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[The following passage is from C. S. Lewis’s autobiography, Surprised by Joy, 1955.]

Such, then, was the state of my imaginative life; over against it stood the life of my intellect. The two hemispheres of my mind were in the sharpest contrast. On the one side a many-islanded sea of poetry and myth; on the other a glib and shallow “rationalism.” Nearly all that I loved I believed to be imaginary; nearly all that I believed to be real I thought grim and meaningless. The exceptions were certain people (whom I loved and believed to be real) and nature herself. That is, nature as she appeared to the senses. I chewed endlessly on the problem: “How can it be so beautiful and also so cruel, wasteful and futile?” Hence at this time I could almost have said with Santayana, “All that is good is imaginary; all that is real is evil.” In one sense nothing less like a “flight from reality” could be conceived. I was so far from wishful thinking that I hardly thought anything true unless it contradicted my wishes.

Most people want more than what life has to offer, quite a lot more actually.

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