#others on lewis

[lewisiana]

Pregnant Mouse

A student describes his first 'brush' with C.S. Lewis -

So anxious was I not to be late for our first meeting that I turned up one week early and found (fortunately) that he was not present. But the journey was not entirely wasted, for I learned something strange about him in the course of a chat with a cleaner whom I met at his door. She told me with much rolling of the eyes that he had forbidden her to set a trap for a mouse she had spied in his rooms, his reason being that the creature, which he had been observing himself, was pregnant. -Tom McAlindon

Lewis once wrote to a child fan who had sent him drawings of Reepicheep -

I love real mice. There are lots in my rooms at College but I have never set a trap. When I sit up late working they poke their heads out from behind the curtains just as if they were saying, 'Hi! Time for you to go to bed. We want to come out and play.'

[mo-mode]

Daddy Bearman: Hi, I’m Ollie’s dad. My son is racing for Ferrari—

Charles, Lewis, Max, Seb, Carlos, Entire Ferrari Team, Literally Every Other Driver:

[countingstars-17]

GPDA Statement regarding "Drivers Misconduct"

[cuthechicane]

um did no one clip this? new 2016 silver war lore from nico himself?? brocedes the gift that never stops giving 😭

(tl;dw: lewis got nico sent to the stewards to review whether nico's pole lap was legal as the last few corners were completed under yellow flags)

[evidenceof]

"Am I interrupting?" "No, no."

DICK WINTERS, HARRY WELSH, and LEWIS NIXON EP 1 Currahee, EP 3 Carentan, EP 10 Points | Band of Brothers

[blorbocedes]

live britney react from Abu Dhabi 2021 pre-race interview

[voidgenesis]

Mika Hakkinen & Lewis Hamilton throughout the years

[yenson]

“Most beautiful duo on the grid” bit will only last 6 races before both fanbases attempt to kill eachother

[hyacinthsdiamonds]

I'm sorry but the irony of Nico calling Max unprofessional is sending me so bad like sir there's an entire garage full of people, who were literally in the trenches trying to survive the Brocedes fallout while just doing their jobs, who might have a few things to say about your (& Lewis') level of professionalism at that time 😭✋️

[always-a-king-or-queen]

The ache will go away, eventually. 

That was what the Professor told them, the day they got back. When they tumbled from the wardrobe in a heap of tangled limbs, and found that the world had been torn from under their feet with all the kindness of a serpent. 

They picked themselves off of the floorboards with smiles plastered on child faces, and sat with the Professor in his study drinking cup after cup of tea. 

But the smiles were fake. The tea was like ash on their tongues. And when they went to bed that night, none of them could sleep in beds that were too foreign, in bodies that had not been their own for years. Instead they grouped into one room and sat on the floor and whispered, late into the night. 

When morning came, Mrs. Macready discovered the four of them asleep in Peter and Edmund’s bedroom, tangled in a heap of pillows and blankets with their arms looped across one another. They woke a few moments after her entry and seemed confused, lost even, staring around the room with pale faces, eyes raking over each framed painting on the wall and across every bit of furniture as if it was foreign to them. “Come to breakfast,” Mrs. Macready said as she turned to go, but inside she wondered. 

For the children’s faces had held the same sadness that she saw sometimes in the Professor’s. A yearning, a shock, a numbness, as if their very hearts had been ripped from their chests.

At breakfast Lucy sat huddled between her brothers, wrapped in a shawl that was much too big for her as she warmed her hands around a mug of hot chocolate. Edmund fidgeted in his seat and kept reaching up to his hair as if to feel for something that was no longer there. Susan pushed her food idly around on her plate with her fork and hummed a strange melody under her breath. And Peter folded his hands beneath his chin and stared at the wall with eyes that seemed much too old for his face. 

It chilled Mrs. Macready to see their silence, their strangeness, when only yesterday they had been running all over the house, pounding through the halls, shouting and laughing in the bedrooms. It was as if something, something terrible and mysterious and lengthy, had occurred yesterday, but surely that could not be. 

She remarked upon it to the Professor, but he only smiled sadly at her and shook his head. “They’ll be all right,” he said, but she wasn’t so sure. 

They seemed so lost. 

Lucy disappeared into one of the rooms later that day, a room that Mrs. Macready knew was bare save for an old wardrobe of the professor’s. She couldn’t imagine what the child would want to go in there for, but children were strange and perhaps she was just playing some game. When Lucy came out again a few minutes later, sobbing and stumbling back down the hall with her hair askew, Mrs. Macready tried to console her, but Lucy found no comfort in her arms. “It wasn’t there,” she kept saying, inconsolable, and wouldn’t stop crying until her siblings came and gathered her in their arms and said in soothing voices, “Perhaps we’ll go back someday, Lu.” 

Go back where, Mrs. Macready wondered? She stepped into the room Lucy had been in later on in the evening and looked around, but there was nothing but dust and an empty space where coats used to hang in the wardrobe. The children must have taken them recently and forgotten to return them, not that it really mattered. They were so old and musty and the Professor had probably forgotten them long ago. But what could have made the child cry so? Try as she might, Mrs. Macready could find no answer, and she left the room dissatisfied and covered in dust. 

Lucy and Edmund and Peter and Susan took tea in the Professor’s room again that night, and the next, and the next, and the next. They slept in Peter and Edmund’s room, then Susan and Lucy’s, then Peter and Edmund’s again and so on, swapping every night till Mrs. Macready wondered how they could possibly get any sleep. The floor couldn’t be comfortable, but it was where she found them, morning after morning. 

Each morning they looked sadder than before, and breakfast was silent. Each afternoon Lucy went into the room with the wardrobe, carrying a little lion figurine Edmund had carved her, and came out crying a little while later. And then one day she didn’t, and went wandering in the woods and fields around the Professor’s house instead. She came back with grassy fingers and a scratch on one cheek and a crown of flowers on her head, but she seemed content. Happy, even. Mrs. Macready heard her singing to herself in a language she’d never heard before as Lucy skipped past her in the hall, leaving flower petals on the floor in her wake. Mrs. Macready couldn’t bring herself to tell the child to pick them up, and instead just left them where they were. 

More days and nights went by. One day it was Peter who went into the room with the wardrobe, bringing with him an old cloak of the Professor’s, and he was gone for quite a while. Thirty or forty minutes, Mrs. Macready would guess. When he came out, his shoulders were straighter and his chin lifted higher, but tears were dried upon his cheeks and his eyes were frightening. Noble and fierce, like the eyes of a king. The cloak still hung about his shoulders and made him seem almost like an adult. 

Peter never went into the wardrobe room again, but Susan did, a few weeks later. She took a dried flower crown inside with her and sat in there at least an hour, and when she came out her hair was so elaborately braided that Mrs. Macready wondered where on earth she had learned it. The flower crown was perched atop her head as she went back down the hall, and she walked so gracefully that she seemed to be floating on the air itself. In spite of her red eyes, she smiled, and seemed content to wander the mansion afterwards, reading or sketching or making delicate jewelry out of little pebbles and dried flowers Lucy brought her from the woods. 

More weeks went by. The children still took tea in the Professor’s study on occasion, but not as often as before. Lucy now went on her daily walks outdoors, and sometimes Peter or Susan, or both of them at once, accompanied her. Edmund stayed upstairs for the most part, reading or writing, keeping quiet and looking paler and sadder by the day. 

Finally he, too, went into the wardrobe room. 

He stayed for hours, hours upon hours. He took nothing in save for a wooden sword he had carved from a stick Lucy brought him from outside, and he didn’t come out again. The shadows lengthened across the hall and the sun sank lower in the sky and finally Mrs. Macready made herself speak quietly to Peter as the boy came out of the Professor’s study. “Your brother has been gone for hours,” she told him crisply, but she was privately alarmed, because Peter’s face shifted into panic and he disappeared upstairs without a word. 

Mrs. Macready followed him silently after around thirty minutes and pressed an ear to the door of the wardrobe room. Voices drifted from beyond. Edmund’s and Peter’s, yes, but she could also hear the soft tones of Lucy and Susan. 

“Why did he send us back?” Edmund was saying. It sounded as if he had been crying.  

Mrs. Macready couldn’t catch the answer, but when the siblings trickled out of the room an hour later, Edmund’s wooden sword was missing, and the flower crown Susan had been wearing lately was gone, and Peter no longer had his old cloak, and Lucy wasn’t carrying her lion figurine, and the four of them had clasped hands and sad, but smiling, faces. 

Mrs. Macready slipped into the room once they were gone and opened the wardrobe, and there at the bottom were the sword and the crown and the cloak and the lion. An offering of sorts, almost, or perhaps just items left there for future use, for whenever they next went into the wardrobe room.  

But they never did, and one day they were gone for good, off home, and the mansion was silent again. And it had been a long time since that morning that Mrs. Macready had found them all piled together in one bedroom, but ever since then they hadn’t quite been children, and she wanted to know why.

She climbed the steps again to the floor of the house where the old wardrobe was, and then went into the room and crossed the floor to the opposite wall. 

When she pulled the wardrobe door open, the four items the Pevensie children had left inside of it were missing. 

And just for a moment, it seemed to her that a cool gust of air brushed her face, coming from the darkness beyond where the missing coats used to hang.

[lewisiana]

Merry as a Cricket

Thanks for your good wishes on my marriage. It is as good as the first one was bad.

With Bill I lived in perpetual anxiety; if it wasn’t women it was drink, and if it wasn’t drink it was bad temper and smashed crockery and public scenes, and always it was money; just getting him out of bed in the morning and coaxing him to do a little work meant three hours’ exacting work for me!

With Jack the only problem is to keep him from working too hard and sacrificing himself to all the rest of us. He is really a saint, and that’s not a word I use lightly.

In addition, he’s got ten times Bill’s charm and brains and talent and wit, and he’s as merry as a cricket—and, as you can see, I’m overwhelmingly in love with him!

-Lewis' wife Joy writes to her cousin, May 1958

[argentinagp]

races stamps

[lewishamiltonstuff]

😉

[tommowluvr]

so that's what they were planning in that giant helmet 😭😭

[yesterdayiwrote]

Y'know what, I'll say it... George Russell isn't a 'PR robot', and the only reason people believe this is because he's actually got a relatively weak and amateur PR presence around him...

Let's not forget, a lot of these drivers, especially some of the more beloved ones, genuinely do have very large PR and branding teams around them, whose entire job is to manicure their image so precisely and carefully that you as the public believe it's natural and effortless. Some of them have huge PR agencies handling their image. Lewis, Lando, Daniel, Charles, Alex... all fan favourites and whaddya know... all have huge agencies handling their public image.

George wants to be liked... they all want to be liked, but actually he's one of the few drivers in top teams who doesn't have someone specifically dedicated to driving his PR presence. His sister seems to handle his diary and act as his assistant.

The reason George looks like he's trying so hard to adhere to a specific image all the time isn't because of an overabundance of PR influence, it's actually because of the opposite.

He's polite and he's well spoken and also a pretty intelligent guy. He has a very methodical and professional way of speaking which can read as rehearsed, but the reason you can clock when he's trying is because his PR 'machine' is a bit of a slapdash homemade affair with all it's inner cogs exposed, unlike the slick, well oiled and smartly packaged ones some of his peers have working for them.

He's not 'unlikeable' because he's a horrible person, and when you ask people why they don't like George, the 'PR Robot' excuse often gets wheeled out, but I think the main crux of the issue is that people have become so conditioned to accept the PR generated ideal of what 'humble and down to earth' should look like, that they find it hard to comprehend when someone doesn't quite fit into it in the way they think they should. He's not painfully unnatural, he's humanly awkward...

[wintergreenoreo]

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