By Perrin Lovett
I knew the answer, of course, but a man sometimes likes a second opinion. And, in a world first, I think I got a completely succinct, unbiased, and accurate answer from an AI bot. I asked Brave’s browser if it is considered crass to write a review of one’s own book. The machine quickly told me, “Yes.” I knew it was right because the yes didn’t have any extra fingers. And because it is crass, as everyone already knows. So instead of being an oaf, I’ll just tell you a few quick things about my new romance novel and provide a short preview section. Judging Athena is available from Green Altar Books and Amazon (there are substantial previews linked at both sites, by the way). Why not buy ten or twenty copies?!
In addition to being a wonderful, innocent love story of the kind the literary world has seemingly forgotten, the book provides a healthy dose of Christian apologetics aimed at fostering romantic connections between men and women and the joint salvation found in the small church of the family home. There’s also copious treatment of general salvation along with a variant of extreme rarity. Here’s my “what makes this book stand out” statement from an (unsuccessful) literary agent query:
The tide is turning. Outside the West, the majority of humanity is already hard at work dispensing with the overt lies, destruction, and satanism of the Enlightenment. Even within the West, the pendulum is beginning to swing back towards tradition and sanity. The day of all things, including literature, that are anti-God, anti-human, and anti-family is ending now. Judging Athena, with its innocent, Godly narrative, provides a pleasant, positive alternative to the rank filth heaped upon mankind for much of the past century. While a novel and fantastical example, it is also a stern example of several combined Biblical and Patriarchal themes designed by God to bless men, women, children, societies, and nations, all with a constant and reverent eye toward achieving the glory of salvation in Heaven. The book is also fun and refreshing. Good and decent people want good, decent fiction.
Furthermore, the explicated or championed return to tradition and family life is exactly what is desperately needed to keep places like America, Russia, and France French, Russian, and American. After all, ideology and culture are downstream from identity, and identity comes from people. People come from families. You know, moms, dads, and children? We’ve got work to do, friends, but like the book, it will be fun and rewarding. For what it’s worth, also know ye that the little book features such treasures as a philology riddle, a few very light instances of action, a modicum of space travel (way faster than Warp Drive), roses by the bushel, a funeral for a spider, and more. There’s also a creative (and licensed) inclusion of part of this lovely tune by the lovely Sima Itayim!
By the way, if you happen to be a member of AALA, I’m honestly looking for marketing, foreign translation, and potential film rights assistance. Pause for the cause???
Next time, I think I shall return to the geopolitical with an eye on America’s new place in the global pecking order. My working title for that is “Breaking Ranks”. You’ll know it when… Blabbity, blabbity, blah. Here’s the first short, sweet chapter of Judging Athena. Enjoy, and as always, Deo vindice.
One – Made of Finest Nickel
The temperature slowly descended as the oppressive gray of twilight gave way to another early New England night. The young man sheltered beneath the lofty portico, between sturdy stone columns afore the entrance of the impressive structure. He looked some distance down the long, dark sidewalk and across the street, back towards the parking lot and his car. The distant lamp was well-placed and provided nearly ample lighting, though, of course, the time and the weather failed to fully cooperate. At just a tad after six o’clock, the afternoon, or the evening, held a darkness better suited to a damp midnight. It was, after all, if he had reasoned, the middle of November. And the chill threatened to give way to hard cold, a stern preview of the approaching winter. Not the first snowflake had he yet glimpsed that fall, but that afternoon, or since he’d left work some thirty or so minutes earlier, a healthy if depressing sleet had presented itself in force. Even where he stood, the rise, fall, and whip of the wind brought more tinkles of slush to his face and coat. The resulting sensation, along with a semi-long squint of a look at his older Honda Civic, brought recent words back to his mind.
‘Yeah, you’re gonna need it sooner or later. Maybe sooner than later,’ the mechanic had told him. ‘For you, I can get a new radiator in there for, lemme just say, give or take, about seven-fifty. Could do it in one day. If they got the parts, of course.’
‘Seven-fifty,’ he’d quoted back somewhat hazily to the kindly man.
‘Give or take.’
‘With the— If I needed any related tuning or if something else needed replacing, would I be safer budgeting a flat thousand?’
‘You know your car, young feller,’ the mechanic said. ‘Heater core, worn tires, et cetera. Eventually, it’ll be more like a couple grand. But, yeah, a thousand would make it easy for now. And just so you know, I think she’s got a few more miles and maybe months left in her. I do know money is tight. Just keep an eye on the gauge and the reservoir level until you’re ready. I’ll be here, so lemme know.’
‘Thank you very much.’
‘And back to the flakes,’ the mechanic said, ‘nobody claims they like ‘em, but in a case like this, I say just sprinkle as needed and trust the good Lord to get you through.’
They both laughed at the time. Back under the awning, the young man suddenly wondered if he had any flakes left in that little jar. He simply couldn’t remember. He needed to budget—even more than he usually did—but the poor man’s antifreeze fix was pretty cheap. He looked and squinted again now that the wind had died just a bit. From his vantage point, he didn’t see any steam coming from under the hood. That was well. He didn’t have a thousand dollars or even the suggested seven-fifty. The situation made the Lord’s trust mandatory and, accordingly, something else to be grateful for. Turning to go through the large, heavy doors, he thought a little more about his finances.
Once inside both sets of doors, he stopped just inside the little entry alcove before the main landing and rotunda. After shaking slush from his hair and water-resistant medium-weight jacket, he momentarily took out his phone. In a jiffy, he’d punched up his meager checking account. Based on what he needed to set aside for rent and the basics until the next payday, he simply didn’t have the money for major repairs. Not just yet. He said a quick trustful prayer about it all and then turned off his analytical mind; he had a different kind of necessity to purchase, one that wasn’t about him, and, thus, to his mind, far more important. With a sigh of determination, he pocketed the phone and walked deeper into the main hall.
Fully surrounded by its environment, he was reminded how much he enjoyed the Gallery. In addition to so much visual detail and subdued excitement, it had the pleasant smell of a good museum or library, and the temperature and humidity were always perfect. But on that evening, and at that hour, he felt like he was all alone there. He saw no one else and he couldn’t make out the first voice or footfall. Regardless, he walked on toward fulfilling his little mission. Just before taking his next step, he thought, perhaps prophetically, certainly fortuitously, to pop a breath mint into his mouth. A turn to his right and he saw the main reception desk. No one was there. Walking just past it and turning again to his right, he found the gift shop. Still observing no one about, he slowly walked inside.
It was as he remembered it: well-lit, modern, comfortable, and full of interesting merchandise, though he understood more than a few of the wares were a little pricey. He was just beginning to earnestly look around, wondering exactly what he wanted and how much it would set him back, when he thought he heard sweet, soft music playing. As if in a dream, he tried to listen to the melody. Suddenly, he realized the song had lyrics. Or were they plain spoken words? Something suggested they were. In fact, he almost thought some enchanting voice was speaking to him, saying, ‘Just a moment, and I’ll be there.’
And just like that, someone was there. He saw her coming from the corner of his eye. ‘Hello,’ she said, approaching him with a smile. ‘My sincerest apologies if I’ve kept you waiting.’
He just looked in the direction of the voice and froze, staring in disbelief. The sound of her speech was enough to bend time; it was clear, concise English, but it bore the supple hint of an accent he simply could not place. Given enough time, he might have reluctantly, unimaginatively decided it could have been a French accent. But the temporal temporarily evaded him. If her voice slowed perception, then the sight and beholding of her brought time and space to a complete standstill. Before him was, as best he could describe her, the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Or even dreamed of seeing. In fact, he instantly decided he was looking at the most beautiful woman in all the world, maybe of all time.
He discerned a nearly supernatural being, one of impossible, definitional, and divine beauty made or forced to be painfully visible, almost palpable, visceral. She was tall for a woman, about his height. He wasn’t sure if she was wearing heels. If so, then she might have overtopped him by half an inch. Her proportions were simply perfect as displayed by way of proffer through the elegant gray dress or skirt suit she wore. She had the longest, silkiest, blackest hair imaginable. Piercing eyes shined forth from an angelic face without flaw. Her irises flickered like lightning, though he was unsure of their exact color, at one imperceptible millisecond appearing blue, then gray, then hazel, and then some alluring, undefinable combination. If she wore any makeup, it was minimalistic. Her face and body defied any sign of age; if he had to guess, if his life depended on it, he would have said she was a little older than him, perhaps in her late twenties. She was a young woman in her utter prime, the ideal specimen. And somehow he felt as much as saw a glow about her. She was smiling, friendly, honestly, and kindly with rich red lips as she slowly advanced towards him. Before her wafted a smell sweeter than any flower, a scent that, even as it demanded attention or even adoration, almost physically pushed him away like the strong breeze at the edge of a hurricane. Helpless and deprived of his clear senses, he took a step backward. He felt his pulse begin to race. The rapid beat felt so good, if the feeling did cause him additional slight confusion, possibly alarm, something between fear and glee. Yet, truth be told, it was probably much closer to pure glee.
. . .
The rest is at https://perrinlovett.me/2025/05/04/special-sunday-preview-of-judging-athena/.
--
Holy Ælfred the Great, King of England, South Patron, pray for us sinners at the Souð, unworthy though we are!
Anathema to the Union!
