Clive Staples Lewis (29 November 1898 – 22 November 1963) was a British writer and lay theologian. He held academic positions in English literature at both Oxford University (Magdalen College, 1925–1954) and Cambridge University (Magdalene College, 1954–1963). He is best known for his works of fiction, especially The Screwtape Letters, The Chronicles of Narnia, and The Space Trilogy, and for his non-fiction Christian apologetics, such as Mere Christianity, Miracles, and The Problem of Pain.
Christianity, if false, is of no importance, and if true, of infinite importance. The only thing it cannot be is moderately important.
If you look for truth, you may find comfort in the end; if you look for comfort you will not get either comfort or truth only soft soap and wishful thinking to begin, and in the end, despair.
I believe in Christianity as I believe that the sun has risen: not only because I see it, but because by it I see everything else.
Aim at heaven and you will get earth thrown in. Aim at earth and you get neither.
With the possible exception of the equator, everything begins somewhere.
The long, dull, monotonous years of middle-aged prosperity or middle-aged adversity are excellent campaigning weather for the devil.
Nothing is more dangerous to one’s own faith than the work of an apologist. No doctrine of that faith seems to me so spectral, so unreal as one that I have just successfully defended in a public debate.
It’s so much easier to pray for a bore than to go and see one.
Always try to use the language so as to make quite clear what you mean and make sure your sentence couldn’t mean anything else.
This is one of the miracles of love: It gives a power of seeing through its own enchantments and yet not being disenchanted.
There is no uncreated being except God. God has no opposite.
Long before history began we men have got together apart from the women and done things. We had time.
I’m tall, fat, rather bald, red-faced, double-chinned, black-haired, have a deep voice, and wear glasses for reading.
Anthropomorphic animals, when taken out of narrative into actual visibility, always turn into buffoonery or nightmare.
Telling us to obey instinct is like telling us to obey ‘people.’ People say different things: so do instincts. Our instincts are at war… Each instinct, if you listen to it, will claim to be gratified at the expense of the rest.