text: Once upon a time I was given a vanity-published book to review. It was an illogical mess, full of breathtaking non-sequiturs. While reading "Iron John," I couldn't help thinking of it. The vanity book, however, was at least entertaining.
  
  John Eldredge refers to "Iron John" liberally in his book "Wild at Heart," and because I considered that a ringing endorsement, I purchased a copy. I can't tell you what a chore it has been to finally finish reading it. The hardest part was not flinging it away in disgust about 17 times.
  
  It's one thing to write a rambling tome full of obscure references; it's another to publish it. That people can slog through it and call it "profound" and "important" is baffling; what's even more mind-boggling is that people claim that this book "spoke" to them. I think it's a case of "I'd better say I understand it, or people will think I'm not erudite." Well, let me be erudite about it: "Iron John" is a big, steaming pile of New Age crapola. Don't say I didn't warn you
  