A Dark Love

Over the past few weeks I've been reading Till We Have Faces, C.S. Lewis' last novel, aloud to my dad. The brilliance of this book lies in the ability of the author to say several things at once while still spinning a compelling story, enabling the reader to slowly burrow through layers and enjoy or learn from every one. If you've not read this excellent book, this is one post you should skip. It would be better that you came at this work with a fresh mind.

One of the facets that caught my particular attention this time through (I've read it once before) was how the central character leeched away the life and joy of those close to her - by loving them. Hers was a strong love, a dominating love, a consuming love. She needed to love, like we need food or air. And when her loved ones removed themselves from her reach, she took any measure necessary to bring them back under her wing. Everthing she did, she did for love. But, ultimately, love of herself. For there was no questioning of whether the loved one might be better off without her, or if she was meddling too much or if her love was truly harming or helping. She did not allow herself to contemplate these things. And she considered herself completely justified. This sort of love is far from uncommon. It's fulfilling to be loved but if you cannot achieve that, loving others selfishly is a kind of substitute. It's a love that hangs over the loved one like a thundercloud; like a black god watching over them for its own gratification. This love professes to give, but in reality it sucks dry. It's like Tolkien's Ungoliant - a monstrous spider that devoured light, then spewed it forth again as material darkness. Of course in reality the effect isn't so graphic, to the casual eye at least. It's not difficult to commit this sin, because it wraps itself in a lovely, even righteous, cloak. But (and this is the main thing) if we don't wish to be decieved, we will not be decieved. The hardest part is not accepting the gift when it comes.