In the canon of culture war literature, Nellie Bowles’s Morning After the Revolution may be distinguished from its contemporaries by what it lacks. It does not boast the intellectual rigors of Christopher Rufo or Richard Hanania. (Foucault is mentioned only once.) Nor does it adopt an exclusive, internet-born patois like Peachy Keenan or Bronze Age Pervert. (“Woke” gets only three mentions; “clown world” zero.) It does not offer a Lovecraftian mythos where critical theorists, public school teachers, and civil rights attorneys stalk the Earth turning libraries into brothels or telling you that your Chick-fil-A is actually a prison. Moreover, it lacks a convert’s zeal, let alone the urgency to make more converts. What relevant details do appear amounts to a mass of trivia. A beach read of America’s death throes.