Constructing the Devil

The literary imagination has long been fascinated with the figures of Satan, demons, and fallen angels. Three landmark works approach this fascination from wildly different angles: Glen Duncan’s irreverent I, Lucifer (2002), John Milton’s epic Paradise Lost (1667), and C.S. Lewis’s satirical The Screwtape Letters (1942). Each engages with questions of morality, free will, and the nature of evil, but in unique voices, styles, and theological contexts.

A defining difference among the three works lies in narrative perspective. Paradise Lost tells the cosmic story of the Fall from an omniscient, epic lens, though it occasionally centers on Satan to explore his psychological complexity. Milton gives readers a poetic, tragic view of rebellion: Satan is charismatic and heroic in a certain sense, but ultimately flawed and doomed. The narrative commands awe and reflection rather than intimacy.

By contrast I, Lucifer delivers a confessional first-person perspective. Lucifer narrates his own life, resurrected into modern-day London, and recounts his experiences with biting humor and human-like cynicism. Duncan’s Lucifer is witty, crude, and self-aware. He’s a charming antihero who critiques humanity with satire that feels very contemporary.

C.S. Lewis’s The Screwtape Letters occupies a middle ground: it’s first-person, but from the perspective of Screwtape, a senior demon instructing his nephew on tempting humans. The letters are epistolary, clever, and moralistic, using satire to illuminate human weaknesses and Christian doctrine. Unlike Milton’s epic or Duncan’s brash Lucifer, Lewis keeps readers amused while provoking reflection on morality.

All three texts wrestle with the nature of evil and free will, but they approach it differently. Paradise Lost is theological and grand: evil exists as rebellion against God, and free will is a divine gift whose misuse leads to cosmic consequences. Satan’s pride and ambition catalyze the Fall, while Adam and Eve’s choices underscore humanity’s moral responsibility.

In I, Lucifer, evil is treated with irreverent irony. Lucifer is not scheming to corrupt humans on a cosmic scale, he observes, manipulates, and comments on human foibles. Free will is playful and ironic; humans are absurd, often predictable, and their suffering is as comical as it is tragic. The novel questions morality through humor, suggesting that divine and infernal plans alike are ultimately petty when faced with human chaos.

The Screwtape Letters bridges these approaches. Lewis presents evil as both subtle and systematic: temptation exploits human weakness in small, strategic ways. Free will remains central, but the narrative emphasizes spiritual awareness and moral vigilance rather than cosmic tragedy. Here, humanity is neither absurdly comic nor epic; it is a site of moral struggle, where seemingly minor choices have eternal significance.

The tonal differences among the three works are striking. Milton’s verse is formal, elevated, and grandiose. Befitting an epic poem that seeks to explore the universe itself. Duncan’s prose is colloquial, sardonic, and irreverent, mixing humor with existential despair. Lewis’s letters are witty, controlled, and satirical, with a tone that is both instructive and humorous, relying on irony and clever rhetoric rather than dramatic flourish.

Milton’s work emphasizes the consequences of pride, disobedience, and rebellion against divine order. I, Lucifer revels in moral ambiguity, exploring the absurdity and contradictions of human and divine behavior. The Screwtape Letters combines moral instruction with satire, emphasizing vigilance, humility, and spiritual growth.

In essence, Paradise Lost inspires awe and contemplation of cosmic morality, I, Lucifer entertains while critiquing the absurdity of morality and human behavior, and The Screwtape Letters instructs through irony and imaginative inversion of the moral universe.

Despite their differences, these works are united in their fascination with the fallen, the forbidden, and the morally complex. Milton’s Satan is tragic and epic, Duncan’s Lucifer is modern and sardonic, and Lewis’s Screwtape is cunning and instructional. Together, they showcase the richness of literature that examines evil not just as a concept, but as a lens through which to explore human nature, free will, and morality.

For readers interested in theology, philosophy, satire, or just a fresh perspective on one of literature’s most infamous characters, these three works offer complementary and contrasting journeys through the mind of the devil, and, ultimately, the human soul.

The Devil You Know: Comparing I, Lucifer and Paradise Lost

I’ve recently re-read Glen Duncan’s book I, Lucifer. It’s sort of the Biblical story of the fall of Lucifer from the devil’s perspective. Duncan doesn’t just make Lucifer into someone out to cause chaos. I mean, he does, but just in one person’s life. Entertainment makes Lucifer more intriguing in books, television, music, etc. Another work of literature that made the devil interesting is one of my favorite tales … John Milton’s Paradise Lost, which paints the devil as sort of an anti-hero. The Devil has always been a master storyteller when authors or whomever gives him the mic.

I, Lucifer and Paradise Lost take that premise and run in opposite directions. Both let Lucifer speak for himself, but the similarities mostly stop there. Milton’s Satan is a tragic epic hero. Duncan’s Lucifer is a sardonic London party guest. Together though, they show just how flexible the figure of the Devil can be, and what that says about us.

In Paradise Lost, Satan enters with the gravitas of a fallen general. His speeches are full of classical grandeur: “Better to reign in hell than serve in Heaven.” Milton’s blank verse gives him a dignity that almost rivals God’s. Over the course of the epic poem, that dignity rots. The grand speeches shrink to self-justifications, and Satan’s transformation into a literal serpent mirrors his moral decay.

In I, Lucifer, Duncan skips the slow moral unraveling. His Lucifer arrives already fully modern, fully cynical, and fully shameless. Given one month in a human body (that of a washed-up writer), he narrates in a breezy, pop-culture-savvy monologue. Where Milton’s Satan wraps his rebellion in lofty ideals, Duncan’s Lucifer cheerfully admits it was always about ego, boredom, and refusing to kneel.

Milton’s universe is theological first, dramatic second. Satan’s rebellion is a misuse of free will. He chooses pride over obedience, and the moral lesson is clear: freedom is good only when exercised in harmony with God’s will.

Duncan’s Lucifer would rather set himself on fire than live in “harmony” with anyone else’s will but his own. Free will is the only real prize, even if it comes with loneliness, pain, or damnation. God offers him redemption at the end of his month on Earth; Lucifer declines, not because he can’t repent, but because repentance means surrender.

In Paradise Lost, humanity is collateral damage. Satan tempts Adam and Eve as a strike against God. Milton’s Satan does not care about them beyond their strategic value. In I, Lucifer, humanity is the entertainment. Lucifer adores human art, music, lust, and self-delusion. He mocks humans constantly, but there’s a grudging admiration underneath. He might still ruin your life, but he’ll stay for a drink and ask about your novel.

Milton’s Satan is the stuff of cathedral murals: moral, solemn, and framed by the cosmic stakes of Heaven and Hell. Duncan’s Lucifer is more like the friend who hijacks your bar tab and spends the night dismantling your worldview between shots. One speaks in blank verse; the other in sarcastic asides.

Both invite you into the rebel’s point of view, but where Milton uses the Devil to reinforce divine justice, Duncan uses him to undermine it.

The endgame in Paradise Lost is Satan firmly in Hell, stripped of dignity, an eternal warning against rebellion. I, Lucifer ends with Lucifer walking away grinning, having learned nothing he’s willing to admit, but maybe carrying a few uncomfortable human feelings he can’t quite shake. Milton’s Devil falls because he can’t change. Duncan’s Devil survives because he refuses to.

In both cases, Lucifer is compelling because he’s the ultimate outsider; someone who sees rules, refuses them, and accepts the consequences. Milton’s Satan speaks to our fear of ambition’s cost; Duncan’s Lucifer speaks to our hunger for autonomy in a world that loves telling us what’s good for us.

The Devil, it turns out, reflects whatever rebellion we need at the time. In the 17th century, that meant warning against pride. In the 21st, it might mean laughing in God’s face while ordering another round.

If Milton’s Satan makes you think twice about disobedience, Duncan’s Lucifer makes you want to disobey better.