TO MARY WILLIS SHELBURNE: On disagreeable, nasty people; and on avoiding obsessing about their bullying.
10 March 1954
I am sorry () things are not better.
I am very puzzled by people like your Committee Secretary, people //who are just nasty.
I find it easier to understand the great crimes, for the raw material of them exists in us all;
[the mere disagreeableness //which seems to spring from no recognisable passion] is mysterious.
(Like the total stranger in a train of whom I once asked ‘Do you know when we get to Liverpool’
and who replied ‘I’m not paid to answer your questions: ask the guard’).
I have found it /more among boys than anyone else.
That makes me think () it really comes from inner insecurity
—a dim sense that one is Nobody, a strong determination to be Somebody,
and a belief that this can be achieved by arrogance.
Probably you, who can’t hit back, come in //for a good deal of resentful arrogance /aroused by others
//on whom she doesn’t vent it, because they can.
(A bully in an Elizabethan play, having been sat on by a man () he dare not fight, says ‘I’ll go home and beat all my servants’).
But I mustn’t encourage you to go on thinking about her:
that, after all, is almost the greatest evil () nasty people can do us—to become an obsession, to haunt our minds.
A brief prayer for them, and then away to other subjects, is the thing, if one can only stick to it.
I hope () the other job will materialise. . .
I too had mumps after I was grown up.
I didn’t mind it /as long as I had the temperature:
but when one came to convalescence and a convalescent appetite and even thinking of food started the salivation and the pain—ugh! I never realised ‘the disobedience in our members’ so clearly before [Romans 7:23].
Verily ‘He //that but looketh on a plate of ham and eggs to lust after it,
hath already committed breakfast /with it /in his heart’ (or in his glands) [Matthew 5:28].
I shall wait anxiously for all your news,
always praying not only for a happy issue but that you may be supported in all interim anxieties.
From The Collected Letters of C.S. Lewis, Volume III
Compiled in Yours, Jack