Harry Shearer has one of America's great satirical minds, and he's in beautifully wicked form with Not Enough Indians. This is a brilliant and crisp page-turner that answers the question that every novel must answer anew in every age: how is the road to Hell paved with good intentions? Shearer's swift wit takes dead-on aim at our society's compounding layers of idiocy and virtuosity. His characters are not loveable, but you feel sorry for them anyway, because they are people just like us. Hell, they are us.