Maxime Bernier, and the 9 Circles of Hell.

The book "Inferno,"by SF authors Larry Niven and Jerry Pournelle, relates the story of SF author Allen Carpentier, who dies a stupid death and ends up wandering the circles of Hell with his guide "Benito." During their travels, the two meet numerous people also in Hell for one reason or another and, without exception, after some conversation, it becomes obvious what the sin was that banished each of those people to the underworld. In short, in every case, each of those people deserved their unpleasant fate.

However, at one point, the two run across one unfortunate soul who seems to have been given a raw deal by God ("Big Juju"):

But outside the power plant was an athletic man chained to a wheelless bicycle set in concrete in front of the exhaust pipe of the generator. Black smoke poured around him, almost hiding him from view.

As we watched he began pedaling furiously. The hum of the gears rose to a high pitch—and the generator inside died. There was a moment of quiet. The man pedaled with sure strokes, faster and faster, his feet nearly visible, his head tucked down as if against a wind. We gathered around, each wondering how long he could keep it up.

He began to tire. The blur of his feet slowed. The motors inside coughed, and black smoke poured out. He choked and turned his head away, and saw us.

“Don’t answer if you’d rather not,” I said, “but what whim of fate put you here?”

“I don’t know!” he howled. “I was president of the largest, most effective environmental-protection organization in the country! I fought this!” He braced himself and pedaled again. The hum rose, and the generator died.

Billy was completely lost. He looked to Benito, but our guide only shrugged. Benito accepted everything. I knew better. This couldn’t be justice, not even Big Juju’s exaggerated justice. This was monstrous.

Corbett had to be guessing when he suddenly asked, “You opposed the thermonuclear power plants?”

The guy stopped dead, staring as if Corbett were a ghost. The dynamo lurched into action and surrounded him with thick blue smoke.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” Corbett said gently. “You stopped the nuclear generators. I was just a kid during the power blackouts. We had to go to school in the dark because the whole country went on daylight saving time to save power.”

“But they weren’t safe!” He coughed. “They weren’t safe!”

“How did you know that?” Benito asked.

“We had scientists in our organization. They proved it.”

We turned away. Now I knew. I could quit looking for justice in Hell. There was only macabre humor. Why should that man be in the inner circles of Hell? At worst he belonged far above, with the bridge-destroyers of the second ledge. Or in Heaven. He hadn’t created this bleak landscape.

I couldn’t stand it. I went back. Benito shrugged and motioned to the others.

Within the cloud of blue smoke his face was slack with exhaustion. “It wasn’t just the problem of where to bury the waste products,” he told me. “There was radioactive gas going into the air.” He spoke as if continuing a conversation. I must have been his only audience in years, or decades.

“You got a rotten deal,” I said. “I wish I could do something.”

He smiled bravely. “What else is new?” And he started to pedal.

I glared at the nothing sky, hating Big Juju. Carpentier declares war. When I looked down, Benito was fumbling through saddlebags attached to the stationary bicycle.

The man cried, “What are you doing?”

Benito took out papers. The man snatched at them, but Benito backed away. He read, “Dear Jon, I could understand your opposition to us last year. There was some doubt about the process, and you expressed fears all of us felt. But now you know better. I have no witnesses, but you told me you understood Dr. Pittman’s demonstration. In God’s name, Jon, why do you continue? I ask you as your sister, as a fellow scientist, as a human being: Why?”

He began pedaling again, ignoring us.

“You knew?” I demanded. He pedaled faster, his head bent. I leaned down and put my face close to his. “You knew?” I screamed.

“Fuck off.”

Big Juju wins again. Too much, but appropriate. As we walked away, Jon screamed after us, “I’d have been nothing if I gave up the movement! Nothing! Don’t you understand? I had to stay as president!”

And there you have it: the sin of hypocrisy and rancidly dishonest self-promotion, as "Jon" -- while railing against nuclear power for allegedly environmental reasons -- actually knew his arguments were bullshit, but did it anyway because it was what made him important. It kept him as the centre of attention. It made him someone.

Which brings us, of course, to the disgustingly narcissistic Maxime Bernier, whose only interest these days is himself. And while Bernier shrieks incomprehensibly about medical things he clearly does not understand:

one can only think of "Jon," lashed to his bicycle because he continued to promote arguments he knew were totally bogus; because it was the only way to continue being someone.

One can only hope there is actually a special corner of Hell for people like that.