The principal mark of inspired texts is that they evince the authorship of a greater mind than their writers'.  While the writer’s own consciousness of engagement with this mind may range from a true but subordinate synthesis to that of a mere amanuensis, the attentive reader finds himself faced with the unmistakable intuition that there is “something behind” what he is reading that is not the stated author, and has the characteristics of a mind.  This is true not only with good writings, but also with evil, so that in some, one hears the voice God hidden, and in others, that of Satan revealed. 

I have recently finished something of the latter variety.  Its author is an intelligent, highly accomplished zealot for false doctrine–common enough and quite unremarkable–but there is something more here.  It is one of those fairly rare books of the sort with which one feels the bottomless futility that Lewis’s Ransom felt when attempting to argue with the inexhaustible wickedness of an un-Man, loose in the world to deceive and destroy, but with whom one’s small self has nevertheless been called to deal. 

The elegance of the truth-twisting in some places almost excites one to admiration, while in others its insolent grossness makes one wonder how anyone can be expected to take the book seriously.  Generally I conclude that the gross and palpable lies are to deceive the simple and the fine ones are to mock the knowledgeable, as if to say, "You helpless fool–do you think you can overcome me?  As though you are the master of truth to the degree I am the Master of the Lie!"