Joy

SBJ Surprised by Joy has "Joy" in the title. Joy was also the name of C. S. Lewis's wife late in life, Joy Davidman Gresham.

In a sense, the central story of my life is about nothing else ..... it is that of an unsatisfied desire which is itself more desirable than any other satisfaction. I call it Joy, which is here a technical term and must be sharply distinguished both from Happiness and from Pleasure. Joy (in my sense) has indeed one characteristic; and one only, in common with them; the fact that anyone who has experienced it will want it again. Apart from that and considered only in its quality, it might almost equally be called unhappiness or grief. But then it is a kind we want. I doubt whether anyone who has tasted it would ever, if both were in his power, exchange it for all the pleasures in the world. But then, joy is never in our power and pleasure often is. //Surprised by Joy,// Chapter 1. paragraph 18

I doubt whether anyone who has tasted joy would ever, if both were in his power, exchange it for all the pleasure in the world. But then Joy is never in our power, and pleasure often is. //Surprised by Joy,// chapter 1, 5th paragraph from the end

The very nature of Joy makes nonsense of our common distinction between having and wanting. //Surprised by Joy//, Chapter 11, paragraph 3

Joy is the serious business of Heaven. //Letters to Malcolm,// chapter 17, last paragraph

The human soul was made to enjoy some object that is never fully given --nay, cannot even be imagined as given -- in our present mode of subjective and spatio-temporal experience. //Pilgrim's Regress//, preface, paragraph 11

In speaking of this desire for our own far-off country, which we find in ourselves even now, I feel a certain shyness. I am almost committing an indecency. I am trying to rip open the inconsolable secret in each one of you--the secret which hurts so much that you take your revenge on it by calling it names like Nostalgia and Romanticism and Adolescence: the secret also which pierces with such sweetness that when, in very intimate conversation, the mention of it becomes imminent, we grow awkward and affect to laugh at ourselves: the secret we cannot hide and cannot tell, though we desire to do both. We cannot tell it because it is a desire for something that has never actually appeared in our experience. We cannot hide it because our experience is constantly suggesting it, and we betray ourselves like lovers at the mention of a name. Our commonest expedient is to call it beauty and behave as if that had settled the matter. Wordsworth's expedient was to identify it with certain moments in his own past. But all this is a cheat. If Wordsworth had gone back to those moments in the past, he would not have found the thing itself, but only the reminder of it; what he remembered would turn out to be itself a remembering. The books or the music in which we thought the beauty was located will betray us if we trust to them; it was not //in// them, it only came //through// them, and what came through them was longing. These things--the beauty, the memory of our own past--are good images of what we really desire; but if they are mistaken for the thing itself they turn into dumb idols, breaking the hearts of their worshippers. For they are not the thing itself; they are only the scent of a flower we have not found, the echo of a tune we have not heard, news from a country we have never yet visited. //The Weight of Glory//, paragraph 6

Apparently, then, our lifelong nostalgia, our longing to be re-united with something in the universe from which we now feel cut off, to be on the inside of some door which we have always seen from the outside, is no mere neurotic fancy, but the truest index of our real situation. And to be at last summoned inside would be both glory and honour beyond all our merits and also the healing of that old ache…..The whole man is to drink joy from the fountain of joy //The Weight of Glory//, paragraphs 12 & 14