Lewis started as Ulster schoolboy frightened by the Edwardian church out of his faith, then spent a fair amount of time, like many young men after the great war, believing that logical positivism would suffice. It did not.
And the nightmare became something to avoid: the calling of the spirit took him elsewhere. For he had been pagan enough to fear fate
There is a house that most of all on earth I hate.
Though I have passed through many sorrows and have been
In bloody fields, sad seas, and countries desolate,
Yet most I fear that empty house where the grasses green
Grow in the silent court the gaping flags between,
And down the moss-grown paths and terrace no man treads
Where the old, old weeds rise deep on the waste garden beds.
Like eyes of one long dead the empty windows stare
And I fear to cross the garden, I fear to linger there,
For in that house I know a little, silent room
Where Someone’s always waiting, waiting in the gloom
To draw me with an evil eye, and hold me fast—
Yet thither doom will drive me and He will win at last.
C. S. Lewis