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“¿Cómo se podía odiar lo que hacía un hombre y no odiar al hombre? Pero años más tarde se me ocurrió que había un hombre con el que yo había puesto esto en práctica durante toda mi vida. Ese hombre era yo mismo. Por mucho que me disgustase mi cobardía o mi vanidad o mi codicia, seguía queriéndome a mí mismo. El cristianismo quiere que las odiemos del mismo modo en que odiamos esas cosas en nosotros mismos: lamentando que ese hombre haya hecho esas cosas y esperando, si es posible, que de algún modo, en algún momento, en algún lugar, el hombre puede ser curado y humanizado de nuevo.”

“Si a uno se le permite condenar las acciones del enemigo y castigarlo, ¿qué diferencia hay entre la moral cristiana y el punto de vista corriente? Toda la diferencia del mundo. Recordad que los cristianos pensamos que el hombre vive para siempre. Por lo tanto, lo que realmente importa son esas pequeñas marcas o señales en la parte interior o central del alma que van a convertirla, a la larga, en una criatura celestial o una criatura demoníaca. En otras palabras, algo dentro de nosotros, el resentimiento, la sensación de venganza, deben sencillamente ser aniquilado. Mientras castigamos debemos tratar de sentir por el enemigo lo que sentimos por nosotros mismos: desear que no fuese tan malo, esperar que pueda, en este mundo o en el otro, ser curado; de hecho, desearle el bien. A eso es a lo que se refiere la Biblia cuando dice que debemos amar a nuestros enemigos: deseándoles el bien, y no teniéndoles afecto o diciendo que son buenos cuando no lo son.”

“La diferencia entre un cristiano y un hombre mundano no es que el hombre mundano sólo siente afectos o «simpatías» y el cristiano sólo siente «caridad». El hombre mundano trata a ciertas personas amablemente porque le «gustan»; el cristiano, intentando tratar a todo el mundo amablemente, se encuentra a sí mismo gustando cada vez de más gente, incluyendo personas que al principio jamás se hubiera imaginado le gustarían.”

“Caridad significa «amor en el sentido cristiano». Pero el amor, en el sentido cristiano, no significa una emoción. Es un estado, no de los sentimientos, sino de la voluntad; el estado de la voluntad que naturalmente tenemos acerca de nosotros mismos, y que debemos aprender a tener acerca de los demás. Es normalmente un deber alentar nuestros afectos —«gustar» de la gente tanto como podamos (del mismo modo que a menudo debemos alentar nuestro gusto por el ejercicio o la comida sana)— no porque este afecto sea en sí mismo la virtud de la caridad, sino porque la ayuda.”

“Sería equivocado pensar que el modo de volverse caritativo es tratar de fabricar sentimientos de afecto. Algunas personas son «frías» por naturaleza; puede que eso sea una desgracia para ellos, pero no es más pecado que hacer mal la digestión, y no los aleja de la posibilidad, o los disculpa del deber, de aprender a ser caritativos. La regla para todos nosotros es perfectamente simple. No perdáis el tiempo preguntándoos si «amáis» a vuestro prójimo: comportaos como si fuera así. En cuanto hacemos esto, descubrimos uno de los grandes secretos. Cuando nos comportamos como si amásemos a alguien, al cabo del tiempo llegaremos a amarlo. Si le hacemos daño a alguien que nos disgusta, descubriremos que nos disgusta aún más que antes. Si le hacemos un favor, encontraremos que nos disgusta menos.”

“Escritores utilizan la palabra caridad para describir no sólo el amor cristiano entre seres humanos, sino también el amor de Dios para con los hombres y de los hombres para con Dios. Acerca de la segunda clase de amor la gente a menudo se preocupa. Se les dice que deben amar a Dios. Y no pueden hallar ese sentimiento en sí mismos. ¿Qué deben hacer? La respuesta es la misma que antes. Comportaos como si lo amarais. No intentéis fabricar sentimientos. Preguntaos: «Si yo estuviera seguro de amar a Dios, ¿qué haría?» Cuando hayáis encontrado la respuesta, id y hacedlo.”

“El afecto, ya lo dije, no se da importancia. La caridad —decía san Pablo— no es engreída. El afecto puede amar lo que no es atractivo: Dios y sus santos aman lo que no es amable. El afecto «no espera demasiado», hace la vista gorda ante los errores ajenos, se rehace fácilmente después de una pelea, como la caridad sufre pacientemente, y es bondadoso y perdona. El afecto nos descubre el bien que podríamos no haber visto o que, sin él, podríamos no haber apreciado. Lo mismo hace la santa humildad. Pero si nos detuviéramos sólo en estas semejanzas, podríamos llegar a creer que este afecto no es simplemente uno de los amores naturales sino el Amor en sí mismo, obrando en nuestros corazones humanos y cumpliendo su ley. ¿Tendrían razón entonces los novelistas ingleses de la época victoriana, al decir que es suficiente este tipo de amor? ¿Son «los afectos caseros», cuando están en su mejor momento y en su desarrollo más pleno, lo mismo que la vida cristiana? La respuesta a estas preguntas, lo sé con seguridad, es decididamente No. No digo solamente que esos novelistas escribieron a veces como si nunca hubieran conocido ese texto evangélico sobre el «odiar» a la esposa y a la madre y aun la propia vida —aunque, por supuesto, sea así—, sino que la enemistad entre los amores naturales y el amor de Dios es algo que un cristiano procura no olvidar. Dios es el gran Rival, que en cualquier momento me puede robar —al menos a mí me parece un robo— el corazón de mi esposa, de mi marido o de mi hija.”

“Las personas que son de suyo difíciles de amar, su continua exigencia de ser amadas, como si fuera un derecho, su manifiesta conciencia de ser objeto de un trato injusto, sus reproches, sea con estridentes gritos o con quejas solamente implícitas en cada mirada o en cada gesto de resentida autocompasión, provocan en nosotros un sentimiento de culpa —esa es su intención— por una falta que no podíamos evitar y que no podemos dejar de cometer.”

“Una sociedad, una comunión, basada en la pura inteligencia no tendría por qué ser fría, desolada e inhóspita. Claro que tampoco resultaría ser eso a lo que la gente se refiere cuando usa palabras como espiritual, místico o sagrado. Si yo pudiera tener un atisbo de ello sería como…; bueno, casi me da miedo echar mano de los adjetivos que puedo utilizar. ¿Enérgico? ¿Entusiasta? ¿Atinado? ¿Alerta? ¿Intenso? ¿Despierto? No sé, por encima de todo, sólido. Totalmente de fiar. Firme. Los muertos no se andan con tonterías. Cuando digo «intelecto», incluyo la voluntad. La atención es un acto de voluntad. La inteligencia en acción es voluntad por excelencia.”

“El hecho de haber alcanzado un grado menor de malentendido sobre lo que debe ser la inteligencia pura, no ha de hacerme llevarlo demasiado lejos. También cuenta, valga lo que valga, la resurrección de la carne. No somos capaces de entender. Puede que lo que menos entendamos sea lo mejor. ¿No se ha debatido ya, en tiempos, si la visión final de Dios era más un acto de inteligencia que de amor? Ésta es probablemente otra de esas preguntas disparatadas. ¡Qué cruel sería convocar a los muertos caso de que pudiéramos hacerlo!”

“Tenemos que dar un rodeo, dejar las colinas y los bosques y volver a nuestros estudios, a la iglesia, a nuestra Biblia y a ponernos de rodillas. De otro modo, el amor por la naturaleza empezaría a convertirse en una religión de la naturaleza, y entonces, aun cuando no nos condujera a «los oscuros dioses de la sangre», nos llevaría a un alto grado de insensatez.”

“Nada es ni demasiado trivial ni demasiado animal para que pueda ser así transformado: un juego, una broma, tomar una copa con alguien, una charla ligera, un paseo, el acto de venus, todas esas cosas pueden ser modos con los que perdonamos o aceptamos el perdón, con los que consolamos o nos reconciliamos, con los que «no buscamos nuestro propio interés». Así, en nuestros mismos instintos, apetitos y pasatiempos, el Amor se ha preparado «un cuerpo» para sí mismo.”

“Cristo no enseñó ni sufrió para que llegáramos a ser, aun en los amores naturales, más cuidadosos de nuestra propia felicidad. Si el hombre no deja de hacer cálculos con los seres amados de esta tierra a quienes ha visto, es poco probable que no haga esos mismos cálculos con Dios, a quien no ha visto. Nos acercaremos a Dios no con el intento de evitar los sufrimientos inherentes a todos los amores, sino aceptándolos y ofreciéndoselos a Él, arrojando lejos toda armadura defensiva. Si es necesario que nuestros corazones se rompan y si Él elige el medio para que se rompan, que así sea.”

“Los largos, aburridos y monótonos años de prosperidad en la edad madura o de adversidad en la misma edad son un excelente tiempo de combate. Es tan difícil para estas criaturas el perseverar... La rutina de la adversidad, la gradual decadencia de los amores juveniles y de las esperanzas juveniles, la callada desesperación (apenas sentida como dolorosa) de superar alguna vez las tentaciones crónicas con que una y otra vez les hemos derrotado, la tristeza que creamos en sus vidas, y el resentimiento incoherente con que les enseñamos a reaccionar a ella, todo esto proporciona admirables oportunidades para desgastar un alma por agotamiento.”

“Se você está considerando a possibilidade de se tornar cristão, devo alertá-lo para o fato de que está embarcando em algo que vai exigir você por inteiro, inclusive seu intelecto. Mas, felizmente, as coisas funcionam de modo contrário, isto é, qualquer um que esteja tentando honestamente se tornar um cristão vai perceber logo que a sua inteligência está sendo aguçada, e um dos motivos por que se tornar um cristão não requer nenhuma educação especial é que este torna-se já um tipo de educação.”

“All the books were beginning to turn against me. Indeed, I must have been blind as a bat not to have seen it long before, the ludicrous contradiction between my theory of life and my actual experiences as a reader. George MacDonald had done more to me than any other writer; of course it was a pity that he had that bee in his bonnet about Christianity. He was good in spite of it. Chesterton has more sense than all the other moderns put together; bating, of course, his Christianity. Johnson was one of the few authors whom I felt I could trust utterly; curiously enough, he had the same kink. Spenser and Milton by a strange coincidence had it too. Even among ancient authors the same paradox was to be found. The most religious (Plato, Aeschylus, Virgil) were clearly those on whom I could really feed. On the other hand, those writers who did not suffer from religion and with whom in theory my sympathy ought to have been complete -- Shaw and Wells and Mill and Gibbon and Voltaire -- all seemed a little thin; what as boys we called "tinny". It wasn't that I didn't like them. They were all (especially Gibbon) entertaining; but hardly more. There seemed to be no depth in them. They were too simple. The roughness and density of life did not appear in their books.”

“Es curioso que los mortales nos pinten siempre dándoles ideas, cuando, en realidad, nuestro trabajo más eficaz consiste en evitar que se les ocurran cosas. Desvia su mirada de Él hacia ellos mismos. Haz que se dediquen a contemplar sus propias meritos y que traten de suscitar en ellas, por obra de su propia voluntad, sentimientos o sensaciones. Enséñales a medir el valor de cada oración por su eficacia para provocar el sentimiento deseado, y no dejes que lleguen a sospechar hasta qué punto esa clase de éxitos o fracasos depende de que estén sanos o enfermos, frescos o cansados, en ese momento. Los humanos no parten de una percepción directa del Enemigo. Nunca han experimentado esa horrible luminosidad, ese brillo abrasador e hiriente que constituye el fondo de sufrimiento.”

“His ideal is a man who, having worked all day for the good of posterity (if that is his vocation), washes his mind of the whole subject, commits the issue to Heaven, and returns at once to the patience or gratitude demanded by the moment that is passing over him. But we want a man hag-ridden by the Future—haunted by visions of an imminent heaven or hell upon earth—ready to break the Enemy’s commands in the present if by so doing we make him think he can attain the one or avert the other—dependent for his faith on the success or failure of schemes whose end he will not live to see. We want a whole race perpetually in pursuit of the rainbow’s end, never honest, nor kind, nor happy now, but always using as mere fuel wherewith to heap the altar of the future every real gift which is offered them in the Present.”

“Your man may be untroubled about the Future, not because he is concerned with the Present, but because he has persuaded himself that the Future is going to be agreeable. As long as that is the real course of his tranquillity, his tranquillity will do us good, because it is only piling up more disappointment, and therefore more impatience, for him when his false hopes are dashed. If, on the other hand, he is aware that horrors may be in store for him and is praying for the virtues, wherewith to meet them, and meanwhile concerning himself with the Present because there, and there alone, all duty, all grace, all knowledge, and all pleasure dwell, his state is very undesirable and should be attacked at once.”

“As long as he retains externally the habits of a Christian he can still be made to think of himself as one who has adopted a few new friends and amusements but whose spiritual state is much the same...And while he thinks that, we do not have to contend with the explicit repentance of a definite, fully recognised, sin, but only with his vague, though uneasy, feeling that he hasn’t been doing very well lately. This dim uneasiness needs careful handling. If it gets too strong it may wake him up...if you suppress it entirely...we lose an element in the situation which can be turned to good account. If such a feeling is allowed to live, but not allowed to become irresistible and flower into real repentance, it has one invaluable tendency. It increases the patient’s reluctance to think about the Enemy. All humans at nearly all times have some such reluctance; but when thinking of Him involves facing and intensifying a whole vague cloud of half-conscious guilt, this reluctance is increased tenfold...In this state your patient will not omit, but he will increasingly dislike, his religious duties...He will want his prayers to be unreal, for he will dread nothing so much as effective contact with the Enemy.”

“His whole effort, therefore, will be to get the man’s mind off the subject of his own value altogether. He would rather the man thought himself a great architect or a great poet and then forgot about it, than that he should spend much time and pains trying to think himself a bad one. Your efforts to instil either vain glory or false modesty into the patient will therefore be met from the Enemy’s side with the obvious reminder that a man is not usually called upon to have an opinion of his own talents at all, since he can very well go on improving them to the best of his ability without deciding on his own precise niche in the temple of Fame...The Enemy will also try to render real in the patient’s mind...the doctrine that they did not create themselves, that their talents were given them, and that they might as well be proud of the colour of their hair...Even of his sins the Enemy does not want him to think too much: once they are repented, the sooner the man turns his attention outward, the better the Enemy is pleased”

“In writing. Don't use adjectives which merely tell us how you want us to feel about the thing you are describing. I mean, instead of telling us a thing was "terrible," describe it so that we'll be terrified. Don't say it was "delightful"; make us say "delightful" when we've read the description. You see, all those words (horrifying, wonderful, hideous, exquisite) are only like saying to your readers, "Please will you do my job for me." [Letter to Joan Lancaster, 26 June 1956]”

“Prayers are not always—in the crude, factual sense of the word—'granted.' This is not because prayer is a weaker kind of causality, but because it is a stronger kind. When it 'works' at all it works unlimited by space and time. That is why God has retained a discretionary power of granting or refusing it; except on that condition prayer would destroy us. It is not unreasonable for a headmaster to say, 'Such and such things you may do according to the fixed rules of this school. But such and such other things are too dangerous to be left to general rules. If you want to do them you must come and make a request and talk over the whole matter with me in my study. And then—we'll see'. -'Work and Prayer”

“El problema de adaptar el tiempo particular a las oraciones particulares es meramente la aparición, en dos puntos de su forma de percepción temporal, del problema total de adaptar el universo espiritual entero al universo corporal entero; que la creación en su totalidad actúa en todos los puntos del espacio y del tiempo, o mejor, que su especie de conciencia les obliga a enfrentarse con el acto creador completo y coherente como una serie de acontecimientos sucesivos. Por qué ese acto creador deja sitio a su libre voluntad es el problema de los problemas, el secreto oculto tras las tonterías del Enemigo acerca del “Amor”. Cómo lo hace no supone problema alguno, porque el Enemigo no prevé a los humanos haciendo sus libres aportaciones en el futuro, sino que los ve haciéndolo en su Ahora ilimitado. Y, evidentemente, contemplar a un hombre haciendo algo no es obligarle a hacerlo.”

“And now it came. It was fiery, sharp, bright and ruthless, ready to kill, ready to die, outspeeding light: it was Charity, not as mortals imagine it, not even as it has been humanised for them since the Incarnation of the Word, but the translunary virtue, fallen upon them direct from the Third Heaven, unmitigated. They were blinded, scorched, defeaned. They thought it would burn their bones. They could not bear that it should continue. They could not bear that it should cease.”

“It's our shadow!—the shadow of the Dawn Treader" said Lucy. "Our shadow running along on the bottom of the sea. That time when it got bigger it went over a hill. But in that case the water must be clearer than I thought! Good gracious, I must be seeing the bottom of the sea; fathoms and fathoms down." [...] At present, for instance, they were passing over a mass of soft purply green with a broad, winding strip of pale grey in the middle of it. But now that she knew it was on the bottom she saw it much better. She could see that bits of the dark stuff were much higher than other bits and were waving gently. "Just like trees in a wind," said Lucy. "And I do believe that's what they are. It's a submarine forest.”

“The man who is contented to be only himself, and therefore less a self, is in prison. My own eyes are not enough for me, I will see through those of others. Reality, even seen through the eyes of many, is not enough. I will see what others have invented. Even the eyes of all humanity are not enough. I regret that the brutes connot write books. Very gladly would I learn what face things present to a mouse or a bee; more gladly still would I perceive the olfactory world charged with all the information and emotion it carries for a dog. Literary experience heals the wound, without undermining the privilege, of individuality... in reading great literature I become a thousand men and yet remain myself. Like the night sky in the Greek poem, I see with a myriad of eyes, but it is still I who see. Here, as in worship, in love, in moral action, and in knowing, I transcend myself; and am never more myself than when I do.”

“We are always falling in love or quarreling, looking for jobs or fearing to lose them, getting ill and recovering, following public affairs. If we let ourselves, we shall always be waiting for some distraction or other to end before we can really get down to our work. The only people who achieve much are those who want knowledge so badly that they seek it while the conditions are still unfavorable. Favorable conditions never come.”

“All the trees of the world appeared to be rushing towards Aslan. But as they drew nearer they looked less like trees, and when the whole crowd, bowing and curtsying and waving thin long arms to Aslan, were all around Lucy, she saw that it was a crowd of human shapes. Pale birch-girls were tossing their heads, willow-women pushed back their hair from their brooding faces to gaze on Aslan, the queenly beeches stood still and adored him, shaggy oak-men, lean and melancholy elms, shock-headed hollies (dark themselves, but their wives all bright with berries) and gay rowans, all bowed and rose again, shouting, "Aslan, Aslan!" in their various husky or creaking or wave-like voices.”

“There was a nice brown egg, lightly boiled, for each of them, and then sardines on toast, and then buttered toast, and then toast with honey, and then a sugar-topped cake. And when Lucy was tired of eating, the Faun began to talk. He had wonderful tales to tell of life in the forest. He told about the midnight dances and how the Nymphs who lived in the wells and the Dryads who lived in the trees came out to dance with the Fauns; about long hunting parties after the milk-white stag who could give you wishes if you caught him; about feasting and treasure-seeking with the wild Red Dwarfs in deep mines and caverns far beneath the forest floor; and then about summer when the woods were green and old Silenus on his fat donkey would come to visit them, and sometimes Bacchus himself, and then the streams would run with wine instead of water and the whole forest would give itself up to jollification for weeks on end.”

“Lucy's eyes began to grow accustomed to the light, and she saw the trees that were nearest her more distinctly. A great longing for the old days when the trees could talk in Narnia came over her. She knew exactly how each of these trees would talk if only she could wake them, and what sort of human form it would put on. She looked at a silver birch; it would have a soft, showery voice and would look like a slender girl, with hair blown all about her face, and fond of dancing. She looked at the oak: he would be a wizened, but hearty old man with a frizzled beard and warts on his face and hands, and hair growing out of the warts. She looked at the beech under which she was standing. Ah!- she would be the best of all. She would be a precious goddess, smooth and stately, the lady of the wood.”