Copy provided by Kent State University Press.



In The Company They Keep, Diana Pavlac Glyer established herself among the foremost Inklings scholars. It’s one of those rarities, a deeply academic book that is also immensely readable.



That book proved that the Inklings really were a collaborative group, and not a bunch of lone geniuses who got together regularly to read bits then retreated to their man caves for more solitary labor.



In Bandersnatch, she shows how they did it. To do so, Glyer uses th

Copy provided by Kent State University Press.



In The Company They Keep, Diana Pavlac Glyer established herself among the foremost Inklings scholars. It’s one of those rarities, a deeply academic book that is also immensely readable.



That book proved that the Inklings really were a collaborative group, and not a bunch of lone geniuses who got together regularly to read bits then retreated to their man caves for more solitary labor.



In Bandersnatch, she shows how they did it. To do so, Glyer uses that clear, accessible style to begin with her own search for the Inklings' process, and how long it took before she cracked the case. She then develops an overview of the Inklings’ various backgrounds, and how they came together to form the group. Next she explores—with an eye to writers today who may be looking for ways to form and run a successful writers’ group—how the Inklings worked, and what eventually broke the group.



What bound them together for so long was the question they all faced on arrival, “Well, has nobody got anything to read to us?” Everybody got their innings, whether the work was abstruse poetry, a linguistic paper, a history, or fiction.



Everyone was free to criticize, and according to Warren Lewis, it might have sounded like a battleground as all these articulate, trenchantly intellectual and rigorously trained men picked apart ideas, but there was no rancor nor striving to force others to one’s POV. They did get picky about who could join, sometimes getting irritated if a member brought a guest without consulting the rest. Though one or two of these guests eventually fit right in.



They despised the idea of a “mere butter bath”—nothing but praise, and Glyer makes it clear in a succession of chapters who influenced various famous works, and how. (And not always for the best: at least, I liked the ending for LOTR that Tolkien wanted better than the one we have, but he bowed to what he perceived as universal disapprobation for his own wishes.)



When JRRT began writing what became LOTR (it was called “the new Hobbit” for years) C.S. Lewis was excited by the idea, but he said the beginning bogged down in a lot of hobbit talk. This grieved Tolkien, as he loved his hobbits, and his idea of a good hobbit book included lots of hobbits gossiping, eating, gardening, and pottering about the Shire.



But JRRT got stuck early on—and couldn’t move on the book for several years, until he had lunch with Lewis, who pointed out that “hobbits are only amusing in unhobbit-like situations.”



Bang. That was exactly what Tolkien needed, and the book took off.



In another discussion, Glyer illustrates how Lewis was convinced that no good book can be good for kids unless it is also good for adults: “This is a children’s book only in the sense that the first of many readings can be undertaken in the nursery . . .Only years later, at a tenth or a twentieth read, will they begin to realize what deft scholarship and profound reflection have gone to make everything in it so ripe, so friendly, and in its own way so true.”



He plainly tried to put that to work in his Narnia series—which Tolkien loathed. Lewis gave up the idea until he got encouragement from Roger Lancelyn Green, who adored the first book—and Lewis went back to it. Narnia’s mishmash of mythologies and the overt religious symbolism were never going to appeal to Tolkien, whose religious convictions resonated tectonically in his work, the fictional landscape above shaped by a painstakingly consistent mythology. But Tolkien reined in his general objection, and either gave specific feedback or else just listened without comment.



Glyer also uses the Inklings to illustrate what can kill a group. Some of the Inklings, including Owen Barfield, didn’t care for Lord of the Rings, but kept silent when it was Tolkien’s turn to read. But Hugo Dyson, a man they all liked and respected, loathed LOTR so much he would complain loudly if Tolkien showed up with papers—now they were in for another load of elves.



His complaints were so loud and consistent that Tolkien stopped reading when Dyson showed up—and though none of them knew it at the time, that was the breaking point of the Inklings. Glyer illustrates the fundamental difference between keeping silence, and silencing someone.



At the end of each chapter is a concise set of suggestions for the writer either on process or as part of a writers’ group, and it ends with a terrific meditation on collaboration in the wider sense.



There’s an excellent quote from Dorothy Sayers: “Poets do not merely pass on the torch in a relay race; they toss the ball to one another, to and fro, across the centuries. Dante would have been different if Virgil had never been, but if Dante had never been, we should know Virgil differently; across both their heads Ezekiel calls to Blake, and Milton to Homer.”



The book ends with a list of sensible—and workable—suggestions for putting together a writers’ group.



I think this book would be ideal for any writer with sympathy or interest in at least one of the Inklings. It would also be an excellent text for a writers’ class, especially within the framework of Christian schools, as the Inklings were Christians, so there is necessarily discussion of Christian viewpoints. But I think there is a great deal of insight and practical suggestion for anybody here, unless you happen to be one of those who has to stick fingers in ears and shout La La La! when a discussion veers toward sympathy with religion.



The book is also handsomely illustrated by James A. Owen.

