There are dates, dear reader, that the hoople-heads circle on their calendars because they have to – tax day, their cousin’s third wedding, that annual check-up where their doctor tries to convince them that kale is a food group.  On my calendar, days like November 29th are circled because back in 1898, Belfast coughed up a baby named Clive Staples Lewis, and reality’s been a little weirder ever since.

You probably know C.S. Lewis as the dude who invented Aslan and traumatized generations of kids with the idea that a wardrobe wasn’t just for mothballs and shameful outfits.  But it was never just about wardrobe doors and talking creatures.  Lewis took on the big questions – faith, loyalty, sacrifice – even cosmic terror.  He banged out science-fiction trilogies about demonic planets and the fate of humanity, then casually dropped Mere Christianity, which proceeds to smash through 20th-century theology like a methamphetaminic rhinoceros on a Sunday stroll.  To call him “the kindly uncle of children’s lit” is like calling Attila the Hun a “fun guest at brunch.”  He was an intellectual brawler who stashed fables like napalm in the minds of children everywhere, stories that get dragged out every time there’s a debate about books corrupting the youth or saving their souls.

So raise a ridiculously oversized mug of tea to C.S. Lewis – the apocalypse-dreamer and literary disruptor.  Celebrate a life that refused to shut the wardrobe door, even after seeing all the dark and dangerous thing crawling around inside.

N.P.: “Kayra” – Ummet Ozcan