Lewis often astounds me with the way he can spend time on a description without reducing me to snoring. instead of skipping over it in chunks, i find myself slowing down to allow his language to paint the picture before me. he, and other geniuses like him, are the reason why i never take a crack at writing science fiction, a genre i have always secretly loved (Ender's Game is the literary love of my life). you cannot write science fiction without inviting your readers into a new world, with unique colors, shapes, objects, languages, etc. and when i try to write such a setting, i am reduced to feeling like Ransom when he arrives at Malacandra: nearly paralyzed in the realization that everything is different, you cannot function like you used to in your comfortable reality, and where do you possibly begin to adjust yourself?
i realized three chapters in that ive read Out of the Silent Planet before, but i am as eagerly into the text as i was the first time. what an enchanting read!
p.s: somebody else post please please please please?!?
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