*The Screwtape Letters* (1942) by C. S. Lewis is a satirical, epistolary fiction about a senior demon Screwtape writing advisory letters to his nephew Wormwood, an apprentice demon trying to tempt a young man into his spiritual debacle. It's a fascinating book about human vulnerabilities, laden with Christian theology but written from the perspective of demons.

Frankly, I don't think I understood even a hundredth of what it means and implies, and I doubt if I ever would even after reading it over and over again and consulting countless other books. I'm glad, though, that I enjoyed this work much more than I had when I first and last opened it. It was more than 15 years ago, long before I accepted Christianity. I remember flipping through some pages, saying to myself, "some very nice observations" and "I like his sentences," and shutting the book and with it my stream of thought as well.

However, when I reopened it a few weeks ago, I found it radiating with penetrating insights into human nature and sin, with equally brilliant wit and imagination. I liked reading Lewis' rendition of hell (or "Lowerarchy"), which resembled a brutal bureaucracy and all its inefficiencies and contradictions, clamoring with Noise (isolated, busy, constantly self-promoting), never silent (peaceful rest) or musical (joyful diversity within unity).

Perhaps my recent attraction and re-appreciation for this book could be attributed to my better (or less weak) grasp of the English language and my (though still marginal) growth in and understanding of Christianity. But my firsthand experience of disastrous life choices and their consequences also helped provide vivid portraits of human selfishness that Screwtape and Wormwood so ardently tried to foster and exploit.

There is a vast amount of food for thought and action to be drawn from this book, but one thing that started unsettling me after finishing this book is the distance between what I read and myself. Words and the reader. Words and life. Aren't they too disconnected for me? (Oh, and I do not mean at all that you have to accept every little thing that you're exposed to unconditionally!)

For starters, I start reading with my set of presuppositions without being necessarily aware or critical of it. The author's presuppositions are relatively easier to perceive, but my own remain largely untested. Some survived my laziness and quick temper, and I got to rethink my definition of certain words, such as courage and unselfishness, and was surprised to discover subtler shades in them while reading through the book. Yet I'm sure I'd left many other words left unconsidered without attempting to compare our respective personal lexicons. But it's not what I'm most concerned about. I believe we'll always have our assumptions, and we'll need to keep having conversations to listen to and ask one another.

What disturbs me more is that the immediate thought I had after reading the last page was "What book shall I read next?" and not an inkling of "What thoughts and actions would I need to change according to what I've learned from this book?" I was more engrossed and self-congratulatory with the fact that I "finished" reading a great book "finally." Again, nothing wrong with celebrating your big and small achievements, but the problem is that this is where I end, pretty much always. Isn't it a shame that I won't give books, however different they are from my then-perspective, the opportunity to shape me? The sayings that books offer pleasure, education, and enlightenment do not seem to apply to those unwilling to change. I would even go as far as to say this is a type of thing Screwtape would applaud. So here I stop my ramble and lamentation, to find something I can actually do,