i've just read c.s. lewis's till we have faces. it's haunting and mesmerising. i started on the openings of each of my books to see which i would settle down best with last night: john fuller was mysterious and promising, tibor fischer arch and acerbic, graham swift seemed like the right way to go after reading penelope fitzgerald, and then i picked up the lewis but before long i had tumbled past the first pages and the next i raised my eyes, as i reached the second part of the book, it was 4 in the morning. isn't that a strange and truncated title? till we have faces. till we have faces what? what it is is a retelling of the cupid and psyche myth. then i began to think it was a really splendid title. "how can the gods meet us face to face till we have faces?"