A couple of years ago I read and loved Joseph Roth’s What I Saw: Reports from Berlin 1920-1933, a collection of fascinating essays about Germany on the cusp of fascist rule, so an apocalyptic novel about the rise of Hitler seemed promising. I had hoped for something similar to Hans Keilson’s heartbreaking The Death of the Adversary, but it turns out The Antichrist is not a novel at all, just fragments of memories, fantasies, and harangues haphazardly stuck together. I can certainly understand the urgency of wanting to let the world know about the horrors of Hitler, but this book doesn't quite accomplish it. ( )