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Thousands upon thousands of letters written in the hand of C. S. Lewis make up what is now the last original material being published under Lewis's name, much of it for the first time. Written on elegant Magdalen College letterhead (given to him by American friends), scraps of wartime economy paper (of discernibly lower grade than pre- and post-war paper), and thin sheets of typing paper (torn into thirds to get three letters out of one sheet), the letters of C. S. Lewis have accumulated into a monument of Lewis's thought, theology, and charity. One could characterize Lewis's letters as he himself characterized the letters of Charles Lamb: "You'll find his letters as good as his essays: indeed they are almost exactly the same, only more of it."

More of it indeed: At last count, the number of letters collected so far total about 3,400—and they continue to come in. Such a prolific correspondence dispels the image of the isolated bachelor Oxford don, hopelessly out of touch with his times. In fact, few professors could have been more aware of the drift of popular thought and the state of the common cultural soul.

On a given morning, Lewis might write to his publisher, Geoffrey Bles, and haggle over the title of his latest book; he might write a tactful letter to his former pupil John Betjeman, a major poet of the day who still resented his old tutor; or he might write to the American Dr. Firor in thanks of precious wartime food that supplemented the severe British rations.

How greatly, in fact, Lewis admired his American culinary benefactors: "The arrival of that magnificent ham leaves me just not knowing what to say. If it were known that it was in my house, it would draw every housebreaker in the neighborhood more surely than would a collection of gold plate." As Lewis quipped to another generous American, "Every third meal we eat is 'on America.'"

Most letters, however, were from correspondents who wanted Lewis to address a particular theological or personal question, for Lewis had become a touchstone of modern Christian thought in the 1940s and 1950s. The following note to Mrs. Ursula Roberts, a correspondent whom he had never met, shows Lewis's typically direct style:

To Mrs. Ursula Roberts, 31 July 1954:

I am certainly unfit to advise anyone else on the devotional life. My own rules are 1. To make sure that, wherever else they may be placed, the main prayers should not be put "last thing at night." 2. To avoid introspection in prayer—I mean not to watch one's own mind to see if it is in the right frame, but always to turn the attention outwards to God. 3. Never, never to try to generate an emotion by will power. 4. To pray without words [that is, silently] when I am able, but to fall back on words when tired or otherwise below par. With renewed thanks. Perhaps you will sometimes pray for me?

All the hallmarks are there, in a form as condensed as a great moralist could make them: mature theology, practical advice, and simplicity of language.

Alongside the stream of popular inquiries were manuscripts from aspiring poets and novelists (some of whom sent entire works unsolicited) and the usual business correspondence of an academic with other academic friends he rarely saw. ("One's real friends are precisely the people one never gets time to write to," he notes to Dorothy Sayers.)

Sifting through the stack of mail each morning called forth a peculiar versatility in Lewis: He had to turn from matters literary to theological to pastoral in a succession of minutes. One can understand, then, Lewis's picture of the ideal life in Surprised by Joy, where he describes a day with "almost no mail" when he would "never dread the postman's knock."

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