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KAREN ARMSTRONG
Through the Narrow Gate
A Nun’s Story
William Collins
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by Macmillan in 1981
Copyright © Karen Armstrong 1981, 1995
Karen Armstrong asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
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Source ISBN: 9780006550549
Ebook Edition © JANUARY 2014 ISBN: 9780007382880
Version: 2016-02-22
In memory of my father
CONTENTS
Writing Through the Narrow Gate proved to be a watershed for me that was, in its way, every bit as important as those crucial years in the convent. I had decided to write the book because I was becoming uncomfortably aware that a period of my life that had been extremely significant was becoming trivialized. Friends would beg me to tell them about the convent, and I would usually respond by recounting some funny story (and, indeed, a lot of amusing things did happen) because it was easier than exposing memories that were still raw and painful. Yet I knew that I would have to discover what those years had meant for me before the memories disappeared beyond recall.
In fact, the process of writing redeemed the past for me, in ways that I could not have imagined. I have written several books since, but none has proved as difficult as Through the Narrow Gate, with the possible exception of its sequel, Beginning the World. Autobiography must be one of the most challenging genres because it becomes impossible to keep humiliating glimpses of one’s former self at bay. Not surprisingly, I tried to avoid this but was prevented from doing so by June Hall, whom I had met at a dinner party and who had agreed to act as my literary agent.
The first draft of the book was very black and angry. June read it, said that it was probably publishable but that she couldn’t help wondering why, if things had been that bad, I had stayed in the religious life for seven whole years. I could see that she had a point, and I started all over again. During the next two drafts, I began to remember the things that had made me stay so long—things that I no longer wanted to recall because I thought that I had lost them forever: the beauty of the liturgy, the belief that every single moment of the day had eternal significance, and, above all, the sense of a spiritual quest for meaning that would make my life wholly significant. I had gone into the convent searching for Something that remained tantalizingly elusive but that, with the optimism of youth, I felt certain I would one day find.
I
