Perelandra
Memory passes through the womb and hovers in the air. The Muse is a real thing. A faint breath, as Virgil says, reaches even the late generations. Our mythology is based on a solider reality than we dream: but it is also at an almost infinite distance from that base. And when they told him this, Ransom at last understood why mythology was what it was—gleams of celestial strength and beauty falling on a jungle of filth and imbecility. His cheeks burned on behalf of our race when he looked on the true Mars and Venus and remembered the follies that have been talked of them on Earth. Then a doubt struck him. “But do I see you as you really are?” he asked. “Only Maleldil sees any creature as it really is,” said Mars. “How do you see one another?” asked Ransom. “There are no holding places in your mind for an answer to that.” “Am I then seeing only an appearance? Is it not real at all?” “You see only an appearance, small one. You have never seen more than an appearance of anything—not of Arb...