manipulate occult forces for his own gain; who feels exempt from ordinary morality because of his "high and lonely destiny" (18); who disregards the sanctity of life, whether human or animal. Though he is essentially a comic character, Andrew's "magic" shares a great deal with "science" as practiced at Belbury in That Hideous Strength. 

It is not anomalous, then, in That Hideous Strength for twentieth-century technocrats to seek the services of a reputed wizard. In The Abolition of Man Lewis makes explicit his sense of the connection between ancient magic and modern science: 

I have described as a "magician's bargain" that process whereby man surrenders object after object, and finally himself, to Nature in return for power. And I meant what I said. The fact that the scientist has succeeded where the magician failed has put such a wide contrast between them in popular thought that the real story of the birth of Science is misunderstood. You will even find people who write about the sixteenth century as if Magic were a medieval survival and Science the new thing that came to sweep it away. Those who have studied the period know better. There was very little Magic in the Middle Ages: the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries are the high noon of Magic. The serious magical endeavour and the serious scientific endeavour are twins: one was sickly and died, and the other strong and throve. But they are twins. They were born of the same impulse. (87) 

Some readers of Lewis have dismissed such equations of science and magic as facile and reactionary. Lewis's contemporary, J. B. S. Haldane, the Marxist ideologue who bears more than a little resemblance to Edward Weston, complained that Lewis was contemptuous of scientists in general and that he parodied their research methods (Auld Hornie 33-34). More recently Philip Deasy called the Ransom trilogy "a total and unrelenting attack on science" (Commonweal 422). But Lewis argued that the main target of his satire was not science, but Scientism, the quasi-religious hope of using technology to help humans evolve into some new species of divinity. He pointed out that the one real scientist in That Hideous Strength was murdered when he tried to leave NICE, having discovered its work was not really about science (Reply 78). 

Lewis's concern is not so much with magic in itself or science in itself as with the deeper impulse which unites the two. As he goes on to explain in The Abolition of Man: 

There is something which unites magic and applied science while separating both from the "wisdom" of earlier ages. For the wise men of old the cardinal problem had been how to conform the soul to reality, and the solution had been knowledge, self-discipline, and virtue. For magic and applied science alike the problem is how to subdue reality to the wishes of men: the solution is a technique. (87-88)

Here Lewis touches on one of the themes that was closest to his heart: learning to accept what is given and to conform one's will to reality, rather than insisting on one's own way and trying to bend reality to one's will. Apart from the intrinsic dangers of the occult, the practice of Magic also betokens an underlying attitude of not accepting one's creatureliness, of trying to escape the intractable vulnerability of being human. Lewis expresses this thought most succinctly in "The Inner Ring," where he observes, "It is the very mark of a perverse desire that it seeks what is not to be had" (63).

This idea recurs frequently in the Ransom trilogy, a lesson which must be learned over and over. In Out of the Silent Planet Ransom seeks safety in avoiding the Malacandrians, the very ones whose help he will need to survive. In Perelandra he comes to understand that the fundamental nature of evil, the sin by which the Bent One fell, is to cling to what is desired rather than accepting what is given. He must learn to live like the unfallen creatures of Perelandra, who abide in a perpetual state of trust and obedience, throwing themselves into each wave as it comes and not trying to dwell on the Fixed Land. By the time we meet Ransom in That Hideous Strength, he has learned that deep-seated desires for safety or comfort are not things to be grasped: he refuses Merlin's offer to mend his wounded heel, knowing by then that he has been destined to bear in his flesh the wound of the the Serpent Slayer (Gen. 3:15). 

Lewis's frequent warnings about the danger of trying to dominate nature, of trying to assert one's will over reality, take on a particular poignancy in Surprised by Joy where he discusses the death of his mother when he was nine. There he explains that as a child he had prayed that she might be miraculously restored to him, but that his prayers were essentially "irreligious" in nature: "I had approached God, or my idea of God, without love, without awe, even without fear. He was, in my mental picture of this miracle, to appear neither as Savior nor as Judge, but merely as magician; and when He had done what was required of Him I supposed He would simply--well, go away"  (21). Here again that keyword magician is associated with the desire to make reality conform to one's will instead of accepting that which cannot be changed. Lewis adds that children often pray in such a spirit, but that is one of the childish things which must eventually be put away. 

But even if Merlin is a magician, aren't there different kinds of magic?  Most students of the occult distinguish between white magic, used only for constructive purposes such as healing or enhancing fertility, and black magic, the casting of spells and curses (Crow 127). Lewis, of course, was aware of the distinction, but he doubted whether it were as clear-cut as sometimes maintained. In his volume of the Oxford History of English Literature, he explains the difference between magia, high or "white" magic, such as we encounter in Merlin or Bercilek, which is associated with the world of Faerie, and goeteia, black magic, associated with witchcraft and Faustian contracts with the devil. But having made the distinction, Lewis adds that most sixteenth-century writers, including King James himself (who published his Demonology in 1597) condemned all kinds of magic as a snare, warning that even "white magic" was a danger to the soul (7-8). 

In That Hideous Strength it is Dr. Dimble who insists on the contrast between Merlin's magic and the magic of sorcerers: "What common measure is there," he asks, "between ceremonial occultists like Faustus and Prospero and Archimago with their midnight studies, their forbidden books, their attendant fiends or elementals, and a figure like Merlin who seems to produce his results simply by being Merlin?" (200). Later Dimble argues that Merlin's source of power is utterly different from the technological approach at NICE: "Merlin is the reverse of Belbury. He's at the opposite extreme. He is the last vestige of an old order in which matter and spirit were, from our modern point of view, confused. For him every operation on Nature is a kind of personal contact, like coaxing a child or stroking one's horse. After him came the modern man to whom Nature is something dead--a machine to be worked, and taken to bits if it won't work as the way he pleases" (285). Dimble concludes that the leaders at NICE will never be able to enlist Merlin as an ally: "They thought the old magia of Merlin, which worked in with the spiritual qualities of Nature, loving and reverencing them and knowing them from within, could be combined with the new goeteia--the brutal surgery from without. No. In a sense Merlin represents what we've got to get back to in some different way" (285-86).

Ransom agrees that there is a difference, believing that Merlin's magic is descended somehow from lost Atlantean magic, not from the sorcery of the Renaissance. He recognizes this a much more potent magic than that of the sixteenth century (and perhaps the twentieth century), but doubts that it is any less guilty (201). Ultimately, Ransom, like Prospero, rejects all magic, even the "good" magic of Atlantis. 

In Lewis's books, Merlin, Morgan le Fay, and Atlantis are all associated with ancient mystery and power, more innocent than Faustian magic, but still to be avoided. For the great fact of Atlantis is that it is lost and irrecoverable, one of those "things not to be had." Andrew Ketterley, the magician in The Magician's Nephew, is impotent himself as a sorcerer, but he conjures up worlds of trouble with rings he has obtained from his godmother, significantly named Mrs. Lefay (16). Again the most poignant expression of this image pattern comes in Lewis's autobiography, where he discusses his childhood bereavement: "With my mother's death all settled happiness, all that was tranquil and reliable, disappeared from my life. There was to be much fun, many pleasures, many stabs of Joy; but no more of the old security. It was all sea and islands now; the great continent had sunk like Atlantis" (Joy 21).

 In That Hideous Strength, even Dr. Dimble, the one who senses so great a contrast between Merlin and Faust, recognizes that ultimately Merlin has worked wonders to his own spiritual injury: 

"Even in Merlin's time . . . though you could still use that sort of life in the universe innocently, you couldn't do it safely. The things weren't bad in themselves, but they were already bad for us. They sort of withered the man who dealt with them. Not on purpose. They couldn't help doing it. Merlinus is withered. He's quite pious and humble and all that, but something has been taken out of him. That quiet of his is just a little deadly, like the quiet of a gutted building. It's the result of having laid his mind open to something that broadens the environment just a bit too much. Like polygamy. It wasn't wrong for Abraham, but one can't help feeling that even he lost something by it (285).

That phrase about "broadening the environment a bit to much" is an enigmatic one, but it suggests going beyond the natural bounds of one's station. Here again Lewis the scholar provides the most valuable gloss on Lewis the novelist. In The Discarded Image he argues that one of the most persistent habits of the medieval mind is what he calls the "Principle of the Triad," the sense that two things often need "some wire, some medium, some introducer, some bridge--a third thing of some sort" in between them (43-44). Often this relationship of three may be defined as agent--mean--patient, one acting, one being acting upon by way of an intermediary. Between the king and the commons are the nobility; between reason and the appetities, sentiment; between God and humans, first Christ and then nine ranks of angels (74). In this view, humans are most often patients, acted upon by God, the means or instruments of divine agency. Too often, though, they seek god-like powers of agency in situations where it is not theirs to be had. 

As with terms already discussed, words associated with The Principle of the Triad--agent, mean, and patient--often have specialized connotations in Lewis's writings. In That Hideous Strength, Macphee, the resident skeptic at St. Anne's, complains that the leaders at NICE will take over the country by the time Ransom and his company have taken any countermeasures. One of the others at St. Anne's answers with a line from Charles Williams's Taliessen through Logres: "All lies in a passion of patience, my Lord's rule" (194). For Williams, as for Lewis, the patience referred to here is not just a willingness to let time pass, but a willingness to submit to the agency of someone in whom you have utter and serene trust. 
The besetting sin of the magician is to usurp divine agency, to act upon others using nature as the instrument. Ironically, Merlin's magic, if the source of his spiritual injury, eventually becomes the source of his spiritual recovery. Once Merlin has submitted himself to Ransom's authority as Pendragon, Ransom explains to him the means by which Maleldil's agents will destroy the conspiracy at NICE: "I have become a bridge," begins Ransom simply--a term which suggests he intuitively understands his role in the triad.  Merlin objects that if heavenly powers put forth all their strength, they will destroy the entire planet. "That is why they will work only through a man," answers Ransom, going on to explain why Merlin himself is that man: 

I will take Our Fair Lord to witness that if it were my task, I would not refuse it. But he will not suffer a mind that still has its virginity to be so violated. And through a black magician's mind their purity neither can nor will operate. One who has dabbled . . . in the days when dabbling had not begun to be evil, or was only just beginning . . . and also a Christian and a penitent. A tool (I must speak plainly) good enough to be so used and not too good. (291, ellipses Lewis's)
Of course, Merlin accepts the task and he becomes the channel through which the heavenly powers are able to defeat the forces of spiritual darkness which have gathered at Belbury. This is his last deed on earth, for Jane Studdock, who is gifted with second sight, witnesses Merlin's final moments in a dream-vision: "It looked as if he was on fire. . . . I don't mean burning, you know, but light--all sorts of lights in the most curious colours shooting out of him and running up and down him. That was the last thing I saw: Merlin standing there like a kind of pillar and all those dreadful things happening all round him. And you could see in his face that he was a man used up to the last drop, if you know what I mean--that he'd fall to pieces the moment the powers let him go" (361). Several times in the trilogy the eldila, ministering angels, are associated with pillars of light (Planet 79; Perelandra 18; Strength 321), and here Merlin is seen as the candlewick for their flame. Jane's last sight of Merlin suggests that he has learned to become the medium, the bridge by which higher powers are able to accomplish their ends on earth. And, according to Ransom, in so losing his life, he saves it. 

Merlin's redemption in That Hideous Strength is only one story among many, one victory in a titanic conflict which has come thundering down the centuries.  Ransom told Merlin that Maleldil "does all things for each"--for Merlin, For Mark and Jane Studdock, for the whole company who have chosen to follow Ransom. In a wider circle still, the clash between Belbury and St. Anne's is sub specie aeternitatis.  Near the end of the novel, some of the younger members of Ransom's circle aren't quite sure what the battle has been all about. The ever-obliging Dr. Dimble explains to the neophytes that their struggle has been part of an ongoing conflict, a centuries-old duel between forces of light and darkness in England:

"It all began," Dimble explains, "when we discovered that the Arthurian story is mostly true history. There was a moment in the Sixth Century when something that is always trying to break through into this country nearly succeeded. Logres was our name for it--it will do as well as another. And then gradually we began to see all English history in a new way. We discovered the haunting. . . . Something we may call Britain is always haunted by something we may call Logres." (368-69) 
As he so often does, Lewis here assigns special, spiritually evocative meanings to words that were not nearly so richly laden before they were touched by his imagination. 

The term "Logres" is taken from the Welsh word for "England." Traditionally, Logres represents the Britain of King Arthur; the term appears in Spenser and Milton with about the same connotations as the word "Camelot." Lewis's friend Charles Williams lent the word more mystical overtones in his Arthurian books, using Logres to denote the spiritual side of England, the combination of Christian and Celtic ideals to stand against the tides of worldliness and corruption.  In Taliessen through Logres, Williams goes so far as to compare Logres to the Logos. As his Merlin watches the coronation of Arthur, amid splendid heraldric pageantry,  the prophet actually sees "the glory of Logres, patterns of Logos in the depths of the sun" ("Crowning of Arthur," lines 44-45). 

 In Lewis's paradigm, borrowed from Williams, Logres becomes a form of the divine Word seeking to be enfleshed in human hearts and in the culture they create. Such a definition strikes a familiar chord: for many people, Logres, or more familiarly Camelot, has come to represent the fragile ideal of a society governed by chivalric virtues of goodness, fairness, courage, and love. We find this note sounded in Geoffrey of Monmouth as early as the twelfth century; it becomes a leitmotif in Malory's fifteenth-century Morte; and, in the nineteenth century, Tennyson's Idylls derive more poetic power from their underlying moral idealism than from the narrative itself. Clearly, there is a long-standing sense that Arthur and Camelot stand for more than just romance, bravery, or adventure. The legends have become intertwined with an enduring mystique of transcendent values emboldening human valor and engendering human virtue. 

Yet surely would almost seem idolatrous to thus equate Logres with Logos, to confuse the spiritual ideals of the Britons with the Divine Word itself. Of course, both Williams and Lewis knew better. In that same vision of the coronation depicted in Taliessen through Logres, Merlin also sees coming disaster, the Dolorous Stroke, one brother striking down another. Merlin muses to himself that "the spark of Logres fades, glows, fades" (line 72). And Lewis might have Dr. Dimble speak of a time when Logres nearly broke through, but in that seemingly casual word "nearly" is all the drama and heartbreak of human history. 

Though Logres, like any spiritual ideal, may never be fully incarnated in fallen men and women, it may still have redemptive power for an awakened enchanter, for anchorless modern intellectuals like the Studdocks, for a world increasingly defined by efficacy of technique over clarity of moral vision. Writing about the Arthurian romances of the twelfth-century French poet Chretien de Troyes, Lewis concludes that Golden Ages like Camelot never were, and always are:

 For it is interesting to notice that [Chretien] places his ideal in the past. For him already 'the age of chivalry is dead.' It always was: let no one think the worse of it on that account. These phantom periods for which the historian searches in vain--the Rome and Greece that the Middle Ages believed in, the British past of Malory and Spenser, the Middle Age itself as it was conceived by the romantic revival--all these have their place in a history more momentous than that which commonly bears the name. (Allegory 23-24) 

Part of the enduring fascination of That Hideous Strength is Lewis's ability to evoke this "momentous history" not visible in daily newspapers or scholarly tomes. The novel shows Mark and Jane Studdock just beginning their spiritual journey, as Ransom nears the end of his. And then out of time steps Merlin, not only as magician and prophet but also as fellow pilgrim. Their combined strength overcomes even "That Hideous Strength," as each of their lives is woven into a respendent tapestry of imagined redemption history. 

In studying Lewiss treatment of Merlin the magician and Logres the lost kingdom, one cannot help but notice his remarkable unity of vision. In Surprised by Joy, Lewis reported that throughout his teens and twenties his intellect and his imagination were almost like separate and isolated hemispheres of his brain (170). But in the books which flowed from his pen from the time of his conversion until his death, he sustained an extraordinary consistency of viewpoint. Whether reading his fiction, his apologetic and devotional books, or his scholarly masterworks, we encounter each time a mind, heart and imagination all working as one, offering ingenious supposals about the substance of things hoped for, and finding in new, unexpected places the evidence of things unseen.

Bruce, James Douglas. The Evolution of Arthurian Romance: From the Beginning Down to the Year 1300.  Baltimore: Johns Hopkins Press, 1923.

Chretien de Troyes. Arthurian Romances. Trans. by W. W. Comfort. London: J. M. Dent and Sons, 1976. 

Crow, W. B. A History of Magic, Witchcraft, and Occultism (London: The Aquarian Press, 1968).
Deasy, Philip, "God, Space, and C. S. Lewis." Commonweal 68 (25 July 1958): 421-425.

Goodrich, Norma L. Merlin. New York: Harper and Row, 1988.

Haldane, J. B.S. "Auld Hornie, F. R. S." Modern Quarterly 1(Autumn 1946), 32-40. Rpt. in Shadows of Imagination: The Fantasies of C. S. Lewis, J. R. R. Tolkien, and Charles Williams. Ed. by Mark R. Hillegas. Carbondale, IL: Southern Illinois UP, 1969. 

Lacy, Norris J., Ed. The New Arthurian Encyclopedia. New York: Garland Publishing Co., 1991

Lewis, C. S. The Allegory of Love. London: Oxford University Press, 1938. 

_________.  The Discarded Image. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1964. 

_________.  English Literature in the Sixteenth Century, Excluding Drama. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1954.

_________. "The Inner Ring." In The Weight of Glory and other Addresses. Grand Rapids, MI: Erdmans, 1949. 

_________.  "The 'Morte Darthur.'" In Studies in Medieval and Renaissance Literature. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1966. Pp. 103-110. 

_________. Out of the Silent Planet. New York: Macmillan, 1943.

_________.  Perelandra. New York: Macmillan, 1944.

_________. "A Reply to Professor Haldane." In Of Other Worlds: Essays and Stories, ed. by Walter Hooper. New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1966. Pp. 74-85. 

_________. Surprised by Joy: The Shape of My Early Life. New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1955.

_________. That Hideous Strength: A Modern Fairy Tale for Grown-Ups. New York: Macmillan, 1968. Orig. pub. London: John Lane, Bodley Head, 1945; New York: Macmillan, 1946.

Malory, Sir Thomas. King Arthur and his Knights. Ed. by Eugene Vinaver. London: Oxford UP, 1975. 

Mason, Eugene, Trans. Wace and Layamon: Arthurian Chronicles. London: J. M. Dent and Sons, Ltd, 1962. 

Starr, Nathan Comfort. King Arthur Today: The Arthurian Legend in English and American Literature, 1901-1953. Gainesville: The University of Florida Press, 1954.

Tennyson, Alfred Lord. Idylls of the King. New York: Signet, 1961.

Thorpe, Lewis, trans. The History of the Kings of Britain. By Geoffrey of Monmouth.  New York: Viking Penguin, 1987.

Williams, Charles. "The Crowning of Arthur." In Taliessen Through Logres. London: Oxford University Press, 1938.




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