C.S. Lewis on Why Old Books are Essential Reading
*Originally written by C.S. Lewis as an introduction to On the Incarnation by St. Athanasius. Translated into modern English by Modern Saints.
There’s a curious idea circulating that ancient texts should be reserved for experts, while amateurs should stick to modern books.
As an English literature tutor, I’ve often noticed that when a student wants to learn about Platonism, the last thing they consider is pulling a translation of Plato off the shelf to read The Symposium. Instead, they’ll opt for some tedious modern book—ten times longer—filled with discussions of “isms” and influences, rarely mentioning what Plato actually said.
This error, though misguided, comes from a place of humility. Students often feel intimidated by great thinkers, assuming they’ll be too difficult to understand.
But in reality, the greatest minds are often more accessible than their interpreters. Even a beginner can grasp much of what Plato wrote, while many modern commentaries are nearly incomprehensible.
As a teacher, I’ve always encouraged students to prioritize firsthand knowledge over secondhand analysis. It’s not only more valuable but often far easier and more enjoyable to obtain.
The Misguided Fear of Ancient Texts
This preference for modern works over classical ones is particularly rampant in theology.
If you stumble upon any Christian study group, chances are they’re not reading St. Luke, St. Paul, St. Augustine, Thomas Aquinas, or Richard Hooker. Instead, they’re working through books by Berdyaev, Maritain, Niebuhr, Dorothy Sayers—or perhaps even me.
This strikes me as completely backward.
As a writer, I’m not suggesting that people avoid modern books altogether. But if someone must choose between exclusively reading the new or the old, I strongly recommend the old.
This advice is especially pertinent for amateurs, who are less equipped than experts to critically assess new works. A modern book is still undergoing the test of time, and its value must be measured against the enduring wisdom of Christian thought. Hidden assumptions—often unnoticed even by the author—can shape a book’s arguments, and understanding these requires familiarity with a broader context. Without this, you might accept ideas you would otherwise reject, simply because you don’t recognize their full implications.
Imagine joining a conversation at eleven o’clock that began at eight. Remarks that seem ordinary to you may provoke laughter or irritation, and you won’t understand why because you missed the earlier context. Similarly, modern books often reference or react to other works, giving statements a subtext that can mislead the uninformed reader.
To avoid this, you need a solid foundation in the central tenets of Christianity—what Baxter called “mere Christianity”—which only the old books can reliably provide.
A good rule of thumb is to alternate between modern and ancient works: for every new book you read, follow it with an old one. If that feels like too much, at least aim for one old book for every three new ones.
Why We Need Old Books
The only remedy for our modern blind spots is to let the fresh, bracing wind of the centuries sweep through our minds, and the surest way to do this is by reading old books.
This is not to say that the past is magical or that people of earlier times were any wiser than we are—they made plenty of mistakes, just not the same ones.
The beauty of old books lies in their refusal to reinforce the errors we are currently prone to. Their flaws, being obvious to us now, pose little threat.
As the saying goes, two heads are better than one—not because either is perfect, but because they are unlikely to stumble in the same way. While books of the future could provide the same corrective, they remain tantalizingly out of reach.
Discovering the Christian Classics
My own journey into the Christian classics began almost by accident, prompted by my studies in English literature.
Writers like Hooker, Herbert, Traherne, Taylor, and Bunyan drew me in for their literary brilliance; others—Boethius, St. Augustine, Thomas Aquinas, and Dante—captivated me as key influences on Western thought. George MacDonald, however, I discovered on my own at sixteen, and my devotion to his work has never wavered, despite my initial attempts to sideline his Christianity.
These authors form a diverse collection, spanning numerous churches, cultures, and eras. This diversity highlights another compelling reason to read them: the unity of Christianity across time.
The divisions within Christendom are undeniable, and some of these authors express them with fiery passion. Yet anyone who doubts the coherence of Christianity, perhaps imagining that its many meanings render it meaningless, will find their perspective transformed by stepping outside their own era. The enduring voice of Christianity, uniting these writers across centuries, proves otherwise.
Unity Across the Ages
Over the ages, “mere Christianity” reveals itself not as a bland, watered-down agreement but as something profoundly rich, coherent, and inexhaustible.
I discovered this truth painfully in the days when I still despised Christianity. Across vastly different writers—Puritan Bunyan, Anglican Hooker, Thomist Dante—I recognized the same unmistakable essence. I found it sweet and tender in Francis de Sales, solemn and familiar in Spenser and Walton, austere but courageous in Pascal and Johnson. It emerged again, with a haunting, otherworldly quality, in Vaughan, Boehme, and Traherne.
The divisions within Christendom rightly trouble and shame us. Yet those who have never stood outside the Christian fold may misjudge the scale of what remains intact. These divisions are real and grievous, but when viewed from outside, what survives them is a staggering and undeniable unity.
I can testify to this, having seen it for myself—and our adversaries know it too. This unity, timeless and unbroken, is accessible to anyone willing to step beyond their own age and engage with the breadth of Christian tradition.
It is not perfect, but it is far more than you might have imagined.
Once immersed in it, if you dare to speak its truths, you will encounter a curious reaction. You may be accused of being a Papist when quoting Bunyan or a Pantheist when drawing on Aquinas. Such confusion arises because you have stepped onto the great viaduct that spans the centuries—a bridge that seems towering from the valleys, modest from the mountains, narrow compared to the swamps, and broad beside the sheep-tracks.
