Image by Grok
When Escapism Becomes a Vicious Circle of Life
I've been thinking this week about the strange ways we try to build ourselves up when we're young—how we reach for heroes, philosophies, and identities that promise strength, but often leave us more fragile than before. As you have probably noticed, I often quote C.S. Lewis, and I think it is about time I tell you why. So, as I often do, I'll let C.S. Lewis have the first word:
"Selfish, not self-centered: for in such a life, my mind would be directed towards a thousand things, not one of which is myself. The distinction is not unimportant. One of the happiest men and most pleasing companions I have ever known was intently selfish. On the other hand, I have known people capable of real sacrifice whose lives were nevertheless a misery to themselves and others, because self-concern and self-pity filled all their thoughts. Either condition will destroy the soul in the end. But till the end, give me the man who takes the best of everything (even at my expense) and then talks of other things, rather than the man who serves me and talks of himself, and whose very kindnesses are a continual reproach, a continual demand for pity, gratitude, and admiration."
Reading this reminds me of the feud between Lewis and Ayn Rand. Lewis was highly educated and intelligent, yet humble and realistic about the human condition. Rand, on the other hand, was equally intelligent but conceited and overly cynical. Her stance1 on the virtue of selfishness might have been more meaningful had it been balanced with humility and an awareness of circumstance. In other words, "there but for the grace of God go I."
Lewis had a way of naming the human condition with surgical clarity, highlighting the contrast between two brilliant minds who looked at the same human nature yet came to opposite conclusions.
Lewis believed that pride is the great enemy of the soul; Rand believed pride is the highest virtue. Lewis believed we are fallen creatures in need of grace; Rand believed we are heroic beings corrupted by weakness and altruism. Lewis believed humility is sanity; Rand believed humility is a lie.
Rand was a formidable thinker—sharp, disciplined, uncompromising. Her philosophy of Objectivism was built on the idea that rational self-interest is the highest moral good. She rejected religion, rejected dependence, and rejected the idea that we owe anything to anyone except by choice. She saw compassion as weakness, and self-sacrifice as a moral failing.
Her heroes—John Galt, Dagny Taggart, Howard Roark—are solitary titans, standing alone against a world of mediocrity. For a young person searching for identity, that kind of clarity can feel intoxicating. It certainly did for me.
During my formative years, I was painfully shy and introspective. I retreated into fantasy worlds filled with solitary heroes—Tarzan, John Carter of Mars, the whole Edgar Rice Burroughs universe. I read those books incessantly. I sat at the back of class with my nose buried in a novel, ignoring the lesson entirely. Those stories propped up my ego for a time but eventually left me feeling inadequate. I had built an imaginary world I could never live up to in real life.
Later, as a teenager serving in the Army during a time of war, I discovered Rand and atheism through Atlas Shrugged. And for a while, her philosophy felt like a lifeline. It promised strength. It promised clarity. It promised a world where weakness was optional, and self-sufficiency was destiny.
But in the end, it didn't do much for my self-esteem. Rand's world has no room for grace. No room for failure. No room for the wounded. And I was wounded. I think I would have been better off if I had found Lewis earlier and leaned on my Christian upbringing. Instead, I fell into many of the vices and traps that faith might have helped me avoid.
True self-esteem requires humility—the realization that no one can be a hero all the time. Excellence is achieved only through hard work, and even then, life is full of pitfalls. We all have to pick ourselves up and continue on. We have to deal with life as it is, not as we wish it to be. And then, if it is meant to be, it will become what we want it to be.
Perhaps if I had discovered Lewis in the first half of my life instead of the last, I could have saved myself a lot of suffering. But the truth is, I wasn't ready for him. I wasn't educated enough to understand him. Only after my reading—and my life—became more seasoned did I recognize a fellow traveler in him.
I was not blessed with a built‑in talent for intellectual work. My mind works slowly. What little I have learned was painfully acquired through the school of hard knocks. I have often been my own worst enemy. And perhaps Lewis is describing me when he speaks of self-centeredness. It is something I recognize in myself all too often. It drove me to drink, and drink drove me to more self-centeredness. A vicious circle indeed.
But here's the grace in all of this: Lewis believed that God works backward through time, redeeming even the years we think we wasted. He believed that nothing is lost—not even the detours, not even the wounds, not even the long seasons when we were trying to be our own heroes.
Maybe that's the real takeaway from Edgar Rice Burroughs' Tarzan, the lone hero surviving against all odds; Ayn Rand's titans, standing firm in their uncompromising self-reliance; and C.S. Lewis' Mere Christianity, with its humility and grace—that the strength we sought was never in self-sufficiency, but in humility; never in fantasy, but in truth; never in pride, but in grace. It's been a long road.
In retrospect, I am reminded that the God who shaped the universe is patient with late bloomers. Even the most neglected and shriveled rosebush can produce a rose when it receives the water of life. And when that happens to us, even a heart trapped in a vicious circle will finally bloom.
Sometimes it takes a lifetime to grow up—did I say sometimes?
