Dust to Dust: Analysis of Out of the Silent Planet

CS Lewis shoves at us, time and time again, complex allegories that would rival even the most profound musings of Thales; even him, the supposed founder of Grecian sciences, might not level the heavens to the gentle reaches of the earth so, with such artistry of tact and grace. Rather than number the days in a year, he redefines time. Rather than predict the olive market, he would present an intricate understanding of mankind's interworking. And rather than measure an impossible shadow; he might capture light itself.

Out of the Silent Planet is no exception. It is all mirth but plenty matter, forcing readers to introspect until their minds collapse; to choke on harsh critiques of their own nature until they vomit, and then thrusts it down their throats again. CS Lewis may very well have succeeded in capturing the grim undertones of existence, in symbolically expounding his philosophy, but he has never succeeded in subtlety. Perhaps, though, if he had spoken less definitely, he might not have been heard. We have, then, his brazen tongue to thank for both the severity and the grace of his profoundly poetic dialogue and whimsical scopes.

The meat of this book, then, is to be fed upon ravenously. This is no five-star radish and sauce dish that presents itself as exquisite but is merely inedible; it is put before us as a supper of necessity. It was not meant to be sampled, but to be devoured in its entirety. Such passages as those he offers should not be picked at daintily. He cooks it as a dinner so hearty that it would make the thickest of men feel themselves empty after every meal following. But enough of this appraisal!


WARNING:: SPOILERS AHEAD!

What I find most intriguing about this book is, in fact, a sum of several points-- centering around Ransom's decision to leave Malacandra, and the tumultions of his mindset following the ascent from this foreign world. A brief assessment of CS Lewis's blatantly worn theologies will attest to his motives in writing most (if not all) of his novella-- therefore, it can very well be theorized that, in this system of Maledil over Oyarsa over eldil over hnau over beast; Maledil is an allegorical portrayal of God, and that this "bent" Oyarsa would be Satan in all his rich darkness. Eldils, the beings of light, would be heavenly attendants-- angels. And the ever questionable Thulcandra- Earth-- the Silent Planet-- may be bent down to the cracks in its soil, producing only withered virtues. The "Lord of this World" is a very charismatic one, persuasive in every tongue. He bends the soul but seldom shatters it beyond use or repair.

Oyarsa are set as the governs over the souls of a world, expressing their dominion only as justice would see fit, only as balance and the decrees of nature would dictate, only so far as it were rightly given them, chiefly out of respect for the sanctity of that which is not their own belonging. From this platform, CS Lewis launches us into the complex parable that is not laced with words faute de mieux, but weighed and weaved with throbbing force into a reader's conscious.

At the end there are gleaned some principle aspects of the hnau-- souls, one could call them. This word, hnau, is similar in structure to several other terms of the Hrossan language, comparing forms of landscapes; leading me to believe that it could quite literally derive from roots meaning "of the earth". In the Biblical book of Genesis, man is said to have risen from the dust of the Earth. Formed from the blood of our planet; "First were the darker, then the brighter. First were the worlds' blood, then the suns' blood…" Then comes the Oyarsa, plainly contrasting in its meaning: the intelligence, the spirit, of a heavenly sphere. Something quite transcending, then, of the earth itself. The soul of a planet. Etymology aside, one of the final, most poignant scenes of this book offers us a picture of the virtues cast aside in man's eternal quest to satisfy himself.

There may used to have been more consuming our minds than fear, death, and gluttonous desire; filling up instead with dulcet virtues such as pity, honesty, capacity for guilt, love of one's own kind, and so much beyond-- but under the weight of war, of slavery, of rape, of such things we dare not speak of out of shame for our own race; these virtues are crushed under man's heavy footstep. There are people starving who could very well be fed and given water if not for the steely walls of politics that triumph over human suffering. There are wars capable of giving way to peace and prosperity, if mercy chipped away the divides of pride and gave us back our humanity.

We are only contented by that which we do not have. A culture of hedonism leads us to believe that every pleasure is fruitful only in the now, and all the produce of the tree must be gobbled up before others have taken. There is no balance, no concern for the lives begotten after our own extents on this Earth; only a systematic moral decay declaring that all the world can go to fire and brimstone after we ourselves are gone from it. We cannot live for a future of pleasure, always crying for cravings of the next moment and never this one. We cannot truly revel in a memory if we beg it to return to the present. I urge you to believe, to realize that none of us now are truly content in our joy. So is the warped nature of man, always on climax, always aspiring to something greater, insomuch that we can never come to peace. All that man requires for happiness is to be "healthy in his body, easy in his circumstances, and well-instructed as to his mind". Instead we see the hungry and do not feed them, do not heal the sick, do not teach the unlearned, do not rescue the refugees, do not clothe the needy; are not moved within a speck of compassion to our fellow man. We must work ourselves into the ground until to dust we do return.

It is this knowledge, with these inescapably set virtues, that Ransom decides to risk the meeting of his mortality to return to the home he once though barren of anything to offer him. For, he says, "If I cannot live in Thulcandra, it is better for me not to live at all."

Oyarsa tells him he has chosen correctly.

There is the moment, then, when Malacandra ceases being an intimate thing of beauty and transforms, once again, into the reddened orb of Mars. With a broadened perspective, it is almost impossible to believe that such vitality, such wisdom could be so pursuant on a planet already named, already seen, already a component of such fanciful literature as no one could believe. We feel Ransom's paradigm shift and, almost, his inability to cope the global value, the shock of it-- Malacandra and Mars have become two separate entities in his mind, repelling each other like water to oil.

CS Lewis is, in fact, suggesting that Mars could have this life; however, it is not for scientific debate, but it is for this paradigm shift that he did not select some far away world on which to base this society. It is to make us consider the bearings of our universe, to dismay our philosophical presuppositions. The end is meant to merge fiction with fact; to convince the reader that anything he has gleaned as tokens of wisdom are just as real as if they had journeyed with Ransom himself. And in a way, through eloquent wit and prose of word, beauty printed on these pages..... they have.

Buy the book at its page on Amazon! 

What's coming up next?
So glad you asked! I've got my very own sketch of the inhabitants of the planet Xodus, and a bit of a narration on self help books. You'll also be seeing some crazy recipes that I'm inventing just for the heck of it; most of them terrifying to even the least squeamish of eaters.

xoxo
Julia