It is said that if you know your enemies and know yourself, you will not be imperiled in a hundred battles;
If you do not know your enemies but do know yourself, you will win one and lose one;
If you do not know your enemies nor yourself, you will be imperiled in every single battle.
From Brian J. Noggle, I was led to an Ace of Spades post about Christian Nation: A Novel.
Ace didn't read it, but because I love you guys, I decided to take one for the team.
Now, I've read a lot of apocalyptica from the Right and Libertarian side of the political axis, ranging from pretty good to far-fetched to barely readable drek. I figured if I could power through some of that, then this should be a breeze. Besides, as an urban-dwelling wookie-suited heathen, he should be able to scare me about the menace of the JeezoNazis lurking out in suburbia, right?
It's like the love child of Tim LaHaye and Margaret Atwood wrote a piece of anti-Ayn Rand un-fan fiction, entitled Atlas Moved From Downward Dog To Crescent Moon.
In its overarching storyline, it's almost exactly a limousine liberal's vision of Ayn Rand's seminal doorstop, down to the hidden gulch where the protagonist is sheltered from the dystopian world outside. Oh, except D'Anconia's got a secret crush on Galt that the author takes pains to hide from himself by making his alter ego sleep with a shrewish and shallow Dagny, this despite loathing everything about her.
Also, the villains are less likeable, real and three-dimensional than the ones in Atlas Shrugged, and the dialog isn't as natural and flowing as ol' strident Ayn's. And the atheist messiah figure is slightly more polemical and single-minded than Galt.
It's all in well-edited English and the plot moves along with the whispering grace of a Gulfstream flying from New York to LA over the amorphous mass of undifferentiated howling savages between. The dialog is orderly, and painstakingly constructed, and represents interactions between people as seen by a disembodied mind from Zeta Reticuli that has never actually experienced anything you or I would recognize as human warmth, save a vague inarticulate longing that stands in for love.
I get a little annoyed at the Gays 'n' the 'Bortion wing of the GOP, but this dude is convinced they're under his bed, waiting to slither out as soon as he turns off his CFL night light, with their horrible Alabama accents and their Ku Klux NRA Intelligent Design yayhooism and turn his beloved Manhattan into some unreconstructed hive of toothless hilljacks, like Philadelphia.
I'm only in President Palin's second term; Nehemiah Scudder hasn't taken office and proclaimed the Theocracy yet, so stuff hasn't gotten completely silly, but I can't wait. I'm sure I'll be doing more pointing and laughing down the road. (My favorite review of it at Amazon, BTW, is this one. It's the one that convinced me to buy it, actually.)
Anyhow, if you can stomach it, it's a chance to see what an Ivy League corporate attorney in Manhattan thinks of you when he's pretty sure you're not going to read it. Because he thinks you can't.