The Magician’s Nephew—this one always feels different from the other Narnia books, almost like peeling back the curtain to see how the whole magical world even came to be. Reading it felt like I was being let in on some big family secret, and honestly, it made me a little emotional because everything we thought we knew about Narnia suddenly had roots, reasons, and consequences.
So it starts with Digory and Polly—two kids in London who kind of stumble into adventure. Polly’s the kind of girl who’s practical and curious in a careful way, while Digory… poor Digory, he’s carrying so much sadness. His mom is very sick, and that quiet heaviness is there right from the start. You feel it in the way he acts—he’s not just some boy looking for fun; he’s desperate for something good to happen. And then there’s Uncle Andrew—ugh, that man. The kind of adult who’s smart enough to dabble in things he shouldn’t but not wise enough to stop. When he tricks Polly into touching one of those rings he’s been experimenting with, and she just vanishes? That part gave me chills. Like—imagine your friend disappearing into thin air in front of you.
We see the courage of Digory there, as despite being so horrified, he does not show any hesitation to pursue her with another ring. And all of a sudden--we are in the Wood Between the World and Me. I never forgot that place: there was a pool here and a pool there, and each pool a window on a different world. The quiet, the trees, the feeling that this is infinity masquerading as a quiet forest--it made me get goosebumps. In any number of worlds they might have intervened, and they simply picked one. I was a little scared by that randomness, as in, what would have happened if they had picked someone else?
And then Charn. That place is haunting. Mute, corpsed, deserted buildings all around. You can sense the burden of the past there, that it was once great and now damned. And as Digory strikes that bell and wakes Queen Jadis? My heart sank. The entire scene of her rising, high and awful, out of her throne--I tell you I was chilled in my bones. At this time, she is not a misunderstood villain, but she is pure cold power. When she speaks of destroying her whole world with the Deplorable Word, I can recall simply sitting where she was and thinking, Oh no, here is pure evil at its primal level. It even made me hate her, yet-- wow, what a strong moment.
Then she turns about and goes into London after them--ha! That section is insane, since you have all of this large, commanding witch walking down the streets of Victorian London, whipping horses, making a scene. It is amusing and scary simultaneously. And poor Aunt Letty trying to put her in her place as though she were only a rude guest--I laughed, but I also felt the tension because you know Jadis is no human being to screw with.
Then comes the heart of it: they fall in that new, blank darkness... and we hear a voice. That song. Aslan sings the world of Narnia into existence. It is one of the loveliest pictures Lewis ever painted, and when I imagine it I shiver. Singing of stars and mountains and rivers and animals--a lion song--so full of wonder that you want to cry. It struck me so much the more because it was not a spell or even a wave of the fingers, but music, slow and sturdy as creation was itself.
What hurt me was what Digory and Aslan talked about his mother. You can sense that Digory was desperate and that he just wants to steal the magical apple so that he can cure her and that you almost want him to do just that. Because who wouldn’t? But the voice of Aslan was steady and deep and, drawing him back to trust... that scene hurt. It got me contemplating the various occasions in life when you desire a short cut to remedy pain but you know it may get out of hand and result in something more.
And Jadis took the apple--ugh. That it twists her, that it makes her stronger yet ugly all of which is at the same time--such a keen metaphor. Bringing the apple back to his mother by Digory, though? That gave me so much relief. When she eats it and heals, I really puffed out as though I was holding my breath. It was not how Digory would have done it, fast and self-seeking, but the right way, with obedience and waiting and sacrifice. That hurt me so much, as it’s as though Lewis was directly addressing those of us who have felt helpless when there is someone loved, who is hurting.
And the way Narnia itself gets its boundaries set—animals waking, some talking, some dumb, Aslan setting things in motion—it was like watching a world grow up in front of me. Seeing the lamppost sprout where Jadis had thrown that piece of iron, knowing it would be the same lamppost Lucy finds generations later—it gave me goosebumps. Like, oh, this is where it all connects.
By the end, I felt this bittersweet mix of awe and sadness. Awe at witnessing creation, sadness at knowing evil was already planted there too. But also hope—because even though Digory’s story is soaked in loss and temptation, it ends with restoration and healing. That touched me deeply, and it made The Magician’s Nephew feel not just like a prequel, but like a quiet, aching beginning to something so much bigger.
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