Ever since Dostoevsky writers have loved to turn to the Inquisition as a way of examining belief and doubt, that is certainly what Jeffrey Lewis attempts, but his is not a particularly example of the genre because Mr. Lewis doesn't even begin to understand, never mind present, what it might mean to believe things alien to what a well intentioned twentieth century American might believe. He puts all the right words and beliefs into the mouth of his inquisitor Fray Alonso but he then allows him to be disturbed by the sort of things that would disturbed Mr. Lewis or his readers. What he doesn't understand is that if you believe fervently in something, it doesn't matter if it is the Catholic Church or the Communist party (see 'Darkness at Noon' by Arthur Koestler), disillusionment, loss of faith is complex matter and will not come from simply becoming aware of failures in those who carry out the work of whatever ideology you have placed belief in. Men like Fray Alonso were trained not simply in what to believe but in challenges to belief. Indeed challenges to your faith are expected, indeed are essential to belief.
The result is a novel that aims for significance but doesn't even manage to be even interesting. It is banal, ponderous and in parts he conjures up all sorts of idiocies such as when his dumb accused 'speaks' with a voice only Fray Alonso can hear. This is called having your cake and eating it and it just won't do.
Although this novel is 160 pages I struggled to finish it as the improbables, the silly and the cliches piled up relentlessly. There is nothing worse than pretentious twaddle and this novel is a monument to pretentious twaddle.
Avoid like the plague.