Dreams on Dreams on Dreams

Powerful Wet Stuff

For Casey, I think, since I think she thinks the same as me sometimes

(and will remind me that this is quite incomplete)

[A note: this is not about C.S. Lewis. Story and author are not one.]

                Possibly, my favorite Chronicle of Narnia is The Voyage of the Dawn Treader: it is somehow far easier to believe in a tale so fantastical simply because the entire story, as in every good fantasy, is aware of the fact that it is not really about the apparent subject matter at all. Standing in sharp contrast to, say The Magician’s Nephew and even more than The Last Battle, this tale has an active and absurd consciousness, and that consciousness is self-aware of its absurdity. Stranger still, even the characters within the tale appear to know that their every move is symbol, that they are participants not in allegory or analogy, but mysticism – of something by definition other than itself. At every moment, whether it be concerned with Dufflepuds and mer-people or Reepicheep and Rhoop, the story thrusts itself into a heightened realm of the preposterous.  

How dare Eustace reflect upon his dragon-hood, bemoan his misperceptions, interpret his transformation? Must he a second time? Must Lucy really consider all the implications of opening the magicians book? Must she do so out loud, in that very moment of choosing? Is it necessary – truly necessary – for Ramandu’s daughter to explain her nature and the nature of the stars?

                Of course, and the reason is simple: The Voyage of the Dawn Treader is not just an adventure and it is not just a fantasy, it is a dream-vision in disguise. As Dante midway upon the journey of his life, as the Pearl-dreamer, as if Joseph were not simply to interpret Pharoah’s dreams but live in them and effect their ends and their meanings – as Peter takes and eats, unconcerned with the flesh itself – so the Dawn Treader can only see itself through itself, can only read its action through the perpetuation of that action. You notice that no one in the book is an enemy, per say: even the slavers are brought to justice and given opportunity to correct their ways, even the evil magician turns out not to be so evil after all. Every character and his every action is manifestation of the same pre-existent awareness around which the story forms. It is, in its fantasy, self-sufficient and entirely nonsensical, shifting effortlessly between disparate persons, places, and times. It is truly delightful, and I think Lewis knew MacDonald would be proud.

                I lied to you just now, however, and for good reason: nothing of what I am about to write is actually true of the story – not, at least, in the same way Edmund is real, or Aslan. So perhaps I am lying about lying – but I have to lie to not lie. Watch.

Because, you might point out, there is one distinct enemy, one great fear and one great shadow, felt most harshly by Lord Rhoop: the island where dreams come true. There, dreams are not simply daydreams but everything that enters the human conscience, every imagined and unimaginably awful considered thing. Here is where darkness engulfs as much as light, where summer days are turned in a moment to ferocious storms, where even the brief notion of evil brings that evil into immediate existence. Here is the dreamer’s hell: not only can he not falter, but he cannot even consider the possibility that he might, or else it will become untrue. [A similar post could be written for The Phantom Tollbooth . . . . but one thing at a time, I suppose.] It is the manifestation of the avoided unknown. Once the crew of the Dawn Treader have rowed themselves into the shadow, they quickly discover they cannot row out.

                But such a place is absolutely necessary, and in the very act of proposing this dark, dark island, the story negates its power, reminds us that the imagined evil was nothing more than imagined to begin with. In fact, the simple act of leaving the darkness behind destroys that darkness forever (and, appropriately, therefore grants Rhoop’s only living wish). Proposed seriously, the land of nightmares has unparalleled ability to imprison and contain; proposed lightly, escape is no less certain; once inside, such blackness appears unavoidable, having been proposed at all. And it is crucial to notice the Treader’s means of escape: not by Reepicheep’s virtue or Caspian’s princeliness, not by the efforts of the crew to row stroke after stroke, not by Rhoop’s (demented) logic do they escape – only by the small calling voice of Lucy Pevensie, who begins to feel better for only having made the attempt. She does not wish, fight, or think her way out of the island where dreams come true: she hopes her way out, and the rest of the crew as well. She faiths her way out, if you will. Absurdly, in the absolute darkness, she presumes light.

                And, as I was hoping to say above, this moment of eventual triumph in the story also bespeaks a moment of eventual triumph about the story: The Voyage of the Dawn Treader could always have been a nightmare, but even as that nightmare presents itself – a dark island, an “evil” magician, a never-ending sea – it is overcome by the absolute and unwavering insistence that it must be, has always been, and will become a dream. The thought of darkness is not darkness: Reepicheep must enter Aslan’s country, the Monopods must become Dufflepuds, and Eustace must become a dragon (or has always started as one) but, more importantly, he absolutely must become a boy. So there is always an enemy for stories that have them, but a darkness rightly perceived is simply a waypoint – truly no darkness at all.

If you want to find the island where dreams come true, you cannot simply read the chapter about nightmares. You have to read the whole book.

So I apologize for lying up there. It had to be done so that it could be undone and proven no lie at all. But it was important to me. I’ve been having terrible dreams, and it’s me who has been having them, and how can I help but interpret them since they are oh so very very mine. So I have to acknowledge the dreams that are nightmares and find out where they touch the light and know that such a touch exists. Because – in case you missed it – being Lord Rhoop would be frightening and terrible, but at least he’s a part of the right story. The greater nightmare would be never having discussed him at all.

Really, it all comes down to the wisdom of the Dufflepuds, whom I love:

“Water. Powerful wet stuff, ain’t it?”