I last read the Chronicles of Narnia (all seven tiny tomes) when I was a young boy mustering just ten years of age. It happened at a sleepover, after I had had my fill of warm miso soup with Ken-chan and Yuu-chan, and when they had gone to bed I spied all seven books sitting on a shelf and proceeded to cross my legs and savour each story till the sun rose.

I could not have known then half the things that I know now, but I will say that the series struck a strange and deep chord of wonder within me (and was probably the start of my foray into Redwall, and LOTR, and Drizzt Do’Urden and His Dark Materials and all sorts of high fantasy resplendent with snowy lands and dwarves with pick axes and knotted beards and polar bears in chainmail armor and mighty mice whose slight builds belied great courage and bravery, but I digress), and to unfold the same stories some sixteen (!!) years later and see their flaws laid plain, yet find them all the truer and sweeter, has been an immense comfort to my soul.

What a wonderful yet grave reminder – that this world is not my lasting home, but also that while I am resident here, there is much work that is yet to be done.


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