At his best Lewis can be very good (Screwtape Letters, Mere Christianity), but at other times he can be a bit frustrating. He has an excellent mind overstuffed with knowledge of many fine things, he’s often insightful, and he’s able to write engagingly and accessibly while fleshing out a carefully conceived and detailed plan. But when he’s not at his best there can be too much wordplay and other cleverness combined with an over-certain pedagogy, or at least that’s how it comes off for me. It’s particularly frustrating when there are a lot of good ideas and connections that you know could be deepened with more reflection and care. While clearing out the underbrush. You might say someone with his gifts has kind of an obligation to use them carefully and well for the greater good. Of course you might not say that, but let’s assume you might. At times this book feels like it was tossed off by an unusually gifted journalist. It’s a good book, but you get the sense that it could have been much better. At least I get that sense. And the material is important - it merits the best effort. Lewis wrote about the psychic and spiritual drain that Screwtape caused him, getting into the skin of a senior demon for the duration of its writing, and how he could never do that again to write a sequel despite many requests. I’m grateful that he put himself through that, and maybe he didn’t really have an obligation to sweat more to make this book better. But I do wish he had.