My Best Friend is a Dead Guy

In a recent conversation, it was pointed out that I seem to like Lewis because he's "deep and complex." 

I responded, "Yes, my best friend is a dead guy!"

That sounded clever so I wrote it down, but then felt obligated to analyze it. I have sometimes lamented that I don't think Lewis and I would have been friends had we met in life. I definitely still would have respected his talent, and probably would have enjoyed at least some of the time spent in his presence, had such an opportunity been available. But he also had his share of less admirable traits that certainly would have detracted.

Don't misunderstand, though, I'm not assuming he'd be in a hurry to spend a lot of time with me, either, unless he was researching for one of his sillier characters. Babbitt comes to mind.

But as I plow through Arrowsmith, scrutinizing every word in both Japanese and English, my love and admiration for the man, which was already tremendous, continues to grow in fits, starts and semi-occasional bursts.

That's the extraordinary thing about literature. Authors have left us distilled pieces of their greatness to analyze, scrutinize, accept or reject as we will. It's like having friends with infinite patience for our impertinence.