Repetition

C S Lewis, story teller par excellence

No I am not doing a pep talk on C S Lewis. There are too many others out there doing that, and doubtless better than ever I could.  Suffice it to say that his fiction had a significant part in moulding my upbringing.  In this post I am merely using his insight.

Although repetition can be used to good effect, for example in education or to convey a superlative in poetry, some things are too good to be repeated in too small a timeframe.

"Now he had come to a part of the wood where great globes of yellow fruit hung from the trees... He picked one of them... Then by accident one of his fingers punctured it and went through into coldness. After a moment's hesitation he put the ' little aperture to his lips. He had meant to extract the smallest, experimental sip, but the first taste put his caution all to flight... It was like the discovery of a totally new genus of pleasures, something unheard of among men, out of all reckoning, beyond all covenant. For one draught of this on Earth wars would be fought and nations betrayed. It could not be classified. He could never tell us, when he came back to the world of men, whether it was sharp or sweet, savoury or voluptuous, creamy or piercing. 'Not like that' was all he could ever say to such inquiries. As he let the empty gourd fall from his hand and was about to pluck a second one, it came into his head that he was now neither hungry nor thirsty. And yet to repeat a pleasure so intense and almost so spiritual seemed an obvious thing to do. His reason, or what we commonly take to be reason in our own world, was all in favour of tasting this miracle again; the child-like innocence of fruit, the labours he had undergone, the uncertainty of the future, all seemed to commend the action. Yet something seemed opposed to this 'reason'. It is difficult to suppose that this opposition came from desire, for what desire would turn from so much deliciousness? But for whatever cause, it appeared to him better not to taste again. Perhaps the experience had been so complete that repetition would be a vulgarity - like asking to hear the same symphony twice in a day."  Lewis, Perelandra.

I concur wholly with this principle.  Sometimes even a long interval may not validate a repetition - I would love to repeat the walk I described in Euphoria but I doubt if the magic would work again even after so many years. Somehow forced repetition does not satisfy. The thrill in listening to Rachmaninov's second piano concerto wears thin if repeated too soon. The ecstatic first few bites into a crisp rhubarb crumble served with clotted cream dull in that unnecessary second portion (memories of last Sunday).

Without doubt we were created to enjoy delight to the full. But perhaps forced repetition is the divide between delight and lust.

Euphoria

In those days Keith deBerry was Rector of St Aldates, Oxford.  Every year he organised an working holiday at Lee Abbey for students who attended his church.  Although I was not one of his "sheep" I managed to cadge a place somehow.  The deal was that you helped in the grounds each morning in exchange for a reduced rate.  Perhaps this was my first taste of "living in community".

One afternoon I took off on my own heading West along what is now called the North Devon Coastal Path.  The weather was idyllic: blue sky, a haze over the sea, warm.  The memory of that walk still ranks among my most euphoric experiences.  For ever I have been happy in my own company and with nature.  I ran down into bays, waded through surf, climbed rocks, walked along headlands.  Perhaps it runner's high I was experiencing.  One day I hope to retrace my steps to repeat the experience but I doubt if it will be the same.

The first photograph is my own - you can see Lee Abbey in the distance.  I hope it conveys some sense of the magic of that particular afternoon.

I have copied the next photographs from the internet.  They give some idea of the terrain.  The first is taken from the Valley of the Rocks which is just east of Lee Abbey.

The next two further along the coastal path.

From Oxford you travel first to Lynton and Lynmouth and thence to Lee Abbey.  There is a funicular railway that joins high-up Lynton with Lynmouth.  The railway consists of two cars each on its own track, connected via a steel rope that passes over a pulley at the top.  A natural water-course has been diverted so that it fills a tank in the car at the top.  When sufficient water has entered the car descends by gravity pulling the other one up.  As a child (and still am) I was of course fascinated by the apt use of free energy.  The picture of Lymouth is m own, but that of the railway was copied from the internet.