This is not a balanced treatise. It’s a controlled detonation in prose. Written by a man who converted, turned, and never looked back — de Brueys saw fanaticism not as error, but as disease. And this book? This is the fever chart. The autopsy. The sacred middle finger.

He names names. He doesn’t tremble. There’s no mercy in these pages, only the cold, deliberate exposure of spiritual violence in its Sunday best. The tone never raises its voice — that’s what makes it unbearable. He writes like someone who knows what it means to be consumed by belief, and who now speaks with the terrifying calm of someone who survived it.

It’s French, yes — but it’s not elegant. It wears elegance like a mask while it carves you up from the inside. Don’t read this expecting peace. Read it expecting to leave the room changed

-Good - Book is well kept but may have noticeable signs of age or wear.

-All conditions are subjectively evaluated based upon age.