Lewis was one of the best-read individuals ever to put pen to paper. His books are filled with literary allusions, even when you don’t think they are. This is no exception. And while I could only recognise a fraction of the texts he quotes from or plays with, he explains himself brilliantly so that the reference is only necessary to throw some relief onto his own remarks.

In this book he talks about how he renounced religion then came to take it back up again, but it’s really about how he sought Joy throughout his life and how acceptance of a philosophy that he saw as being bigger than himself brought that to him.

I love reading about Lewis’ experiences with literature and how it makes him feel: he was one of the first authors I read who could explain what I was feeling when I read something that stirred my soul or how a book can change the way you feel about something for the better. This Joy is one of the central tenets of my own life so I can deal with disagreeing with Lewis about religion when we agree on so many other things.

He is brilliant on childhood and how things that happen to you can affect you or colour your thinking for the rest of your life. He talks with affectionate frustration about his relationship with his father and how, while he grew to understand what he felt, he could never openly accept that he and his father might come to some kind of understanding - reading this book, I can fully understand his obsession with Arnold’s poem Sohrab And Rustum, which has become one of my own favourites as well. He also throws some brilliant shade on his old schools and teachers from his own perspective as a teacher many years afterwards.

I loved this book and I wish I had come to it much earlier than now.