Tag Archives: apologetics

The Tower of Babel: An Alternative Perspective

When people speak of a need for their faith in God/s, they almost always come around to expressing how–though they’ll readily grant that organized religion, as an institution, may at times fall short of the ideal–the faith and grace of the Almighty still resonates in the hearts of all mankind (whether they acknowledge His omnipresence or not), and serves as the one true guiding force by which we may hope to find solidarity; through which we can strive to attain peace of mind, and (ultimately) peace on Earth, as surely as we are to find it in the coming hereafter.

When looked through the scope of the narrative found in the Book of Genesis, important events like man’s banishment from Eden, and the subsequent Great Flood meant to purge the world from the sinfulness that man had spawned in the world thereafter, are further reassurances of the need man has for God’s eternal presence in his life, without which he is doomed to be lost to both personal solace and eternal salvation.  Moreover, if we dwell further into the Christian perspective, it is in the figure of Jesus Christ–wherein God became man, and died at the hands of man, for the sake of absolving said man of his sin so that he may once more gain eternal life in Heaven at the side of his Creator–where we find the long awaited mending of the rift between man and his spiritual soul, and bring peace between the physical and metaphysical realms.

Given all of the above, the Tower of Babel stands as a rarely explored peculiarity to the common narrative.  The story of the Tower begins in the first verse of Chapter 11, in the Book of Genesis (this is after the banishment from Eden, and after the Great Flood had already taken place):

1 Now the whole world had one language and a common speech.

2 As people moved eastward, they found a plain in Shinar and settled there.

The whole earth was of one language, and presumably of a common understanding, as evident by the fact men journeyed and lived in some sort of union.  Though subtle, the placement of this story at this point of the Book is very significant in its relation to the theological underpinnings explored at the beginning of this post.  The story continues:

3 They said to each other, “Come, let’s make bricks and bake them thoroughly.” They used brick instead of stone, and tar for mortar.

So united was man in his pursuits, he begins to set the stepping stones for architecture and human innovation by improving on common building techniques.  A symbolic act indicating the advent of greater civilization meant to sustain a decently sized population.

4 And they said, “Come, let us build ourselves a city, and a tower whose top is in the heavens; let us make a name for ourselves, lest we be scattered abroad over the face of the whole earth.”

The common theological perspective is that this verse signifies how, rather than a symbol of man’s ingenuity, the Tower is a symbol of man’s pride.  The emphasis being on the hubris of mere men wanting to make a name for themselves by reaching the realm of God by earthly means, rather than spiritual ones, thereby making mockery of the very concept of salvation through the grace of God.  This reasoning is satisfying to many faithful, but rings hollow on a number of accounts.  The first of which being that nowhere in the verse is there any reference to God, his grace, subverting his grace, or even wanting to reach Heaven to reside there against the wishes of God.  At it’s most basic interpretation, what the verse does demonstrate is a wish to push human innovation beyond its limitations, to surpass our natural inhibitions and master it to our advantage.  And if this is a grave sin, then one might as well deduce all modern technological achievements to be sinful (and if you’re reading this post, by means of some technological device, one can safely assume you are not of this opinion).  Furthermore, such speculation is rendered moot by the subsequent verses, wherein God clearly states his reasons for disapproving of man’s construction of the Tower:

5 But the Lord came down to see the city and the tower the people were building.

6 The Lord said, “If as one people speaking the same language they have begun to do this, then nothing they plan to do will be impossible for them.

The construction of the Tower isn’t the problem for God.  His concern is the implication it holds concerning man’s collective potential to rise higher than his nature (where nothing “they plan to do will be impossible to them”).  There’s no mention of man’s pride–his hubris, if you will–nor is it even hinted that God’s concerns rest in anything other than his own self-interest, as he only identifies two contentions he holds with man’s construction of the Tower: 1. They are doing it as one people, 2. the construction of the Tower symbolizes man’s power to be limitless.  Now, God’s solution to this problem is a simple one.  Since 2 stems directly from 1, he sets out to undo 1:

7 Come, let us go down and confuse their language so they will not understand each other.”

8 So the Lord scattered them from there over all the earth, and they stopped building the city.

Bible scholars will easily identify the Tower of Babel as being a clear example of an etiological myth, meaning a myth/story/legend meant to explain the origin of a phenomenon (i.e. think of the tale of how man received the gift of fire after Prometheus stole it from the Olympians).  In this case, the phenomenon being explained through the legend of the Tower of Babel is the origin of the diversification of languages.  Acknowledging this, from a philosophical/theological perspective, the actions of God as a character in the narrative are far more interesting of an indication of the dynamic between man and the Divine.  Because, for those who take this narrative seriously, God’s actions are not just responsible for the diversification of man’s languages, but also man’s segregation into different tribes, many of which undoubtedly grew to become opposing tribes, which inevitably led to these tribes waging war on one another on account of these differences.  Therefore, as the instigator of the tribalism among men, God can be credited as the direct catalyst of the warfare that came about as a result from said tribalism.  That is, if one takes the narrative seriously.  For those with a more scholarly interest in the subject, the greater plot implications between the characters are still equally intriguing.

Thus, to summarize the whole plot:  In a world following man’s banishment from paradise, following the Great Flood–a world just about all theologians and the faithful identify as being fallen and plagued by sin–humanity managed to surpass these great odds stacked against it and unite as one people, and coexist in such unity that it not only survived, but thrived in the harsh environment on the basis of its ingenuity alone.  According to the Bible itself, this great human unity did not need an appeal to the Divine to be achieved, nor did it require a blood sacrifice on the part of the Creator to bring peace and solace to the hearts of man.  And, amazingly, it was not man’s sins that halted this progress.  Nor was it man’s inherent wickedness that tore at the base of this serenity.  It was God, Himself.  Why?  In accordance to the story it can be simply put as God being afraid of man.

As heretical at it might sound, this underlying fear of man’s potential is not an uncommon theme throughout ancient mythology (when stories like the Tower of Babel would have been crafted).  The lineage of the Greek pantheon is a direct testament to this very concept.  The Titans were deposed by the very Olympians they had spawned, just as the Titans themselves had deposed the ancient gods that preceded them.  Given this tradition of cyclical deicide, it is not a farfetched interpretation to read the constant demand the Olympian gods place on being revered and worshipped by mankind not as a testament of their strength, but as a revelation of the fear that their own creation–man–will one day follow in the same traditions that all the higher beings in their history have done, and depose the makers that made them.

Aristotle could never rationally fathom way any god would be concerned with the daily happenings of a lower order of beings like mankind, and proposed a deity that took a laissez-faire approach towards human endeavors.  But perhaps Aristotle was not thinking creatively enough.  For what are gods without worship?  How many gods throughout the ages have met their fate in the graveyard of mythology simply because man stopped minding them any attention?  From this perspective, the prospect of man turning both inward to his own strength and ingenuity, as well as to that of his fellow man, is antithetical to the interests (and downright survival) of any halfway competent God.  And the God of the Book of Genesis is no exception to this, as shown by His own conduct in story of the Tower of Babel.


The Euthyphro Dilemma, and Socrates’ Guilt

Socrates holds a special place in the ranks of philosophy for having enough wisdom to declare how he can only claim to know that he knows nothing.  This statement reflects how the purpose of the Socrates-character throughout Plato’s dialogues serves as an inquisitor to those around him, proposing questions for the sake of establishing clear and concise definitions from his contemporaries, rather than issuing ethical proclamations of his own.

However, it is apparent that through his inquisitive prose, Plato does in fact have Socrates indirectly pronounce several positive decrees on ethical and spiritual matters.  The importance of this is best seen in Euthyphro, where just before standing to defend himself against charges of corrupting Athenian youths through impious teachings, Socrates questions the piously motivated actions of Euthyphro by boldly asking whether he knows that a matter is indeed pious because the gods command it, or do the gods deem a matter pious because they recognize it to be pious in its own right.  Unbeknownst to Euthyphro, Socrates has really planted a trap, in which any answer given will be unsatisfactory to truly define the origin of piety, dispelling the notion of divine commandments, and indirectly giving credence to the impiety charges that have been raised against him in the dialogue.

The central argument of Socrates’ exchange with Euthyphro is made when Socrates asks of his contemporary, “Consider the following: is the pious loved by the gods because it’s pious?  Or is it pious because it’s loved?”(Plato, Euthyphro, 10a).  Here, Socrates is raising a valid distinction between something that is loved, and something that is loving; the former being defined by the will of a secondary participant, while the letter being defined by its own essence that is merely recognized to be so by a secondary participants.  In terms of what is being discussed by Socrates and Euthyphro—is piety loved by the gods because they recognize the nature of what is pious, or because they themselves decide on what is to be considered pious—attention must be given to define what in fact piety is.  Namely, do the gods decide what is pious, making their will the defining quality of piety, or do the gods just recognize something to be objectively pious, placing the defining quality of piety independent of the gods’ will?  Euthyphro immediately dismisses the first interpretation (10d) on account that it would render piety as an arbitrary impulse of the gods (who often disagree over what is to be considered pious, and occasionally even change their minds on what they previously considered to be pious), which means that piety does not exist as an independent component; nor can a concise definition of piety be established, if it is warrant to change through the whims of volatile and capricious deities.  Thus, the only option remaining for Euthyphro is to insist that if a matter is to be called pious it must be universally so (accepted by all the gods), meaning that it must be an essence that stands independent of the gods’ will.  Leaving the philosopher with the second option, that the gods recognize something to be pious not because they have deemed it so, but because they are recognizing the independent of nature of piety.

The dialogue continues with Euthyphro ceding that something that is pious is loved because it is pious and not pious because it is loved (10d).  Once again, Socrates has cornered Euthyphro, as this explanation is no better than the first in defining what truly piety is.  The issue here is that if the gods merely love something pious because they are recognizing its piety, then one must grant the conclusion that there is a standard of piety completely separate–and possibly even above that–of the gods.  Therefore to define piety as that which is loved by the gods, serves as no definition at all of what is objectively pious, or as Socrates puts it:

If the god-loved and the pious were really the same thing, my dear Euthyphro, then, if the pious were loved because it’s pious, what’s god-loved would in turn be loved because it’s god-loving; and if what’s god-loved were god-loved because it was loved by the gods, the pious would in turn be pious because it was loved by them.  But, as it is, you can see that the two are related in the opposite way, as things entirely different from one another (11a).

The dialogue ends soon after with Euthyphro leaving Socrates without looking to resolve the dilemma.  The whole exchange between the two philosophers is more than just a practice in analytics, as Socrates likes to portray his mode of reasoning, but implies something much deeper than Plato is willing to blatantly say in his writings: i.e. the gods cannot be the source of piety.

It is no accident that just as Plato’s Socrates-character is scheduled to defend himself against impiety charges he gets involved in a discussion concerning the definition of what is pious.  Although Plato’s other dialogue, Apology, depicts the details of Socrates’ trial, Euthyphro serves as a superb piece of insight for what sort of reasoning might have lead up to the accusations being levied against the philosopher.  In Euthyphro, Socrates strongly implies that any divine origins that are likely to be attributed towards piety are unsatisfactory to tell one the actual definition of what it means to be pious, and where this meaning comes from—for the various reasons mentioned earlier.  While Socrates does not attempt to positively state what the true essence of piety is, he does successfully conclude what it cannot be.  Before the main argument of Euthyphro is presented, Socrates asks, “Could this be the reason / I face indictment, that when people say such things about the gods, I find them somehow hard to accept?”(6b).  Hence, from the beginning, Plato seems to be giving little concern to deny the charges made against Socrates.  Socrates freely admits that the orthodox characterization of the gods appears to him beyond belief, and hints that they may very well be the workings of poets and painters (6c).  This sort of bold heresy spoken by Socrates serves to convey to the reader the amount of seriousness (or lack thereof) that Socrates is giving to his accusers.

After the main crux of the argument between Socrates and Euthyphro has abated, Socrates steps out of character for a moment and tries to define piety as something that is part of what is just (12d). This definition is not meant to be conclusive, or even adequate, but simply a means by which to further engage Euthyphro into the problems of the earlier discussion.  However, it is telling that Socrates’ sole attempt at defining piety would have him label it as a subset of something else; deeming it dependent on a greater concept.

This raises another possible quandary in the prose, though albeit an unspoken one: just how much value does Socrates hold for piety as a virtue?  It is never explicitly addressed by Plato, but it is a question that might very well be a key factor driving the narrative.  After proclaiming doubt in the various stories about the gods, he subtly rejects Euthyphro’s invitation to discuss the veracity of these tales (5d).  He effortlessly picks apart the idea of paying devotion to the gods as ultimately incoherent (13a-14a).  And he never fails to (patronizingly) point out the inadequacy of Euthyphro’s responses to his questions, “You see, when you were just now on the point of answering you turned away.  If you had given the answer, I’d already have been adequately instructed by you about piety” (14c).  All of these points converge to form the image in the readers mind that Socrates’ interest in wanting to find a suitable definition for piety is not his sole motive in his discussion with Euthyphro.  That perhaps he is also eager to dismantle the notion that piety has any knowable definition, and therefore, can have little practical use as a claimed virtue.

C.S. Lewis’ Abolition of Man, “Men Without Chests”: A Critique

C.S. Lewis may very well be one of the most prolific writer’s of the 20th Century, having gained eminence through his apologetics writings (Mere ChristianityThe Problem of Pain, etc.) and the popular children’s book saga The Chronicles of Narnia.  In his 1944 lecture compilation, The Abolition of Man, Lewis sets out to defend the reality of universal, absolute human values, against what he perceives to be the relativistic subjectivism of modern society. His first lecture, “Men Without Chests,” attempts to raise the reader’s consciousness to the prevailing menace that Lewis insists is eating away at the essence of humanity, and the method by which it permeates into popular thought.

Lewis sets up the lecture as a critical response to a pair of elementary textbook authors (referred to as Gaius and Titius), and the faulty reasoning by which the prose in their work (referred to as The Green Book) is irreparably corrupting the minds of young children with its promotion of subjectivist values.  Lewis makes sure to clarify that he does not believe the authors to be doing this out of intentional malice, “I do not want to pillory two modest practicing schoolmasters who were doing the best they knew: but I cannot be silent about what I think the actual tendency of their work.”[1]  In this view, the authors are as much a product of the greater problem they are propagating, than the root cause of it.  Lewis presents his first case against the authors by quoting a section from their textbook, “‘When the man said This is sublime, he appears to be making a remark about the waterfall…Actually…he was not making a remark about the waterfall, but a remark about his own feeling,’” which they clarify with, “‘This confusion is continuously present in language as we use it.  We appear to be saying something very important about something: and actually we are only saying something about our own feelings.’”[2]  Lewis takes issue with these two statements for two specific reasons: firstly, it will teach a young student, “that all sentences containing a predicate of value are statements about the emotional state of the speaker,” and secondly, “that all such statements are unimportant.”[3]  Lewis goes on to acknowledge that neither of the authors have actually stated this much in so many words, but Lewis, “is not concerned with what they desired but with the effect their book will certainly have on the schoolboy’s mind,”[4]  since Lewis has already conceded that the authors are as unaware of the harm they are causing, as the young pupil is of the harm that is subconsciously being done to him.[5]  Lewis’ position is that the reduction of emotive language to the realm of subjective thought is a subversion of the greater essence of humanity; it cuts out man’s soul, long before he is able to fully appreciate the transcendent reality of his emotional experiences.[6]  Lewis sees this as going well beyond providing young minds with a proper education, and calls such tactics as an attempt to debunk emotions on the basis of commonplace rationalism, “They see the world around them swayed by emotional propaganda—they have learned from traditions that youth is sentimental—and they conclude that the best thing they can do is to fortify the minds of young people against emotions.”[7]  An action Lewis loathes, because “by starving the sensibility of our pupils we only make them easier prey to the propagandist when he comes.”[8]

What Lewis is doing here (as he does in most of his apologetic works) is setting up a false dichotomy, infused with imaginative hyperbole: either educators teach a student to give full credence to the objective truth of his emotional introspections, or they “have cut out of his soul.”[9]  Lewis presents no logical, coherent argument to support any of his claims, other than his own subjective opinion that he is clearly right on this matter.  It is not self-evidently true how explaining to a young student that our tendencies to attribute traits to inanimate objects is a reflection of our own personal feelings about the object and not an actual attribute of the object, will cause them to develop long-lasting character deficiencies.  When I stub my toe on my coffee table, my instinctive reaction is to curse the table for hurting me.  I know that the table is not alive; I know that the table didn’t actually set out to hurt me; I know that the table is not malicious; I know that the foul words I’m attributing to the table are a subjective emotional response, and not an actual reflection of the table itself; I know that the table cannot hear or sympathize with me, but I still can’t help but animate the inanimate object.  Why?—Because I’m human, and I can’t control the chemistry in my brain that dictates my responses to the stimuli of my environment.  Knowing and recognizing this reality has not hindered, or stunted, my emotional development, nor has it done so for anybody else.  And even if it did have negative repercussion to our human psyche, this still would not be an argument against the veracity of our emotional attributes to the surrounding world being an entirely subjective experience.  As it stands, Lewis’ entire reasoning for opposing this view rests on the basis that he finds it unpleasant and harmful.  To which the only salient response can be, so what?  The veracity of a claim does not depend on its supposed bleakness and implication of unpleasantness.

Lewis also tries to give further authority to his position by claiming how, prior to modern times, all men believed that, “objects did not merely receive, but could merit, our approval and disapproval, our reverence or our contempt.”[10]  Prior to modern times, men also attributed the occurrence of epilepsy to demonic possession, instead of a treatable neurological disorder; the mistaken beliefs of the past need not hold credence to us in the present, especially as we gather more information and knowledge about the world.  Also, the claim that objects can merit approval and disapproval is a baseless assertion.  Objects can cause us to respond towards them in one manner or another, but they do not merit our response, since objects are devoid of any kind of intent, and thereby, do not/cannot strive to live up to anyone’s conceived expectations.  Not to mention, out responses to objects are entirely dependent on the context of the situation we find ourselves in, and likely to change under different circumstances.  Hence, our emotional responses remain a subjective experience every way one wishes to look at it.

At times, Lewis seems to acknowledge that emotional attributes are person-specific, he states [quoting Plato], “The little human animal will not at first have the right responses.  It must be trained to feel pleasure, liking, disgust, and hatred at those things which really are pleasant, likeable, disgusting and hateful.”[11]  So, to clarify, our emotional responses towards objects (or anything else for that matter) are objectively true, but we need to be trained in order to feel the “right responses”?  Does that not imply that if my initial emotional response to an object strays from the response Lewis considers to be the “right response,” my emotional response is not objectively true to begin with?  If my emotional responses have to be trained to follow suit with that of others, are they even still my emotional responses anymore?  Am I not just subverting my emotions in favor of someone else’s?  And if that’s the case, how can I trust that Lewis’ interpretation of what constitutes the right emotional responses are anymore trustworthy than my own?

Lewis’ response to this is to posit the existence of a universally recognizable “greater thing,” that he identifies as the Tao, “It [referring to the Tao] is the reality beyond all predicates, the abyss that was before the Creator Himself.”[12]  It would be completely appropriate to stop Lewis right there, and point out the disingenuous way he is presenting an Eastern concept–the Tao–as if it was congruent with the monotheistic, Abrahamic, worldview of the West.  (Although, his following sentence does a better job of characterizing the Tao, “It is the Nature, it is the Way, the Road.  It is the Way in which the universe goes on, the Way in which things everlastingly emerge, stilly and tranquilly, into space and time.”)[13]  It is of importance to note that no warrant is given by Lewis to justify this sleight of hand, where he tries to misconstrue the Tao by associating it with his Christian conception of a conscious “Creator,” and in particular his desire to designate this creator as a “Him.”  Lewis’ motivation here is to demonstrate that since our emotional responses are kind-of-sort-of similar across cultural lines, we must collectively be appealing to a universal, objective, authority as a point of reference:

And because our approvals and disapprovals are thus recognitions of objective value or responses to an objective order, therefore emotional states can be in harmony with reason (when we feel liking for what ought to be approved) or out of harmony with reason (when we perceive that liking is due but cannot feel it).[14]

But Lewis has failed to logically establish that out approvals and disapprovals are recognitions of anything but our own subjective experiences.  It certainly has not been shown that our value judgments are any indication of an objective order (or arbitrator of any sort).  Not to mention that Lewis’ only defense against the prevalence of divergent emotional responses to particular situations/objects seems to be a weak call for the need to “train” people to have the “right responses.”  The question he continuously ignores to definitively answer is why, if he is right, people’s experiences are not convergent on all matters of emotional responses?  And even on matters where they do converge, people will often demonstrate no unified reasoning for their responses.  It can be said that my observational experience that the sky is blue is objective; no one absent of some kind of physical or neurological disorder would deny that the sky is blue.  However, my emotional experience that the sky is sublime is not objective, since another person can honestly say that his emotional experience is that the sky is dull; or he could agree with me that the sky is sublime, but for a varying array of reasons that have nothing to do with my own experience. Neither one of our subjective claims holds more merit than the other.  And no resolution on the matter can be reached, since we can both accuse one another of not being “trained” to hold the “right response” towards the sky.

A frustrating part about Lewis is his apparent inability to differentiate between the objective fact of a matter (such as the fact that I happen to have feelings XYZ about an object), and the subjective response that stems from it (the actual emotions cause by feelings XYZ, the specifics of which, in any particular situation, are unique to me alone).  He states, “It can be reasonable or unreasonable only if it conforms or fails to conform to something else,”[15] in an attempt to make his notion of an absolute objective value sound assertive.  But being assertive doesn’t make an unfounded claim any more true, because even if one grants the veracity of his statement (namely, that we judge things as reasonable only as they pertain to other things), this admission does not warrant the stipulation of any sort of objective, or absolute, greater value judgment.  Our interactions with our surroundings foster the values and emotional responses we attribute to objects/matters; meaning that we are the fundamental arbitrators of our perceptive values.  Furthermore, our values and emotional responses change as we gain more information and data about out surroundings.  No universally objective point of reference is needed.  This does not invalidate the reality of our emotional experiences, but it is nonsensical for Lewis to claim that the mere existence of our emotional experiences must also confirm the existence of some kind of objective source for our emotions.

Towards the end of the lecture, Lewis begins to settle into a string of fallacious and bullying tactics against his detractors:

Either [Gaius and Titius] must go the whole way and debunk this sentiment like any other, or must set themselves to work to produce, from outside, a sentiment which they believe to be of no value to the pupil and which may cost him his life, because it is useful to us (the survivors) that our young men should feel it.[16]

“Which may cost him his life,” here Lewis is either keen on overdramatizing matters, or he is the most deranged man that has ever lived.  Telling a student that the emotional attributes he assigns to inanimate objects (which was the point that Lewis started his argument on), is not in reality a reflection of the objects themselves, but a subjective value that reflects on the feelings of the person making the attributes, does not, in any way, rob said student of the emotions he is experiencing.  Lewis has not established, in any way imaginable, that this is the case.  Being able to understand the subjectivity of one’s emotional experience will not render one as some kind of blasé automaton, since the emotions we feel are involuntary to begin with (we can’t stop feeling them).  Lewis tries to squirm out of the fact that he has not logically presented his case by stating, “In battle it is not syllogism that will keep reluctant nerves and muscles to their post in the third hour of bombardment”[17]  This, combines with his call that emotional response that diverge from what he perceives to be the “right response” must be trained to conformity, is evidence enough to assume that Lewis is a man who doesn’t accept the fact that a person is not obligated to give even the slightest credence to his subjective, emotional diatribes, absent of any logically coherent, and consistent, argument.

To some readers this might sound especially harsh, but they might want to read the manner in which Lewis addresses his opponents, “It is an outrage that they should be commonly spoken of as Intellectuals.  This gives them the chance to say that he who attacks them attacks Intelligence.”  The last line is particularly ironic, since such form of fallacious engagement is best characterized by Lewis himself, “a perceived devotion to truth, a nice sense of intellectual honour, cannot be long maintained without the aid of a sentiment which Gaius and Titius could debunk as easily as any other.”[18]  The message Lewis is presenting to the reader here is that one cannot disagree with what he has said, because only those who accept his premises of an absolute, objective, value have any basis upon which to argue about truth.  Of course, this is completely dishonest and unfounded to anyone who does not already agree with Lewis’ [subjective] point of view.

The authors of the textbook he has been arguing against don’t say that there exists no means by which to perceive truth, nor is there any rational extension by which one can make such a claim (this is another one of Lewis’ retreats to fallacies).  Instead, what they rightly say is that one’s personal feelings on a matter are irrelevant when it comes to evaluating reality, because reality is not contingent on the perceptions of any person’s emotional response to it; nor does it ultimately care about your meager opinions.  But Lewis cannot accept this, which is why this entire lecture can be summarized as follows: “I don’t like the implication of X, therefore X needs to be wrong.”  His entire justification of the objective truth of emotional responses collapses into one giant emotional response; one subjectively giant emotional response.

[1] Lewis, C.S. The Abolition of Man. “Men Without Chests,” Harper One: 1944, p. 1-2.

[2] Lewis, p. 2-3.

[3] Lewis, p. 4.

[4] Lewis, p. 4-5.

[5] Lewis, p. 5.

[6] Lewis, p. 9.

[7] Lewis, p. 13.

[8] Lewis, p. 14.

[9] Lewis, p. 9.

[10] Lewis, p. 15.

[11]Lewis, p. 16.

[12] Lewis, p. 18.

[13] Lewis, p. 18.

[14] Lewis, p. 19.

[15] Lewis, p. 20.

[16] Lewis, p. 22.

[17] Lewis, p. 24.

[18] Lewis, p. 25.