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Page 1: Kurt Vonnegut Cat's Cradleenglishonlineclub.com/pdf/Kurt Vonnegut - Cat's Cradle... · 2019-05-19 · Cat's Cradle. The Day the World Ended 1 Call me Jonah. My parents did, or nearly

KurtVonnegut

Cat'sCradle

Page 2: Kurt Vonnegut Cat's Cradleenglishonlineclub.com/pdf/Kurt Vonnegut - Cat's Cradle... · 2019-05-19 · Cat's Cradle. The Day the World Ended 1 Call me Jonah. My parents did, or nearly

TheDaytheWorldEnded1CallmeJonah.Myparentsdid,ornearlydid.TheycalledmeJohn.Jonah—John—ifIhadbeenaSam,IwouldhavebeenaJonahstill—not

becauseIhavebeenunluckyforothers,butbecausesomebodyorsomethinghascompelledme to be certain places at certain times,without fail. Conveyancesandmotives,bothconventionalandbizarre,havebeenprovided.And,accordingtoplan,ateachappointedsecond,ateachappointedplacethisJonahwasthere.Listen:WhenIwasayoungerman—twowivesago,250,000cigarettesago,3,000

quartsofboozeago.WhenIwasamuchyoungerman,Ibegantocollectmaterialforabooktobe

calledTheDaytheWorldEnded.Thebookwastobefactual.ThebookwastobeanaccountofwhatimportantAmericanshaddoneonthe

daywhenthefirstatomicbombwasdroppedonHiroshima,Japan.ItwastobeaChristianbook.IwasaChristianthen.IamaBokononistnow.IwouldhavebeenaBokononistthen,iftherehadbeenanyonetoteachme

the bittersweet lies of Bokonon. But Bokononism was unknown beyond thegravelbeachesandcoralknivesthatringthislittleislandintheCaribbeanSea,theRepublicofSanLorenzo.WeBokononistsbelievethathumanityisorganizedintoteams,teamsthatdo

God’sWillwithouteverdiscoveringwhattheyaredoing.Suchateamiscalledakarass byBokonon, and the instrument, thekan-kan, that broughtme intomyownparticularkarasswasthebookIneverfinished, thebooktobecalledTheDaytheWorldEnded.

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Nice,Nice,VeryNice2“Ifyoufindyourlifetangledupwithsomebodyelse’slifefornoverylogical

reasons,”writesBokonon,“thatpersonmaybeamemberofyourkarass.”At another point in The Books of Bokonon he tells us, “Man created the

checkerboard;Godcreatedthekarass.”Bythathemeansthatakarassignoresnational,institutional,occupational,familial,andclassboundaries.Itisasfree-formasanamoeba.Inhis“Fifty-thirdCalypso,”Bokononinvitesustosingalongwithhim:

Oh,asleepingdrunkardUpinCentralPark,Andalion-hunterInthejungledark,AndaChinesedentist,AndaBritishqueen—AllfittogetherInthesamemachine.Nice,nice,verynice;Nice,nice,verynice;Nice,nice,verynice—SomanydifferentpeopleInthesamedevice.

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Folly3NowheredoesBokononwarnagainstaperson’stryingtodiscoverthelimits

ofhiskarassandthenatureoftheworkGodAlmightyhashaditdo.Bokononsimplyobservesthatsuchinvestigationsareboundtobeincomplete.IntheautobiographicalsectionofTheBooksofBokanonhewritesaparable

onthefollyofpretendingtodiscover,tounderstand:IonceknewanEpiscopalianladyinNewport,RhodeIsland,whoaskedme

to design and build a doghouse for her Great Dane. The lady claimed tounderstandGodandHisWaysofWorkingperfectly.Shecouldnotunderstandwhyanyoneshouldbepuzzledaboutwhathadbeenoraboutwhatwasgoingtobe.Andyet,whenIshowedherablueprintofthedoghouseIproposedtobuild,

shesaidtome,“I’msorry,butInevercouldreadoneofthosethings.”“Giveit toyourhusbandoryourminister topassontoGod,”Isaid,“and,

whenGodfindsaminute,I’msurehe’llexplainthisdoghouseofmineinawaythatevenyoucanunderstand.”Shefiredme.Ishallneverforgether.ShebelievedthatGodlikedpeoplein

sailboatsmuchbetterthanHelikedpeopleinmotorboats.Shecouldnotbeartolookataworm.Whenshesawaworm,shescreamed.Shewasafool,andsoamI,andsoisanyonewhothinksheseeswhatGodis

Doing,[writesBokonon].

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ATentativeTanglingofTendrils4Bethatasitmay,I intendinthisbooktoincludeasmanymembersofmy

karassaspossible,andImean toexamineallstronghintsas towhatonEarthwe,collectively,havebeenupto.IdonotintendthatthisbookbeatractonbehalfofBokononism.Ishould

liketoofferaBokononistwarningaboutit,however.ThefirstsentenceinTheBooksofBokononisthis:“AllofthetruethingsIamabouttotellyouareshamelesslies.”MyBokononistwarningisthis:Anyoneunable tounderstandhowauseful religioncanbe foundedon lies

willnotunderstandthisbookeither.Sobeit.Aboutmykarass,then.It surely includes the threechildrenofDr.FelixHoenikker,oneof the so-

called“Fathers”ofthefirstatomicbomb.Dr.Hoenikkerhimselfwasnodoubtamemberofmykarass, thoughhewasdeadbeforemysinookas, the tendrilsofmylife,begantotanglewiththoseofhischildren.ThefirstofhisheirstobetouchedbymysinookaswasNewtonHoenikker,

theyoungestofhis threechildren, theyoungerofhis twosons. I learnedfromthe publication of my fraternity, The Delta Upsilon Quarterly, that NewtonHoenikker,sonoftheNobelPrizephysicist,FelixHoenikker,hadbeenpledgedbymychapter,theCornellChapter.SoIwrotethislettertoNewt:“DearMr.Hoenikker:“OrshouldIsay,DearBrotherHoenikker?“I am a Cornell DU now making my living as a freelance writer. I am

gatheringmaterialforabookrelatingtothefirstatomicbomb.Itscontentswillbe limited toevents that tookplaceonAugust6,1945, theday thebombwasdroppedonHiroshima.“Since your late father is generally recognized as having been one of the

chief creators of the bomb, I would verymuch appreciate any anecdotes youmight care togivemeof life inyour father’shouseon theday thebombwasdropped.“IamsorrytosaythatIdon’tknowasmuchaboutyourillustriousfamilyas

I should, and so don’t knowwhether youhave brothers and sisters. If youdo

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havebrothersandsisters,IshouldlikeverymuchtohavetheiraddressessothatIcansendsimilarrequeststothem.“Irealize thatyouwereveryyoungwhenthebombwasdropped,whichis

all to the good. My book is going to emphasize the human rather than thetechnical side of the bomb, so recollections of the day through the eyes of a‘baby,’ifyou’llpardontheexpression,wouldfitinperfectly.“Youdon’thave toworryabout style and form.Leaveall that tome. Just

givemethebarebonesofyourstory.“Iwill,ofcourse,submitthefinalversiontoyouforyourapprovalpriorto

publication.“Fraternallyyours—“

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LetterfromaPre-med5TowhichNewtreplied:“Iamsorrytobesolongaboutansweringyourletter.Thatsoundslikeavery

interestingbookyouaredoing.IwassoyoungwhenthebombwasdroppedthatIdon’tthinkI’mgoingtobemuchhelp.Youshouldreallyaskmybrotherandsister,whoarebotholderthanIam.MysisterisMrs.HarrisonC.Conners,4918North Meridian Street, Indianapolis, Indiana. That is my home address, too,now. I think she will be glad to help you. Nobody knows where my brotherFrankis.HedisappearedrightafterFather’sfuneraltwoyearsago,andnobodyhasheardfromhimsince.Forallweknow,hemaybedeadnow.“IwasonlysixyearsoldwhentheydroppedtheatomicbombonHiroshima,

so anything I remember about that day other people have helped me toremember.“I remember I was playing on the living-room carpet outside my father’s

studydoorinIlium,NewYork.Thedoorwasopen,andIcouldseemyfather.He was wearing pajamas and a bathrobe. He was smoking a cigar. He wasplayingwithaloopofstring.Fatherwasstayinghomefromthelaboratoryinhispajamasalldaythatday.Hestayedhomewheneverhewantedto.“Father,asyouprobablyknow,spentpracticallyhiswholeprofessionallife

working for the Research Laboratory of the General Forge and FoundryCompanyinIlium.WhentheManhattanProjectcamealong,thebombproject,Fatherwouldn’tleaveIliumtoworkonit.Hesaidhewouldn’tworkonitatallunlesstheylethimworkwherehewantedtowork.Alotofthetimethatmeantat home. The only place he liked to go, outside of Ilium,was our cottage onCape Cod. Cape Cod was where he died. He died on a Christmas Eve. Youprobablyknowthat,too.“Anyway, Iwas playing on the carpet outside his study on the day of the

bomb.MysisterAngelatellsmeIusedtoplaywithlittletoytrucksforhours,makingmotorsounds,going ‘burton,burton,burton’all the time.So Iguess Iwasgoing‘burton,burton,burton,’onthedayof thebomb;andFatherwasinhisstudy,playingwithaloopofstring.“It so happens I know where the string he was playing with came from.

Maybe you can use it somewhere in your book. Father took the string fromaroundthemanuscriptofanovelthatamaninprisonhadsenthim.Thenovelwasabouttheendoftheworldintheyear2000,andthenameofthebookwas

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2000A.D.Ittoldabouthowmadscientistsmadeaterrificbombthatwipedoutthewholeworld.Therewasabigsexorgywheneverybodyknewthattheworldwasgoingtoend,andthenJesusChristHimselfappearedtensecondsbeforethebombwentoff.ThenameoftheauthorwasMarvinSharpeHolderness,andhetoldFatherinacoveringletterthathewasinprisonforkillinghisownbrother.He sent themanuscript to Father because he couldn’t figure outwhat kind ofexplosives to put in the bomb. He thought maybe Father could makesuggestions.“Idon’tmeantotellyouIreadthebookwhenIwassix.Wehaditaround

thehouseforyears.MybrotherFrankmadeithispersonalproperty,onaccountof thedirtyparts.Frankkept it hidden inwhathecalledhis ‘wall safe’ inhisbedroom.Actually,itwasn’tasafebutjustanoldstovefluewithatinlid.FrankandImusthavereadtheorgypartathousandtimeswhenwewerekids.Wehadit for years, and then my sister Angela found it. She read it and said it wasnothingbutapieceofdirtyrottenfilth.Sheburneditup,andthestringwithit.Shewasamother toFrankandme,becauseour realmotherdiedwhen Iwasborn.“Myfatherneverreadthebook,I’mprettysure.Idon’tthinkheeverreada

novelorevenashortstoryinhiswholelife,oratleastnotsincehewasalittleboy.Hedidn’t readhismailormagazinesornewspapers, either. I supposehereada lotof technical journals,but to tell you the truth, I can’t remembermyfatherreadinganything.“AsIsay,allhewantedfromthatmanuscriptwas thestring.Thatwas the

wayhewas.Nobodycouldpredictwhathewasgoingtobeinterestedinnext.Onthedayofthebombitwasstring.“HaveyoueverreadthespeechhemadewhenheacceptedtheNobelPrize?

This is the whole speech: ‘Ladies and Gentlemen. I stand before you nowbecauseIneverstoppeddawdlinglikeaneight-year-oldonaspringmorningonhis way to school. Anything can make me stop and look and wonder, andsometimeslearn.Iamaveryhappyman.Thankyou.’“Anyway, Father looked at that loop of string for a while, and then his

fingersstartedplayingwithit.Hisfingersmadethestringfigurecalleda‘cat’scradle.’ I don’t know where Father learned how to do that. From his father,maybe.His fatherwasa tailor,youknow,so theremusthavebeen threadandstringaroundallthetimewhenFatherwasaboy.“Making the cat’s cradle was the closest I ever saw my father come to

playingwhatanybodyelsewouldcallagame.Hehadnouseatallfortricksandgames and rules that other peoplemade up. In a scrapbookmy sister Angelaused to keep up, there was a clipping from Time magazine where somebody

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askedFatherwhatgamesheplayedfor relaxation,andhesaid, ‘Whyshould Ibotherwithmade-upgameswhentherearesomanyrealonesgoingon?’“Hemust have surprised himself when he made a cat’s cradle out of the

string, andmaybe it reminded him of his own childhood. He all of a suddencameoutofhisstudyanddidsomethinghe’dneverdonebefore.Hetriedtoplaywithme.Notonlyhadheneverplayedwithmebefore;hehadhardlyeverevenspokentome.“Buthewentdownonhiskneesonthecarpetnexttome,andheshowedme

his teeth, and hewaved that tangle of string inmy face. ‘See? See? See?’ heasked. ‘Cat’scradle.See thecat’scradle?Seewhere thenicepussycat sleeps?Meow.Meow.’“Hisporeslookedasbigascratersonthemoon.Hisearsandnostrilswere

stuffedwithhair.CigarsmokemadehimsmelllikethemouthofHell.Socloseup,myfatherwastheugliestthingIhadeverseen.Idreamaboutitallthetime.“And then he sang. ‘Rockabye catsy, in the tree top’; he sang, ‘when the

windblows,thecray-dullwillrock.Iftheboughbreaks,thecray-dullwillfall.Downwillcomecraydull,catsyandall.’“Iburstintotears.IjumpedupandIranoutofthehouseasfastasIcould

go.“I have to sign off here. It’s after two in themorning.My roommate just

wokeupandcomplainedaboutthenoisefromthetypewriter.”

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BugFights6Newtresumedhisletterthenextmorning.Heresumeditasfollows:“Nextmorning.HereIgoagain,freshasadaisyaftereighthoursofsleep.

Thefraternityhouseisveryquietnow.Everybodyisinclassbutme.I’maveryprivilegedcharacter.Idon’thavetogotoclassanymore.Iwasflunkedoutlastweek.Iwasapre-med.Theywererighttoflunkmeout.Iwouldhavemadealousydoctor.“AfterIfinishthisletter,IthinkI’llgotoamovie.Orifthesuncomesout,

maybeI’llgoforawalkthroughoneofthegorges.Aren’tthegorgesbeautiful?This year, two girls jumped into one holding hands. They didn’t get into thesororitytheywanted.TheywantedTri-Delt.“ButbacktoAugust6,1945.MysisterAngelahastoldmemanytimesthatI

reallyhurtmyfather thatdaywhenIwouldn’tadmire thecat’scradle,whenIwouldn’tstaythereonthecarpetwithmyfatherandlistentohimsing.MaybeIdidhurthim,butIdon’tthinkIcouldhavehurthimmuch.Hewasoneofthebest-protectedhumanbeingswhoeverlived.Peoplecouldn’tgetathimbecausehejustwasn’tinterestedinpeople.Irememberonetime,aboutayearbeforehedied, I tried to get him to tell me something about my mother. He couldn’trememberanythingabouther.“DidyoueverhearthefamousstoryaboutbreakfastonthedayMotherand

Father were leaving for Sweden to accept the Nobel Prize? It was in TheSaturdayEveningPostonetime.Mothercookedabigbreakfast.Andthen,whensheclearedoff the table, she foundaquarterandadimeand threepenniesbyFather’scoffeecup.He’dtippedher.“Afterwoundingmyfathersoterribly,ifthat’swhatIdid,Iranoutintothe

yard. Ididn’tknowwhereIwasgoinguntil I foundmybrotherFrankunderabig spiraea bush. Frank was twelve then, and I wasn’t surprised to find himunderthere.Hespentalotoftimeunderthereonhotdays.Justlikeadog,he’dmakeahollowin thecoolearthallaroundtheroots.Andyounevercould tellwhatFrankwouldhaveunderthebushwithhim.Onetimehehadadirtybook.Another time he had a bottle of cooking sherry.On the day they dropped thebombFrankhadatablespoonandaMasonjar.Whathewasdoingwasspooningdifferentkindsofbugsintothejarandmakingthemfight.“ThebugfightwassointerestingthatIstoppedcryingrightaway—forgot

all about theoldman. I can’t rememberwhatallFrankhad fighting in the jar

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thatday,butIcanrememberotherbugfightswestagedlateron:onestagbeetleagainstahundredredants,onecentipedeagainstthreespiders,redantsagainstblackants.Theywon’t fightunlessyoukeep shaking the jar.And that’swhatFrankwasdoing,shaking,shaking,thejar.“After awhileAngela came looking forme. She lifted up one side of the

bush and said, ‘So there you are!’ She asked Frank what he thought he wasdoing,andhesaid,‘Experimenting.’That’swhatFrankalwaysusedtosaywhenpeople asked him what he thought he was doing. He always said,‘Experimenting.’“Angelawastwenty-twothen.Shehadbeentherealheadofthefamilysince

shewassixteen,sinceMotherdied,sinceIwasborn.Sheusedtotalkabouthowshehadthreechildren—me,Frank,andFather.Shewasn’texaggerating,either.IcanremembercoldmorningswhenFrank,Father,andIwouldbeallinalinein the front hail, andAngelawouldbebundlingus up, treatingus exactly thesame.Only Iwas going to kindergarten; Frankwas going to junior high; andFatherwasgoingtoworkontheatombomb.Irememberonemorninglikethatwhentheoilburnerhadquit, thepipeswerefrozen,andthecarwouldn’tstart.WeallsatthereinthecarwhileAngelakeptpushingthestarteruntilthebatterywas dead. And then Father spoke up. You know what he said? He said, ‘Iwonder about turtles.’ ‘Whatdoyouwonder about turtles?Angela askedhim.‘Whentheypullintheirheads,’hesaid,‘dotheirspinesbuckleorcontract?’“Angelawasoneoftheunsungheroinesoftheatombomb,incidentally,and

Idon’tthinkthestoryhaseverbeentold.Maybeyoucanuseit.Aftertheturtleincident,Fathergotsointerestedinturtlesthathestoppedworkingontheatombomb.SomepeoplefromtheManhattanProjectfinallycameouttothehousetoaskAngelawhattodo.ShetoldthemtotakeawayFather’sturtles.Soonenighttheywentintohislaboratoryandstoletheturtlesandtheaquarium.Fatherneversaidawordaboutthedisappearanceoftheturtles.Hejustcametoworkthenextdayandlookedforthingstoplaywithandthinkabout,andeverythingtherewastoplaywithandthinkabouthadsomethingtodowiththebomb.“When Angela got me out from under the bush, she asked me what had

happenedbetweenFather andme. I just kept sayingover andover againhowuglyhewas,howmuchIhatedhim.Sosheslappedme.‘Howdareyousaythataboutyourfather?’shesaid.‘He’soneofthegreatestmenwhoeverlived!Hewon the war today! Do you realize that? He won the war!’ She slapped meagain.“Idon’tblameAngela for slappingme.Fatherwasall shehad.Shedidn’t

haveanyboyfriends.Shedidn’thaveanyfriendsatall.Shehadonlyonehobby.Sheplayedtheclarinet.

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“I told her again howmuch I hatedmy father; she slappedme again; andthenFrankcameoutfromunderthebushandpunchedherinthestomach.Ithurther something awful. She fell down and she rolled around.When she got herwindback,shecriedandsheyelledforFather.“ ‘He won’t come,’ Frank said, and he laughed at her. Frank was right.

Fatherstuckhisheadoutawindow,andhelookedatAngelaandmerollingontheground,bawling,andFrankstandingoverus,laughing.Theoldmanpulledhisheadindoorsagain,andneveraskedlaterwhatall thefusshadbeenabout.Peopleweren’thisspecialty.“Will thatdo?Is thatanyhelp toyourbook?Ofcourse,you’vereally tied

medown,askingmetosticktothedayofthebomb.Therearelotsofothergoodanecdotes about the bomb and Father, from other days. For instance, do youknow the story about Father on the day they first tested a bomb out atAlamogordo?After the thingwent off, after it was a sure thing thatAmericacouldwipeoutacitywithjustonebomb,ascientistturnedtoFatherandsaid,‘Science has now known sin.’ And do you know what Father said? He said,‘WhatisSin?’“Allthebest,“NewtonHoenikker”

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TheIllustriousHoenikkers7Newtaddedthesethreepostscriptstohisletter:“P.S. I can’t signmyself ‘Fraternally yours’ because theywon’t letmebe

yourbrotheron accountofmygrades. Iwasonly apledge, andnow theyaregoingtotakeeventhatawayfromme.“P.P.S.You call our family ‘illustrious,’ and I think youwouldmaybe be

makingamistakeifyoucalleditthatinyourbook.Iamamidget,forinstance—fourfeettall.AndthelastweheardofmybrotherFrank,hewaswantedbythe Florida police, the F.B.I., and theTreasuryDepartment for running stolencarstoCubaonwar-surplusL.S.T.’s.SoI’mprettysure‘illustrious’isn’tquitethewordyou’reafter.‘Glamorous’isprobablyclosertothetruth.“P.P.P.S. Twenty-four hours later. I have reread this letter and I can see

wheresomebodymightgettheimpressionthatIdon’tdoanythingbutsitaroundand remember sad things andpitymyself.Actually, I ama very luckypersonandIknowit.Iamabouttomarryawonderfullittlegirl.Thereisloveenoughinthisworldforeverybody,ifpeoplewilljustlook.Iamproofofthat.”

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Newt’sThingwithZinka8Newtdidnottellmewhohisgirlfriendwas.Butabouttwoweeksafterhe

wrote tomeeverybody in thecountryknewthathernamewasZinka—plainZinka.Apparentlyshedidn’thavealastname.ZinkawasaUkrainianmidget,adancerwiththeBorzoiDanceCompany.As

ithappened,NewtsawaperformancebythatcompanyinIndianapolis,beforehewent toCornell.And then the company danced at Cornell.When theCornellperformancewasover,littleNewtwasoutsidethestagedoorwithadozenlong-stemmedAmericanBeautyroses.The newspapers picked up the story when little Zinka asked for political

asylumintheUnitedStates,andthensheandlittleNewtdisappeared.Oneweekafter that, littleZinkapresentedherselfat theRussianEmbassy.

She said Americans were too materialistic. She said she wanted to go backhome.Newt took shelter in his sister’s house in Indianapolis. He gave one brief

statementtothepress.“Itwasaprivatematter,”hesaid.“Itwasanaffairoftheheart. I haveno regrets.What happened is nobody’s business butZinka’s andmyown.”One enterprising American reporter in Moscow, making inquiries about

Zinkaamongdancepeoplethere,madetheunkinddiscoverythatZinkawasnot,assheclaimed,onlytwenty-threeyearsold.Shewasforty-two—oldenoughtobeNewt’smother.

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Vice-presidentinChargeofVolcanoes9Iloafedonmybookaboutthedayofthebomb.About a year later, two days before Christmas, another story carried me

through Ilium, New York, where Dr. Felix Hoenikker had done most of hiswork;wherelittleNewt,Frank,andAngelahadspenttheirformativeyears.IstoppedoffinIliumtoseewhatIcouldsee.TherewerenoliveHoenikkersleftinIlium,buttherewereplentyofpeople

whoclaimedtohaveknownwelltheoldmanandhisthreepeculiarchildren.ImadeanappointmentwithDr.AsaBreed,Vice-presidentinchargeofthe

ResearchLaboratoryoftheGeneralForgeandFoundryCompany.IsupposeDr.Breedwasamemberofmykarass, too, thoughhetookadisliketomealmostimmediately.“Likes and dislikes have nothing to dowith it,” saysBokonon—an easy

warningtoforget.“I understand you were Dr. Hoenikker’s supervisor during most of his

professionallife,”IsaidtoDr.Breedonthetelephone.“Onpaper,”hesaid.“Idon’tunderstand,”Isaid.“IfIactuallysupervisedFelix,”hesaid,“thenI’mreadynowtotakecharge

ofvolcanoes,thetides,andthemigrationsofbirdsandlemmings.Themanwasaforceofnaturenomortalcouldpossiblycontrol.”

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SecretAgentX-910Dr. Breed made an appointment with me for early the next morning. He

wouldpickmeupatmyhotelonhiswaytowork,hesaid,thussimplifyingmyentryintotheheavily-guardedResearchLaboratory.SoIhadanight tokill inIlium.Iwasalreadyin thebeginningandendof

night life in Ilium, the Del Prado Hotel. Its bar, the Cape Cod Room, was ahangoutforwhores.Asithappened—“asitwasmeanttohappen,”Bokononwouldsay—the

whorenexttomeatthebarandthebartenderservingmehadbothgonetohighschoolwithFranklinHoenikker,thebugtormentor,themiddlechild,themissingson.Thewhore,whosaidhernamewasSandra,offeredmedelightsunobtainable

outsideofPlacePigalle andPortSaid. I said Iwasn’t interested, and shewasbright enough to say that shewasn’t really interested either.As things turnedout,wehadbothoverestimatedourapathies,butnotbymuch.Beforewe took themeasure of each other’s passions, however,we talked

aboutFrankHoenikker,andwetalkedabouttheoldman,andwetalkedalittleaboutAsaBreed,andwetalkedabouttheGeneralForgeandFoundryCompany,andwetalkedabout thePopeandbirthcontrol,aboutHitlerandtheJews.Wetalked about phonies. We talked about truth. We talked about gangsters; wetalked about business.We talked about the nice poor peoplewhowent to theelectricchair;andwetalkedabouttherichbastardswhodidn’t.Wetalkedaboutreligiouspeoplewhohadperversions.Wetalkedaboutalotofthings.Wegotdrunk.Thebartenderwasverynice toSandra.He likedher.Herespectedher.He

toldmethatSandrahadbeenchairmanoftheClassColorsCommitteeatIliumHigh. Every class, he explained, got to pick distinctive colors for itself in itsjunioryear,andthenitgottowearthosecolorswithpride.“Whatcolorsdidyoupick?”Iasked.“Orangeandblack.”“Thosearegoodcolors.”“Ithoughtso.”“WasFranklinHoenikkerontheClassColorsCommittee,too?”“He wasn’t on anything,” said Sandra scornfully. “He never got on any

committee,neverplayedanygame,nevertookanygirlout.Idon’tthinkheever

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eventalkedtoagirl.WeusedtocallhimSecretAgentX-9.”“X-9?”“Youknow—hewas always acting likehewasonhiswaybetween two

secretplaces;couldn’tevertalktoanybody.”“Maybehereallydidhaveaveryrichsecretlife,”Isuggested.“Nah.”“Nah,” sneered the bartender. “He was just one of those kids who made

modelairplanesandjerkedoffallthetime.”

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Protein11“Hewassupposetobeourcommencementspeaker,”saidSandra.“Whowas?”Iasked.“Dr.Hoenikker—theoldman.”“Whatdidhesay?”“Hedidn’tshowup.”“Soyoudidn’tgetacommencementaddress?”“Oh,wegotone.Dr.Breed,theoneyou’regonnaseetomorrow,heshowed

up,alloutofbreath,andhegavesomekindoftalk.”“Whatdidhesay?”“Hesaidhehopedalotofuswouldhavecareersinscience,”shesaid.She

didn’t see anything funny in that. She was remembering a lesson that hadimpressed her. Shewas repeating it gropingly, dutifully. “He said, the troublewiththeworldwas…”Shehadtostopandthink.“The troublewith theworldwas,” she continuedhesitatingly, “that people

were still superstitious insteadof scientific.He said if everybodywould studysciencemore,therewouldn’tbeallthetroubletherewas.”“Hesaidsciencewasgoingtodiscoverthebasicsecretoflifesomeday,”the

bartenderputin.Hescratchedhisheadandfrowned.“Didn’tIreadinthepapertheotherdaywherethey’dfinallyfoundoutwhatitwas?”“Imissedthat,”Imurmured.“Isawthat,”saidSandra.“Abouttwodaysago.”“That’sright,”saidthebartender.“Whatisthesecretoflife?”Iasked.“Iforget,”saidSandra.“Protein,”thebartenderdeclared.“Theyfoundoutsomethingaboutprotein.”“Yeah,”saidSandra,“that’sit.”

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EndoftheWorldDelight12Anolderbartender cameover to join inour conversation in theCapeCod

RoomoftheDelPrado.WhenheheardthatIwaswritingabookaboutthedayofthebomb,hetoldmewhatthedayhadbeenlikeforhim,whatthedayhadbeen like in theverybar inwhichwesat.HehadaW.C.Fields twangandanoselikeaprizestrawberry.“It wasn’t the Cape Cod Room then,” he said. “We didn’t have all these

fuggingnetsandseashellsaround.ItwascalledtheNavajoTepeeinthosedays.Had Indian blankets and cow skulls on the walls. Had little tom-toms on thetables.Peopleweresupposedtobeatonthetom-tomswhentheywantedservice.They tried to getme towear awar bonnet, but Iwouldn’t do it.RealNavajoIndian came in here one day; toldmeNavajos didn’t live in tepees. ‘That’s afuggingshame,’ I toldhim.Before that itwas thePompeiiRoom,withbustedplaster all over the place; but no matter what they call the room, they neverchangethefugginglightfixtures.Neverchangedthefuggingpeoplewhocomein or the fugging town outside, either. The day they dropped Hoenikker’sfuggingbombontheJapaneseabumcameinandtriedtoscroungeadrink.Hewantedmetogivehimadrinkonaccountoftheworldwascomingtoanend.SoI mixed him an ‘End of theWorld Delight.’ I gave him about a half-pint ofcremedementheinahollowed-outpineapple,withwhippedcreamandacherryontop.‘There,youpitifulsonofabitch,’Isaidtohim,‘don’teversayIneverdidanythingforyou.’Anotherguycamein,andhesaidhewasquittinghisjobattheResearchLaboratory;saidanythingascientistworkedonwassuretowindupasaweapon,onewayoranother.Saidhedidn’twanttohelppoliticianswiththeirfuggingwarsanymore.NamewasBreed.Iaskedhimifhewasanyrelationto thebossof the fuggingResearchLaboratory.He saidhe fuggingwellwas.SaidhewasthebossoftheResearchLaboratory’sfuggingson.”

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TheJumping-offPlace13Ah,God,whatanuglycityIliumis!“Ah,God,”saysBokonon,“whatanuglycityeverycityis!”Sleet was falling through a motionless blanket of smog. It was early

morning.IwasridingintheLincolnsedanofDr.AsaBreed.Iwasvaguelyill,stillalittledrunkfromthenightbefore.Dr.Breedwasdriving.Tracksofalong-abandonedtrolleysystemkeptcatchingthewheelsofhiscar.Breedwasapinkoldman,veryprosperous,beautifullydressed.Hismanner

was civilized, optimistic, capable, serene. I, by contrast, felt bristly, diseased,cynical.IhadspentthenightwithSandra.Mysoulseemedasfoulassmokefromburningcatfur.Ithoughttheworstofeveryone,andIknewsomeprettysordidthingsabout

Dr.AsaBreed,thingsSandrahadtoldme.SandratoldmeeveryoneinIliumwassurethatDr.Breedhadbeeninlove

withFelixHoenikker’swife.She toldme thatmostpeople thoughtBreedwasthefatherofallthreeHoenikkerchildren.“DoyouknowIliumatall?”Dr.Breedsuddenlyaskedme.“Thisismyfirstvisit.”“It’safamilytown.”“Sir?”“There isn’t much in the way of night life. Everybody’s life pretty much

centersaroundhisfamilyandhishome.”“Thatsoundsverywholesome.”“Itis.Wehaveverylittlejuveniledelinquency.”“Good.”“Iliumhasaveryinterestinghistory,youknow.”“That’sveryinteresting.”“Itusedtobethejumping-offplace,youknow.”“Sir?”“FortheWesternmigration.”“Oh.”“Peopleusedtogetoutfittedhere.”“That’sveryinteresting.”“Just about where the Research Laboratory is now was the old stockade.

Thatwaswheretheyheldthepublichangings,too,forthewholecounty.”

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“Idon’tsupposecrimepaidanybetterthenthanitdoesnow.”“Therewasonemantheyhangedherein1782whohadmurderedtwenty-six

people. I’veoften thought somebodyought todoabookabouthimsometime.GeorgeMinorMoakely.He sanga songon the scaffold.He sanga songhe’dcomposedfortheoccasion.”“Whatwasthesongabout?”“You can find the words over at the Historical Society, if you’re really

interested.”“Ijustwonderedaboutthegeneraltone.”“Hewasn’tsorryaboutanything.”“Somepeoplearelikethat.”“Thinkofit!”saidDr.Breed.“Twenty-sixpeoplehehadonhisconscience!”“Themindreels,”Isaid.

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WhenAutomobilesHadCut-glassVases14

Mysickheadwobbledonmystiffneck.The trolley trackshadcaught thewheelsofDr.Breed’sglossyLincolnagain.IaskedDr.BreedhowmanypeopleweretryingtoreachtheGeneralForge

andFoundryCompanybyeighto’clock,andhetoldmethirtythousand.Policemeninyellowraincapeswereateveryintersection,contradictingwith

theirwhite-glovedhandswhatthestop-and-gosignssaid.The stop-and-go signs, garish ghosts in the sleet, went through their

irrelevanttomfooleryagainandagain,tellingtheglacierofautomobileswhattodo.Greenmeantgo.Redmeantstop.Orangemeantchangeandcaution.Dr. Breed told me that Dr. Hoenikker, as a very young man, had simply

abandonedhiscarinIliumtrafficonemorning.“Thepolice,tryingtofindoutwhatwasholdinguptraffic,”hesaid,“found

Felix’scarinthemiddleofeverything,itsmotorrunning,acigarburningintheashtray,freshflowersinthevases…”“Vases?”“ItwasaMarmon,about thesizeofa switchengine. Ithad littlecut-glass

vaseson thedoorposts,andFelix’swifeused toput freshflowers in thevaseseverymorning.Andtherethatcarwasinthemiddleoftraffic.”“LiketheMarieCeleste,”Isuggested.“ThePoliceDepartmenthauled it away.Theyknewwhosecar itwas, and

they called up Felix, and they told him very politely where his car could bepickedup.Felixtoldthemtheycouldkeepit,thathedidn’twantitanymore.”“Didthey?”“No.Theycalleduphiswife,andshecameandgottheMarmon.”“Whatwashername,bytheway?”“Emily.”Dr.Breedlickedhislips,andhegotafarawaylook,andhesaidthe

nameofthewoman,ofthewomansolongdead,again.“Emily.”“DoyouthinkanybodywouldobjectifIusedthestoryabouttheMarmonin

mybook?”Iasked.“Aslongasyoudon’tusetheendofit.”“Theendofit?”“Emilywasn’tusedtodrivingtheMarmon.Shegotintoabadwreckonthe

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wayhome.Itdidsomethingtoherpelvis…”Thetrafficwasn’tmovingjustthen.Dr.Breedclosedhiseyesandtightenedhishandsonthesteeringwheel.“AndthatwaswhyshediedwhenlittleNewtwasborn.”

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MerryChristmas15TheResearchLaboratoryof theGeneralForgeandFoundryCompanywas

near themaingateof thecompany’s Iliumworks,aboutacityblock from theexecutiveparkinglotwhereDr.Breedputhiscar.I askedDr. Breed howmany peopleworked for theResearch Laboratory.

“Sevenhundred,”hesaid,“butlessthanahundredareactuallydoingresearch.Theothersixhundredareallhousekeepersinonewayoranother,andIamthechiefesthousekeeperofall.”Whenwejoinedthemainstreamofmankindinthecompanystreet,awoman

behind us wished Dr. Breed a merry Christmas. Dr. Breed turned to peerbenignlyintotheseaofpalepies,andidentifiedthegreeterasoneMissFrancinePefko.MissPefkowastwenty,vacantlypretty,andhealthy—adullnormal.InhonorofthedulcitudeofChristmastime,Dr.BreedinvitedMissPefkoto

joinus.HeintroducedherasthesecretaryofDr.NilsakHorvath.HethentoldmewhoHorvathwas. “The famous surface chemist,”he said, “theonewho’sdoingsuchwonderfulthingswithfilms.”“What’s new in surface chemistry?” I askedMiss Pefko. “God,” she said,

“don’taskme.Ijusttypewhathetellsmetotype.”Andthensheapologizedforhavingsaid“God.”“Oh,Ithinkyouunderstandmorethanyouleton,”saidDr.Breed.“Notme.”MissPefkowasn’tusedtochattingwithsomeoneasimportantas

Dr.Breedandshewasembarrassed.Hergaitwasaffected,becomingstiffandchickenlike. Her smile was glassy, and she was ransacking her mind forsomethingtosay,findingnothinginitbutusedKleenexandcostumejewelry.“Well… ,” rumbledDr.Breedexpansively,“howdoyou likeus,now that

you’vebeenwithus—howlong?Almostayear?”“Youscientiststhinktoomuch,”blurtedMissPefko.Shelaughedidiotically.

Dr.Breed’sfriendlinesshadblowneveryfuseinhernervoussystem.Shewasnolongerresponsible.“Youallthinktoomuch.”Awinded,defeated-lookingfatwomaninfilthycoverallstrudgedbesideus,

hearingwhatMissPefkosaid.SheturnedtoexamineDr.Breed,lookingathimwith helpless reproach. She hated people who thought too much. At thatmoment,shestruckmeasanappropriaterepresentativeforalmostallmankind.Thefatwoman’sexpressionimpliedthatshewouldgocrazyonthespotif

anybodydidanymorethinking.

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“I thinkyou’ll find,” saidDr.Breed, “that everybodydoesabout the sameamountof thinking.Scientistssimply thinkabout things inoneway,andotherpeoplethinkaboutthingsinothers.”“Ech,”gurgledMissPefkoemptily.“I takedictationfromDr.Horvathand

it’sjustlikeaforeignlanguage.Idon’tthinkI’dunderstand—evenifIwastogotocollege.Andherehe’smaybetalkingaboutsomethingthat’sgoingtoturneverythingupside-downandinside-outliketheatombomb.“When I used to come home from school Mother used to ask me what

happenedthatday,andI’dtellher,”saidMissPefko.“NowIcomehomefromworkand she asksme the samequestion, andall I can say is—“MissPefkoshook her head and let her crimson lips flap slackly— “I dunno, I dunno, Idunno.”“If there’s something you don’t understand,” urged Dr. Breed, “ask Dr.

Horvath to explain it. He’s very good at explaining.” He turned to me. “Dr.Hoenikkerusedtosaythatanyscientistwhocouldn’texplaintoaneight-year-oldwhathewasdoingwasacharlatan.”“Then I’m dumber than an eight-year-old,”Miss Pefkomourned. “I don’t

evenknowwhatacharlatanis.”

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BacktoKindergarten16We climbed the four granite steps before the Research Laboratory. The

buildingitselfwasofunadornedbrickandrosesixstories.Wepassedbetweentwoheavily-armedguardsattheentrance.MissPefkoshowedtheguardonthe left thepinkconfidentialbadgeat the

tipofherleftbreast.Dr.Breedshowed theguardon the right theblack top-secret badgeonhis

soft lapel. Ceremoniously, Dr. Breed put his arm aroundmewithout actuallytouchingme,indicatingtotheguardsthatIwasunderhisaugustprotectionandcontrol.I smiled at one of the guards. He did not smile back. There was nothing

funnyaboutnationalsecurity,nothingatall.Dr.Breed,MissPefko,and Imoved thoughtfully through theLaboratory’s

grandfoyertotheelevators.“AskDr.Horvath toexplainsomethingsometime,”saidDr.Breed toMiss

Pefko.“Seeifyoudon’tgetanice,clearanswer.”“He’dhavetostartbackinthefirstgrade—ormaybeevenkindergarten,”

shesaid.“Imissedalot.”“Weall missed a lot,” Dr. Breed agreed. “We’d all do well to start over

again,preferablywithkindergarten.”We watched the Laboratory’s receptionist turn on the many educational

exhibitsthatlinedthefoyer’swalls.Thereceptionistwasatall,thingirl—icy,pale. At her crisp touch, lights twinkled, wheels turned, flasks bubbled, bellsrang.“Magic,”declaredMissPefko.“I’msorry tohear amemberof theLaboratory familyusing thatbrackish,

medieval word,” said Dr. Breed. “Every one of those exhibits explains itself.They’re designed so as not to be mystifying. They’re the very antithesis ofmagic.”“Theverywhatofmagic?”“Theexactoppositeofmagic.”“Youcouldn’tproveitbyme.”Dr. Breed looked just a little peeved. “Well,” he said, “we don’twant to

mystify.Atleastgiveuscreditforthat.”

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TheGirlPool17Dr.Breed’ssecretarywasstandingonherdesk inhisouteroffice tyingan

accordion-pleatedChristmasbelltotheceilingfixture.“Look here, Naomi,” cried Dr. Breed, “we’ve gone six months without a

fatalaccident!Don’tyouspoilitbyfallingoffthedesk!”Miss Naomi Faust was a merry, desiccated old lady. I suppose she had

served Dr. Breed for almost all his life, and her life, too. She laughed. “I’mindestructible.And,evenifIdidfall,Christmasangelswouldcatchme.”“They’vebeenknowntomiss.”Twopaper tendrils,alsoaccordion-pleated,hungdownfromtheclapperof

thebell.MissFaustpulledone. Itunfoldedstickilyandbecamea longbannerwithamessagewrittenon it.“Here,”saidMissFaust,handing the freeend toDr.Breed,“pullittherestofthewayandtacktheendtothebulletinboard.”Dr.Breed obeyed, stepping back to read the banner’smessage. “Peace on

Earth!”hereadoutloudheartily.MissFauststeppeddownfromherdeskwiththeothertendril,unfoldingit.

“GoodWillTowardMen!”theothertendrilsaid.“Bygolly,”chuckledDr.Breed,“they’vedehydratedChristmas!Theplace

looksfestive,veryfestive.”“And I remembered the chocolate bars for the Girl Pool, too,” she said.

“Aren’tyouproudofme?”Dr.Breedtouchedhisforehead,dismayedbyhisforgetfulness.“ThankGod

forthat!Itslippedmymind.”“Wemustn’t ever forget that,” saidMiss Faust. “It’s tradition now—Dr.

Breedandhischocolatebarsfor theGirlPoolatChristmas.”Sheexplained tomethattheGirlPoolwasthetypingbureauintheLaboratory’sbasement.“Thegirlsbelongtoanybodywithaccesstoadictaphone.”All year long, she said, the girls of the Girl Pool listened to the faceless

voices of scientists on dictaphone records— records brought in bymail girls.Onceayearthegirlslefttheircloisterofcementblocktogoa-caroling—togettheirchocolatebarsfromDr.AsaBreed.“They serve science, too,”Dr.Breed testified, “even though theymaynot

understandawordofit.Godblessthem,everyone!”

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TheMostValuableCommodityonEarth18

WhenwegotintoDr.Breed’sinneroffice,Iattemptedtoputmythoughtsinorderforasensibleinterview.Ifoundthatmymentalhealthhadnotimproved.And,when I started to askDr. Breed questions about the day of the bomb, Ifoundthatthepublic-relationscentersofmybrainhadbeensuffocatedbyboozeand burning cat fur. Every question I asked implied that the creators of theatomicbombhadbeencriminalaccessoriestomurdermostfoul.Dr.Breedwasastonished,andthenhegotverysore.Hedrewbackfromme

andhegrumbled,“Igatheryoudon’tlikescientistsverymuch.”“Iwouldn’tsaythat,sir.”“All your questions seem aimed at gettingme to admit that scientists are

heartless,conscienceless,narrowboobies,indifferenttothefateoftherestofthehumanrace,ormaybenotreallymembersofthehumanraceatall.”“That’sputtingitprettystrong.”“No stronger that what you’re going to put in your book, apparently. I

thought that what you were after was a fair, objective biography of FelixHoenikker — certainly as significant a task as a young writer could assignhimselfinthisdayandage.Butno,youcomeherewithpreconceivednotions,about mad scientists. Where did you ever get such ideas? From the funnypapers?”“FromDr.Hoenikker’sson,tonameonesource.”“Whichson?”“Newton,”Isaid.IhadlittleNewt’sletterwithme,andIshowedittohim.

“HowsmallisNewt,bytheway?”“No bigger than an umbrella stand,” saidDr.Breed, readingNewt’s letter

andfrowning.“Theothertwochildrenarenormal?”“Of course! I hate to disappoint you, but scientists have children just like

anybodyelse’schildren.”I didmy best to calm downDr. Breed, to convince him that Iwas really

interested in an accurate portrait of Dr. Hoenikker. “I’ve come here with nootherpurpose than tosetdownexactlywhatyou tellmeaboutDr.Hoenikker.Newt’sletterwasjustabeginning,andI’llbalanceoffagainst itwhateveryou

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cantellme.”“I’m sick of people misunderstanding what a scientist is, what a scientist

does.”“I’lldomybesttoclearupthemisunderstanding.”“Inthiscountrymostpeopledon’tevenunderstandwhatpureresearchis.”“I’dappreciateitifyou’dtellmewhatitis.”“Itisn’tlookingforabettercigarettefilterorasofterfacetissueoralonger-

lastinghousepaint,Godhelpus.Everybodytalksaboutresearchandpracticallynobodyinthiscountry’sdoingit.We’reoneofthefewcompaniesthatactuallyhires men to do pure research.When most other companies brag about theirresearch,they’retalkingaboutindustrialhacktechnicianswhowearwhitecoats,workoutof cookbooks, anddreamupan improvedwindshieldwiper fornextyear’sOldsmobile.”“Buthere…?”“Here, and shockingly few other places in this country, men are paid to

increaseknowledge,toworktowardnoendbutthat.”“That’sverygenerousofGeneralForgeandFoundryCompany.”“Nothinggenerousaboutit.Newknowledgeisthemostvaluablecommodity

onearth.Themoretruthwehavetoworkwith,thericherwebecome.”HadIbeenaBokononistthen,thatstatementwouldhavemademehowl.

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NoMoreMud19“Doyoumean,”IsaidtoDr.Breed,“thatnobodyinthisLaboratoryisever

toldwhattoworkon?Nobodyevensuggestswhattheyworkon?”“People suggest things all the time, but it isn’t in the nature of a pure-

researchmantopayanyattentiontosuggestions.Hisheadisfullofprojectsofhisown,andthat’sthewaywewantit.”“DidanybodyevertrytosuggestprojectstoDr.Hoenikker?”“Certainly.Admiralsandgeneralsinparticular.Theylookeduponhimasa

sortofmagicianwhocouldmakeAmericainvinciblewithawaveofhiswand.Theybroughtallkindsofcrackpotschemesuphere—stilldo.Theonlythingwrong with the schemes is that, given our present state of knowledge, theschemeswon’twork.Scientistson theorderofDr.Hoenikkeraresupposed tofill the little gaps. I remember, shortly before Felix died, there was aMarinegeneralwhowashoundinghimtodosomethingaboutmud.”“Mud?”“TheMarines, after almost two-hundred years ofwallowing inmud,were

sickofit,”saidDr.Breed.“Thegeneral,astheirspokesman,feltthatoneoftheaspectsofprogressshouldbethatMarinesnolongerhadtofightinmud.”“Whatdidthegeneralhaveinmind?”“Theabsenceofmud.Nomoremud.”“Isuppose,”I theorized,“itmightbepossiblewithmountainsofsomesort

ofchemical,ortonsofsomesortofmachinery…”“Whatthegeneralhadinmindwasalittlepilloralittlemachine.Notonly

weretheMarinessickofmud,theyweresickofcarryingcumbersomeobjects.Theywantedsomethinglittletocarryforachange.”“WhatdidDr.Hoenikkersay?”“Inhisplayfulway,andallhiswayswereplayful,Felixsuggestedthatthere

mightbeasinglegrainofsomething—evenamicroscopicgrain—thatcouldmake infinite expanses ofmuck,marsh, swamp, creeks, pools, quicksand, andmireassolidasthisdesk.”Dr.Breedbangedhisspeckledoldfistonthedesk.Thedeskwasakidney-

shaped,seagreensteelaffair.“OneMarinecouldcarrymorethanenoughofthestuff tofreeanarmoreddivisionboggeddownin theeverglades.According toFelix,oneMarinecouldcarryenoughofthestufftodothatunderthenailofhislittlefinger.”

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“That’simpossible.”“Youwouldsayso,Iwouldsayso—practicallyeverybodywouldsayso.

ToFelix,inhisplayfulway,itwasentirelypossible.ThemiracleofFelix—andIsincerelyhopeyou’llputthisinyourbooksomewhere—wasthathealwaysapproachedoldpuzzlesasthoughtheywerebrandnew.”“Ifeel likeFrancinePefkonow,”Isaid,“andall thegirls in theGirlPool,

too.Dr.Hoenikkercouldneverhaveexplainedtomehowsomethingthatcouldbecarriedunderafingernailcouldmakeaswampassolidasyourdesk.”“ItoldyouwhatagoodexplainerFelixwas…”“Evenso…”“He was able to explain it to me,” said Dr. Breed, “and I’m sure I can

explainittoyou.ThepuzzleishowtogetMarinesoutofthemud—right?”“Right.”“Allright,”saidDr.Breed,“listencarefully.Herewego.”

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Ice-nine20“Thereareseveralways,”Dr.Breedsaidtome,“inwhichcertainliquidscan

crystallize—canfreeze—severalwaysinwhichtheiratomscanstackandlockinanorderly,rigidway.”Thatoldmanwithspottedhandsinvitedmetothinkoftheseveralwaysin

whichcannonballsmightbestackedonacourthouselawn,oftheseveralwaysinwhichorangesmightbepackedintoacrate.“So it iswithatoms incrystals, too;and twodifferentcrystalsof thesame

substancecanhavequitedifferentphysicalproperties.”He toldmeabout a factory that hadbeengrowingbig crystals of ethylene

diaminetartrate.Thecrystalswereusefulincertainmanufacturingoperations,hesaid. But one day the factory discovered that the crystals it was growing nolongerhadthepropertiesdesired.Theatomshadbeguntostackandlock—tofreeze—indifferentfashion.Theliquidthatwascrystallizinghadn’tchanged,butthecrystalsitwasformingwere,asfarasindustrialapplicationswent,purejunk.How thishadcomeaboutwasamystery.The theoreticalvillain,however,

was what Dr. Breed called “a seed.” He meant by that a tiny grain of theundesired crystal pattern. The seed, which had come from God-only-knows-where,taughttheatomsthenovelwayinwhichtostackandlock,tocrystallize,tofreeze.“Now thinkabout cannonballsona courthouse lawnor aboutoranges in a

crate again,” he suggested. And he helped me to see that the pattern of thebottom layers of cannonballs or of oranges determined how each subsequentlayer would stack and lock. “The bottom layer is the seed of how everycannonball or every orange that comes after is going to behave, even to aninfinitenumberofcannonballsororanges.”“Nowsuppose,”chortledDr.Breed,enjoyinghimself,“thatthereweremany

possibleways inwhichwater could crystallize, could freeze.Suppose that thesortoficeweskateuponandputintohighballs—whatwemightcallice-one—is only one of several types of ice. Supposewater always froze as ice-one onEarthbecauseithadneverhadaseedtoteachithowtoformice-two,ice-three,ice-four…?Andsuppose,”herappedonhisdeskwithhisoldhandagain,“thattherewereoneform,whichwewillcallice-nine—acrystalashardasthisdesk—withameltingpointof,letussay,one-hundreddegreesFahrenheit,or,better

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still,ameltingpointofone-hundred-and-thirtydegrees.”“Allright,I’mstillwithyou,”Isaid.Dr.Breedwasinterruptedbywhispersinhisouteroffice,whispersloudand

portentous.TheywerethesoundsoftheGirlPool.Thegirlswerepreparingtosingintheouteroffice.And they did sing, as Dr. Breed and I appeared in the doorway. Each of

aboutahundredgirlshadmadeherselfintoachoirgirlbyputtingonacollarofwhitebondpaper,securedbyapaperclip.Theysangbeautifully.I was surprised and mawkishly heartbroken. I am always moved by that

seldom-usedtreasure,thesweetnesswithwhichmostgirlscansing.Thegirlssang“OLittleTownofBethlehem.”Iamnotlikelytoforgetvery

soontheirinterpretationoftheline:

“Thehopesandfearsofalltheyearsareherewithustonight.”

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TheMarinesMarchOn21When old Dr. Breed, with the help of Miss Faust, had passed out the

Christmaschocolatebarstothegirls,wereturnedtohisoffice.There,hesaidtome,“Wherewerewe?Ohyes!”Andthatoldmanaskedme

tothinkofUnitedStatesMarinesinaGodforsakenswamp.“Their trucks and tanks and howitzers are wallowing,” he complained,

“sinkinginstinkingmiasmaandooze.”He raised a finger andwinked atme. “But suppose, youngman, that one

Marinehadwithhimatinycapsulecontainingaseedofice-nine,anewwayfortheatomsofwater to stackand lock, to freeze. If thatMarine threw that seedintothenearestpuddle…”“Thepuddlewouldfreeze?”Iguessed.“Andallthemuckaroundthepuddle?”“Itwouldfreeze?”“Andallthepuddlesinthefrozenmuck?”“Theywouldfreeze?”“Andthepoolsandthestreamsinthefrozenmuck?”“Theywouldfreeze?”“Youbettheywould!”hecried.“AndtheUnitedStatesMarineswouldrise

fromtheswampandmarchon!”

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MemberoftheYellowPress22“Thereissuchstuff?”Iasked.“No,no,no,no,”saidDr.Breed,losingpatiencewithmeagain.“Ionlytold

youall this inorder togiveyousomeinsight into theextraordinarynoveltyofthewaysinwhichFelixwaslikelytoapproachanoldproblem.WhatI’vejusttoldyouiswhathetoldtheMarinegeneralwhowashoundinghimaboutmud.“Felixatealonehereinthecafeteriaeveryday.Itwasarulethatnoonewas

tositwithhim,tointerrupthischainofthought.ButtheMarinegeneralbargedin, pulled up a chair, and started talking aboutmud.What I’ve told youwasFelix’soffhandreply.”“There—therereallyisn’tsuchathing?”“Ijusttoldyoutherewasn’t!”criedDr.Breedhotly.“Felixdiedshortlyafter

that!And,ifyou’dbeenlisteningtowhatI’vebeentryingtotellyouaboutpureresearchmen, youwouldn’t ask such a question! Pure researchmenwork onwhatfascinatesthem,notonwhatfascinatesotherpeople.”“Ikeepthinkingaboutthatswamp…”“Youcanstopthinkingaboutit!I’vemadetheonlypointIwantedtomake

withtheswamp.”“Ifthestreamsflowingthroughtheswampfrozeasice-nine,whataboutthe

riversandlakesthestreamsfed?”“They’dfreeze.Butthereisnosuchthingasice-nine.”“Andtheoceansthefrozenriversfed?”“They’dfreeze,ofcourse,”hesnapped.“Isupposeyou’regoing to rush to

marketwithasensationalstoryaboutice-ninenow.Itellyouagain,itdoesnotexist!”“And the springs feeding the frozen lakes and streams, and all the water

undergroundfeedingthesprings?”“They’d freeze, damn it!” he cried. “But if I had known that you were a

memberoftheyellowpress,”hesaidgrandly,risingtohisfeet,“Iwouldn’thavewastedaminutewithyou!”“Andtherain?”“Whenitfell,itwouldfreezeintohardlittlehobnailsofice-nine—andthat

wouldbetheendoftheworld!Andtheendoftheinterview,too!Good-bye!”

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TheLastBatchofBrownies23Dr.Breedwasmistakenaboutat leastone thing: therewassucha thingas

ice-nine.Andice-ninewasonearth.Ice-ninewasthelastgiftFelixHoenikkercreatedformankindbeforegoing

tohisjustreward.Hedid itwithout anyone’s realizingwhathewasdoing.Hedid itwithout

leavingrecordsofwhathe’ddone.True,elaborateapparatuswasnecessaryintheactofcreation,butitalready

existed in the Research Laboratory. Dr. Hoenikker had only to go calling onLaboratory neighbors — borrowing this and that, making a winsomeneighborhood nuisance of himself—until, so to speak, he had baked his lastbatchofbrownies.Hehadmadeachipofice-nine.Itwasblue-white.Ithadameltingpointof

one-hundred-fourteen-point-four-degreesFahrenheit.FelixHoenikkerhadputthechipinalittlebottle;andheputthebottleinhis

jacket.AndhehadgonetohiscottageonCapeCodwithhisthreechildren,thereintendingtocelebrateChristmas.Angela had been thirty-four. Frank had been twenty-four. LittleNewt had

beeneighteen.TheoldmanhaddiedonChristmasEve,havingtoldonlyhischildrenabout

ice-nine.Hischildrenhaddividedtheice-nineamongthemselves.

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WhataWampeterIs24WhichbringsmetotheBokononistconceptofawampeter.Awampeter is the pivot of a karass. No karass is without a wampeter,

Bokonontellsus,justasnowheeliswithoutahub.Anything canbe awampeter: a tree, a rock, an animal, an idea, a book, a

melody,theHolyGrail.Whateveritis,themembersofitskarassrevolveaboutitinthemajesticchaosofaspiralnebula.Theorbitsofthemembersofakarassabouttheircommonwampeterarespiritualorbits,naturally. It issoulsandnotbodiesthatrevolve.AsBokononinvitesustosing:

Aroundandaroundandaroundwespin,Withfeetofleadandwingsoftin.

Andwampeterscomeandwampetersgo,Bokonontellsus.At any given time a karass actually has twowampeters— onewaxing in

importance,onewaning.AndIamalmostcertainthatwhileIwastalkingtoDr.BreedinIlium,the

wampeter of my karass that was just coming into bloomwas that crystallineformofwater,thatblue-whitegem,thatseedofdoomcalledice-nine.While I was talking toDr. Breed in Ilium,Angela, Franklin, andNewton

Hoenikker had in their possession seeds of ice-nine, seeds grown from theirfather’sseed—chips,inamannerofspeaking,offtheoldblock.Whatwas tobecomeof those threechipswas, Iamconvinced,aprincipal

concernofmykarass.

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TheMainThingAboutDr.Hoenikker25

Somuch,fornow,forthewampeterofmykarass.AftermyunpleasantinterviewwithDr.BreedintheResearchLaboratoryof

the General Forge and Foundry Company, I was put into the hands of MissFaust.Herordersweretoshowmetothedoor.Iprevaileduponher,however,toshowmethelaboratoryofthelateDrHoenikkerfirst.Enroute,IaskedherhowwellshehadknownDr.Hoenikker.Shegavemea

frankandinterestingreply,andapiquantsmiletogowithit.“I don’t think he was knowable. I mean, when most people talk about

knowing somebody a lot or a little, they’re talking about secrets they’ve beentoldorhaven’tbeen told.They’re talkingabout intimate things, family things,lovethings,”thatniceoldladysaidtome.“Dr.Hoenikkerhadallthosethingsinhislife,thewayeverylivingpersonhasto,buttheyweren’tthemainthingswithhim.”“Whatwerethemainthings?”Iaskedher.“Dr.BreedkeepstellingmethemainthingwithDr.Hoenikkerwastruth.”“Youdon’tseemtoagree.”“Idon’tknowwhetherIagreeornot.Ijusthavetroubleunderstandinghow

truth,allbyitself,couldbeenoughforaperson.”MissFaustwasripeforBokononism.

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WhatGodIs26“DidyouevertalktoDr.Hoenikker?”IaskedMissFaust.“Oh,certainly.Italkedtohimalot.”“Doanyconversationsstickinyourmind?”“TherewasonewherehebetIcouldn’ttellhimanythingthatwasabsolutely

true.SoIsaidtohim,‘Godislove.’”“Andwhatdidhesay?”“Hesaid,‘WhatisGod?Whatislove?’”“Um.”“ButGod really is love, youknow,” saidMissFaust, “nomatterwhatDr.

Hoenikkersaid.”

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MenfromMars27The room that had been the laboratory ofDr. FelixHoenikkerwas on the

sixthfloor,thetopfloorofthebuilding.Apurplecordhadbeenstretchedacross thedoorway,andabrassplateon

thewallexplainedwhytheroomwassacred:IN THIS ROOM, DR. FELIX HOENIKKER, NOBEL LAUREATE IN

PHYSICS,SPENTTHELASTTWENTY-EIGHTYEARSOFHISLIFE.“WHEREHEWAS,THEREWASTHEFRONTIEROFKNOWLEDGE.”THEIMPORTANCEOFTHISONEMANINTHEHISTORYOFMANKINDISINCALCULABLE.MissFaust offered tounshackle thepurple cord forme so that Imightgo

insideandtrafficmoreintimatelywithwhateverghoststherewere.Iaccepted.“It’sjustasheleftit,”shesaid,“exceptthattherewererubberbandsallover

onecounter.”“Rubberbands?”“Don’taskmewhatfor.Don’taskmewhatanyofallthisisfor.”Theoldmanhad left the laboratoryamess.Whatengagedmyattentionat

oncewasthequantityofcheaptoyslyingaround.Therewasapaperkitewithabrokenspine.Therewasatoygyroscope,woundwithstring,readytowhirrandbalanceitself.Therewasatop.Therewasabubblepipe.Therewasafishbowlwithacastleandtwoturtlesinit.“Helovedten-centstores,”saidMissFaust.“Icanseehedid.”“Someofhismostfamousexperimentswereperformedwithequipmentthat

costlessthanadollar.”“Apennysavedisapennyearned.”Therewerenumerouspiecesof conventional laboratory equipment, too, of

course,buttheyseemeddrabaccessoriestothecheap,gaytoys.Dr.Hoenikker’sdeskwaspiledwithcorrespondence.“Idon’tthinkheeveransweredaletter,”musedMissFaust.“Peoplehadto

gethimonthetelephoneorcometoseehimiftheywantedananswer.”Therewasaframedphotographonhisdesk.ItsbackwastowardmeandI

venturedaguessastowhosepictureitwas.“Hiswife?”

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“No.”“Oneofhischildren?”“No.”“Himself?”“No.”So I took a look. I found that the picture was of an humble little war

memorialinfrontofasmall-towncourthouse.Partofthememorialwasasignthat gave the names of those villagers who had died in various wars, and Ithought that the signmust be the reason for the photograph. I could read thenames,andIhalfexpected to find thenameHoenikkeramong them.Itwasn’tthere.“Thatwasoneofhishobbies,”saidMissFaust.“Whatwas?”“Photographinghowcannonballsarestackedondifferentcourthouselawns.

Apparentlyhowthey’vegotthemstackedinthatpictureisveryunusual.”“Isee.”“Hewasanunusualman.”“Iagree.”“Maybe in amillion years everybodywill be as smart as hewas and see

thingsthewayhedid.But,comparedwiththeaveragepersonoftoday,hewasasdifferentasamanfromMars.”“MaybehereallywasaMartian,”Isuggested.“That would certainly go a long way toward explaining his three strange

kids.”

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Mayonnaise28WhileMissFaust and Iwaited for anelevator to takeus to the first floor,

Miss Faust said she hoped the elevator that camewould not be number five.BeforeIcouldaskherwhythiswasareasonablewish,numberfivearrived.Its operator was a small ancient Negro whose name was Lyman Enders

Knowles. Knowles was insane, I’m almost sure— offensively so, in that hegrabbedhisownbehindandcried,“Yes,yes!”wheneverhefeltthathe’dmadeapoint.“Hello,fellowanthropoidsandlilypadsandpaddlewheels,”hesaidtoMiss

Faustandme.“Yes,yes!”“Firstfloor,please,”saidMissFaustcoldly.AllKnowleshadtodotoclosethedoorandgetustothefirstfloorwasto

press a button, but he wasn’t going to do that yet. Hewasn’t going to do it,maybe,foryears.“Mantoldme,”hesaid,“thatthesehereelevatorswasMayanarchitecture.I

never knew that till today. And I says to him, ‘What’s that make me —mayonnaise?’Yes,yes!Andwhilehewas thinking thatover, Ihithimwithaquestionthatstraightenedhimupandmadehimthinktwiceashard!Yes,yes!”“Couldwepleasegodown,Mr.Knowles?”beggedMissFaust.“I said to him,” said Knowles, “ ‘This here’s a re-search laboratory. Re-

searchmeans look again, don’t it?Means they’re looking for something theyfoundonceanditgotawaysomehow,andnowtheygottore-searchforit?Howcome theygot tobuildabuilding like this,withmayonnaiseelevatorsandall,and fill itwith all these crazypeople?What is it they’re trying to find again?Wholostwhat?’Yes,yes!”“That’sveryinteresting,”sighedMissFaust.“Now,couldwegodown?”“Onlywaywecangoisdown,”barkedKnowles.“Thishere’sthetop.You

askmetogoupandwouldn’tbeathingIcoulddoforyou.Yes,yes!”“Solet’sgodown,”saidMissFaust.“Very soon now. This gentleman here been paying his respects to Dr.

Hoenikker?”“Yes,”Isaid.“Didyouknowhim?”“Intimately,”hesaid.“YouknowwhatIsaidwhenhedied?”“No.”“Isaid,‘Dr.Hoenikker—heain’tdead.’”

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“Oh?”“Justenteredanewdimension.Yes,yes!”Hepunchedabutton,anddown

wewent.“DidyouknowtheHoenikkerchildren?”Iaskedhim.“Babiesfullofrabies,”hesaid.“Yes,yes!”

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Gone,butNotForgotten29There was one more thing I wanted to do in Ilium. I wanted to get a

photographof theoldman’s tomb.So Iwentback tomy room, foundSandragone,pickedupmycamera,hiredacab.Sleet was still coming down, acid and gray. I thought the old man’s

tombstone in all that sleet might photograph pretty well, might even make agoodpictureforthejacketofTheDaytheWorldEnded.ThecustodianatthecemeterygatetoldmehowtofindtheHoenikkerburial

plot.“Can’tmissit,”hesaid.“It’sgotthebiggestmarkerintheplace.”He did not lie. Themarkerwas an alabaster phallus twenty feet high and

threefeetthick.Itwasplasteredwithsleet.“ByGod,”Iexclaimed,gettingoutofthecabwithmycamera,“how’sthat

forasuitablememorialtoafatheroftheatombomb?”Ilaughed.Iasked thedriver ifhe’dmindstandingby themonument inorder togive

someideaofscale.AndthenIaskedhimtowipeawaysomeofthesleetsothenameofthedeceasedwouldshow.Hedidso.And thereon the shaft in letters six incheshigh, sohelpmeGod,was the

word:MOTHER

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OnlySleeping30“Mother?”askedthedriver,incredulously.Iwipedawaymoresleetanduncoveredthispoem:

Mother,Mother,howIprayForyoutoguarduseveryday.

—AngelaHoenikker

Andunderthispoemwasyetanother;

Youarenotdead,Butonlysleeping.Weshouldsmile,Andstopourweeping.

—FranklinHoenikker

Andunderneath this, inset in theshaft,wasasquareofcementbearing theimprintofaninfant’shand.Beneaththeimprintwerethewords:BabyNewt.“Ifthat’sMother,”saidthedriver,“whatinhellcouldtheyhaveraisedover

Father?” He made an obscene suggestion as to what the appropriate markermightbe.WefoundFathercloseby.Hismemorial—asspecified inhiswill, I later

discovered—wasamarblecubefortycentimetersoneachside.“FATHER,”itsaid.

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AnotherBreed31Aswewere leaving the cemetery the driver of the cab worried about the

conditionofhisownmother’sgrave.Heasked if Iwouldmind takinga shortdetourtolookatit.Itwasapatheticlittlestonethatmarkedhismother—notthatitmattered.AndthedriveraskedmeifIwouldmindanotherbriefdetour,thistimetoa

tombstonesalesroomacrossthestreetfromthecemetery.I wasn’t a Bokononist then, so I agreed with some peevishness. As a

Bokononist, of course, I would have agreed gaily to go anywhere anyonesuggested.AsBokonon says: “Peculiar travel suggestions are dancing lessonsfromGod.”Thenameof the tombstone establishmentwasAvramBreed andSons.As

the driver talked to the salesman Iwandered among themonuments—blankmonuments,monumentsinmemoryofnothingsofar.I founda little institutional joke in theshowroom:overastoneangelhung

mistletoe. Cedar boughswere heaped on her pedestal, and around hermarblethroatwasanecklaceofChristmastreelamps.“Howmuchforher?”Iaskedthesalesman.“Notforsale.She’sahundredyearsold.Mygreatgrandfather,AvramBreed,

carvedher.”“Thisbusinessisthatold?”“That’sright.”“Andyou’reaBreed?”“Thefourthgenerationinthislocation.”“AnyrelationtoDr.AsaBreed,thedirectoroftheResearchLaboratory?”“Hisbrother.”HesaidhisnamewasMarvinBreed.“It’sasmallworld,”Iobserved.“Whenyouputitinacemetery,itis.”MarvinBreedwasasleekandvulgar,

asmartandsentimentalman.

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DynamiteMoney32“Ijustcamefromyourbrother’soffice.I’mawriter.Iwasinterviewinghim

aboutDr.Hoenikker,”IsaidtoMarvinBreed.“Therewasonequeersonofabitch.Notmybrother;ImeanHoenikker.”“Didyousellhimthatmonumentforhiswife?”“I sold his kids that. He didn’t have anything to dowith it. He never got

around toputtinganykindofmarkeronhergrave.And then,aftershe’dbeendeadforayearormore,Hoenikker’sthreekidscameinhere—thebigtallgirl,theboy,andthelittlebaby.Theywantedthebiggeststonemoneycouldbuy,andthe two older ones had poems they’dwritten. Theywanted the poems on thestone.“Youcanlaughatthatstone,ifyouwantto,”saidMarvinBreed,“butthose

kids got more consolation out of that than anything else money could havebought.Theyused to comeand look at it andput flowerson it I-don’t-know-how-many-timesayear.”“Itmusthavecostalot.”“NobelPrizemoneyboughtit.Twothingsthatmoneybought:acottageon

CapeCodandthatmonument.”“Dynamitemoney,”Imarveled,thinkingoftheviolenceofdynamiteandthe

absolutereposeofatombstoneandasummerhome.“What?”“Nobelinventeddynamite.”“Well,Iguessittakesallkinds…”HadIbeenaBokononistthen,ponderingthemiraculouslyintricatechainof

eventsthathadbroughtdynamitemoneytothatparticulartombstonecompany,Imighthavewhispered,“Busy,busy,busy.”

Busy,busy,busy,iswhatweBokononistswhisperwheneverwethinkofhowcomplicatedandunpredictablethemachineryoflifereallyis.ButallIcouldsayasaChristianthenwas,“Lifeissurefunnysometimes.”“Andsometimesitisn’t,”saidMarvinBreed.

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AnUngratefulMan33IaskedMarvinBreedifhe’dknownEmilyHoenikker,thewifeofFelix;the

motherofAngela,Frank,andNewt;thewomanunderthatmonstrousshaft.“Knowher?”Hisvoiceturnedtragic.“DidIknowher,mister?Sure,Iknew

her.IknewEmily.WewenttoIliumHightogether.Wewereco-chairmenoftheClass Colors Committee then. Her father owned the Ilium Music Store. Shecouldplayeverymusical instrument therewas.I fellsohardforherIgaveupfootballandtriedtoplaytheviolin.AndthenmybigbrotherAsacamehomeforspringvacationfromM.I.T.,andImade themistakeof introducinghimtomybestgirl.”MarvinBreedsnappedhis fingers.“He tookherawayfromme justlikethat.Ismashedupmyseventy-five-dollarviolinonabigbrassknobatthefootofmybed,andIwentdowntoafloristshopandgotthekindofboxtheyputadozenrosesin,andIputthebustedfiddleinthebox,andIsentittoherbyWesternUnionmessengerboy.”“Pretty,wasshe?”“Pretty?” he echoed. “Mister,when I seemy first lady angel, ifGod ever

sees fit to showme one, it’ll be her wings and not her face that’ll makemymouth fall open. I’ve already seen the prettiest face that ever could be.Therewasn’tamaninIliumCountywhowasn’tinlovewithher,secretlyorotherwise.Shecouldhavehadanymanshewanted.”Hespitonhisownfloor.“Andshehad to go andmarry that littleDutch son of a bitch! Shewas engaged tomybrother,andthenthatsneakylittlebastardhittown.”MarvinBreedsnappedhisfingersagain.“Hetookherawayfrommybigbrotherlikethat.“I suppose it’shigh treasonandungratefuland ignorantandbackwardand

anti-intellectual to call a dead man as famous as Felix Hoenikker a son of abitch.Iknowallabouthowharmlessandgentleanddreamyhewassupposedtobe,howhe’dneverhurtafly,howhedidn’tcareaboutmoneyandpowerandfancyclothesandautomobilesandthings,howhewasn’tliketherestofus,howhewasbetter than the restofus,howhewasso innocenthewaspracticallyaJesus—exceptfortheSonofGodpart..MarvinBreedfelt itwasunnecessary tocompletehis thought. Ihad toask

himtodoit.“Butwhat?”hesaid.“Butwhat?”Hewent toawindowlookingoutat the

cemetery gate. “But what,” he murmured at the gate and the sleet and theHoenikkershaftthatcouldbedimlyseen.

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“But,”hesaid,“buthowthehellinnocentisamanwhohelpsmakeathinglikeanatomicbomb?Andhowcanyousayamanhadagoodmindwhenhecouldn’t even bother to do anything when the best-hearted, most beautifulwoman in the world, his own wife, was dying for lack of love andunderstanding…”Heshuddered,“SometimesIwonder ifhewasn’tborndead. Inevermeta

manwhowaslessinterestedintheliving.SometimesI thinkthat’s thetroublewiththeworld:toomanypeopleinhighplaceswhoarestone-colddead.”

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Vin-dit34Itwas in the tombstonesalesroomthatIhadmyfirstvin-dit,aBokononist

wordmeaningasudden,verypersonalshoveinthedirectionofBokononism,inthedirectionofbelieving thatGodAlmightyknewallaboutme,afterall, thatGodAlmightyhadsomeprettyelaborateplansforme.Thevin-dithadtodowiththestoneangelunderthemistletoe.Thecabdriver

hadgottenitintohisheadthathehadtohavethatangelforhismother’sgraveatanyprice.Hewasstandinginfrontofitwithtearsinhiseyes.MarvinBreedwasstillstaringoutthewindowatthecemeterygate,having

justsaidhispieceaboutFelixHoenikker.“ThelittleDutchsonofabitchmayhavebeenamodernholyman,”headded,“ButGoddamnifheeverdidanythinghedidn’twantto,andGoddamnifhedidn’tgeteverythingheeverwanted.“Music,”hesaid.“Pardonme?”Iasked.“That’swhy shemarried him. She said hismindwas tuned to the biggest

musictherewas,themusicofthestars.”Heshookhishead.“Crap.”Andthenthegateremindedhimofthelasttimehe’dseenFrankHoenikker,

themodel-maker,thetormentorofbugsinjars.“Frank,”hesaid.“Whatabouthim?”“ThelastIsawof thatpoor,queerkidwaswhenhecameout throughthat

cemetery gate. His father’s funeral was still going on. The old man wasn’tundergroundyet,andout throughthegatecameFrank.Heraisedhis thumbatthefirstcar thatcameby. ItwasanewPontiacwithaFlorida licenseplate. Itstopped.Frankgotinit,andthatwasthelastanybodyinIliumeversawofhim.”“Ihearhe’swantedbythepolice.”“Thatwasanaccident, a freak.Frankwasn’t anycriminal.Hedidn’thave

thatkindofnerve.Theonlyworkhewasanygoodatwasmodel-making.Theonly jobheeverheldontowasat Jack’sHobbyShop, sellingmodels,makingmodels,givingpeopleadviceonhowtomakemodels.Whenheclearedoutofhere,wenttoFlorida,hegotajobinamodelshopinSarasota.TurnedoutthemodelshopwasafrontforaringthatstoleCadillacs,ran’emstraightonboardoldL.S.T.’sandshipped’emtoCuba.That’showFrankgotballedupinallthat.Iexpect thereasonthecopshaven’t foundhimishe’sdead.He justheard toomuch while he was sticking turrets on the battleship Missouri with DucoCement.”

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“Where’sNewtnow,doyouknow?”“Guesshe’swithhissisterinIndianapolis.LastIheardwashegotmixedup

with that Russian midget and flunked out of pre-med at Cornell. Can youimagineamidgettryingtobecomeadoctor?And,inthatsamemiserablefamily,there’sthatgreatbig,gawkygirl,oversixfeettall.Thatman,who’ssofamousforhavingagreatmind,hepulledthatgirloutofhighschoolinhersophomoreyearsohecouldgoonhavingsomewomantakecareofhim.Allshehadgoingfor her was the clarinet she’d played in the Ilium High School band, theMarchingHundred.“Aftersheleftschool,”saidBreed,“nobodyeveraskedherout.Shedidn’t

haveanyfriends,andtheoldmannevereventhoughttogiveheranymoneytogoanywhere.Youknowwhatsheusedtodo?”“Nope.”“Every so often at night she’d lock herself in her room and she’d play

records, and she’d play alongwith the records onher clarinet.Themiracle ofthisage,asfarasI’mconcerned,isthatthatwomanevergotherselfahusband.”“Howmuchdoyouwantforthisangel?”askedthecabdriver.“I’vetoldyou,it’snotforsale.”“I don’t suppose there’s anybody around who can do that kind of stone

cuttinganymore,”Iobserved.“I’vegotanephewwhocan,”saidBreed.“Asa’sboy.Hewasallsettobea

heap-bigre-searchscientist,andthentheydroppedthebombonHiroshimaandthekidquit,andhegotdrunk,andhecameouthere,andhetoldmehewantedtogotoworkcuttingstone.”“Heworksherenow?”“He’sasculptorinRome.”“Ifsomebodyofferedyouenough,”saidthedriver,“you’dtakeit,wouldn’t

you?”“Might.Butitwouldtakealotofmoney.”“Wherewouldyouputthenameonathinglikethat?”askedthedriver.“There’salreadyanameonit—onthepedestal.”Wecouldn’tseethename,

becauseoftheboughsbankedagainstthepedestal.“Itwasnevercalledfor?”Iwantedtoknow.“Itwasneverpaidfor.Thewaythestorygoes:thisGermanimmigrantwas

onhiswayWestwithhiswife,andshediedof smallpoxhere in Ilium.Soheorderedthisangeltobeputupoverher,andheshowedmygreat-grandfatherhehad thecash topayfor it.But thenhewasrobbed.Somebody tookpracticallyeverycenthehad.Allhehad left in thisworldwassome landhe’dbought inIndiana,landhe’dneverseen.Sohemovedon—saidhe’dbebacklatertopay

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fortheangel.”“Buthenevercameback?”Iasked.“Nope.”MarvinBreednudgedsomeoftheboughsasidewithhistoesothat

we could see the raised letters on the pedestal.Therewas a last namewrittenthere. “There’s a screwy name for you,” he said. “If that immigrant had anydescendants, I expect theyAmericanized thename.They’reprobably JonesorBlackorThompsonnow.”“Thereyou’rewrong,”Imurmured.Theroomseemedtotip,anditswallsandceilingandfloorweretransformed

momentarilyintothemouthsofmanytunnels—tunnelsleadinginalldirectionsthroughtime.IhadaBokononistvisionoftheunityineverysecondofalltimeandallwanderingmankind,allwanderingwomankind,allwanderingchildren.“Thereyou’rewrong,”Isaid,whenthevisionwasgone.“Youknowsomepeoplebythatname?”“Yes.”Thenamewasmylastname,too.

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HobbyShop35OnthewaybacktothehotelIcaughtsightofJack’sHobbyShop,theplace

whereFranklinHoenikkerhadworked.Itoldthecabdrivertostopandwait.I went in and found Jack himself presiding over his teeny-weeny fire

engines,railroadtrains,airplanes,boats,houses,lampposts,trees,tanks,rockets,automobiles, porters, conductors, policemen, firemen,mommies, daddies, cats,dogs,chickens,soldiers,ducks,andcows.Hewasacadaverousman,aseriousman,adirtyman,andhecoughedalot.“WhatkindofaboywasFranklinHoenikker?”heechoed,andhecoughed

and coughed.He shook his head, and he showedme that he adored Frank asmuchashe’deveradoredanybody.“Thatisn’taquestionIhavetoanswerwithwords. I can show you what kind of a boy Franklin Hoenikker was.” Hecoughed.“Youcanlook,”hesaid,“andyoucanjudgeforyourself.”Andhetookmedownintothebasementofhisstore.Heliveddownthere.

Therewasadoublebedandadresserandahotplate.Jack apologized for the unmade bed. “My wife left me a week ago.” He

coughed.“I’mstilltryingtopullthestringsofmylifebacktogether.”Andthenheturnedonaswitch,andthefarendofthebasementwasfilled

withablindinglight.Weapproached the lightand found that itwassunshine toa fantastic little

country build on plywood, an island as perfectly rectangular as a township inKansas.Any restless soul, any soul seeking to findwhat lay beyond its greenboundaries,reallywouldfallofftheedgeoftheworld.The details were so exquisitely in scale, so cunningly textured and tinted,

thatitwasunnecessaryformetosquintinordertobelievethatthenationwasreal—thehills,thelakes,therivers,theforests,thetowns,andallelsethatgoodnativeseverywhereholdsodear.Andeverywhereranaspaghettipatternofrailroadtracks.“Lookatthedoorsofthehouses,”saidJackreverently.“Neat.Keen.”“They’vegotrealknobson’em,andtheknockersreallywork.”“God.”“Youaskwhat kindof a boyFranklinHoenikkerwas; hebuilt this.” Jack

chokedup.“Allbyhimself?”

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“Oh,Ihelpedsome,butanythingIdidwasaccordingtohisplans.Thatkidwasagenius.”“Howcouldanybodyarguewithyou?”“Hiskidbrotherwasamidget,youknow.”“Iknow.”“Hedidsomeofthesolderingunderneath.”“Itsurelooksreal.”“Itwasn’teasy,anditwasn’tdoneovernight,either.”“Romewasn’tbuiltinaday.”“Thatkiddidn’thaveanyhomelife,youknow.”“I’veheard.”“Thiswashisrealhome.Thousandsofhourshespentdownhere.Sometimes

hewouldn’tevenrunthetrains;justsitandlook,thewaywe’redoing.”“There’salottosee.It’spracticallylikeatriptoEurope,therearesomany

thingstosee,ifyoulookclose.”“He’dsee thingsyouandIwouldn’tsee.He’dallofasuddenteardowna

hillthatwouldlookjustasrealasanyhillyoueversaw—toyouandme.Andhe’dberight,too.He’dputalakewherethathillhadbeenandatrestleoverthelake,anditwouldlooktentimesasgoodasitdidbefore.”“Itisn’tatalenteverybodyhas.”“That’s right!” said Jack passionately. The passion cost him another

coughingfit.Whenthefitwasover,hiseyeswerewateringcopiously.“Listen,ItoldthatkidheshouldgotocollegeandstudysomeengineeringsohecouldgotoworkforAmericanFlyerorsomebodylikethat—somebodybig,somebodywho’dreallybackalltheideashehad.”“Lookstomeasifyoubackedhimagooddeal.”“WishIhad,wishIcouldhave,”mournedJack.“Ididn’thavethecapital.I

gavehimstuffwheneverIcould,butmostofthisstuffheboughtoutofwhatheearnedworkingupstairsforme.Hedidn’tspendadimeonanythingbutthis—didn’tdrink,didn’tsmoke,didn’tgotomovies,didn’tgooutwithgirls,wasn’tcarcrazy.”“Thiscountrycouldcertainlyuseafewmoreofthose.”Jack shrugged. “Well…Iguess theFloridagangstersgothim.Afraidhe’d

talk.”“Guesstheydid.”Jack suddenly broke down and cried. “I wonder if those dirty sons of

bitches,”hesobbed,“haveanyideawhatitwastheykilled!”

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Meow36During my trip to Ilium and to points beyond— a two-week expedition

bridgingChristmas—I letapoorpoetnamedShermanKrebbshavemyNewYorkCityapartmentfree.MysecondwifehadleftmeonthegroundsthatIwastoopessimisticforanoptimisttolivewith.Krebbswas a beardedman, a platinum blond Jesuswith spaniel eyes.He

was no close friend of mine. I had met him at a cocktail party where hepresented himself as National Chairman of Poets and Painters for ImmediateNuclear War. He begged for shelter, not necessarily bomb proof, and ithappenedthatIhadsome.WhenIreturnedtomyapartment,still twangingwiththepuzzlingspiritual

implications of the unclaimed stone angel in Ilium, I found my apartmentwreckedbyanihilisticdebauch.Krebbswasgone;but,before leaving,hehadrunupthree-hundred-dollars’worthoflong-distancecalls,setmycouchonfirein five places, killed my cat and my avocado tree, and torn the door off mymedicinecabinet.Hewrotethispoem,inwhatprovedtobeexcrement,ontheyellowlinoleum

floorofmykitchen:

Ihaveakitchen.Butitisnotacompletekitchen.IwillnotbetrulygayUntilIhaveaDispose-all.

There was anothermessage, written in lipstick in a feminine hand on thewallpaperovermybed.Itsaid:“No,no,no,saidChicken-licken.”Therewasasignhungaroundmydeadcat’sneck.Itsaid,“Meow.”IhavenotseenKrebbssince.Nonetheless,Isensethathewasmykarass.If

hewas,heserveditasawrang-wrang.Awrang-wrang,accordingtoBokonon,isapersonwhosteerspeopleawayfromalineofspeculationbyreducingthatline,withtheexampleofthewrang-wrang’sownlife,toanabsurdity.I might have been vaguely inclined to dismiss the stone angel as

meaningless,andtogofromtheretothemeaninglessnessofall.ButafterIsawwhatKrebbshaddone,inparticularwhathehaddonetomysweetcat,nihilismwasnotforme.

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Somebody or something did notwishme to be a nihilist. ItwasKrebbs’smission,whetherheknewitornot,todisenchantmewiththatphilosophy.Well,done,Mr.Krebbs,welldone.

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AModernMajorGeneral37Andthen,oneday,oneSunday,Ifoundoutwherethefugitivefromjustice,

themodel-maker,theGreatGodJehovahandBeelzebubofbugsinMasonjarswas—whereFranklinHoenikkercouldbefound.Hewasalive!ThenewswasinaspecialsupplementtotheNewYorkSundayTimes.The

supplementwasapaidadforabananarepublic.OnitscoverwastheprofileofthemostheartbreakinglybeautifulgirlIeverhopetosee.Beyondthegirl,bulldozerswereknockingdownpalmtrees,makingabroad

avenue.Attheendoftheavenuewerethesteelskeletonsofthreenewbuildings.“TheRepublicofSanLorenzo,”saidthecopyonthecover,“onthemove!A

healthy, happy, progressive, freedom-loving, beautiful nation makes itselfextremelyattractivetoAmericaninvestorsandtouristsalike.”Iwasinnohurrytoreadthecontents.Thegirlonthecoverwasenoughfor

me—morethanenough,sinceIhadfalleninlovewithheronsight.Shewasveryyoungandverygrave,too—andluminouslycompassionateandwise.Shewasasbrownaschocolate.Herhairwaslikegoldenflax.HernamewasMonaAamonsMonzano,thecoversaid.Shewastheadopted

daughterofthedictatoroftheisland.Iopenedthesupplement,hopingformorepicturesof thissublimemongrel

Madonna.Ifoundinsteadaportraitoftheisland’sdictator,Miguel“Papa”Monzano,a

gorillainhislateseventies.Next to “Papa’s” portraitwas a picture of a narrow-shouldered, fox-faced,

immatureyoungman.Heworeasnowwhitemilitaryblousewithsomesortofjeweled sunburst hangingon it.His eyeswere close together; theyhad circlesunder them.He had apparently told barbers all his life to shave the sides andback of his head, but to leave the top of his hair alone. He had a wirypompadour,asortofcubeofhair,marcelled,thatarosetoanincredibleheight.ThisunattractivechildwasidentifiedasMajorGeneralFranklinHoenikker,

MinisterofScienceandProgressintheRepublicofSanLorenzo.Hewastwenty-sixyearsold.

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BarracudaCapitaloftheWorld38SanLorenzowasfiftymileslongandtwentymileswide,Ilearnedfromthe

supplement to theNewYorkSundayTimes. Its populationwas four hundred,fiftythousandsouls,“...allfiercelydedicatedtotheidealsoftheFreeWorld.”Itshighestpoint,MountMcCabe,waseleventhousandfeetabovesealevel.

ItscapitalwasBolivar,“...astrikinglymoderncitybuiltonaharborcapableofsheltering the entire United States Navy.” The principal exports were sugar,coffee,bananas,indigo,andhandcraftednovelties.“AndsportsfishermenrecognizeSanLorenzoastheunchallengedbarracuda

capitaloftheworld.”I wondered how Franklin Hoenikker, who had never even finished high

school,hadgothimselfsuchafancyjob.IfoundapartialanswerinanessayonSanLorenzothatwassignedby“Papa”Monzano.“Papa”saidthatFrankwasthearchitectofthe“SanLorenzoMasterPlan,”

which includednew roads, rural electrification, sewage-disposal plants, hotels,hospitals, clinics, railroads— theworks.And, though theessaywasbrief andtightly edited, “papa” referred to Frank five times as: “...theblood son ofDr.FelixHoenikker.”Thephrasereekedofcannibalism.“Papa”plainlyfeltthatFrankwasachunkoftheoldman’smagicmeat.

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FataMorgana39A little more light was shed by another essay in the supplement, a florid

essay titled, “WhatSanLorenzoHasMeant toOneAmerican.” Itwas almostcertainlyghost-written.ItwassignedbyMajorGeneralFranklinHoenikker.Intheessay,Franktoldofbeingallaloneonanearlyswampedsixty-eight-

footChris-CraftintheCaribbean.Hedidn’texplainwhathewasdoingonitorhowhehappenedtobealone.Hedidindicate,though,thathispointofdeparturehadbeenCuba.“Theluxuriouspleasurecraftwasgoingdown,andmymeaninglesslifewith

it,”saidtheessay.“AllI’deatenforfourdayswastwobiscuitsandaseagull.Thedorsal finsofman-eating sharkswerecleaving thewarmseasaroundme,andneedle-teethedbarracudaweremakingthosewatersboil.“I raised my eyes to myMaker, willing to accept whatever His decision

mightbe.Andmyeyesalitonagloriousmountainpeakabovetheclouds.WasthisFataMorgana—thecrueldeceptionofamirage?”IlookedupFataMorganaatthispointinmyreading;learnedthatitwas,in

fact,amiragenamedafterMorganleFay,afairywholivedatthebottomofalake.ItwasfamousforappearingintheStraitofMessina,betweenCalabriaandSicily.FataMorganawaspoeticcrap,inshort.WhatFranksawfromhissinkingpleasurecraftwasnotcruelFataMorgana,

butthepeakofMountMcCabe.GentleseasthennuzzledFrank’spleasurecrafttotherockyshoresofSanLorenzo,asthoughGodwantedhimtogothere.Franksteppedashore,dryshod,andaskedwherehewas.Theessaydidn’t

sayso,butthesonofabitchhadapieceof ice-ninewithhim—inathermosjug.Frank,havingnopassport,wasput in jail in thecapitalcityofBolivar.He

wasvisitedthereby“Papa”Monzano,whowantedtoknowif itwerepossiblethatFrankwasabloodrelativeoftheimmortalDr.FelixHoenikker.“IadmittedIwas,”saidFrankintheessay.“Sincethatmoment,everydoor

toopportunityinSanLorenzohasbeenopenedwidetome.”

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HouseofHopeandMercy40Asithappened—“Asitwassupposedtohappen,”Bokononwouldsay—I

wasassignedbyamagazinetodoastoryinSanLorenzo.Thestorywasn’ttobeabout“Papa”MonzanoorFrank.ItwastobeaboutJulianCastle,anAmericansugar millionaire who had, at the age of forty, followed the example of Dr.AlbertSchweitzerbyfoundingafreehospitalinajungle,bydevotinghislifetomiserablefolkofanotherrace.Castle’shospitalwascalledtheHouseofHopeandMercyintheJungle.Its

junglewasonSanLorenzo,amongthewildcoffeetreesonthenorthernslopeofMountMcCabe.WhenIflewtoSanLorenzo,JulianCastlewassixtyyearsold.Hehadbeenabsolutelyunselfishfortwentyyears.In his selfish days he had been as familiar to tabloid readers as Tommy

Manville, Adolf Hitler, Benito Mussolini, and Barbara Hutton. His fame hadrestedonlechery,alcoholism,recklessdriving,anddraftevasion.Hehadhadadazzling talent for spending millions without increasing mankind’s stores ofanythingbutchagrin.Hehadbeenmarriedfivetimes,hadproducedoneson.Theoneson,Philip

Castle,wasthemanagerandownerofthehotelatwhichIplannedtostay.ThehotelwascalledtheCasaMonaandwasnamedafterMonaAamonsMonzano,the blonde Negro on the cover of the supplement to the New York SundayTimes.TheCasaMonawasbrandnew;itwasoneofthethreenewbuildingsinthebackgroundofthesupplement’sportraitofMona.WhileIdidn’tfeel thatpurposefulseaswerewaftingmetoSanLorenzo,I

did feel that lovewasdoing the job.TheFataMorgana, themirageofwhat itwouldbeliketobelovedbyMonaAamonsMonzano,hadbecomeatremendousforceinmymeaninglesslife.Iimaginedthatshecouldmakemefarhappierthananywomanhadsofarsucceededindoing.

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AKarassBuiltforTwo41Theseatingontheairplane,boundultimatelyforSanLorenzofromMiami,

was threeand three.As ithappened—“As itwassupposed tohappen”—myseatmateswereHorlickMinton,thenewAmericanAmbassadortotheRepublicofSanLorenzo,andhiswife,Claire.Theywerewhitehaired,gentle,andfrail.Minton told me that he was a career diplomat, holding the rank of

Ambassadorforthefirsttime.Heandhiswifehadsofarserved,hetoldme,inBolivia, Chile, Japan, France, Yugoslavia, Egypt, the Union of South Africa,Liberia,andPakistan.Theywerelovebirds.Theyentertainedeachotherendlesslywithlittlegifts:

sights worth seeing out the plane window, amusing or instructive bits fromthings they read, randomrecollectionsof timesgoneby.Theywere, I think,aflawlessexampleofwhatBokononcallsaduprass,whichisakarasscomposedofonlytwopersons.“Atrueduprass,”Bokonontellsus,“can’tbeinvaded,notevenbychildren

bornofsuchaunion.”IexcludetheMintons,therefore,frommyownkarass,fromFrank’skarass,

from Newt’s karass, from Asa Breed’s karass, from Angela’s karass, fromLymanEndersKnowles’skarass,fromShermanKrebbs’skarass.TheMintons’karasswasatidyone,composedofonlytwo.“Ishouldthinkyou’dbeverypleased,”IsaidtoMinton.“WhatshouldIbepleasedabout?”“PleasedtohavetherankofAmbassador.”FromthepityingwayMintonandhiswifelookedateachother,Igathered

thatIhadsaidafat-headedthing.Buttheyhumoredme.“Yes,”wincedMinton,“I’mverypleased.”Hesmiledwanly.“I’mdeeplyhonored.”AndsoitwentwithalmosteverysubjectIbroughtup.Icouldn’tmakethe

Mintonsbubbleaboutanything.Forinstance:“Isupposeyoucanspeakalotoflanguages,”Isaid.“Oh,sixorseven—betweenus,”saidMinton”“Thatmustbeverygratifying.”“Whatmust?”“Beingabletospeaktopeopleofsomanydifferentnationalities.”“Verygratifying,”saidMintonemptily.“Verygratifying,”saidhiswife.

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Andtheywentbacktoreadingafat,typewrittenmanuscriptthatwasspreadacrossthechairarmbetweenthem.“Tell me,” I said a little later, “in all your wide travels, have you found

peopleeverywhereaboutthesameatheart?”“Hm?”askedMinton.“Doyoufindpeopletobeaboutthesameatheart,whereveryougo?”Helookedathiswife,makingsureshehadheardthequestion, thenturned

backtome.“Aboutthesame,whereveryougo,”heagreed.“Um,”Isaid.Bokonontellsus,incidentally,thatmembersofaduprassalwaysdiewithin

a week of each other.When it came time for theMintons to die, they did itwithinthesamesecond.

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BicyclesforAfghanistan42Therewasasmallsaloonintherearof theplaneandIrepairedtherefora

drink. It was there that I met another fellow American, H. Lowe Crosby ofEvanston,Illinois,andhiswife,Hazel.Theywereheavypeople,intheirfifties.Theyspoketwangingly.Crosbytold

me that he owned a bicycle factory in Chicago, that he had had nothing butingratitudefromhisemployees.Hewasgoingtomovehisbusiness togratefulSanLorenzo.“YouknowSanLorenzowell?”Iasked.“This’llbethefirsttimeI’veeverseenit,buteverythingI’veheardaboutitI

like,”saidH.LoweCrosby.“They’vegotdiscipline,They’vegotsomethingyoucan count on from one year to the next. They don’t have the governmentencouragingeverybodytobesomekindoforiginalpissantnobodyeveryheardofbefore.”“Sir?”“Christ,backinChicago,wedon’tmakebicyclesanymore.It’sallhuman

relations now. The eggheads sit around trying to figure out new ways foreverybodytobehappy.Nobodycangetfired,nomatterwhat;andifsomebodydoes accidentallymake a bicycle, the union accuses us of cruel and inhumanpracticesandthegovernmentconfiscatesthebicycleforbacktaxesandgivesittoablindmaninAfghanistan.”“AndyouthinkthingswillbebetterinSanLorenzo?”“Iknowdamnwelltheywillbe.Thepeopledowntherearepoorenoughand

scaredenoughandignorantenoughtohavesomecommonsense!”Crosbyaskedmewhatmynamewasandwhatmybusinesswas.Itoldhim,

and his wife Hazel recognized my name as an Indiana name. She was fromIndiana,too.“MyGod,”shesaid,“areyouaHoosier?”IadmittedIwas.“I’m aHoosier, too,” she crowed. “Nobody has to be ashamed of being a

Hoosier.”“I’mnot,”Isaid.“Ineverknewanybodywhowas.”“Hoosiers do all right. Lowe and I’ve been around the world twice, and

everywherewewentwefoundHoosiersinchargeofeverything.”“That’sreassuring.”

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“YouknowthemanagerofthatnewhotelinIstanbul?”“No.”“He’saHoosier.Andthemilitary-whatever-he-isinTokyo…”“Attaché,”saidherhusband.“He’saHoosier,”saidHazel.“AndthenewAmbassadortoYugoslavia…”“AHoosier?”Iasked.“Not only him, but theHollywoodEditor ofLifemagazine, too.And that

maninChile…”“AHoosier,too?”“Youcan’tgoanywhereaHoosierhasn’tmadehismark,”shesaid.“ThemanwhowroteBenHurwasaHoosier.”“AndJamesWhitcombRiley.”“AreyoufromIndiana,too?”Iaskedherhusband.“Nope.I’maPrairieStater.‘LandofLincoln,’astheysay.”“Asfarasthatgoes,”saidHazeltriumphantly,“LincolnwasaHoosier,too.

HegrewupinSpencerCounty.”“Sure,”Isaid.“Idon’tknowwhatit isaboutHoosiers,”saidHazel,“butthey’vesuregot

something.Ifsomebodywastomakealist,they’dbeamazed.”“That’strue,”Isaid.Shegraspedmefirmlybythearm.“WeHoosiersgottosticktogether.”“Right.”“Youcallme‘Mom.’”“What?”“WheneverImeetayoungHoosier,Itellthem,‘YoucallmeMom.’”“Uhhuh.”“Letmehearyousayit,”sheurged.“Mom?”Shesmiledandletgoofmyarm.Somepieceofclockworkhadcompleted

itscycle.MycallingHazel“Mom”hadshutitoff,andnowHazelwasrewindingitforthenextHoosiertocomealong.Hazel’sobsessionwithHoosiersaround theworldwasa textbookexample

ofafalsekarass,ofaseemingteamthatwasmeaninglessintermsofthewaysGodgetsthingsdone,atextbookexampleofwhatBokononcallsagranfalloon.OtherexamplesofgranfalloonsaretheCommunistparty, theDaughtersoftheAmericanRevolution,theGeneralElectricCompany,theInternationalOrderofOddFellows—andanynation,anytime,anywhere.AsBokononinvitesustosingalongwithhim:

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Ifyouwishtostudyagranfalloon,Justremovetheskinofatoyballoon.

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TheDemonstrator43H.LoweCrosbywasoftheopinionthatdictatorshipswereoftenverygood

things.Hewasn’taterriblepersonandhewasn’tafool.Itsuitedhimtoconfronttheworldwithacertainbarn-yardclownishness,butmanyofthethingshehadtosayaboutundisciplinedmankindwerenotonlyfunnybuttrue.Themajor point atwhich his reason and his sense of humor left himwas

when he approached the question of what people were really supposed to dowiththeirtimeonEarth.Hebelievedfirmlythattheyweremeanttobuildbicyclesforhim.“IhopeSanLorenzoiseverybitasgoodasyou’vehearditis,”Isaid.“Ionlyhave to talk tooneman to findout if it isornot,”hesaid.“When

‘Papa’Monzano gives his word of honor about anything on that little island,that’sit.That’showitis;that’showit’llbe.”“The thing I like,” said Hazel, “is they all speak English and they’re all

Christians.Thatmakesthingssomucheasier.”“Youknowhowtheydealwithcrimedownthere?”Crosbyaskedme.“Nope.”“Theyjustdon’thaveanycrimedownthere.‘Papa’Monzano’smadecrime

sodamnunattractive,nobodyeventhinksaboutitwithoutgettingsick.Iheardyoucanlayabillfoldinthemiddleofasidewalkandyoucancomebackaweeklaterandit’llberightthere,witheverythingstillinit.”“Um.”“Youknowwhatthepunishmentisforstealingsomething?”“Nope.”“Thehook,”hesaid.“Nofines,noprobation,nothirtydaysinjail.It’sthe

hook. The hook for stealing, for murder, for arson, for treason, for rape, forbeingapeepingTom.Breakalaw—anydamnlawatall—andit’sthehook.Everybodycanunderstandthat,andSanLorenzoisthebest-behavedcountryintheworld.”“Whatisthehook?”“Theyput up a gallows, see?Twoposts and a cross beam.And then they

take a great big kind of iron fishhook and they hang it down from the crossbeam.Thentheytakesomebodywho’sdumbenoughtobreakthelaw,andtheyputthepointofthehookinthroughonesideofhisbellyandouttheotherandtheylethimgo—andtherehehangs,byGod,onedamnsorrylaw-breaker.”

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“GoodGod!”“I don’t say it’s good,” said Crosby, “but I don’t say it’s bad either. I

sometimeswonderifsomethinglikethatwouldn’tclearupjuveniledelinquency.Maybethehook’salittleextremeforademocracy.Publichanging’smorelikeit.Stringupafewteenagecarthievesonlamppostsinfrontoftheirhouseswithsignsaroundtheirneckssaying,‘Mama,here’syourboy.’DothatafewtimesandIthinkignitionlockswouldgothewayoftherumbleseatandtherunningboard.”“WesawthatthinginthebasementofthewaxworksinLondon,”saidHazel.“Whatthing?”Iaskedher.“The hook.Down in theChamber ofHorrors in the basement; they had a

waxpersonhangingfromthehook.ItlookedsorealIwantedtothrowup.”“HarryTrumandidn’tlookanythinglikeHarryTruman,”saidCrosby.“Pardonme?”“In thewaxworks,” saidCrosby. “The statue ofTrumandidn’t really look

likehim.”“Mostofthemdid,though,”saidHazel.“Wasitanybodyinparticularhangingfromthehook?”Iaskedher.“Idon’tthinkso.Itwasjustsomebody.”“Justademonstrator?”Iasked.“Yeah.Therewasablackvelvetcurtaininfrontofitandyouhadtopullthe

curtainbacktosee.Andtherewasanotepinnedtothecurtainthatsaidchildrenweren’tsupposedtolook.”“But kids did,” said Crosby. “There were kids down there, and they all

looked.”“Asignlikethatisjustcatniptokids,”saidHazel.“Howdidthekidsreactwhentheysawthepersononthehook?”Iasked.“Oh,”saidHazel,“theyreactedjustabout thewaythegrownupsdid.They

just looked at it and didn’t say anything, justmoved on to seewhat the nextthingwas.”“Whatwasthenextthing?”“Itwasanironchairamanhadbeenroastedalivein,”saidCrosby.“Hewas

roastedformurderinghisson.”“Only, after they roasted him,”Hazel recalled blandly, “they foundout he

hadn’tmurderedhissonafterall.”

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CommunistSympathizers44WhenIagaintookmyseatbesidetheduprassofClaireandHorlickMinton,

Ihadsomenewinformationaboutthem.IgotitfromtheCrosbys.TheCrosbysdidn’tknowMinton,buttheyknewhisreputation.Theywere

indignantabouthisappointmentasAmbassador.TheytoldmethatMintonhadonce been fired by the StateDepartment for his softness toward communism,andtheCommunistdupesorworsehadhadhimreinstated.“Verypleasantlittlesaloonbackthere,”IsaidtoMintonasIsatdown.“Hm?”Heandhiswifewere still reading themanuscript that laybetween

them.“Nicebarbackthere.”“Good.I’mglad.”Thetworeadon,apparentlyuninterestedintalkingtome.AndthenMinton

turned tomesuddenly,withabittersweet smile, andhedemanded,“Whowashe,anyway?”“Whowaswho?”“Themanyouwere talking to in thebar.Wewentback there for adrink,

and,whenwewerejustoutside,weheardyouandamantalking.Themanwastalkingveryloudly.HesaidIwasaCommunistsympathizer.”“A bicycle manufacturer named H. Lowe Crosby,” I said. I felt myself

reddening.“Iwasfiredforpessimism.Communismhadnothingtodowithit.”“Igothimfired,”saidhiswife.“Theonlypieceofrealevidenceproduced

againsthimwasaletterIwrotetotheNewYorkTimesfromPakistan.”“Whatdiditsay?”“It said a lot of things,” she said, “because I was very upset about how

Americans couldn’t imagine what it was like to be something else, to besomethingelseandproudofit.”“Isee.”“But there was one sentence they kept coming to again and again in the

loyalty hearing,” sighedMinton. “ ‘Americans,’ ” he said, quoting his wife’slettertotheTimes,“ ‘are foreversearchingfor love in forms itnever takes, inplacesitcanneverbe.Itmusthavesomethingtodowiththevanishedfrontier.’”

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WhyAmericansAreHated45ClaireMinton’slettertotheTimeswaspublishedduringtheworstoftheera

ofSenatorMcCarthy,andherhusbandwasfiredtwelvehoursaftertheletterwasprinted.“Whatwassoawfulabouttheletter?”Iasked.“The highest possible form of treason,” said Minton, “is to say that

Americansaren’tlovedwherevertheygo,whatevertheydo.ClairetriedtomakethepointthatAmericanforeignpolicyshouldrecognizehateratherthanimaginelove.”“IguessAmericansarehatedalotofplaces.”“People are hated a lot of places. Claire pointed out in her letter that

Americans, in being hated, were simply paying the normal penalty for beingpeople,and that theywere foolish to think theyshouldsomehowbeexemptedfromthatpenalty.Buttheloyaltyboarddidn’tpayanyattentiontothat.AlltheyknewwasthatClaireandIbothfeltthatAmericanswereunloved.”“Well,I’mgladthestoryhadahappyending.”“Hm?”saidMinton.“It finally came out all right,” I said. “Here you are on your way to an

embassyallyourown.”Minton and his wife exchanged another of those pitying duprass glances.

ThenMinton said tome, “Yes. The pot of gold at the end of the rainbow isours.”

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TheBokononistMethodforHandlingCaesar46

I talked to theMintons about the legal status of FranklinHoenikker,whowas, after all, not only a big shot in “Papa” Monzano’s government, but afugitivefromUnitedStatesjustice.“That’sallbeenwrittenoff,”saidMinton.“Heisn’taUnitedStatescitizen

anymore,andheseemstobedoinggoodthingswhereheis,sothat’sthat.”“Hegaveuphiscitizenship?”“Anybodywhodeclaresallegiance toa foreignstateorserves in itsarmed

forcesoracceptsemploymentinitsgovernmentloseshiscitizenship.Readyourpassport.Youcan’tleadthesortoffunny-paperinternationalromancethatFrankhasledandstillhaveUncleSamforamotherchicken.”“IshewelllikedinSanLorenzo?”Minton weighed in his hands the manuscript he and his wife had been

reading.“Idon’tknowyet.Thisbooksaysnot.”“Whatbookisthat?”“It’stheonlyscholarlybookeverwrittenaboutSanLorenzo.”“Sortofscholarly,”saidClaire.“Sortofscholarly,”echoedMinton.“Ithasn’tbeenpublishedyet.Thisisone

offivecopies.”Hehandedittome,invitingmetoreadasmuchasIliked.Iopenedthebooktoitstitlepageandfoundthatthenameofthebookwas

SanLorenzo:TheLand,theHistory, thePeople.TheauthorwasPhilipCastle,thesonofJulianCastle,thehotel-keepingsonofthegreataltruistIwasonmywaytosee.I let thebook fallopenwhere itwould.As ithappened, it fellopen to the

chapterabouttheisland’soutlawedholyman,Bokonon.TherewasaquotationfromTheBooksofBokononon thepagebeforeme.

Thosewords leapt from thepageand intomymind, and theywerewelcomedthere.ThewordswereaparaphraseofthesuggestionbyJesus:“Rendertherefore

untoCaesarthethingswhichareCaesar’s.”Bokonon’sparaphrasewasthis:“Pay no attention toCaesar. Caesar doesn’t have the slightest ideawhat’s

reallygoingon.”

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DynamicTension47IbecamesoabsorbedinPhilipCastle’sbookthatIdidn’tevenlookupfrom

itwhenweputdownfortenminutesinSanJuan,PuertoRico.Ididn’tevenlookup when somebody behind me whispered, thrilled, that a midget had comeaboard.AlittlewhilelaterIlookedaroundforthemidget,butcouldnotseehim.I

didsee,rightinfrontofHazelandH.LoweCrosby,ahorse-facedwomanwithplatinumblondehair,awomannewtothepassengerlist.Nexttoherswasaseatthatappearedtobeempty,aseatthatmightwellhaveshelteredamidgetwithoutmyseeingeventhetopofhishead.ButitwasSanLorenzo—theland,thehistory,thepeople—thatintrigued

methen,soIlookednoharderforthemidget.Midgetsare,afterall,diversionsforsillyorquiettimes,andIwasseriousandexcitedaboutBokonon’stheoryofwhathecalled“DynamicTension,”hissenseofapricelessequilibriumbetweengoodandevil.When I first saw the term “Dynamic Tension” in Philip Castle’s book, I

laughed what I imagined to be a superior laugh. The term was a favorite ofBokonon’s, according to young Castle’s book, and I supposed that I knewsomething that Bokonon didn’t know: that the term was one vulgarized byCharlesAtlas,amail-ordermuscle-builder.As I learnedwhen I read on, briefly,Bokonon knew exactlywhoCharles

Atlaswas.Bokononwas,infact,analumnusofhismuscle-buildingschool.It was the belief of CharlesAtlas thatmuscles could be built without bar

bells or spring exercisers, could be built by simply pitting one set ofmusclesagainstanother.ItwasthebeliefofBokononthatgoodsocietiescouldbebuiltonlybypitting

goodagainstevil,andbykeepingthetensionbetweenthetwohighatalltimes.And, in Castle’s book, I readmy first Bokononist poem, or “Calypso.” It

wentlikethis:

“Papa”Monzano,he’ssoverybad,Butwithoutbad“Papa”Iwouldbesosad;Becausewithout“Papa’s”badness,Tellme,ifyouwould,HowcouldwickedoldBokononEver,everlookgood?

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JustLikeSaintAugustine48Bokonon,IlearnedfromCastle’sbook,wasbornin1891.HewasaNegro,

bornanEpiscopalianandaBritishsubjectontheislandofTobago.HewaschristenedLionelBoydJohnson.Hewastheyoungestofsixchildren,borntoawealthyfamily.Hisfamily’s

wealthderivedfromthediscoverybyBokonon’sgrandfatherofonequarterofamilliondollarsinburiedpiratetreasure,presumablyatreasureofBlackbeard,ofEdwardTeach.Blackbeard’streasurewasreinvestedbyBokonon’sfamilyinasphalt,copra,

cocoa,livestock,andpoultry.YoungLionelBoydJohnsonwaseducatedinEpiscopalschools,didwellas

a student, andwasmore interested in ritual thanmost.As a youth, for all hisinterestintheoutwardtrappingsoforganizedreligion,heseemstohavebeenacarouser,forheinvitesustosingalongwithhiminhis“FourteenthCalypso”:

WhenIwasyoung,Iwassogayandmean,AndIdrankandchasedthegirlsJustlikeyoungSt.Augustine.SaintAugustine,Hegottobeasaint.So,ifIgettobeone,also,Please,Mama,don’tyoufaint.

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AFishPitchedUpbyanAngrySea49LionelBoyd Johnsonwas intellectually ambitious enough, in 1911, to sail

alonefromTobagotoLondoninasloopnamedtheLady’sSlipper.Hispurposewastogainahighereducation.HeenrolledintheLondonSchoolofEconomicsandPoliticalScience.His educationwas interrupted by the FirstWorldWar. He enlisted in the

infantry,foughtwithdistinction,wascommissionedinthefield,wasmentionedfour times in dispatches. He was gassed in the second Battle of Ypres, washospitalizedfortwoyears,andthendischarged.Andhesetsailforhome,forTobago,aloneintheLady’sSlipperagain.When only eighty miles from home, he was stopped and searched by a

German submarine, theU-99.Hewas takenprisoner, andhis little vesselwasused by the Huns for target practice.While still surfaced, the submarine wassurprisedandcapturedbytheBritishdestroyer,theRaven.Johnsonand theGermanswere takenonboard thedestroyer and theU-99

wassunk.TheRavenwasboundfortheMediterranean,butitnevergotthere.Itlostits

steering; it could only wallow helplessly or make grand, clockwise circles. ItcametorestatlastintheCapeVerdeIslands.Johnson stayed in those islands for eight months, awaiting some sort of

transportationtotheWesternHemisphere.Hegotajobatlastasacrewmanonafishingvesselthatwascarryingillegal

immigrants to New Bedford, Massachusetts. The vessel was blown ashore atNewport,RhodeIsland.BythattimeJohnsonhaddevelopedaconvictionthatsomethingwastrying

togethimsomewhereforsomereason.SohestayedinNewportforawhiletosee if he had a destiny there. He worked as a gardener and carpenter on thefamousRumfoordEstate.Duringthattime,heglimpsedmanydistinguishedguestsoftheRumfoords,

among them, J. P. Morgan, General John J. Pershing, Franklin DelanoRoosevelt,EnricoCaruso,WarrenGamalielHarding,andHarryHoudini.AnditwasduringthattimethattheFirstWorldWarcametoanend,havingkilledtenmillionpersonsandwoundedtwentymillion,Johnsonamongthem.Whenthewarended,theyoungrakehelloftheRumfoordfamily,Remington

Rumfoord, IV,proposed to sailhis steamyacht, theScheherazade, around the

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world,visitingSpain,France,Italy,Greece,Egypt,India,China,andJapan.HeinvitedJohnsontoaccompanyhimasfirstmate,andJohnsonagreed.Johnsonsawmanywondersoftheworldonthevoyage.TheScheherazade

wasrammedinafoginBombayharbor,andonlyJohnsonsurvived.Hestayedin India for twoyears, becoming a follower ofMohandasK.Gandhi.HewasarrestedforleadinggroupsthatprotestedBritishrulebylyingdownonrailroadtracks.When his jail termwas over, hewas shipped atCrown expense to hishomeinTobago.There,hebuiltanotherschooner,whichhecalledtheLady’sSlipperII.AndhesailedherabouttheCaribbean,anidler,stillseekingthestormthat

woulddrivehimashoreonwhatwasunmistakablyhisdestiny.In1922,hesoughtshelter fromahurricane inPort-au-Prince,Haiti,which

countrywasthenoccupiedbyUnitedStatesMarines.Johnsonwasapproachedtherebyabrilliant,self-educated,idealisticMarine

deserter namedEarlMcCabe.McCabewas a corporal.He had just stolen hiscompany’s recreation fund. He offered Johnson five hundred dollars fortransportationtoMiami.ThetwosetsailforMiami.But agalehounded the schooneronto the rocksofSanLorenzo.Theboat

wentdown.JohnsonandMcCabe,absolutelynaked,managed toswimashore.AsBokononhimselfreportstheadventure:

AfishpitchedupBytheangrysea,Igaspedonland,AndIbecameme.

Hewasenchantedbythemysteryofcomingashorenakedonanunfamiliarisland.Heresolved to let theadventure run its fullcourse, resolved tosee justhowfaramanmightgo,emergingnakedfromsaltwater.Itwasarebirthforhim:

Belikeababy,TheBiblesay,SoIstaylikeababyTothisveryday.

HowhecamebythenameofBokononwasverysimple.“Bokonon”wasthepronunciationgiventhenameJohnsonintheisland’sEnglishdialect.Asforthatdialect…ThedialectofSanLorenzoisbotheasytounderstandanddifficulttowrite

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down. I say it is easy tounderstand,but I speakonly formyself.Othershavefound it as incomprehensible as Basque, so my understanding of it may betelepathic.PhilipCastle,inhisbook,gaveaphoneticdemonstrationofthedialectand

caughtitsflavorverywell.HechoseforhissampletheSanLorenzanversionof“Twinkle,Twinkle,LittleStar.”InAmericanEnglish,oneversionofthatimmortalpoemgoeslikethis:

Twinkle,twinkle,littlestar,HowIwonderwhatyouare,Shiningintheskysobright,Likeateatrayinthenight,Twinkle,twinkle,littlestar,HowIwonderwhatyouare.

InSanLorenzandialect,accordingtoCastle,thesamepoemwentlikethis:

Tsvent-kiul,tsvent-kiul,lett-poolstore,Kojytsvantoorbatvooyore.Put-shinikonlosheezobrath,Kamoonteetrononlonath,Tsvent-kiul,tsvent-kiul,lett-pollstore,Kojytsvantoorbatvooyore.Shortly after Johnson became Bokonon, incidentally, the lifeboat of his

shattered shipwas foundonshore.Thatboatwas laterpaintedgoldandmadethebedoftheisland’schiefexecutive.“Thereisalegend,madeupbyBokonon,”PhilipCastlewroteinhisbook,

“thatthegoldenboatwillsailagainwhentheendoftheworldisnear.”

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ANiceMidget50My reading of the life of Bokononwas interrupted byH. LoweCrosby’s

wife,Hazel.Shewasstandingintheaislenexttome.“You’llneverbelieveit,”shesaid,“butIjustfoundtwomoreHoosiersonthisairplane.”“I’llbedamned.”“They weren’t born Hoosiers, but they live there now. They live in

Indianapolis.”“Veryinteresting.”“Youwanttomeetthem?”“YouthinkIshould?”Thequestionbaffledher.“They’reyourfellowHoosiers.”“Whataretheirnames?”“HernameisConnersandhisnameisHoenikker.They’rebrotherandsister,

andhe’samidget.He’sanicemidget,though.”Shewinked.“He’sasmartlittlething.”“DoeshecallyouMom?”“I almost asked him to. And then I stopped, and I wondered if maybe it

wouldn’tberudetoaskamidgettodothat.”“Nonsense.”

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O.K.,Mom51So I went aft to talk to Angela Hoenikker Conners and little Newton

Hoenikker,membersofmykarass.Angelawasthehorse-facedplatinumblondeIhadnoticedearlier.Newtwasavery tinyyoungman indeed, thoughnotgrotesque.Hewasas

nicelyscaledasGulliveramongtheBrobdingnagians,andasshrewdlywatchful,too.Heheldaglassofchampagne,whichwasincludedinthepriceofhisticket.

Thatglasswastohimwhatafishbowlwouldhavebeentoanormalman,buthedrank from itwith elegant ease—as thoughhe and the glass could not havebeenbettermatched.The little sonofabitchhadacrystalof ice-nine ina thermosbottle inhis

luggage,andsodidhismiserablesister,whileunderuswasGod’sownamountofwater,theCaribbeanSea.WhenHazelhadgotallthepleasureshecouldfromintroducingHoosiersto

Hoosiers,sheleftusalone.“Remember,”shesaidassheleftus,“fromnowon,callmeMom.”“O.K.,Mom,”Isaid.“O.K.,Mom,”saidNewt.Hisvoicewasfairlyhigh,inkeepingwithhislittle

larynx.Buthemanagedtomakethatvoicedistinctlymasculine.AngelapersistedintreatingNewtlikeaninfant—andheforgaveherforit

withanamiablegraceIwouldhavethoughtimpossibleforonesosmall.NewtandAngela rememberedme, remembered the letters I’dwritten, and

invitedmetotaketheemptyseatintheirgroupofthree.Angelaapologizedtomeforneverhavingansweredmyletters.“I couldn’t think of anything to say thatwould interest anybody reading a

book.Icouldhavemadeupsomethingaboutthatday,butIdidn’tthinkyou’dwantthat.Actually,thedaywasjustlikearegularday.”“Yourbrotherherewrotemeaverygoodletter.”Angelawas surprised. “Newt did?How couldNewt remember anything?”

She turned to him. “Honey, you don’t remember anything about that day, doyou?Youwerejustababy.”“Iremember,”hesaidmildly.“IwishI’dseentheletter.”SheimpliedthatNewtwasstilltooimmatureto

deal directly with the outside world. Angela was a God-awfully insensitive

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woman,withnofeelingforwhatsmallnessmeanttoNewt.“Honey,youshouldhaveshowedmethatletter,”shescolded.“Sorry,”saidNewt.“Ididn’tthink.”“Imightaswell tellyou,”Angelasaid tome,“Dr.Breed toldmeIwasn’t

supposedtoco-operatewithyou.Hesaidyouweren’tinterestedingivingafairpictureofFather.”Sheshowedmethatshedidn’tlikemeforthat.I placated her some by telling her that the bookwould probably never be

doneanyway,thatInolongerhadaclearideaofwhatitwouldorshouldmean.“Well, ifyoueverdodo thebook,youbettermakeFatherasaint,because

that’swhathewas.”IpromisedthatIwoulddomybest topaint thatpicture.Iaskedifsheand

NewtwereboundforafamilyreunionwithFrankinSanLorenzo.“Frank’s getting married,” said Angela. “We’re going to the engagement

party.”“Oh?Who’stheluckygirl?”“I’ll show you,” said Angela, and she took from her purse a billfold that

contained a sort of plastic accordion. In each of the accordion’s pleats was aphotograph. Angela flipped through the photographs, giving me glimpses oflittleNewton aCapeCodbeach, ofDr.FelixHoenikker acceptinghisNobelPrize,ofAngela’sownhomelytwingirls,ofFrankflyingamodelplaneontheendofastring.AndthensheshowedmeapictureofthegirlFrankwasgoingtomarry.Shemight,withequaleffect,havestruckmeinthegroin.Thepicture she showedmewasofMonaAamonsMonzano, thewoman I

loved.

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NoPain52OnceAngelahadopenedherplasticaccordion,shewasreluctanttocloseit

untilsomeonehadlookedateveryphotograph.“TherearethepeopleIlove,”shedeclared.SoIlookedatthepeoplesheloved.Whatshehadtrappedinplexiglass,what

shehadtrappedlikefossilbeetles inamber,weretheimagesofa largepartofourkarass.Therewasn’tagranfalloonerinthecollection.ThereweremanyphotographsofDr.Hoenikker,fatherofabomb,fatherof

threechildren,fatherofice-nine.Hewasalittleperson,thepurportedsireofamidgetandagiantess.MyfavoritepictureoftheoldmaninAngela’sfossilcollectionshowedhim

allbundledup forwinter, in anovercoat, scarf, galoshes, andawoolknit capwithabigpom-pomonthecrown.Thispicture,Angela toldme,withacatch inher throat,hadbeen taken in

Hyannis just about three hours before the old man died. A newspaperphotographer had recognized the seeming Christmas elf for the great man hewas.“Didyourfatherdieinthehospital?”“Oh,no!Hediedinourcottage,inabigwhitewickerchairfacingthesea.

NewtandFrankhadgonewalkingdownthebeachinthesnow…”“Itwasaverywarmsnow,”saidNewt.“Itwasalmostlikewalkingthrough

orange blossoms. It was very strange. Nobody was in any of the othercottages…”“Ourswastheonlyonewithheat,”saidAngela.“Nobodywithinmiles,”recalledNewtwonderingly,“andFrankandIcame

acrossthisbigblackdogoutonthebeach,aLabradorretriever.Wethrewsticksintotheoceanandhebroughtthemback.”“I’dgonebackintothevillageformoreChristmastreebulbs,”saidAngela.

“Wealwayshadatree.”“DidyourfatherenjoyhavingaChristmastree?”“Heneversaid,”saidNewt.“Ithinkhelikedit,”saidAngela.“Hejustwasn’tverydemonstrative.Some

peoplearen’t.”“Andsomepeopleare,”saidNewt.Hegaveasmallshrug.“Anyway,” said Angela, “when we got back home, we found him in the

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chair.”Sheshookherhead.“Idon’tthinkhesufferedany.Hejustlookedasleep.Hecouldn’thavelookedlikethatifthere’dbeentheleastbitofpain.”Sheleftoutaninterestingpartofthestory.Sheleftoutthefactthatitwason

thatsameChristmasEvethatsheandFrankandlittleNewthaddivideduptheoldman’sice-nine.

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ThePresidentofFabri-Tek53Angelaencouragedmetogoonlookingatsnapshots.“That’sme,ifyoucanbelieveit.”Sheshowedmeanadolescentgirlsixfeet

tall.Shewasholdingaclarinetinthepicture,wearingthemarchinguniformofthe IliumHighSchool band.Her hairwas tuckedupunder a bandsman’s hat.Shewassmilingwithshygoodcheer.AndthenAngela,awomantowhomGodhadgivenvirtuallynothingwith

whichtocatchaman,showedmeapictureofherhusband.“So that’s Harrison C. Conners.” I was stunned. Her husband was a

strikingly handsomeman, and looked as thoughhe knew it.Hewas a snappydresser,andhadthelazyraptureofaDonJuanabouttheeyes.“What—whatdoeshedo?”Iasked.“He’spresidentofFabri-Tek.”“Electronics?”“Icouldn’ttellyou,evenifIknew.It’sallverysecretgovernmentwork.”“Weapons?”“Well,waranyway.”“Howdidyouhappentomeet?”“HeusedtoworkasalaboratoryassistanttoFather,”saidAngela.“Thenhe

wentouttoIndianapolisandstartedFabri-Tek.”“Soyourmarriagetohimwasahappyendingtoalongromance?”“No.Ididn’tevenknowheknewIwasalive.Iusedtothinkhewasnice,but

heneverpaidanyattentiontomeuntilafterFatherdied.“One day he came through Ilium. Iwas sitting around that big old house,

thinking my life was over…” She spoke of the awful days and weeks thatfollowedherfather’sdeath.“JustmeandlittleNewtinthatbigoldhouse.Frankhaddisappeared,andtheghostsweremakingtentimesasmuchnoiseasNewtandIwere.I’dgivenmywholelifetotakingcareofFather,drivinghimtoandfromwork,bundlinghimupwhenitwascold,unbundlinghimwhenitwashot,makinghimeat,payinghisbills.Suddenly,therewasn’tanythingformetodo.I’dneverhadanyclosefriends,didn’thaveasoultoturntobutNewt.“And then,” she continued, “there was a knock on the door— and there

stoodHarrisonConners.HewasthemostbeautifulthingI’deverseen.Hecamein,andwetalkedaboutFather’slastdaysandaboutoldtimesingeneral.”Angelaalmostcriednow.

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“Twoweekslater,weweremarried.”

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Communists,Nazis,Royalists,Parachutists,andDraftDodgers54Returning tomyownseat in theplane, feeling far shabbier forhaving lost

Mona Aamons Monzano to Frank, I resumed my reading of Philip Castle’smanuscript.IlookedupMonzano,MonaAamonsintheindex,andwastoldbytheindex

toseeAamons,Mona.SoIsawAamons,Mona,andfoundalmostasmanypagereferencesas I’d

foundafterthenameof“Papa”Monzanohimself.AndafterAamons,MonacameAamons,Nestor.SoIturnedtothefewpages

thathadtodowithNestor,andlearnedthathewasMona’sfather,anativeFinn,anarchitect.NestorAamonswascapturedbytheRussians,thenliberatedbytheGermans

duringtheSecondWorldWar.Hewasnotreturnedhomebyhisliberators,butwas forced to serve in aWehrmacht engineer unit that was sent to fight theYugoslavpartisans.HewascapturedbyChetniks,royalistSerbianpartisans,andthen byCommunist partisanswho attacked theChetniks.Hewas liberated byItalianparachutistswhosurprisedtheCommunists,andhewasshippedtoItaly.The Italians put him toworkdesigning fortifications forSicily.He stole a

fishingboatinSicily,andreachedneutralPortugal.Whilethere,hemetanAmericandraftdodgernamedJulianCastle.Castle, upon learning that Aamons was an architect, invited him to come

with him to the island of SanLorenzo and to design for him a hospital to becalledtheHouseofHopeandMercyintheJungle.Aamonsaccepted.Hedesignedthehospital,marriedanativewomannamed

Celia,fatheredaperfectdaughter,anddied.

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NeverIndexYourOwnBook55AsforthelifeofAamons,Mona,theindexitselfgaveajangling,surrealistic

pictureofthemanyconflictingforcesthathadbeenbroughttobearonherandofherdismayedreactionstothem.“Aamons,Mona:” the index said, “adopted byMonzano in order to boost

Monzano’s popularity, 194-199, 216a.; childhood in compound of House ofHopeandMercy,63-81;childhoodromancewithP.Castle,72f;deathoffather,89ff; deathofmother, 92f; embarrassedby role as national erotic symbol, 80,95f,166n.,209,247n.,400-406,566n.,678;engagedtoP.Castle,193;essentialnaïveté, 67-71, 80, 95f, 116a., 209, 274n., 400-406, 566a., 678; lives withBokonon,92-98,196-197;poemsabout,2n.,26,114,119,311,316,477n.,501,507,555n.,689,718ff,799ff,800n.,841,846ff,908n.,971,974;poemsby,89,92, 193; returns toMonzano, 199; returns to Bokonon, 197; runs away fromBokonon,199;runsawayfromMoazano,197;triestomakeselfuglyinordertostopbeingeroticsymboltoislanders,89,95f,116n.,209,247n.,400-406,566n.,678;tutoredbyBokonon,63-80;writeslettertoUnitedNations,200;xylophonevirtuoso,71.”IshowedthisindexentrytotheMintons,askingthemiftheydidn’tthinkit

was an enchanting biography in itself, a biography of a reluctant goddess oflove. I got an unexpectedly expert answer, as one does in life sometimes. ItappearedthatClaireMinton,inhertime,hadbeenaprofessionalindexer.Ihadneverheardofsuchaprofessionbefore.Shetoldmethatshehadputherhusbandthroughcollegeyearsbeforewith

herearningsasanindexer,thattheearningshadbeengood,andthatfewpeoplecouldindexwell.She said that indexing was a thing that only the most amateurish author

undertook to do for his own book. I asked her what she thought of PhilipCastle’sjob.“Flatteringtotheauthor,insultingtothereader,”shesaid.“Inahyphenated

word,”sheobserved,withtheshrewdamiabilityofanexpert,“‘self-indulgent.’I’m always embarrassedwhen I see an index an author hasmade of his ownwork.”“Embarrassed?”“It’sarevealingthing,anauthor’sindexofhisownwork,”sheinformedme.

“It’sashamelessexhibition—tothetrainedeye.”

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“Shecanreadcharacterfromanindex,”saidherhusband.“Oh?”Isaid.“WhatcanyoutellaboutPhilipCastle?”Shesmiledfaintly.“ThingsI’dbetternottellstrangers.”“Sorry.”“He’sobviouslyinlovewiththisMonaAamonsMonzano,”shesaid.“That’strueofeverymaninSanLorenzoIgather.”“Hehasmixedfeelingsabouthisfather,”shesaid.“That’strueofeverymanonearth.”Ieggedherongently.“He’sinsecure.”“Whatmortalisn’t?”Idemanded.Ididn’tknowitthen,butthatwasavery

Bokononistthingtodemand.“He’llnevermarryher.”“Whynot?”“I’vesaidallI’mgoingtosay,”shesaid.“I’mgratifiedtomeetanindexerwhorespectstheprivacyofothers.”“Neverindexyourownbook,”shestated.A duprass, Bokonon tells us, is a valuable instrument for gaining and

developing,intheprivacyofaninterminableloveaffair,insightsthatarequeerbuttrue.TheMintons’cunningexplorationofindexeswassurelyacaseinpoint.A duprass, Bokonon tells us, is also a sweetly conceited establishment. TheMintons’establishmentwasnoexception.Sometime later,AmbassadorMintonand Imet in theaisleof theairplane,

awayfromhiswife,andheshowed that itwas important tohim that I respectwhathiswifecouldfindoutfromindexes.“YouknowwhyCastlewillnevermarrythegirl,eventhoughhelovesher,

eventhoughsheloveshim,eventhoughtheygrewuptogether?”hewhispered.“No,sir,Idon’t.”“Becausehe’sahomosexual,”whisperedMinton.“Shecantellthatfroman

index,too.”

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ASelf-supportingSquirrelCage56When Lionel Boyd Johnson and Corporal Earl McCabe were washed up

nakedonto theshoreofSanLorenzo, I read, theyweregreetedbypersons farworseoffthanthey.ThepeopleofSanLorenzohadnothingbutdiseases,whichtheywereatalosstotreatorevenname.Bycontrast,JohnsonandMcCabehadtheglittering treasuresof literacy,ambition,curiosity,gall, irreverence,health,humor,andconsiderableinformationabouttheoutsideworld.Fromthe“Calypsos”again:

Oh,averysorrypeople,yes,DidIfindhere.Oh,theyhadnomusic,Andtheyhadnobeer.And,oh,everywhereWheretheytriedtoperchBelongedtoCastleSugar,Incorporated,OrtheCatholicchurch.

This statementof theproperty situation inSanLorenzo in1922 is entirelyaccurate,accordingtoPhilipCastle.CastleSugarwasfounded,asithappened,byPhilipCastle’sgreat-grandfather.In1922,itownedeverypieceofarablelandontheisland.“Castle Sugar’s San Lorenzo operations,” wrote young Castle, “never

showed a profit.But, by paying laborers nothing for their labor, the companymanaged to break evenyear after year,making just enoughmoney to pay thesalariesoftheworkers’tormentors.“The form of governmentwas anarchy, save in limited situationswherein

Castle Sugar wanted to own something or to get something done. In suchsituationstheformorgovernmentwasfeudalism.ThenobilitywascomposedofCastleSugar’splantationbosses,whowereheavilyarmedwhitemenfromtheoutsideworld.Theknighthoodwascomposedofbignativeswho,forsmallgiftsandsillyprivileges,wouldkillorwoundor tortureoncommand.Thespiritualneedsofthepeoplecaughtinthisdemoniacalsquirrelcageweretakencareofbyahandfulofbutterballpriests.“TheSanLorenzoCathedral,dynamitedin1923,wasgenerallyregardedas

oneoftheman-madewondersoftheNewWorld,”wroteCastle.

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TheQueasyDream57That Corporal McCabe and Johnson were able to take command of San

Lorenzo was not a miracle in any sense. Many people had taken over SanLorenzo—hadinvariablyfounditlightlyheld.Thereasonwassimple:God,inHisInfiniteWisdom,hadmadetheislandworthless.Hernando Cortes was the first man to have his sterile conquest of San

Lorenzorecordedonpaper.Cortesandhismencameashoreforfreshwaterin1519, named the island, claimed it for Emperor Charles the Fifth, and neverreturned. Subsequent expeditions came for gold and diamonds and rubies andspices, found none, burned a few natives for entertainment and heresy, andsailedon.“WhenFranceclaimedSanLorenzo in1682,”wroteCastle,“noSpaniards

complained. When Denmark claimed San Lorenzo in 1699, no Frenchmencomplained. When the Dutch claimed San Lorenzo in 1704, no Danescomplained. When England claimed San Lorenzo in 1706, no Dutchmencomplained. When Spain reclaimed San Lorenzo in 1720, no Englishmencomplained.When, in1786,AfricanNegroestookcommandofaBritishslaveship,ranitashoreonSanLorenzo,andproclaimedSanLorenzoanindependentnation,anempirewithanemperor,infact,noSpaniardscomplained.“The emperor was Tum-bumwa, the only person who ever regarded the

island asbeingworthdefending.Amaniac,Tum-bumwacaused tobe erectedtheSanLorenzoCathedralandthefantasticfortificationsonthenorthshoreofthe island, fortifications within which the private residence of the so-calledPresidentoftheRepublicnowstands.“The fortifications have never been attacked, nor has any sane man ever

proposed any reasonwhy they should be attacked. They have never defendedanything.Fourteenhundredpersonsaresaid tohavediedwhilebuilding them.Of thesefourteenhundred,abouthalfaresaid tohavebeenexecuted inpublicforsubstandardzeal.”CastleSugarcameintoSanLorenzoin1916,duringthesugarboomofthe

FirstWorldWar.Therewasnogovernmentatall.Thecompanyimaginedthateven theclayandgravel fieldsofSanLorenzocouldbe tilledprofitably,withthepriceofsugarsohigh.Noonecomplained.WhenMcCabeandJohnsonarrived in1922andannounced that theywere

placingthemselvesincharge,CastleSugarwithdrewflaccidly,asthoughfroma

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queasydream.

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TyrannywithaDifference58“Therewasat leastonequalityof thenewconquerorsofSanLorenzo that

wasreallynew,”wroteyoungCastle.“McCabeandJohnsondreamedofmakingSanLorenzoaUtopia.“Tothisend,McCabeoverhauledtheeconomyandthelaws.“Johnsondesignedanewreligion.”Castlequotedthe“Calypsos”again:

IwantedallthingsToseemtomakesomesense,Soweallcouldbehappy,yes,Insteadoftense.AndImadeupliesSothattheyallfitnice,AndImadethissadworldApar-a-dise.

There was a tug at my coat sleeve as I read. I looked up. Little NewtHoenikkerwasstandingintheaislenexttome.“Ithoughtmaybeyou’dliketogobacktothebar,”hesaid,“andhoistafew.”Sowedidhoistandtoppleafew,andNewt’stonguewasloosenedenoughto

tellmesome thingsaboutZinka,hisRussianmidgetdancer friend.Their lovenest,hetoldme,hadbeeninhisfather’scottageonCapeCod.“Imaynoteverhaveamarriage,butatleastI’vehadahoneymoon.”HetoldmeofidyllichoursheandhisZinkahadspentineachother’sarms,

cradledinFelixHoenikker’soldwhitewickerchair,thechairthatfacedthesea.AndZinkawoulddanceforhim.“Imagineawomandancingjustforme.”“Icanseeyouhavenoregrets.”“Shebrokemyheart.Ididn’tlikethatmuch.Butthatwastheprice.Inthis

world,yougetwhatyoupayfor.”Heproposedagallanttoast.“Sweetheartsandwives,”hecried.

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FastenYourSeatBelts59IwasinthebarwithNewtandH.LoweCrosbyandacoupleofstrangers,

whenSanLorenzowassighted.Crosbywastalkingaboutpissants.“YouknowwhatImeanbyapissant?”“I know the term,” I said, “but it obviously doesn’t have the ding-a-ling

associationsformethatithasforyou.”Crosbywasinhiscupsandhadthedrunkard’sillusionthathecouldspeak

frankly,providedhespokeaffectionately.HespokefranklyandaffectionatelyofNewt’ssize,somethingnobodyelseinthebarhadsofarcommentedon.“Idon’tmeana little feller like this.”CrosbyhungahamhandonNewt’s

shoulder.“It isn’tsize thatmakesamanapissant. It’s thewayhe thinks. I’veseenmenfourtimesasbigasthislittlefellerhere,andtheywerepissants.AndI’veseen little fellers—well,not this littleactually,butprettydamnlittle,byGod—andI’dcallthemrealmen.”“Thanks,”saidNewtpleasantly,notevenglancingatthemonstroushandon

his shoulder. Never had I seen a human being better adjusted to such ahumiliatingphysicalhandicap.Ishudderedwithadmiration.“Youweretalkingaboutpissants,”IsaidtoCrosby,hopingtogettheweight

ofhishandoffNewt.“DamnrightIwas.”Crosbystraightenedup.“Youhaven’ttolduswhatapissantisyet,”Isaid.“Apissant issomebodywhothinkshe’ssodamnsmart,henevercankeep

hismouthshut.Nomatterwhatanybodysays,he’sgottoarguewithit.Yousayyoulikesomething,and,byGod,he’ll tellyouwhyyou’rewrongtolikeit.Apissantdoeshisbesttomakeyoufeellikeabooballthetime.Nomatterwhatyousay,heknowsbetter.”“Notaveryattractivecharacteristic,”Isuggested.“Mydaughterwantedtomarryapissantonce,”saidCrosbydarkly.“Didshe?”“I squashed him like a bug.” Crosby hammered on the bar, remembering

things the pissant had said and done. “Jesus!” he said, “we’ve all been tocollege!”HisgazelitonNewtagain.“Yougotocollege?”“Cornell,”saidNewt.“Cornell!”criedCrosbygladly.“MyGod,IwenttoCornell.”“Sodidhe.”Newtnoddedatme.

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“Three Cornellians — all in the same plane!” said Crosby, and we hadanothergranfalloonfestivalonourhands.Whenitsubsidedsome,CrosbyaskedNewtwhathedid.“Ipaint.”“Houses?”“Pictures.”“I’llbedamned,”saidCrosby.“Returntoyourseatsandfastenyourseatbelts,please,”warnedtheairline

hostess.“We’reoverMonzanoAirport,Bolivar,SanLorenzo.”“Christ!NowwaitjustaGoddamnminutehere,”saidCrosby,lookingdown

atNewt.“AllofasuddenIrealizeyou’vegotanameI’veheardbefore.”“My father was the father of the atom bomb.” Newt didn’t say Felix

Hoenikkerwasoneofthefathers.HesaidFelixwasthefather.“Isthatso?”askedCrosby.“That’sso.”“Iwas thinking about something else,” saidCrosby.Hehad to thinkhard.

“Somethingaboutadancer.”“Ithinkwe’dbettergetbacktoourseats,”saidNewt,tighteningsome.“Something about a Russian dancer.” Crosby was sufficiently addled by

boozetoseenoharminthinkingoutloud.“Irememberaneditorialabouthowmaybethedancerwasaspy.”“Please,gentlemen,”saidthestewardess,“youreallymustgetbacktoyour

seatsandfastenyourbelts.”Newt looked up at H. Lowe Crosby innocently. “You sure the name was

Hoenikker?” And, in order to eliminate any chance of mistaken identity, hespelledthenameforCrosby.“Icouldbewrong,”saidH.LoweCrosby.

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AnUnderprivilegedNation60Theisland,seenfromtheair,wasanamazinglyregularrectangle.Crueland

uselessstoneneedleswerethrustupfromthesea.Theysketchedacirclearoundit.AtthesouthendoftheislandwastheportcityofBolivar.Itwastheonlycity.Itwasthecapital.Itwasbuiltonamarshytable.TherunwaysofMonzanoAirportwereonits

waterfront.MountainsaroseabruptlytothenorthofBolivar,crowdingtheremainderof

the island with their brutal humps. They were called the Sangre de CristoMountains,buttheylookedlikepigsatatroughtome.Bolivar had had many names: Caz-ma-caz-ma, Santa Maria, Saint Louis,

Saint George, and Port Glory among them. It was given its present name byJohnsonandMcCabein1922,wasnamedinhonorofSimonBolivar,thegreatLatin-Americanidealistandhero.When Johnson andMcCabe cameupon the city, itwas built of twigs, tin,

crates, and mud — rested on the catacombs of a trillion happy scavengers,catacombsinasourmashofslop,feculence,andslime.ThatwasprettymuchthewayIfoundit,too,exceptforthenewarchitectural

falsefacealongthewaterfront.JohnsonandMcCabehadfailedtoraisethepeoplefrommiseryandmuck.“Papa”Monzanohadfailed,too.Everybodywas bound to fail, for SanLorenzowas as unproductive as an

equalareaintheSaharaorthePolarIcecap.Atthesametime,ithadasdenseapopulationascouldbefoundanywhere,

IndiaandChinanotexcluded.Therewerefourhundredandfiftyinhabitantsforeachuninhabitablesquaremile.“During the idealistic phase ofMcCabe’s and Johnson’s reorganization of

SanLorenzo,itwasannouncedthatthecountry’stotalincomewouldbedividedamongalladultpersonsinequalshares,”wrotePhilipCastle.“Thefirstandonlytimethiswastried,eachsharecametobetweensixandsevendollars.”

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WhataCorporalWasWorth61InthecustomsshedatMonzanoAirport,wewereallrequiredtosubmittoa

luggage inspection, and to convert what money we intended to spend in SanLorenzointothelocalcurrency,intoCorporals,which“Papa”MonzanoinsistedwereworthfiftyAmericancents.Theshedwasneatandnew,butplentyofsignshadalreadybeenslappedon

thewalls,higgledy-piggledy.ANYBODY CAUGHT PRACTICING BOKONONISM IN SAN

LORENZO,saidone,WILLDIEONTHEHOOK!Another poster featured a picture ofBokonon, a scrawny old coloredman

whowassmokingacigar.Helookedcleverandkindandamused.Under the picture were the words:WANTEDDEADORALIVE, 10,000

CORPORALSREWARD!I tookacloser lookat thatposterandfoundreproducedat thebottomof it

somesortofpoliceidentificationformBokononhadhadtofilloutwaybackin1929. It was reproduced, apparently, to show Bokonon hunters what hisfingerprintsandhandwritingwerelike.ButwhatinterestedmeweresomeofthewordsBokononhadchosentoput

intotheblanksin1929.Whereverpossible,hehadtakenthecosmicview,hadtakenintoconsideration,forinstance,suchthingsastheshortnessoflifeandthelongnessofeternity.Hereportedhisavocationas:“Beingalive.”Hereportedhisprincipaloccupationas:“Beingdead.”THIS IS A CHRISTIAN NATION! ALL FOOT PLAY WILL BE

PUNISHEDBYTHEHOOK, said another sign.The signwasmeaningless tome,sinceIhadnotyetlearnedthatBokononistsmingledtheirsoulsbypressingthebottomsoftheirfeettogether.And the greatestmystery of all, since I had not read all of PhilipCastle’s

book,washowBokonon,bosomfriendofCorporalMcCabe,hadcometobeanoutlaw.

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WhyHazelWasn’tScared62There were seven of us who got off at San Lorenzo: Newt and Angela,

AmbassadorMintonandhiswife,H.LoweCrosbyandhiswife,andI.Whenwehadclearedcustoms,wewereherdedoutdoorsandontoareviewingstand.There,wefacedaveryquietcrowd.Five thousand or more San Lorenzans stared at us. The islanders were

oatmeal colored. The peoplewere thin. Therewasn’t a fat person to be seen.Everypersonhadteethmissing.Manylegswerebowedorswollen.Notonepairofeyeswasclear.Thewomen’sbreastswerebareandpaltry.Themenwore loose loincloths

thatdidlittletoconcealpeniseslikependulumsongrandfatherclocks.Thereweremanydogs,butnotonebarked.Thereweremanyinfants,butnot

onecried.Hereandtheresomeonecoughed—andthatwasall.Amilitarybandstoodatattentionbeforethecrowd.Itdidnotplay.Therewas a color guard before the band. It carried twobanners, theStars

andStripesandtheflagofSanLorenzo.TheflagofSanLorenzoconsistedofaMarineCorporal’schevronsonaroyalbluefield.Thebannershunglankinthewindlessday.IimaginedthatsomewherefarawayIheardtheblammingofasledgeona

brazendrum.Therewasnosuchsound.Mysoulwassimplyresonatingthebeatofthebrassy,clangingheatoftheSanLorenzanclimant.“I’m sure glad it’s a Christian country,” Hazel Crosby whispered to her

husband,“orI’dbealittlescared.”Behinduswasaxylophone.Therewasaglitteringsignonthexylophone.Thesignwasmadeofgarnets

andrhinestones.Thesignsaid,MONA.

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ReverentandFree63To the left side of our reviewing stand were six propeller-driven fighter

planesinarow,militaryassistancefromtheUnitedStatestoSanLorenzo.Onthefuselageofeachplanewaspainted,withchildishbloodlust,aboaconstrictorwhichwascrushingadeviltodeath.Bloodcamefromthedevil’sears,nose,andmouth.Apitchforkwasslippingfromsatanicredfingers.Beforeeachplanestoodanoatmeal-coloredpilot;silent,too.Then,abovethattumidsilence,therecameanaggingsonglikethesongofa

gnat. It was a siren approaching. The siren was on “Papa’s” glossy blackCadillaclimousine.Thelimousinecametoastopbeforeus,tiressmoking.Out climbed “Papa” Monzano, his adopted daughter, Mona Aamons

Monzano,andFranklinHoenikker.Atalimp,imperioussignalfrom“Papa,”thecrowdsangtheSanLorenzan

NationalAnthem. Itsmelodywas“Homeon theRange.”Thewordshadbeenwrittenin1922byLionelBoydJohnson,byBokonon.Thewordswerethese:

Oh,oursisalandWherethelivingisgrand,Andthemenareasfearlessassharks;Thewomenarepure,AndwealwaysaresureThatourchildrenwillalltoetheirmarks.San,SanLo-ren-zo!Whatarich,luckyislandarewe!Ourenemiesquail,FortheyknowtheywillfailAgainstpeoplesoreverentandfree.

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PeaceandPlenty64Andthenthecrowdwasdeathlystillagain.“Papa” andMona and Frank joined us on the reviewing stand.One snare

drum played as they did so. The drumming stopped when “Papa” pointed afingeratthedrummer.Hewore a shoulder holster on theoutsideof his blouse.Theweapon in it

wasachromium-plated.45.Hewasanold,oldman,assomanymembersofmykarasswere.Hewasinpoorshape.Hisstepsweresmallandbounceless.Hewasstillafatman,buthis lardwasmeltingfast, forhissimpleuniformwasloose.Theballsofhishoptoadeyeswereyellow.Hishandstrembled.His personal bodyguard was Major General Franklin Hoenikker, whose

uniformwaswhite.Frank—thin-wristed,narrow-shouldered—looked likeachildkeptuplongafterhiscustomarybedtime.Onhisbreastwasamedal.Iobserved the two,“Papa”andFrank,withsomedifficulty—notbecause

myviewwasblocked, but because I could not takemy eyes offMona. Iwasthrilled, heartbroken, hilarious, insane. Every greedy, unreasonable dream I’deverhadaboutwhatawomanshouldbecametrueinMona.There,Godloveherwarmandcreamysoul,waspeaceandplentyforever.That girl — and she was only eighteen — was rapturously serene. She

seemedtounderstandall,andtobealltherewastounderstand.InTheBooksofBokonon she is mentioned by name. One thing Bokonon says of her is this:“Monahasthesimplicityoftheall.”HerdresswaswhiteandGreek.Sheworeflatsandalsonhersmallbrownfeet.Herpalegoldhairwaslankandlong.Herhipswerealyre.OhGod.Peaceandplentyforever.ShewastheonebeautifulgirlinSanLorenzo.Shewasthenationaltreasure.

“Papa”hadadoptedher,accordingtoPhilipCastle, inorder tomingledivinitywiththeharshnessofhisrule.Thexylophonewasrolledtothefrontofthestand.AndMonaplayedit.She

played “WhenDay IsDone.” Itwas all tremolo— swelling, fading, swellingagain.Thecrowdwasintoxicatedbybeauty.Andthenitwastimefor“Papa”togreetus.

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AGoodTimetoCometoSanLorenzo65

“Papa” was a self-educated man, who had been majordomo to CorporalMcCabe.Hehadneverbeenofftheisland.HespokeAmericanEnglishpassablywell.Everythingthatanyoneofussaidonthereviewingstandwasbellowedout

atthecrowdthroughdoomsdayhorns.Whatever went out through those horns gabbled down a wide, short

boulevard at the back of the crowd, ricocheted off the three glass-faced newbuildingsattheendoftheboulevard,andcamecacklingback.“Welcome,”said“Papa.”“Youarecomingto thebest friendAmericaever

had.Americaismisunderstoodmanyplaces,butnothere,Mr.Ambassador.”HebowedtoH.LoweCrosby,thebicyclemanufacturer,mistakinghimforthenewAmbassador.“I know you’ve got a good country here, Mr. President,” said Crosby.

“EverythingIeverheardaboutitsoundsgreattome.There’sjustonething…”“Oh?”“I’mnottheAmbassador,”said’Crosby.“IwishIwas,butI’mjustaplain,

ordinarybusinessman.”IthurthimtosaywhotherealAmbassadorwas.“Thismanoverhereisthebigcheese.”“Ah!”“Papa”smiledathismistake.Thesmilewentawaysuddenly.Some

paininsideofhimmadehimwince,thenmadehimhunchover,closehiseyes—madehimconcentrateonsurvivingthepain.Frank Hoenikker went to his support, feebly, incompetently. “Are you all

right?”“Excuseme,”“Papa”whisperedat last, straighteningupsome.Therewere

tears in his eyes.He brushed them away, straightening up all theway. “I begyourpardon.”Heseemedtobeindoubtforamomentastowherehewas,astowhatwas

expected of him.And then he remembered.He shookHorlickMinton’s hand.“Here,youareamongfriends.”“I’msureofit,”saidMintongently.“Christian,”said“Papa.”“Good.”

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“Anti-Communists,”said“Papa.”“Good.”“NoCommunistshere,”said“Papa.”“Theyfearthehooktoomuch.”“Ishouldthinktheywould,”saidMinton.“Youhavepickedaverygoodtimetocometous,”said“Papa.”“Tomorrow

willbeoneofthehappiestdaysinthehistoryofourcountry.Tomorrowisourgreatestnationalholiday,TheDayoftheHundredMartyrstoDemocracy.ItwillalsobethedayoftheengagementofMajorGeneralHoenikkertoMonaAamonsMonzano,tothemostpreciouspersoninmylifeandinthelifeofSanLorenzo.”“Iwishyoumuchhappiness,MissMonzano,”saidMintonwarmly.“AndI

congratulateyou,GeneralHoenikker.”Thetwoyoungpeoplenoddedtheirthanks.Mintonnowspokeoftheso-calledHundredMartyrstoDemocracy,andhe

toldawhoopinglie.“ThereisnotanAmericanschoolchildwhodoesnotknowthe story of San Lorenzo’s noble sacrifice in WorldWar Two. The hundredbraveSanLorenzans,whosedaytomorrowis,gaveasmuchasfreedom-lovingmen can. The President of theUnited States has askedme to be his personalrepresentativeatceremoniestomorrow,tocastawreath,thegiftoftheAmericanpeopletothepeopleofSanLorenzo,onthesea.”“ThepeopleofSanLorenzothankyouandyourPresidentandthegenerous

peopleof theUnitedStatesofAmerica for their thoughtfulness,” said “Papa.”“We would be honored if you would cast the wreath into the sea during theengagementpartytomorrow.”“Thehonorismine.”“Papa” commanded us all to honor him with our presence at the wreath

ceremonyand engagementpartynext day.Wewere to appear at his palace atnoon.“What children these two will have!” “Papa” said, inviting us to stare at

FrankandMona.“Whatblood!Whatbeauty!”Thepainhithimagain.Heagainclosedhiseyestohuddlehimselfaroundthatpain.Hewaitedforittopass,butitdidnotpass.Stillinagony,heturnedawayfromus,facedthecrowdandthemicrophone.

Hetriedtogestureatthecrowd,failed.Hetriedtosaysomethingtothecrowd,failed.Andthenthewordscameout.“Gohome,”hecriedstrangling.“Gohome!”Thecrowdscatteredlikeleaves.“Papa”facedusagain,stillgrotesqueinpain.…Andthenhecollapsed.

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TheStrongestThingThereIs66Hewasn’tdead.Buthecertainly lookeddead;except thatnowand then, in themidstofall

thatseemingdeath,hewouldgiveashiveringtwitch.Frankprotestedloudlythat“Papa”wasn’tdead,thathecouldn’tbedead.He

wasfrantic.“‘Papa’!Youcan’tdie!Youcan’t!”Frankloosened“Papa’s”collarandblouse,rubbedhiswrists.“Givehimair!

Give‘Papa’air!”Thefighter-planepilotscamerunningovertohelpus.Onehadsenseenough

togofortheairportambulance.The band and the color guard,which had received no orders, remained at

quiveringattention.IlookedforMona,foundthatshewasstillsereneandhadwithdrawntothe

railofthereviewingstand.Death,iftherewasgoingtobedeath,didnotalarmher.Standing next to herwas a pilot.Hewas not looking at her, but he had a

perspiringradiancethatIattributedtohisbeingsoneartoher.“Papa”nowregainedsomethinglikeconsciousness.Withahandthatflapped

likeacapturedbird,hepointedatFrank.“You…”hesaid.Weallfellsilent,inordertohearhiswords.Hislipsmoved,butwecouldhearnothingbutbubblingsounds.Somebodyhadwhatlookedlikeawonderfulideathen—whatlookslikea

hideousideainretrospect.Someone—apilot,I think—tookthemicrophonefrom its mount and held it by “Papa’s” bubbling lips in order to amplify hiswords.Sodeathrattlesandallsortsofspasticyodelsbouncedoffthenewbuildings.Andthencamewords.“You,”hesaidtoFrankhoarsely,“you—FranklinHoenikker—youwillbe

thenextPresidentofSanLorenzo.Science—youhavescience.Scienceisthestrongestthingthereis.“Science,”said“Papa.”“Ice.”Herolledhisyelloweyes,andhepassedout

again.IlookedatMona.Herexpressionwasunchanged.Thepilotnext toher,however,hadhis featurescomposed in thecatatonic,

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orgiasticrigidityofonereceivingtheCongressionalMedalofHonor.IlookeddownandIsawwhatIwasnotmeanttosee.Monahadslippedoffhersandal.Hersmallbrownfootwasbare.And with that foot, she was kneading and kneading and kneading —

obscenelykneading—theinstepoftheflyer’sboot.

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Hy-u-o-ook-kuh!67“Papa”didn’tdie—notthen.Hewasrolledawayintheairport’sbigredmeatwagon.TheMintonswere

takentotheirembassybyanAmericanlimousine.NewtandAngelaweretakentoFrank’shouseinaSanLorenzanlimousine.TheCrosbysandIweretakentotheCasaMonahotelinSanLorenzo’sone

taxi,ahearselike1939Chryslerlimousinewithjumpseats.ThenameonthesideofthecabwasCastleTransportationInc.ThecabwasownedbyPhilipCastle,theowneroftheCasaMona,thesonofthecompletelyunselfishmanIhadcometointerview.The Crosbys and I were both upset. Our consternation was expressed in

questionswehadtohaveansweredatonce.TheCrosbyswantedtoknowwhoBokononwas.Theywerescandalizedbytheideathatanyoneshouldbeopposedto“Papa”Monzano.Irrelevantly,IfoundthatIhadtoknowatoncewhotheHundredMartyrsto

Democracyhadbeen.The Crosbys got their answer first. They could not understand the San

Lorenzandialect,soIhadtotranslateforthem.Crosby’sbasicquestiontoourdriverwas:“WhothehellisthispissantBokonon,anyway?”“Very bad man,” said the driver.What he actually said was, “Vorry ball

moan.”“ACommunist?”askedCrosby,whenheheardmytranslation.“Oh,sure.”“Hashegotanyfollowing?”“Sir?”“Doesanybodythinkhe’sanygood?”“Oh,no,sir,”saidthedriverpiously.“Nobodythatcrazy.”“Whyhasn’thebeencaught?”demandedCrosby.“Hardmantofind,”saidthedriver.“Verysmart.”“Well,peoplemustbehidinghimandgivinghimfoodorhe’dbecaughtby

now.”“Nobodyhidehim;nobodyfeedhim.Everybodytoosmarttodothat.”“Yousure?”“Oh,sure,”saidthedriver.“Anybodyfeedthatcrazyoldman,anybodygive

himplacetosleep,theygetthehook.Nobodywantthehook.”

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Hepronouncedthatlastword:“hy-u-o-ook-kuh.”

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Hoon-yeraMora-toorz68I asked the driverwho theHundredMartyrs toDemocracy had been. The

boulevardweweregoingdown,Isaw,wascalledtheBoulevardoftheHundredMartyrstoDemocracy.The driver told me that San Lorenzo had declared war on Germany and

JapananhourafterPearlHarborwasattacked.SanLorenzoconscriptedahundredmentofighton thesideofdemocracy.

ThesehundredmenwereputonashipboundfortheUnitedStates,wheretheyweretobearmedandtrained.TheshipwassunkbyaGermansubmarinerightoutsideofBolivarharbor.“Dose,sore,”hesaid,“yeearalohoon-yeramora-toorztutzamoo-cratz-ya.”“Those,sir,”he’dsaidindialect,“aretheHundredMartyrstoDemocracy.”

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ABigMosaic69TheCrosbysandIhadthecuriousexperienceofbeingtheveryfirstguests

ofanewhotel.WewerethefirsttosigntheregisteroftheCasaMona.The Crosbys got to the desk ahead of me, but H. Lowe Crosby was so

startledbyawhollyblankregisterthathecouldn’tbringhimselftosign.Hehadtothinkaboutitawhile.“You sign,” he said to me. And then, defying me to think he was

superstitious,hedeclaredhiswishtophotographamanwhowasmakingahugemosaiconthefreshplasterofthelobbywall.Themosaicwas a portrait ofMonaAamonsMonzano. Itwas twenty feet

high.Themanwhowasworkingonitwasyoungandmuscular.Hesatatthetopofastepladder.Heworenothingbutapairofwhiteducktrousers.Hewasawhiteman.ThemosaicistwasmakingthefinehairsonthenapeofMona’sswanneck

outofchipsofgold.Crosbywentovertophotographhim;camebacktoreportthatthemanwas

thebiggestpissanthehadevermet.Crosbywasthecoloroftomatojuicewhenhereported this.“Youcan’tsayadamnthing tohimthathewon’t turn insideout.”SoIwentovertothemosaicist,watchedhimforawhile,andthenItoldhim,

“Ienvyyou.”“Ialwaysknew,”hesighed,“that,ifIwaitedlongenough,somebodywould

come and envy me. I kept telling myself to be patient, that, sooner or later,somebodyenviouswouldcomealong.”“AreyouanAmerican?”“Thathappinessismine.”Hewentrightonworking;hewasincuriousasto

whatIlookedlike.“Doyouwanttotakemyphotograph,too?”“Doyoumind?”“Ithink;thereforeIam,thereforeIamphotographable.”“I’mafraidIdon’thavemycamerawithme.”“Well,forChrist’ssake,getit!You’renotoneofthosepeoplewhotrustshis

memory,areyou?”“Idon’tthinkI’llforgetthatfaceyou’reworkingonverysoon.”“You’llforgetitwhenyou’redead,andsowillI.WhenI’mdead,I’mgoing

toforgeteverything—andIadviseyoutodothesame.”

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“Has she been posing for this or are you working from photographs orwhat?”“I’mworkingfromorwhat.”“What?”“I’mworkingfromorwhat.”Hetappedhistemple.“It’sallinthisenviable

headofmine.”“Youknowher?”“Thathappinessismine.”“FrankHoenikker’saluckyman.”“FrankHoenikkerisapieceofshit.”“You’recertainlycandid.”“I’malsorich.”“Gladtohearit.”“If you want an expert opinion, money doesn’t necessarily make people

happy.”“Thanksfortheinformation.You’vejustsavedmealotoftrouble.Iwasjust

abouttomakesomemoney.”“How?”“Writing.”“Iwroteabookonce.”“Whatwasitcalled?”“SanLorenzo,”hesaid,“theLand,theHistory,thePeople.”

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TutoredbyBokonon70“You, I take it,” I said to the mosaicist, “are Philip Castle, son of Julian

Castle.”“Thathappinessismine.”“I’mheretoseeyourfather.”“Areyouanaspirinsalesman?”“No.”“Toobad.Father’slowonaspirin.Howaboutmiracledrugs?Fatherenjoys

pullingoffamiraclenowandthen.”“I’mnotadrugsalesman.I’mawriter.”“Whatmakesyouthinkawriterisn’tadrugsalesman?”“I’llacceptthat.Guiltyascharged.”“Father needs some kind of book to read to people who are dying or in

terriblepain.Idon’tsupposeyou’vewrittenanythinglikethat.”“Notyet.”“Ithinkthere’dbemoneyinit.There’sanothervaluabletipforyou.”“I suppose I could overhaul the ‘Twenty-third Psalm,’ switch it around a

littlesonobodywouldrealizeitwasn’toriginalwithme.”“Bokonontriedtooverhaulit,”hetoldme.“Bokononfoundouthecouldn’t

changeaword.”“Youknowhim,too?”“That happiness is mine. He was my tutor when I was a little boy.” He

gesturedsentimentallyatthemosaic.“HewasMona’stutor,too.”“Washeagoodteacher?”“MonaandIcanbothreadandwriteanddosimplesums,”saidCastle,“if

that’swhatyoumean.”

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TheHappinessofBeinganAmerican71H.LoweCrosbycameovertohaveanothergoatCastle,thepissant.“Whatdoyoucallyourself,”sneeredCrosby,“abeatnikorwhat?”“IcallmyselfaBokononist.”“That’sagainstthelawinthiscountry,isn’tit?”“IhappentohavethehappinessofbeinganAmerican.I’vebeenabletosay

I’maBokononistanytimeIdamnplease,and,sofar,nobody’sbotheredmeatall.”“IbelieveinobeyingthelawsofwhatevercountryIhappentobein.”“Youarenottellingmethenews.”Crosbywaslivid.“Screwyou,Jack!”“Screw you, Jasper,” said Castle mildly, “and screw Mother’s Day and

Christmas,too.”Crosbymarchedacross the lobby to thedeskclerkandhe said, “Iwant to

report thatmanover there, thatpissant, that so-calledartist.You’vegotanicelittlecountryherethat’stryingtoattractthetouristtradeandnewinvestmentinindustry.Thewaythatmantalkedtome,Idon’teverwanttoseeSanLorenzoagain—andanyfriendwhoasksmeaboutSanLorenzo,I’lltellhimtokeepthehellaway.Youmaybegettinganicepictureonthewalloverthere,but,byGod,thepissantwho’smakingit is themost insulting,discouragingsonofabitchIevermetinmylife.”Theclerklookedsick.“Sir…”“I’mlistening,”saidCrosby,fulloffire.“Sir—heownsthehotel.”

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ThePissantHilton72H.LoweCrosbyandhiswifecheckedoutoftheCasaMona.Crosbycalledit

“ThePissantHilton,”andhedemandedquartersattheAmericanembassy.SoIwastheonlyguestinaone-hundred-roomhotel.Myroomwasapleasantone.Itfaced,asdidalltherooms,theBoulevardof

the Hundred Martyrs to Democracy, Monzano Airport, and Bolivar harborbeyond.TheCasaMonawasbuiltlikeabookcase,withsolidsidesandbackandwithafrontofblue-greenglass.Thesqualorandmiseryofthecity,beingtothesidesandbackoftheCasaMona,wereimpossibletosee.My roomwas air-conditioned. Itwas almost chilly.And, coming from the

blammingheatintothatchilliness,Isneezed.Therewerefreshflowersonmybedsidetable,butmybedhadnotyetbeen

made.Therewasn’tevenapillowonthebed.Therewassimplyabare,brand-newBeautyrestmattress.Andthereweren’tanycoathangersinthecloset;andtherewasn’tanytoiletpaperinthebathroom.SoIwentoutinthecorridortoseeiftherewasachambermaidwhowould

equipme a littlemore completely. Therewasn’t anybody out there, but therewasadooropenatthefarendandveryfaintsoundsoflife.Iwent to this door and found a large suite pavedwith drop-cloths. Itwas

beingpainted,butthetwopaintersweren’tpaintingwhenIappeared.Theyweresittingonashelfthatranthewidthofthewindowwall.Theyhadtheirshoesoff.Theyhadtheireyesclosed.Theywerefacingeach

other.Theywerepressingthesolesoftheirbarefeettogether.Eachgraspedhisownankles,givinghimselftherigidityofatriangle.Iclearedmythroat.Thetworolledofftheshelfandfelltothespattereddropcloth.Theylanded

ontheirhandsandknees,andtheystayedinthatposition—theirbehindsintheair,theirnosesclosetotheground.Theywereexpectingtobekilled.“Excuseme,”Isaid,amazed.“Don’ttell,”beggedonequerulously.“Please—pleasedon’ttell.”“Tellwhat?”“Whatyousaw!”“Ididn’tseeanything.”

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“Ifyoutell,”hesaid,andheputhischeektothefloorandlookedupatmebeseechingly,“ifyoutell,we’lldieonthehy-u-o-ook-kuh!”“Look,friends,”Isaid,“eitherIcameintooearlyortoolate,but,Itellyou

again,Ididn’tseeanythingworthmentioningtoanybody.Please—getup.”Theygotup,theireyesstillonme.Theytrembledandcowered.Iconvinced

thematlastthatIwouldnevertellwhatIhadseen.WhatIhadseen,ofcourse,wastheBokononistritualofboko-maru,orthe

minglingofawarenesses.WeBokononistsbelievethatitisimpossibletobesole-to-solewithanother

personwithoutlovingtheperson,providedthefeetofbothpersonsarecleanandnicelytended.Thebasisforthefootceremonyisthis“Calypso”:

Wewilltouchourfeet,yes,Yes,forallwe’reworth,Andwewillloveeachother,yes,Yes,likeweloveourMotherEarth.

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BlackDeath73When I got back to my room I found that Philip Castle— mosaicist,

historian,self-indexer,pissant,andhotel-keeper—wasinstallingarolloftoiletpaperinmybathroom.“Thankyouverymuch,”Isaid.“You’reentirelywelcome.”“This is what I’d call a hotel with a real heart. How many hotel owners

wouldtakesuchadirectinterestinthecomfortofaguest?”“Howmanyhotelownershavejustoneguest?”“Youusedtohavethree.”“Thosewerethedays.”“Youknow,Imaybespeakingoutof turn,butIfindithardtounderstand

how a person of your interests and talents would be attracted to the hotelbusiness.”Hefrownedperplexedly.“Idon’tseemtobeasgoodwithguestsasImight,

doI?”“IknewsomepeopleintheHotelSchoolatCornell,andIcan’thelpfeeling

theywouldhavetreatedtheCrosbyssomewhatdifferently.”Henoddeduncomfortably.“Iknow.Iknow.”Heflappedhisarms.“Damned

ifIknowwhyIbuiltthishotel—somethingtodowithmylife,Iguess.Awaytobebusy,awaynottobelonesome.”Heshookhishead.“Itwasbeahermitoropenahotel—withnothinginbetween.”“Weren’tyouraisedatyourfather’shospital?”“That’sright.MonaandIbothgrewupthere.”“Well,aren’tyouatalltemptedtodowithyourlifewhatyourfather’sdone

withhis?”YoungCastlesmiledwanly,avoidingadirectanswer.“He’safunnyperson,

Fatheris,”hesaid.“Ithinkyou’lllikehim.”“Iexpectto.Therearen’tmanypeoplewho’vebeenasunselfishashehas.”“Onetime,”saidCastle,“whenIwasaboutfifteen,therewasamutinynear

hereonaGreekshipboundfromHongKongtoHavanawithaloadofwickerfurniture.Themutineersgotcontroloftheship,didn’tknowhowtorunher,andsmashedherupontherocksnear‘Papa’Monzano’scastle.Everybodydrownedbuttherats.Theratsandthewickerfurniturecameashore.”Thatseemedtobetheendofthestory,butIcouldn’tbesure.“So?”

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“Sosomepeoplegotfreefurniture,andsomepeoplegotbubonicplague.AtFather’shospital,wehadfourteen-hundreddeathsinsideoftendays.Haveyoueverseenanyonedieofbubonicplague?”“Thatunhappinesshasnotbeenmine.”“The lymph glands in the groin and the armpits swell to the size of

grapefruit.”“Icanwellbelieveit.”“Afterdeath,thebodyturnsblack—coalstoNewcastleinthecaseofSan

Lorenzo.When the plaguewas having everything its ownway, theHouse ofHopeandMercy in theJungle looked likeAuschwitzorBuchenwald.Wehadstacksofdeadsodeepandwidethatabulldozeractuallystalledtryingtoshovethemtowardacommongrave.Fatherworkedwithoutsleepfordays,workednotonlywithoutsleepbutwithoutsavingmanylives,either.”Castle’sgrislytalewasinterruptedbytheringingofmytelephone.“MyGod,”saidCastle,“Ididn’tevenknowthetelephoneswereconnected

yet.”Ipickedupthephone.“Hello?”ItwasMajorGeneralFranklinHoenikkerwhohadcalledmeup.Hesounded

outofbreathandscaredstiff.“Listen!You’vegottocomeouttomyhouserightaway.We’vegottohaveatalk!Itcouldbeaveryimportantthinginyourlife!”“Couldyougivemesomeidea?”“Not on the phone, not on the phone.You come tomy house.You come

rightaway!Please!”“Allright.”“I’mnotkiddingyou.Thisisareallyimportantthinginyourlife.Thisisthe

mostimportantthingever.”Hehungup.“Whatwasthatallabout?”askedCastle.“I haven’t got the slightest idea. Frank Hoenikker wants to see me right

away.”“Takeyourtime.Relax.He’samoron.”“Hesaiditwasimportant.”“Howdoesheknowwhat’s important? Icouldcarveabettermanoutofa

banana.”“Well,finishyourstoryanyway.”“WherewasI?”“Thebubonicplague.Thebulldozerwasstalledbycorpses.”“Oh, yes. Anyway, one sleepless night I stayed up with Father while he

worked. Itwasallwecoulddo to finda livepatient to treat. Inbedafterbedafterbedwefounddeadpeople.

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“AndFatherstartedgiggling,”Castlecontinued.“Hecouldn’tstop.Hewalkedoutintothenightwithhisflashlight.Hewas

stillgiggling.Hewasmakingtheflashlightbeamdanceoverallthedeadpeoplestacked outside. He put his hand on my head, and do you know what thatmarvelousmansaidtome?”askedCastle.“Nope.”“‘Son,’myfathersaidtome,‘somedaythiswillallbeyours.’”

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Cat’sCradle74IwenttoFrank’shouseinSanLorenzo’sonetaxicab.Wepassedthroughscenesofhideouswant.WeclimbedtheslopeofMount

McCabe.Theairgrewcooler.Therewasmist.Frank’shousehadoncebeenthehomeofNestorAamons,fatherofMona,

architectoftheHouseofHopeandMercyintheJungle.Aamonshaddesignedit.It straddled a waterfall; had a terrace cantilevered out into themist rising

from the fall. Itwasacunning latticeofvery light steelpostsandbeams.Theintersticesofthelatticewerevariouslyopen,chinkedwithnativestone,glazed,orcurtainedbysheetsofcanvas.The effect of the housewasnot somuch to enclose as to announce that a

manhadbeenwhimsicallybusythere.AservantgreetedmepolitelyandtoldmethatFrankwasn’thomeyet.Frank

wasexpectedatanymoment.FrankhadleftorderstotheeffectthatIwastobemadehappyandcomfortable,andthatIwastostayforsupperandthenight.Theservant,whointroducedhimselfasStanley,wasthefirstplumpSanLorenzanIhadseen.Stanley ledme tomyroom; ledmearound theheartof thehouse,downa

staircase of living stone, a staircase sheltered or exposed by steel-framedrectanglesatrandom.Mybedwasafoam-rubberslabonastoneshelf,ashelfoflivingstone.Thewallsofmychamberwerecanvas.StanleydemonstratedhowImightrollthemupordown,asIpleased.I askedStanley if anybodyelsewashome, andhe toldme thatonlyNewt

was. Newt, he said, was out on the cantilevered terrace, painting a picture.Angela,he said,hadgonesightseeing to theHouseofHopeandMercy in theJungle.Iwentoutontothegiddyterracethatstraddledthewaterfallandfoundlittle

Newtasleepinayellowbutterflychair.ThepaintingonwhichNewthadbeenworkingwassetonaneaselnext to

thealuminumrailing.Thepaintingwasframedinamistyviewofsky,sea,andvalley.Newt’spaintingwassmallandblackandwarty.It consisted of scratches made in a black, gummy impasto. The scratches

formeda sortof spider’sweb, and Iwondered if theymightnotbe the sticky

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netsofhumanfutilityhunguponamoonlessnighttodry.Ididnotwakeup themidgetwhohadmade thisdreadful thing. Ismoked,

listeningtoimaginedvoicesinthewatersounds.WhatawakenedlittleNewtwasanexplosionfarawaybelow.Itcaromedup

the valley and went to God. It was a cannon on the water front of Bolivar,Frank’smajor-domotoldme.Itwasfiredeverydayatfive.LittleNewtstirred.While still half-snoozing, he put his black, painty hands to hismouth and

chin, leaving black smears there. He rubbed his eyes andmade black smearsaroundthem,too.“Hello,”hesaidtome,sleepily.“Hello,”Isaid.“Ilikeyourpainting.”“Youseewhatitis?”“Isupposeitmeanssomethingdifferenttoeveryonewhoseesit.”“It’sacat’scradle.”“Aha,”Isaid.“Verygood.Thescratchesarestring.Right?”“Oneoftheoldestgamesthereis,cat’scradle.EventheEskimosknowit.”“Youdon’tsay.”“Formaybeahundredthousandyearsormore,grownupshavebeenwaving

tanglesofstringintheirchildren’sfaces.”“Um.”Newtremainedcurledinthechair.Heheldouthispaintyhandsasthougha

cat’scradlewerestrungbetweenthem.“Nowonderkidsgrowupcrazy.Acat’scradleisnothingbutabunchofX’sbetweensomebody’shands,andlittlekidslookandlookandlookatallthoseX’s…”“And?”“Nodamncat,andnodamncradle.”

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GiveMyRegardstoAlbertSchweitzer75

AndthenAngelaHoenikkerConners,Newt’sbeanpolesister,cameinwithJulianCastle,fatherofPhilip,andfounderoftheHouseofHopeandMercyinthe Jungle. Castle wore a baggy white linen suit and a string tie. He had ascragglymustache.Hewasbald.Hewasscrawny.Hewasasaint,Ithink.He introduced himself to Newt and tome on the cantilevered terrace. He

forestalledallreferencestohispossiblesaintlinessbytalkingoutofthecornerofhismouthlikeamoviegangster.“IunderstandyouareafollowerofAlbertSchweitzer,”Isaidtohim.“Atadistance…”Hegaveacriminalsneer.“I’venevermetthegentleman.”“Hemustsurelyknowofyourwork,justasyouknowofhis.”“Maybeandmaybenot.Youeverseehim?”“No.”“Youeverexpecttoseehim?”“SomedaymaybeIwill.”“Well,” said JulianCastle, “in caseyou run acrossDr.Schweitzer in your

travels,youmighttellhimthatheisnotmyhero.”Helitabigcigar.Whenthecigarwasgoinggoodandhothepointeditsredendatme.“You

cantellhimheisn’tmyhero,”hesaid,“butyoucanalsotellhimthat,thankstohim,JesusChristis.”“Ithinkhe’llbegladtohearit.”“I don’t give a damn if he is or not.This is somethingbetween Jesus and

me.”

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JulianCastleAgreeswithNewtthatEverythingIsMeaningless76

JulianCastleandAngelawenttoNewt’spainting.Castlemadeapinholeofacurledindexfinger,squintedatthepaintingthroughit.“Whatdoyouthinkofit?”Iaskedhim.“It’sblack.Whatisit—hell?”“Itmeanswhateveritmeans,”saidNewt.“Thenit’shell,”snarledCastle.“Iwastoldamomentagothatitwasacat’scradle,”Isaid.“Insideinformationalwayshelps,”saidCastle.“I don’t think it’s very nice,”Angela complained. “I think it’s ugly, but I

don’t know anything about modern art. Sometimes I wish Newt would takesomelessons,sohecouldknowforsureifhewasdoingsomethingornot.”“Self-taught,areyou?”JulianCastleaskedNewt.“Isn’teverybody?”Newtinquired.“Verygoodanswer.”Castlewasrespectful.Iundertooktoexplainthedeepersignificanceofthecat’scradle,sinceNewt

seemeddisinclinedtogothroughthatsonganddanceagain.AndCastlenoddedsagely.“Sothisisapictureofthemeaninglessnessofit

all!Icouldn’tagreemore.”“Doyou really agree?” I asked. “Aminute ago you said something about

Jesus.”“Who?”said,Castle.“JesusChrist?”“Oh,” said Castle. “Him.” He shrugged. “People have to talk about

somethingjusttokeeptheirvoiceboxesinworkingorder,sothey’llhavegoodvoiceboxesincasethere’severanythingreallymeaningfultosay.”“Isee.”IknewIwasn’tgoingtohaveaneasytimewritingapopulararticle

abouthim. Iwasgoing tohave to concentrateonhis saintlydeeds and ignoreentirelythesatanicthingshethoughtandsaid.“Youmayquoteme:”hesaid.“Manisvile,andmanmakesnothingworth

making,knowsnothingworthknowing.”HeleaneddownandheshooklittleNewt’spaintyhand.“Right?”Newtnodded,seemingtosuspectmomentarilythatthecasehadbeenalittle

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overstated.“Right.”AndthenthesaintmarchedtoNewt’spaintingandtookitfromitseasel.He

beamedatusall.“Garbage—likeeverythingelse.”And he threw the painting off the cantilevered terrace. It sailed out on an

updraft,stalled,boomerangedback,slicedintothewaterfall.TherewasnothinglittleNewtcouldsay.Angelaspokefirst.“You’vegotpaintalloveryourface,honey.Gowashit

off.”

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AspirinandBoko-maru77“Tellme,Doctor,”IsaidtoJulianCastle,“howis‘Papa’Monzano?”“HowwouldIknow?”“Ithoughtyou’dprobablybeentreatinghim.”“Wedon’tspeak…”Castlesmiled.“Hedoesn’tspeaktome,thatis.Thelast

thinghesaidtome,whichwasaboutthreeyearsago,wasthattheonlythingthatkeptmeoffthehookwasmyAmericancitizenship.”“Whathaveyoudone tooffendhim?Youcomedownhereandwithyour

ownmoneyfoundafreehospitalforhispeople…”“ ‘Papa’ doesn’t like the way we treat the whole patient,” said Castle,

“particularly the whole patient when he’s dying. At the House of Hope andMercy in the Jungle,we administer the last rites of theBokononistChurch tothosewhowantthem.”“Whataretheriteslike?”“Verysimple.Theystartwitharesponsivereading.Youwanttorespond?”“I’mnotthatclosetodeathjustnow,ifyoudon’tmind.”Hegavemeagrislywink.“You’rewisetobecautious.Peopletakingthelast

riteshaveawayofdyingoncue.Ithinkwecouldkeepyoufromgoingalltheway,though,ifwedidn’ttouchfeet.”“Feet?”HetoldmeabouttheBokononistattituderelativetofeet.“That explains something I saw in the hotel.” I told him about the two

paintersonthewindowsill.“It works, you know,” he said. “People who do that really do feel better

abouteachotherandtheworld.”“Um.”“Boko-maru.”“Sir?”“That’swhatthefootbusinessiscalled,”saidCastle.“Itworks.I’mgrateful

forthingsthatwork.Notmanythingsdowork,youknow.”“Isupposenot.”“I couldn’t possibly run that hospital ofmine if itweren’t for aspirin and

boko-maru.”“I gather,” I said, “that there are still several Bokononists on the island,

despitethelaws,despitethehy-u-o-ook-kuh…”

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Helaughed.“Youhaven’tcaughton,yet?”“Towhat?”“Everybody on San Lorenzo is a devout Bokononist, the hy-u-o-ook-kuh

notwithstanding.”

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RingofSteel78“WhenBokononandMcCabetookover thismiserablecountryyearsago,”

saidJulianCastle,“theythrewoutthepriests.AndthenBokonon,cynicallyandplayfully,inventedanewreligion.”“Iknow,”Isaid.“Well, when it became evident that no governmental or economic reform

wasgoingtomakethepeoplemuchlessmiserable,thereligionbecametheonereal instrumentofhope.Truthwas theenemyof thepeople,because the truthwas so terrible, so Bokonon made it his business to provide the people withbetterandbetterlies.”“Howdidhecometobeanoutlaw?”“Itwashisownidea.HeaskedMcCabetooutlawhimandhisreligion,too,

inordertogivethereligiouslifeofthepeoplemorezest,moretang.Hewrotealittlepoemaboutit,incidentally.”Castlequotedthispoem,whichdoesnotappearinTheBooksofBokonon:

SoIsaidgood-byetogovernment,AndIgavemyreason:ThatareallygoodreligionIsaformoftreason.

“Bokonon suggested the hook, too, as the proper punishment forBokononists,”hesaid.“Itwassomethinghe’dseenintheChamberofHorrorsatMadameTussaud’s.”Hewinkedghoulishly.“Thatwasforzest,too.”“Didmanypeopledieonthehook?”“Not at first, not at first. At first it was all make-believe. Rumors were

cunninglycirculatedaboutexecutions,butnoonereallyknewanyonewhohaddiedthatway.McCabehadagoodoldtimemakingbloodthirstythreatsagainsttheBokononists—whichwaseverybody.“And Bokonon went into cozy hiding in the jungle,” Castle continued,

“where he wrote and preached all day long and ate good things his disciplesbroughthim.“McCabewouldorganizetheunemployed,whichwaspracticallyeverybody,

intogreatBokononhunts.“About every six months McCabe would announce triumphantly that

Bokononwassurroundedbyaringofsteel,whichwasremorselesslyclosingin.

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“And then the leaders of the remorseless ring would have to report toMcCabe,fullofchagrinandapoplexy,thatBokononhaddonetheimpossible.“Hehadescaped,hadevaporated,hadlivedtopreachanotherday.Miracle!”

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WhyMcCabe’sSoulGrewCoarse79“McCabeandBokonondidnotsucceedinraisingwhatisgenerallythought

ofas thestandardof living,”saidCastle.“The truthwas that lifewasas shortandbrutishandmeanasever.“Butpeopledidn’thavetopayasmuchattentiontotheawfultruth.Asthe

livinglegendofthecrueltyrantinthecityandthegentleholymaninthejunglegrew,so,too,didthehappinessofthepeoplegrow.Theywereallemployedfulltimeasactorsinaplaytheyunderstood,thatanyhumanbeinganywherecouldunderstandandapplaud.”“Solifebecameaworkofart,”Imarveled.“Yes.Therewasonlyonetroublewithit.”“Oh?”“Thedramawasverytoughonthesoulsofthetwomainactors,McCabeand

Bokonon.Asyoungmen,theyhadbeenprettymuchalike,hadbothbeenhalf-angel,half-pirate.“ButthedramademandedthatthepiratehalfofBokononandtheangelhalf

of McCabe wither away. And McCabe and Bokonon paid a terrible price inagony for the happiness of the people—McCabe knowing the agony of thetyrantandBokononknowingtheagonyofthesaint.Theybothbecame,forallpracticalpurposes,insane.”Castlecrookedtheindexfingerofhislefthand.“Andthen,peoplereallydid

startdyingonthehy-u-o-ook-kuh.”“ButBokononwasnevercaught?”Iasked.“McCabe never went that crazy. He nevermade a really serious effort to

catchBokonon.Itwouldhavebeeneasytodo.”“Whydidn’thecatchhim?”“McCabewas always sane enough to realize thatwithout the holyman to

war against, he himself would become meaningless. ‘Papa’ Monzanounderstandsthat,too.”“Dopeoplestilldieonthehook?”“It’sinevitablyfatal.”“Imean,”Isaid,“does‘Papa’reallyhavepeopleexecutedthatway?”“He executes one every two years — just to keep the pot boiling, so to

speak.”Hesighed,lookingupattheeveningsky.“Busy,busy,busy.”“Sir?”

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“It’s what we Bokononists say,” he said, “when we feel that a lot ofmysteriousthingsaregoingon.”“You?”Iwasamazed.“ABokononist,too?”Hegazedatmelevelly.“You,too.You’llfindout.”

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TheWaterfallStrainers80AngelaandNewtwereonthecantileveredterracewithJulianCastleandme.

Wehadcocktails.TherewasstillnowordfromFrank.BothAngelaandNewt, itappeared,werefairlyheavydrinkers.Castle told

methathisdaysasaplayboyhadcosthimakidney,andthathewasunhappilycompelled,perforce,tosticktogingerale.Angela,when shegot a fewdrinks intoher, complainedofhow theworld

hadswindledherfather.“Hegavesomuch,andtheygavehimsolittle.”I pressed her for examples of the world’s stinginess and got some exact

numbers. “General Forge and Foundry gave him a forty-five-dollar bonus foreverypatenthisworkledto,”shesaid.“That’sthesamepatentbonustheypaidanybody in thecompany.”She shookherheadmournfully. “Forty-fivedollars—andjustthinkwhatsomeofthosepatentswerefor!”“Um,”Isaid.“Iassumehegotasalary,too.”“Themostheevermadewastwenty-eightthousanddollarsayear.”“I’dsaythatwasprettygood.”Shegotveryhuffy.“Youknowwhatmoviestarsmake?”“Alot,sometimes.”“You knowDr.Breedmade ten thousandmore dollars a year than Father

did?”“Thatwascertainlyaninjustice.”“I’msickofinjustice.”ShewassoshrillyexercisedthatIchangedthesubject.IaskedJulianCastle

whathethoughthadbecomeofthepaintinghehadthrowndownthewaterfall.“There’salittlevillageat thebottom,”hetoldme.“Fiveortenshacks,I’d

say.It’s ‘Papa’Monzano’sbirthplace, incidentally.Thewaterfallends inabigstonebowlthere.“Thevillagershaveanetmadeoutofchickenwirestretchedacrossanotch

inthebowl.Waterspillsoutthroughthenotchintoastream.”“AndNewt’spaintingisinthenetnow,youthink?”Iasked.“This is a poor country — in case you haven’t noticed,” said Castle.

“Nothingstaysinthenetverylong.IimagineNewt’spaintingisbeingdriedinthe sun by now, alongwith the butt ofmy cigar. Four square feet of gummycanvas,thefourmilledandmiteredsticksofthestretcher,sometacks,too,andacigar.Allinall,aprettynicecatchforsomepoor,poorman.”

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“I could just scream sometimes,” said Angela, “when I think about howmuchsomepeoplegetpaidandhowlittletheypaidFather—andhowmuchhegave.”Shewasontheedgeofacryingjag.“Don’tcry,”Newtbeggedhergently.“SometimesIcan’thelpit,”shesaid.“Gogetyourclarinet,”urgedNewt.“Thatalwayshelps.”I thought at first that thiswas a fairly comical suggestion.But then, from

Angela’sreaction,Ilearnedthatthesuggestionwasseriousandpractical.“WhenIgetthisway,”shesaidtoCastleandme,“sometimesit’stheonly

thingthathelps.”Butshewastooshytogetherclarinetrightaway.Wehadtokeepbegging

hertoplay,andshehadtohavetwomoredrinks.“She’sreallyjustwonderful,”littleNewtpromised.“I’dlovetohearyouplay,”saidCastle.“Allright,”saidAngelafinallyassheroseunsteadily.“Allright—Iwill.”Whenshewasoutofearshot,Newtapologizedforher.“She’shadatough

time.Sheneedsarest.”“She’sbeensick?”Iasked.“Herhusbandismeanashelltoher,”saidNewt.Heshowedusthathehated

Angela’s handsome young husband, the extremely successful Harrison C.Conners,PresidentofFabri-Tek.“Hehardlyevercomeshome—and,whenhedoes,he’sdrunkandgenerallycoveredwithlipstick.”“Fromthewayshetalked,”Isaid,“Ithoughtitwasaveryhappymarriage.”LittleNewtheldhishandssix inchesapartandhespreadhis fingers.“See

thecat?Seethecradle?”

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AWhiteBridefortheSonofaPullmanPorter81

I did not know what was going to come from Angela’s clarinet. No onecouldhaveimaginedwhatwasgoingtocomefromthere.I expected something pathological, but I did not expect the depth, the

violence,andthealmostintolerablebeautyofthedisease.Angelamoistened andwarmed themouthpiece, but did not blow a single

preliminarynote.Hereyesglazedover,andherlong,bonyfingerstwitteredidlyoverthenoiselesskeys.Iwaited anxiously, and I rememberedwhatMarvinBreed had toldme—

thatAngela’sone escape fromherbleak lifewithher fatherwas toher room,whereshewouldlockthedoorandplayalongwithphonographrecords.Newtnowputalong-playingrecordonthelargephonographintheroomoff

theterrace.Hecamebackwiththerecord’sslipcase,whichhehandedtome.TherecordwascalledCatHousePiano.Itwasofunaccompaniedpianoby

MeadeLuxLewis.SinceAngela,inordertodeepenhertrance,letLewisplayhisfirstnumber

withoutjoininghim,IreadsomeofwhatthejacketsaidaboutLewis.“BorninLouisville,Ky., in1905,”Iread,“Mr.Lewisdidn’t turntomusic

until he had passed his 16th birthday and then the instrument provided by hisfatherwastheviolin.AyearlateryoungLewischancedtohearJimmyYanceyplay the piano. ‘This,’ as Lewis recalls, ‘was the real thing.’ Soon,” I read,“Lewiswasteachinghimselftoplaytheboogie-woogiepiano,absorbingallthatwaspossiblefromtheolderYancey,whoremaineduntilhisdeathaclosefriendandidoltoMr.Lewis.SincehisfatherwasaPullmanporter,”Iread,“theLewisfamily livednear the railroad.The rhythmof the trains soonbecameanaturalpatterntoyoungLewisandhecomposedtheboogie-woogiesolo,nowaclassicofitskind,whichbecameknownas‘HonkyTonkTrainBlues.’”Ilookedupfrommyreading.Thefirstnumberontherecordwasdone.The

phonograph needle was now scratching its slow way across the void to thesecond.Thesecondnumber,Ilearnedfromthejacket,was“DragonBlues.”MeadeLuxLewisplayedfourbarsalone–andthenAngelaHoenikkerjoined

in.Hereyeswereclosed.

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Iwasflabbergasted.Shewasgreat.She improvised around themusic of the Pullman porter’s son; went from

liquidlyricismtoraspinglecherytotheshrillskittishnessofafrightenedchild,toaheroinnightmare.Herglissandispokeofheavenandhellandallthatlaybetween.Suchmusic from such awoman could only be a case of schizophrenia or

demonicpossession.Myhairstoodonend,asthoughAngelawererollingonthefloor,foamingat

themouth,andbabblingfluentBabylonian.Whenthemusicwasdone, IshriekedatJulianCastle,whowas transfixed,

too,“MyGod—life!Whocanunderstandevenonelittleminuteofit?”“Don’ttry,”hesaid.“Justpretendyouunderstand.”“That’s—that’sverygoodadvice.”Iwentlimp.Castlequotedanotherpoem:

Tigergottohunt,Birdgottofly;Mangottositandwonder,“Why,why,why?”Tigergottosleep,Birdgottoland;Mangottotellhimselfheunderstand.

“What’sthatfrom?”Iasked.“WhatcoulditpossiblybefrombutTheBooksofBokonon?”“I’dlovetoseeacopysometime.”“Copies are hard to come by,” said Castle. “They aren’t printed. They’re

madebyhand.And,ofcourse,thereisnosuchthingasacompletedcopy,sinceBokononisaddingthingseveryday.”LittleNewtsnorted.“Religion!”“Begyourpardon?”Castlesaid.“Seethecat?”askedNewt.“Seethecradle?”

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Zah-mah-ki-bo82MajorGeneralFranklinHoenikkerdidn’tappearforsupper.Hetelephoned,andinsistedontalkingtomeandtonooneelse.Hetoldme

thathewaskeepingavigilby“Papa’s”bed;that“Papa”wasdyingingreatpain.Franksoundedscaredandlonely.“Look,” I said, “why don’t I go back tomy hotel, and you and I can get

togetherlater,whenthiscrisisisover.”“No,no,no.Youstayrightthere!IwantyoutobewhereIcangetholdof

you right away!”Hewas panicky aboutmy slipping out of his grasp. Since Icouldn’taccountforhisinterestinme,Ibegantofeelpanic,too.“Couldyougivemesomeideawhatyouwanttoseemeabout?”Iasked.“Notoverthetelephone.”“Somethingaboutyourfather?”“Somethingaboutyou.”“SomethingI’vedone?”“Somethingyou’regoingtodo.”I heard a chicken clucking in thebackgroundofFrank’s endof the line. I

heardadooropen,andxylophonemusiccamefromsomechamber.Themusicwasagain“WhenDayIsDone.”Andthenthedoorwasclosed,andIcouldn’thearthemusicanymore.“I’dappreciateitifyou’dgivemesomesmallhintofwhatyouexpectmeto

do—soIcansortofgetset,”Isaid.“Zah-mah-ki-bo.”“What?”“It’saBokononistword.”“Idon’tknowanyBokononistwords.”“JulianCastle’sthere?”“Yes.”“Askhim,”saidFrank.“I’vegottogonow.”Hehungup.SoIaskedJulian

Castlewhatzah-mah-ki-bomeant.“Youwantasimpleanswerorawholeanswer?”“Let’sstartwithasimpleone.”“Fate—inevitabledestiny.”

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Dr.SchlichtervonKoenigswaldApproachestheBreak-evenPoint83“Cancer,” said Julian Castle at dinner, when I told him that “Papa” was

dyinginpain.“Cancerofwhat?”“Cancerof about everything.Yousayhecollapsedon the reviewing stand

today?”“Hesuredid,”saidAngela.“Thatwastheeffectofdrugs,”Castledeclared.“He’satthepointnowwhere

drugsandpainjustaboutbalanceout.Moredrugswouldkillhim.”“I’dkillmyself,Ithink,”murmuredNewt.Hewassittingonasortoffolding

highchairhe tookwithhimwhenhewentvisiting. Itwasmadeof aluminumtubing and canvas. “It beats sitting on a dictionary, an atlas, and a telephonebook,”he’dsaidwhenheerectedit.“That’swhatCorporalMcCabedid,ofcourse,”saidCastle.“Henamedhis

major-domoashissuccessor,thenheshothimself.”“Cancer,too?”Iasked.“Ican’tbesure;Idon’tthinkso,though.Unrelievedvillainyjustworehim

out,ismyguess.Thatwasallbeforemytime.”“Thiscertainlyisacheerfulconversation,”saidAngela.“Ithinkeverybodywouldagreethatthesearecheerfultimes,”saidCastle.“Well,” I said to him, “I’d think you would havemore reasons for being

cheerfulthanmost,doingwhatyouaredoingwithyourlife.”“Ioncehadayacht,too,youknow.”“Idon’tfollowyou.”“Havingayachtisareasonforbeingmorecheerfulthanmost,too.”“Ifyouaren’t‘Papa’s’doctor,”Isaid,“whois?”“Oneofmystaff,aDr.SchlichtervonKoenigswald.”“AGerman?”“Vaguely.HewasintheS.S.forfourteenyears.Hewasacampphysicianat

Auschwitzforsixofthoseyears.”“DoingpenanceattheHouseofHopeandMercyishe?”“Yes,” said Castle, “and making great strides, too, saving lives right and

left.”

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“Goodforhim.”“Yes. If he keeps going at his present rate, working night and day, the

numberofpeoplehe’ssavedwillequalthenumberofpeopleheletdie—intheyear3010.”Sothere’sanothermemberofmykarass:Dr.SchlichtervonKoenigswald.

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Blackout84ThreehoursaftersupperFrankstillhadn’tcomehome.JulianCastleexcused

himselfandwentbacktotheHouseofHopeandMercyintheJungle.AngelaandNewtandIsatonthecantileveredterrace.ThelightsofBolivar

were lovely below us. There was a great, illuminated cross on top of theadministration building of Monzano Airport. It was motor-driven, turningslowly,boxingthecompasswithelectricpiety.There were other bright places on the island, too, to the north of us.

Mountainspreventedourseeingthemdirectly,butwecouldseeintheskytheirballoonsoflight.IaskedStanley,FrankHoenikker’smajor-domo,toidentifyformethesourcesoftheauroras.Hepointed themout, counterclockwise. “HouseofHopeandMercy in the

Jungle,‘Papa’s’palace,andFortJesus.”“FortJesus?”“Thetrainingcampforoursoldiers.”“It’snamedafterJesusChrist?”“Sure.Whynot?”There was a new balloon of light growing quickly to the north. Before I

could ask what it was, it revealed itself as headlights topping a ridge. Theheadlightswerecomingtowardus.Theybelongedtoaconvoy.The convoy was composed of five American-made army trucks.Machine

gunnersmannedringmountsonthetopsofthecabs.TheconvoystoppedinFrank’sdriveway.Soldiersdismountedatonce.They

set toworkonthegrounds,diggingfoxholesandmachine-gunpits. IwentoutwithFrank’smajor-domotoasktheofficerinchargewhatwasgoingon.“Wehavebeenordered toprotect thenextPresidentofSanLorenzo,”said

theofficerinislanddialect.“Heisn’therenow,”Iinformedhim.“I don’t know anything about it,” he said. “My orders are to dig in here.

That’sallIknow.”ItoldAngelaandNewtaboutit.“Doyouthinkthere’sanyrealdanger?”Angelaaskedme.“I’mastrangerheremyself,”Isaid.At that moment there was a power failure. Every electric light in San

Lorenzowentout.

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APackofFoma85Frank’s servants brought us gasoline lanterns; told us that power failures

werecommon inSanLorenzo, that therewasnocause foralarm. I found thatdisquietwashard forme tosetaside,however, sinceFrankhadspokenofmyzah-mah-ki-bo.Hehadmademefeelas thoughmyownfreewillwereas irrelevantas the

freewillofapiggy-wigarrivingattheChicagostockyards.Irememberedagainthestoneangelinilium.And I listened to the soldiers outside — to their clinking, chunking,

murmuringlabors.IwasunabletoconcentrateontheconversationofAngelaandNewt,though

theygotontoafairlyinterestingsubject.Theytoldmethattheirfatherhadhadanidenticaltwin.Theyhadnevermethim.HisnamewasRudolph.Thelasttheyhadheardofhim,hewasamusic-boxmanufacturerinZurich,Switzerland.“Fatherhardlyevermentionedhim,”saidAngela.“Fatherhardlyevermentionedanybody,”Newtdeclared.Therewasa sisterof theoldman, too, they toldme.HernamewasCelia.

SheraisedgiantschnauzersonShelterIsland,NewYork.“ShealwayssendsaChristmascard,”saidAngela.“Withapictureofagiantschnauzeronit,”saidlittleNewt.“Itsureisfunnyhowdifferentpeopleindifferentfamiliesturnout,”Angela

observed.“That’s very true and well said,” I agreed. I excused myself from the

glitteringcompany,andIaskedStanley,themajor-domo,iftherehappenedtobeacopyofTheBooksofBokononaboutthehouse.Stanley pretended not to know what I was talking about. And then he

grumbled that The Books of Bokonon were filth. And then he insisted thatanyonewhoreadthemshoulddieonthehook.AndthenhebroughtmeacopyfromFrank’sbedsidetable.It was a heavy thing, about the size of an unabridged dictionary. It was

writtenbyhand.Itrundleditofftomybedroom,tomyslabofrubberonlivingrock.Therewasnoindex,somysearchfortheimplicationsofzah-mah-ki-bowas

difficult;was,infact,fruitlessthatnight.I learned some things, but they were scarcely helpful. I learned of the

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Bokononistcosmogony,forinstance,whereinBorasisi, thesun,heldPabu, themoon,inhisarms,andhopedthatPabuwouldbearhimafierychild.ButpoorPabugavebirth tochildrenthatwerecold, thatdidnotburn;and

Borasisi threwthemawayindisgust.Theseweretheplanets,whocircledtheirterriblefatheratasafedistance.ThenpoorPabuherselfwascastaway,andshewenttolivewithherfavorite

child,whichwasEarth.EarthwasPabu’s favoritebecause ithadpeopleon it;andthepeoplelookedupatherandlovedherandsympathized.AndwhatopiniondidBokononholdofhisowncosmogony?“Foma!Lies!”hewrote.“Apackoffoma!”

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TwoLittleJugs86It’shardtobelievethatIsleptatall,butImusthave—for,otherwise,how

couldIhavefoundmyselfawakenedbyaseriesofbangsandafloodoflight?Irolledoutofbedat thefirstbangandranto theheartof thehousein the

brainlessecstasyofavolunteerfireman.IfoundmyselfrushingheadlongatNewtandAngela,whowerefleeingfrom

bedsoftheirown.We all stopped short, sheepishly analyzing the nightmarish sounds around

us,sortingthemoutascomingfromaradio,fromanelectricdishwasher,fromapump—allrestoredtonoisylifebythereturnofelectricpower.The three of us awakened enough to realize that there was humor in our

situation, that we had reacted in amusingly human ways to a situation thatseemedmortalbutwasn’t.Andtodemonstratemymasteryovermyillusoryfate,Iturnedtheradiooff.Weallchuckled.Andweallvied,insavingface,tobethegreateststudentofhumannature,

thepersonwiththequickestsenseofhumor.Newtwasthequickest;hepointedouttomethatIhadmypassportandmy

billfoldandmywristwatchinmyhands.IhadnoideawhatI’dgrabbedinthefaceofdeath—didn’tknowI’dgrabbedanything.IcounteredhilariouslybyaskingAngelaandNewtwhyitwasthattheyboth

carriedlittleThermosjugs,identicalred-and-grayjugscapableofholdingaboutthreecupsofcoffee.It was news to them both that they were carrying such jugs. They were

shockedtofindthemintheirhands.Theywere sparedmaking an explanation bymore banging outside. I was

bound to findoutwhat thebangingwas rightaway;and,withabrazennessasunjustified asmy earlier panic, I investigated, found FrankHoenikker outsidetinkeringwithamotor-generatorsetmountedonatruck.Thegeneratorwasthenewsourceofourelectricity.Thegasolinemotorthat

droveitwasbackfiringandsmoking.Frankwastryingtofixit.He had the heavenly Mona with him. She was watching him, as always,

gravely.“Boy,have Igotnewsforyou!”heyelledatme,andhe led thewayback

intothehouse.

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AngelaandNewtwere still in the living room,but, somehow,somewhere,theyhadmanagedtogetridoftheirpeculiarThermosjugs.The contents of those jugs, of course,were parts of the legacies fromDr.

FelixHoenikker,werepartsof thewampeter ofmykarass,werechipsof ice-nine.Franktookmeaside.“Howawakeareyou?”“AsawakeasIeverwas.”“I hope you’re reallywide awake, becausewe’ve got to have a talk right

now.”“Starttalking.”“Let’s get some privacy.” Frank told Mona to make herself comfortable.

“We’llcallyouifweneedyou.”IlookedatMona,meltingly,andIthoughtthatIhadneverneededanyoneas

muchasIneededher.

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TheCutofMyJib87About this Franklin Hoenikker — the pinch-faced child spoke with the

timbreandconvictionofakazoo.IhadhearditsaidintheArmythatsuchandsuch aman spoke like amanwith a paper rectum. Such amanwasGeneralHoenikker. Poor Frank had had almost no experience in talking to anyone,havingspentafurtivechildhoodasSecretAgentX-9.Now,hopingtobeheartyandpersuasive,hesaidtinnythingstome,things

like,“Ilikethecutofyourjib!”and“Iwanttotalkcoldturkeytoyou,mantoman!”Andhe tookmedown towhathecalledhis“den” inorder thatwemight,

“...callaspadeaspade,andletthechipsfallwheretheymay.”So we went down steps cut into a cliff and into a natural cave that was

beneathandbehind thewaterfall.Therewereacoupleofdrawingtablesdownthere;threepale,bare-bonedScandinavianchairs;abookcasecontainingbooksonarchitecture,booksinGerman,French,Finnish,Italian,English.Allwaslitbyelectriclights,lightsthatpulsedwiththepantingofthemotor-

generatorset.And the most striking thing about the cave was that there were pictures

paintedon thewalls, paintedwith kindergarten boldness, paintedwith the flatclay,earth,andcharcoalcolorsofveryearlyman. Ididnothave toaskFrankhowoldthecavepaintingswere.Iwasabletodate thembytheirsubject.Thepaintings were not of mammoths or saber-toothed tigers or ithyphallic cavebears.ThepaintingstreatedendlesslytheaspectsofMonaAamonsMonzanoasa

littlegirl.“This—thisiswhereMona’sfatherworked?”Iasked.“That’sright.HewastheFinnwhodesignedtheHouseofHopeandMercy

intheJungle.”“Iknow.”“Thatisn’twhatIbroughtyoudownheretotalkabout.”“Thisissomethingaboutyourfather?”“Thisisaboutyou.”Frankputhishandonmyshoulderandhelookedmein

theeye.Theeffectwasdismaying.Frankmeanttoinspirecamaraderie,buthisheadlookedtomelikeabizarrelittleowl,blindedbylightandperchedonatallwhitepost.

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“Maybeyou’dbettercometothepoint.”“There’snosense inbeatingaround thebush,”hesaid.“I’maprettygood

judgeofcharacter,ifIdosaysomyself,andIlikethecutofyourjib.”“Thankyou.”“IthinkyouandIcouldreallyhititoff.”“Ihavenodoubtofit.”“We’vebothgotthingsthatmesh.”I was grateful when he took his hand from my shoulder. He meshed the

fingersofhishands likegear teeth.Onehand representedhim, I suppose, andtheotherrepresentedme.“We need each other.” He wiggled his fingers to show me how gears

worked.Iwassilentforsometime,thoughoutwardlyfriendly.“Doyougetmymeaning?”askedFrankatlast.“YouandI—we’regoingtodosomethingtogether?”“That’sright!”Frankclappedhishands.“You’reaworldlyperson,usedto

meeting the public; and I’m a technical person, used to working behind thescenes,makingthingsgo.”“HowcanyoupossiblyknowwhatkindofapersonIam?We’vejustmet.”“Yourclothes,thewayyoutalk.”Heputhishandonmyshoulderagain.“I

likethecutofyourjib!”“Soyousaid.”Frankwas frantic forme to completehis thought, todo it enthusiastically,

butIwasstillatsea.“AmItounderstandthat…thatyouareofferingmesomekindofjobhere,hereinSanLorenzo?”Heclappedhishands.Hewasdelighted.“That’sright!Whatwouldyousay

toahundredthousanddollarsayear?”“GoodGod!”Icried.“WhatwouldIhavetodoforthat?”“Practicallynothing.Andyou’ddrinkoutofgoldgobletseverynightandeat

offofgoldplatesandhaveapalaceallyourown.”“What’sthejob?”“PresidentoftheRepublicofSanLorenzo.”

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WhyFrankCouldn’tBePresident88“Me?President?”Igasped.“Whoelseisthere?”“Nuts!”“Don’t say no until you’ve really thought about it.” Frank watched me

anxiously.“No!”“Youhaven’treallythoughtaboutit.”“Enoughtoknowit’scrazy.”Frank made his fingers into gears again. “We’d work together. I’d be

backingyouupallthetime.”“Good.So,ifIgotpluggedfromthefrontyou’dgetit,too.”“Plugged?”“Shot!Assassinated!”Frankwasmystified.“Whywouldanybodyshootyou?”“SohecouldgettobePresident.”Frankshookhishead.“Nobody inSanLorenzowants tobePresident,”he

promisedme.“It’sagainsttheirreligion.”“It’s against your religion, too? I thought you were going to be the next

President.”“I…”hesaid,andfoundithardtogoon.Helookedhaunted.“Youwhat?”Iasked.He faced the sheet of water that curtained the cave. “Maturity, the way I

understandit,”hetoldme,“isknowingwhatyourlimitationsare.”Hewasn’tfarfromBokononindefiningmaturity.“Maturity,”Bokonontells

us,“isabitterdisappointmentforwhichnoremedyexists,unlesslaughtercanbesaidtoremedyanything.”“I know I’ve got limitations,” Frank continued. “They’re the same

limitationsmyfatherhad.”“Oh?”“I’vegotalotofverygoodideas,justthewaymyfatherdid,”Franktoldme

andthewaterfall,“buthewasnogoodatfacingthepublic,andneitheramI.”

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Duffle89“You’lltakethejob?”Frankinquiredanxiously.“No,”Itoldhim.“Doyouknowanybodywhomightwantthejob?”Frankwasgivingaclassic

illustrationofwhatBokononcallsduffle.Duffle,intheBokononistsense,isthedestinyof thousandsuponthousandsofpersonswhenplaced in thehandsofastuppa.Astuppaisafogboundchild.Ilaughed.“Something’sfunny?”“PaynoattentionwhenI laugh,”Ibeggedhim.“I’manotoriouspervert in

thatrespect.”“Areyoulaughingatme?”Ishookmyhead.“No.”“Wordofhonor?”“Wordofhonor.”“Peopleusedtomakefunofmeallthetime.”“Youmusthaveimaginedthat.”“Theyusedtoyellthingsatme.Ididn’timaginethat.”“People are unkind sometimes without meaning to be,” I suggested. I

wouldn’thavegivenhimmywordofhonoronthat.“Youknowwhattheyusedtoyellatme?”“No.”“Theyusedtoyellatme,‘Hey,X-9,whereyougoing?’”“Thatdoesn’tseemtoobad.”“That’s what they used to call me,” said Frank in sulky reminiscence, “

‘SecretAgentX-9.’”Ididn’ttellhimIknewthatalready.“‘Whereareyougoing,X-9?’”Frankechoedagain.I imagined what the taunters had been like, imagined where Fate had

eventuallygoosedandchivviedthemto.ThewitswhohadyelledatFrankweresurely nicely settled in deathlike jobs atGeneral Forge and Foundry, at IliumPowerandLight,attheTelephoneCompany..Andhere,byGod,wasSecretAgentX-9,aMajorGeneral,offeringtomake

meking…inacavethatwascurtainedbyatropicalwaterfall.“TheyreallywouldhavebeensurprisedifI’dstoppedandtoldthemwhereI

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wasgoing.”“You mean you had some premonition you’d end up here?” It was a

Bokononistquestion.“IwasgoingtoJack’sHobbyShop,”hesaid,withnosenseofanticlimax.“Oh.”“TheyallknewIwasgoingthere,buttheydidn’tknowwhatreallywenton

there.Theywouldhavebeenreallysurprised—especiallythegirls—ifthey’dfound out what really went on. The girls didn’t think I knew anything aboutgirls.”“Whatreallywenton?”“IwasscrewingJack’swifeeveryday.That’showcomeIfellasleepallthe

timeinhighschool.That’showcomeIneverachievedmyfullpotential.”Herousedhimselffromthissordidrecollection.“Comeon.Bepresidentof

SanLorenzo.You’dberealgoodatit,withyourpersonality.Please?”

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OnlyOneCatch90Andthetimeofnightandthecaveandthewaterfall—andthestoneangel

inIlium…And 250,000 cigarettes and 3,000 quarts of booze, and twowives and no

wife…Andnolovewaitingformeanywhere…Andthelistlesslifeofanink-stainedhack…AndPabu,themoon,andBorasisi,thesun,andtheirchildren…All things conspired to form one cosmic vin-dit, one mighty shove into

Bokononism,intothebeliefthatGodwasrunningmylifeandthatHehadworkformetodo.And,inwardly,Isarooned,whichistosaythatIacquiescedtotheseemingdemandsofmyvin-dit.Inwardly,IagreedtobecomethenextPresidentofSanLorenzo.Outwardly, I was still guarded, suspicious. “There must be a catch,” I

hedged.“Thereisn’t.”“There’llbeanelection?”“Thereneverhasbeen.We’lljustannouncewhothenewPresidentis.”“Andnobodywillobject?”“Nobodyobjectstoanything.Theyaren’tinterested.Theydon’tcare.”“Therehastobeacatch!”“There’skindofone,”Frankadmitted.“I knew it!” I began to shrink from my vin-dit. “What is it? What’s the

catch?”“Well, it isn’t reallyacatch,becauseyoudon’thave todo it, ifyoudon’t

wantto.Itwouldbeagoodidea,though.”“Let’shearthisgreatidea.”“Well, if you’re going to be President, I think you really ought to marry

Mona.Butyoudon’thaveto,ifyoudon’twantto.You’retheboss.”“Shewouldhaveme?”“Ifshe’dhaveme,she’dhaveyou.Allyouhavetodoisaskher.”“Whyshouldshesayyes?”“It’spredictedinTheBooksofBokononthatshe’llmarrythenextPresident

ofSanLorenzo,”saidFrank.

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Mona91FrankbroughtMonatoherfather’scaveandleftusalone.Wehaddifficulty

inspeakingatfirst.Iwasshy.Hergownwasdiaphanous.Hergownwasazure.Itwasasimplegown,caughtlightlyatthewaistbyagossamerthread.AllelsewasshapedbyMonaherself.Herbreastswere likepomegranatesorwhatyouwill,butlikenothingsomuchasayoungwoman’sbreasts.Her feet were all but bare. Her toenails were exquisitely manicured. Her

scantysandalsweregold.“How—howdoyoudo?”Iasked.Myheartwaspounding.Bloodboiledin

myears.“It isnotpossibletomakeamistake,”sheassuredme.Ididnotknowthat

this was a customary greeting given by all Bokononists when meeting a shyperson.So,Irespondedwithafeverishdiscussionofwhetheritwaspossibletomakeamistakeornot.“MyGod,youhavenoideahowmanymistakesI’vealreadymade.You’re

lookingat theworld’s championmistake-maker,” I blurted—and soon. “DoyouhaveanyideawhatFrankjustsaidtome?”“Aboutme?”“Abouteverything,butespeciallyaboutyou.”“Hetoldyouthatyoucouldhaveme,ifyouwanted.”“Yes.”“That’strue.”“I—I—I…”“Yes?”“Idon’tknowwhattosaynext.”“Boko-maruwouldhelp,”shesuggested.“What?”“Takeoffyourshoes,”shecommanded.Andsheremovedhersandalswith

theutmostgrace.Iamamanoftheworld,havinghad,byareckoningIoncemade,morethan

fifty-threewomen.IcansaythatIhaveseenwomenundressthemselvesineverywaythatitcanbedone.Ihavewatchedthecurtainspartineveryvariationofthefinalact.Andyet,theonewomanwhomademegroaninvoluntarilydidnomorethan

removehersandals.

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Itriedtountiemyshoes.Nobridegroomeverdidworse.Igotoneshoeoff,butknottedtheotheronetight.Itoreathumbnailontheknot;finallyrippedofftheshoewithoutuntyingit.Thenoffcamemysocks.Monawas already sitting on the floor, her legs extended, her round arms

thrustbehindherforsupport,herheadtiltedback,hereyesclosed.It was up tome now to completemy first—my first—my first, Great

God…Boko-maru.

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OnthePoet’sCelebrationofHisFirstBoko-maru92

ThesearenotBokonon’swords.Theyaremine.

Sweetwraith,Invisiblemistof…Iam—Mysoul—Wraithlovesicko’erlong,O’erlongalone:Wouldstanothersweetsoulmeet?LonghaveIAdvisedtheeillAstowheretwosoulsMighttryst.Mysoles,mysoles!Mysoul,mysoul,Gothere,Sweetsoul;Bekissed.Mmmmmmm.

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HowIAlmostLostMyMona93“Doyoufinditeasiertotalktomenow?”Monainquired.“As though I’d known you for a thousand years,” I confessed. I felt like

crying.“Iloveyou,Mona.”“Iloveyou.”Shesaiditsimply.“WhatafoolFrankwas!”“Oh?”“Togiveyouup.”“Hedidnotloveme.Hewasgoingtomarrymeonlybecause‘Papa’wanted

himto.Helovesanother.”“Who?”“AwomanheknewinIlium.”The luckywomanhad tobe thewifeof theownerof Jack’sHobbyShop.

“Hetoldyou?”“Tonight,whenhefreedmetomarryyou.”“Mona?”“Yes?”“Is—isthereanyoneelseinyourlife?”Shewaspuzzled.“Many,”shesaidatlast.“Thatyoulove?”“Iloveeveryone.”“As—asmuchasme?”“Yes.”Sheseemedtohavenoideathatthismightbotherme.Igotoffthefloor,satinachair,andstartedputtingmyshoesandsocksback

on.“I suppose you—you perform—you dowhatwe just didwith—with

otherpeople?”“Boko-maru?”“Boko-maru.”“Ofcourse.”“Idon’twantyoutodoitwithanybodybutmefromnowon,”Ideclared.Tearsfilledhereyes.Sheadoredherpromiscuity;wasangeredthatIshould

trytomakeherfeelshame.“Imakepeoplehappy.Loveisgood,notbad.”“Asyourhusband,I’llwantallyourloveformyself.”Shestaredatmewithwideningeyes.“Asin-wat!”

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“Whatwasthat?”“Asin-wat!” shecried. “Amanwhowants all of somebody’s love.That’s

verybad.”“Inthecaseofmarriage,Ithinkit’saverygoodthing.It’stheonlything.”Shewasstillonthefloor,andI,nowwithmyshoesandsocksbackon,was

standing.Ifeltverytall,thoughI’mnotverytall;andIfeltverystrong,thoughI’mnotverystrong;andIwasarespectfulstrangertomyownvoice.Myvoicehadametallicauthoritythatwasnew.As I went on talking in ball-peen tones, it dawned on me what was

happening,whatwashappeningalready.Iwasalreadystartingtorule.ItoldMonathatIhadseenherperformingasortofverticalboko-maruwith

apilotonthereviewingstandshortlyaftermyarrival.“Youaretohavenothingmoretodowithhim,”Itoldher.“Whatishisname?”“Idon’tevenknow,”shewhispered.Shewaslookingdownnow.“AndwhataboutyoungPhilipCastle?”“Youmeanboko-maru?”“I mean anything and everything. As I understand it, you two grew up

together.”“Yes.”“Bokonontutoredyouboth?”“Yes.”Therecollectionmadeherradiantagain.“Isupposetherewasplentyofboko-maruinginthosedays.”“Oh,yes!”shesaidhappily.“Youaren’ttoseehimanymore,either.Isthatclear?”“No.”“No?”“Iwillnotmarryasin-wat.”Shestood.“Good-bye.”“Good-bye?”Iwascrushed.“Bokonon tells us it is verywrongnot to love everyone exactly the same.

Whatdoesyourreligionsay?”“I—Idon’thaveone.”“Ido.”Ihadstoppedruling.“Iseeyoudo,”Isaid.“Good-bye,man-with-no-religion.”Shewenttothestonestaircase.“Mona…”Shestopped.“Yes?”“CouldIhaveyourreligion,ifIwantedit?”“Ofcourse.”“Iwantit.”

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“Good.Iloveyou.”“AndIloveyou,”Isighed.

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TheHighestMountain94So I becamebetrothed at dawn to themost beautifulwoman in theworld.

AndIagreedtobecomethenextPresidentofSanLorenzo.“Papa”wasn’tdeadyet,anditwasFrank’sfeelingthatIshouldget“Papa’s”

blessing, if possible. So, asBorasisi, the sun, came up, Frank and I drove to“Papa’s”castle inaJeepwecommandeeredfromthe troopsguarding thenextPresident.MonastayedatFrank’s.Ikissedhersacredly,andshewenttosacredsleep.Over themountainsFrankandIwent, throughgrovesofwildcoffee trees,

withtheflamboyantsunriseonourright.Itwasinthesunrisethatthecetaceanmajestyofthehighestmountainonthe

island, ofMountMcCabe,made itself known tome. Itwas a fearful hump, abluewhale,with one queer stone plug on its back for a peak. In scalewith awhale,theplugmighthavebeenthestumpofasnappedharpoon,anditseemedsounrelatedtotherestofthemountainthatIaskedFrankifithadbeenbuiltbymen.He toldme that itwas a natural formation.Moreover, he declared that no

man,asfarasheknew,hadeverbeentothetopofMountMcCabe.“Itdoesn’tlookverytoughtoclimb,”Icommented.Savefortheplugatthe

top, themountainpresentedinclinesnomoreforbiddingthancourthousesteps.Andtheplugitself,fromadistanceatanyrate,seemedconvenientlylacedwithrampsandledges.“Isitsacredorsomething?”Iasked.“Maybeitwasonce.ButnotsinceBokonon.”“Thenwhyhasn’tanybodyclimbedit?”“Nobody’sfeltlikeityet.”“MaybeI’llclimbit.”“Goahead.Nobody’sstoppingyou.”Werodeinsilence.“WhatissacredtoBokononists?”Iaskedafterawhile.“NotevenGod,asnearasIcantell.”“Nothing?”“Justonething.”Imadesomeguesses.“Theocean?Thesun?”“Man,”saidFrank.“That’sall.Justman.”

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ISeetheHook95Wecameatlasttothecastle.Itwaslowandblackandcruel.Antiquecannonsstilllolledonthebattlements.Vinesandbirdnestsclogged

thecrenels,themachicolations,andthebalistrariae.Its parapets to the north were continuous with the scarp of a monstrous

precipicethatfellsixhundredfeetstraightdowntothelukewarmsea.It posed the question posed by all such stone piles: how had puny men

moved stones so big?And, like all such stone piles, it answered the questionitself.Dumbterrorhadmovedthosestonessobig.ThecastlewasbuiltaccordingtothewishofTum-bumwa,EmperorofSan

Lorenzo, a demented man, an escaped slave. Tum-bumwa was said to havefounditsdesigninachild’spicturebook.Agorybookitmusthavebeen.Just beforewe reached the palace gate the ruts carried us through a rustic

archmadeoftwotelephonepolesandabeamthatspannedthem.Hanging from themiddle of thebeamwas a huge ironhook.Therewas a

signimpaledonthehook.“Thishook,”thesignproclaimed,“isreservedforBokononhimself.”Iturnedtolookatthehookagain,andthatthingofsharpironcommunicated

tomethatIreallywasgoingtorule.Iwouldchopdownthehook!AndI flatteredmyself that Iwasgoing tobea firm, just,andkindlyruler,

andthatmypeoplewouldprosper.FataMorgana.Mirage!

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Bell,Book,andChickeninaHatbox96Frank and I couldn’t get right in to see “Papa.” Dr. Schlichter von

Koenigswald,thephysicianinattendance,mutteredthatwewouldhavetowaitabouthalfanhour.SoFrankandIwaitedintheanteroomof“Papa’s”suite,aroomwithoutwindows.Theroomwasthirtyfeetsquare,furnishedwithseveralruggedbenchesandacard table.Thecard tablesupportedanelectric fan.Thewalls were stone. There were no pictures, no decorations of any sort on thewalls.Therewereironringsfixedtothewall,however,sevenfeetoffthefloorand

at intervals of six feet. I asked Frank if the room had ever been a torturechamber.Hetoldmethatithad,andthatthemanholecoveronwhichIstoodwasthe

lidofanoubliette.There was a listless guard in the anteroom. There was also a Christian

minister,whowasreadyto takecareof“Papa’s”spiritualneedsas theyarose.Hehadabrassdinnerbellandahatboxwithholesdrilledinit,andaBible,andabutcherknife—alllaidoutonthebenchbesidehim.Hetoldmetherewasalivechickeninthehatbox.Thechickenwasquiet,he

said,becausehehadfedittranquilizers.LikeallSanLorenzanspasttheageoftwenty-five,helookedatleastsixty.

He toldme that his namewasDr. VoxHumana, that hewas named after anorgan stop that had struck his mother when San Lorenzo Cathedral wasdynamitedin1923.Hisfather,hetoldmewithoutshame,wasunknown.I asked him what particular Christian sect he represented, and I observed

frankly that the chicken and the butcher knife were novelties insofar as myunderstandingofChristianitywent.“Thebell,”Icommented,“Icanunderstandhowthatmightfitinnicely.”Heturnedouttobeanintelligentman.Hisdoctorate,whichheinvitedmeto

examine,was awarded by theWesternHemisphereUniversity of theBible ofLittleRock,Arkansas.HemadecontactwiththeUniversitythroughaclassifiedadinPopularMechanics,he toldme.Hesaid that themottoof theUniversityhadbecomehisown,andthatitexplainedthechickenandthebutcherknife.ThemottooftheUniversitywasthis:MAKERELIGIONLIVE!He said that he had had to feel his way along with Christianity, since

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CatholicismandProtestantismhadbeenoutlawedalongwithBokononism.“So,ifIamgoingtobeaChristianunderthoseconditions,Ihavetomakeup

alotofnewstuff.”“Zo,”he said indialect, “yeff jy bamgong beKret-yeen hooner yoze kon-

steez-yen,jyhapmyyupoonlotneestopf.”Dr. Schlichter von Koenigswald now came out of “Papa’s” suite, looking

veryGerman,verytired.“Youcansee‘Papa’now.”“We’llbecarefulnottotirehim,”Frankpromised.“Ifyoucouldkillhim,”saidVonKoenigswald,“Ithinkhe’dbegrateful.”

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TheStinkingChristian97“Papa”Monzanoandhismercilessdiseasewereinabedthatwasmadeofa

goldendinghy—tiller,painter,oarlocksandall,allgilt.HisbedwasthelifeboatofBokonon’sold schooner, theLady’sSlipper; itwas the lifeboat of the shipthathadbroughtBokononandCorporalMcCabetoSanLorenzosolongago.Thewallsoftheroomwerewhite.But“Papa”radiatedpainsohotandbright

thatthewallsseemedbathedinangryred.He was stripped from the waist up, and, his glistening belly wall was

knotted.Hisbellyshiveredlikealuffingsail.Aroundhisneckhungachainwithacylinderthesizeofariflecartridgefor

a pendant. I supposed that the cylinder contained some magic charm. I wasmistaken.Itcontainedasplinterofice-nine.“Papa”couldhardlyspeak.Histeethchatteredandhisbreathingwasbeyond

control.“Papa’s”agonizedheadwasatthebowofthedinghy,bentback.Mona’s xylophone was near the bed. She had apparently tried to soothe

“Papa”withmusicthepreviousevening.“‘Papa’?”whisperedFrank.“Good-bye,”“Papa”gasped.Hiseyeswerebugging,sightless.“Ibroughtafriend.”“Good-bye.”“He’sgoingtobethenextPresidentofSanLorenzo.He’llbeamuchbetter

PresidentthanIcouldbe.”“Ice!”“Papa”whimpered.“Heasks for ice,” saidVonKoenigswald. “Whenwebring it, hedoesnot

wantit.”“Papa”rolledhiseyes.Herelaxedhisneck,tooktheweightofhisbodyfrom

thecrownofhishead.Andthenhearchedhisneckagain.“Doesnotmatter,”hesaid,“whoisPresidentof…”Hedidnotfinish.Ifinishedforhim.“SanLorenzo?”“SanLorenzo,” he agreed.Hemanaged a crooked smile. “Good luck!” he

croaked.“Thankyou,sir,”Isaid.“Doesn’tmatter!Bokonon.GetBokonon.”Iattemptedasophisticatedreplytothislast.Irememberedthat,forthejoyof

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thepeople,Bokononwasalways tobechased,wasnever tobecaught.“Iwillgethim.”“Tellhim…”Ileanedcloser,inordertohearthemessagefrom“Papa”toBokonon.“TellhimIamsorryIdidnotkillhim,”said“Papa.”“Iwill.”“Youkillhim.”“Yessir.”“Papa”gainedcontrolenoughofhisvoicetomakeitcommanding.“Imean

really!”Isaidnothingtothat.Iwasnoteagertokillanyone.“Heteachesthepeopleliesandliesandlies.Killhimandteachthepeople

truth.”“Yessir.”“YouandHoenikker,youteachthemscience.”“Yessir,wewill,”Ipromised.“Scienceismagicthatworks.”Hefellsilent,relaxed,closedhiseyes.Andthenhewhispered,“Lastrites.”Von Koenigswald called Dr. Vox Humana in. Dr. Humana took his

tranquilized chicken out of the hatbox, preparing to administer Christian lastritesasheunderstoodthem.“Papa”openedoneeye.“Notyou,”hesneeredatDr.Humana.“Getout!”“Sir?”askedDr.Humana.“I am amember of theBokononist faith,” “Papa”wheezed. “Get out, you

stinkingChristian.”

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LastRites98SoIwasprivilegedtoseethelastritesoftheBokononistfaith.Wemade an effort to find someone among the soldiers and thehousehold

staffwhowouldadmitthatheknewtheritesandwouldgivethemto“Papa.”Wegotnovolunteers.Thatwashardlysurprising,withahookandanoubliettesonear.SoDr. vonKoenigswald said that hewould have a go at the job.He had

neveradministeredtheritesbefore,buthehadseenJulianCastledoithundredsoftimes.“AreyouaBokononist?”Iaskedhim.“I agree with one Bokononist idea. I agree that all religions, including

Bokononism,arenothingbutlies.”“Will thisbotheryouasascientist,”I inquired,“togothrougharituallike

this?”“I amaverybad scientist. Iwill do anything tomake ahumanbeing feel

better,evenifit’sunscientific.Noscientistworthyofthenamecouldsaysuchathing.”And he climbed into the golden boat with “Papa.” He sat in the stern.

Crampedquartersobligedhimtohavethegoldentillerunderonearm.Hewore sandalswithout socks, and he took these off.And then he rolled

backthecoversat thefootof thebed,exposing“Papa’s”barefeet.Heput thesolesofhisfeetagainst“Papa’s”feet,assumingtheclassicalpositionforboko-maru.

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Dyotmeetmat99“Gottmatemutt,”croonedDr.vonKoenigswald.“Dyotmeetmat,”echoed“Papa”Monzano.“Godmademud,”waswhatthey’dsaid,eachinhisowndialect.Iwillhere

abandonthedialectsofthelitany.“Godgotlonesome,”saidVonKoenigswald.“Godgotlonesome.”“SoGodsaidtosomeofthemud,‘Situp!’”“SoGodsaidtosomeofthemud,‘Situp!’”“‘SeeallI’vemade,’saidGod,‘thehills,thesea,thesky,thestars.’”“‘SeeallI’vemade,’saidGod,‘thehills,thesea,thesky,thestars.’”“AndIwassomeofthemudthatgottositupandlookaround.”“AndIwassomeofthemudthatgottositupandlookaround.”“Luckyme;luckymud.”“Luckyme,luckymud.”Tearswerestreamingdown“Papa’s”cheeks.“I,mud,satupandsawwhatanicejobGodhaddone.”“I,mud,satupandsawwhatanicejobGodhaddone.”“Nicegoing,God!”“Nicegoing,God!”“Papa”saiditwithallhisheart.“NobodybutYoucouldhavedoneit,God!Icertainlycouldn’thave.”“NobodybutYoucouldhavedoneit,God!Icertainlycouldn’thave.”“IfeelveryunimportantcomparedtoYou.”“IfeelveryunimportantcomparedtoYou.”“TheonlywayIcanfeeltheleastbitimportantistothinkofallthemudthat

didn’tevengettositupandlookaround.”“TheonlywayIcanfeeltheleastbitimportantistothinkofallthemudthat

didn’tevengettositupandlookaround.”“Igotsomuch,andmostmudgotsolittle.”“Igotsomuch,andmostmudgotsolittle.”“Dengyouvoredaon-oh!”criedVonKoenigswald.“Tz-yenkvoovoreloyon-yo!”wheezed“Papa.”Whattheyhadsaidwas,“Thankyouforthehonor!”“Nowmudliesdownagainandgoestosleep.”“Nowmudliesdownagainandgoestosleep.”“Whatmemoriesformudtohave!”

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“Whatmemoriesformudtohave!”“Whatinterestingotherkindsofsitting-upmudImet!”“Whatinterestingotherkindsofsitting-upmudImet!”“IlovedeverythingIsaw!”“IlovedeverythingIsaw!”“Goodnight.”“Goodnight.”“Iwillgotoheavennow.”“Iwillgotoheavennow.”“Icanhardlywait…”“Icanhardlywait…”“Tofindoutforcertainwhatmywampeterwas…”“Tofindoutforcertainwhatmywampeterwas…”“Andwhowasinmykarass…”“Andwhowasinmykarass…”“Andallthegoodthingsourkarassdidforyou.”“Andallthegoodthingsourkarassdidforyou.”“Amen.”“Amen.”

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DowntheOublietteGoesFrank100But“Papa”didn’tdieandgotoheaven—notthen.IaskedFrankhowwe

mightbesttimetheannouncementofmyelevationtothePresidency.Hewasnohelp,hadnoideas;heleftitalluptome.“Ithoughtyouweregoingtobackmeup,”Icomplained.“As far as anything technical goes.” Frankwas prim about it. I wasn’t to

violatehisintegrityasatechnician;wasn’ttomakehimexceedthelimitsofhisjob.“Isee.”“However you want to handle people is all right with me. That’s your

responsibility.”ThisabruptabdicationofFrankfromallhumanaffairsshockedandangered

me,andIsaidtohim,meaningtobesatirical,“Youmindtellingmewhat,inapurelytechnicalway,isplannedforthisdayofdays?”I got a strictly technical reply. “Repair the power plant and stage an air

show.”“Good!SooneofmyfirsttriumphsasPresidentwillbetorestoreelectricity

tomypeople.”Frankdidn’tseeanythingfunnyinthat.Hegavemeasalute.“I’lltry,sir.I’ll

domybestforyou,sir. Ican’tguaranteehowlongit’llbebeforeweget juiceback.”“That’swhatIwant—ajuicycountry.”“I’lldomybest,sir.”Franksalutedmeagain.“Andtheairshow?”Iasked.“What’sthat?”Igotanotherwoodenreply.“Atoneo’clockthisafternoon,sir,sixplanesof

theSanLorenzanAirForcewillflypastthepalacehereandshootattargetsinthe water. It’s part of the celebration of the Day of the Hundred Martyrs toDemocracy. TheAmericanAmbassador also plans to throw awreath into thesea.”SoIdecided, tentatively, that IwouldhaveFrankannouncemyapotheosis

immediatelyfollowingthewreathceremonyandtheairshow.“Whatdoyouthinkofthat?”IsaidtoFrank.“You’retheboss,sir.”“IthinkI’dbetterhaveaspeechready,”Isaid.“Andthereshouldbesome

sortofswearing-in,tomakeitlookdignified,official.”

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“You’retheboss,sir.”Eachtimehesaidthosewordstheyseemedtocomefromfartheraway,asthoughFrankweredescendingtherungsofaladderintoadeepshaft,whileIwasobligedtoremainabove.AndIrealizedwithchagrinthatmyagreeingtobebosshadfreedFrankto

do what he wanted to domore than anything else, to do what his father haddone: to receive honors and creature comforts while escaping humanresponsibilities.Hewasaccomplishingthisbygoingdownaspiritualoubliette.

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LikeMyPredecesors,IOutlawBokonon101

SoIwrotemyspeechinaround,bareroomatthefootofatower.Therewasa table and a chair.And the speech Iwrotewas round and bare and sparselyfurnished,too.Itwashopeful.Itwashumble.And I found it impossible not to lean on God. I had never needed such

supportbefore,andsohadneverbelievedthatsuchsupportwasavailable.Now,IfoundthatIhadtobelieveinit—andIdid.Inaddition,Iwouldneedthehelpofpeople.Icalledforalistoftheguests

whoweretobeattheceremoniesandfoundthatJulianCastleandhissonhadnotbeeninvited.Isentmessengerstoinvitethematonce,sincetheyknewmoreaboutmypeoplethananyone,withtheexceptionofBokonon.AsforBokonon:Iponderedaskinghimtojoinmygovernment,thusbringingaboutasortof

millenniumformypeople.AndIthoughtoforderingthattheawfulhookoutsidethepalacegatebetakendownatonce,amidstgreatrejoicing.ButthenIunderstoodthatamillenniumwouldhavetooffersomethingmore

thanaholyman inapositionofpower, that therewouldhave tobeplentyofgoodthingsforall toeat, too,andniceplacestoliveforall,andgoodschoolsandgoodhealthandgoodtimesforall,andworkforallwhowantedit—thingsBokononandIwereinnopositiontoprovide.Sogoodandevilhadtoremainseparate;goodinthejungle,andevilinthe

palace.Whateverentertainment therewas in thatwasaboutallwehad togivethepeople.Therewasaknockonmydoor.Aservanttoldmetheguestshadbegunto

arrive.So Iputmyspeech inmypocketand Imounted the spiral staircase inmy

tower.Iarrivedattheuppermostbattlementofmycastle,andIlookedoutatmyguests,myservants,mycliff,andmylukewarmsea.

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EnemiesofFreedom102When I think of all those people onmy uppermost battlement, I think of

Bokonon’s “hundred-and-nineteenth Calypso,” wherein he invites us to singalongwithhim:

“Where’smygoodoldgangdonegone?”Iheardasadmansay.Iwhisperedinthatsadman’sear,“Yourgang’sdonegoneaway.”

PresentwereAmbassadorHorlickMintonandhislady;H.LoweCrosby,thebicycle manufacturer, and his Hazel; Dr. Julian Castle, humanitarian andphilanthropist, and his son Philip, author and innkeeper; little NewtonHoenikker,thepicturepainter,andhismusicalsister,Mrs.HarrisonC.Conners;myheavenlyMona;MajorGeneralFranklinHoenikker;andtwentyassortedSanLorenzobureaucratsandmilitarymen.Dead—almostalldeadnow.AsBokonontellsus,“Itisneveramistaketosaygoodbye.”There was a buffet on my battlements, a buffet burdened with native

delicacies: roasted warblers in little overcoats made of their own blue-greenfeathers; lavender land crabs taken from their shells,minced, fried in coconutoil,andreturnedtotheirshells;fingerlingbarracudastuffedwithbananapaste;and, on unleavened, unseasoned cornmeal wafers, bite-sized cubes of boiledalbatross.Thealbatross,Iwastold,hadbeenshotfromtheverybartizaninwhichthe

buffet stood. Therewere two beverages offered, both un-iced: Pepsi-Cola andnativerum.ThePepsi-ColawasservedinplasticPilseners.Therumwasservedincoconutshells.Iwasunabletoidentifythesweetbouquetoftherum,thoughitsomehowremindedmeofearlyadolescence.Frankwasabletonamethebouquetforme.“Acetone.”“Acetone?”“Usedinmodel-airplanecement.”Ididnotdrinktherum.AmbassadorMintondidalotofambassadorial,gourmandsalutingwithhis

coconut, pretending to love allmenandall thebeverages that sustained them.ButIdidnotseehimdrink.Hehadwithhim,incidentally,apieceofluggageof

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asortIhadneverseenbefore.ItlookedlikeaFrenchhorncase,andprovedtocontainthememorialwreaththatwastobecastintothesea.TheonlypersonIsawdrinktherumwasH.LoweCrosby,whoplainlyhad

no sense of smell. He was having a good time, drinking acetone from hiscoconut,sittingonacannon,blockingthetouchholewithhisbigbehind.HewaslookingouttoseathroughahugepairofJapanesebinoculars.Hewaslookingattargetsmountedonbobbingfloatsanchoredoffshore.Thetargetswerecardboardcutoutsshapedlikemen.Theyweretobefireduponandbombedinademonstrationofmightbythe

sixplanesoftheSanLorenzanAirForce.Eachtargetwasacaricatureofsomerealperson,andthenameofthatperson

waspaintedonthetargets’backandfront.IaskedwhothecaricaturistwasandlearnedthathewasDr.VoxHumana,

theChristianminister.Hewasatmyelbow.“Ididn’tknowyouweretalentedinthatdirection,too.”“Oh,yes.WhenIwasayoungman,Ihadaveryhardtimedecidingwhatto

be.”“Ithinkthechoiceyoumadewastherightone.”“IprayedforguidancefromAbove.”“Yougotit.”H.LoweCrosbyhandedhisbinocularstohiswife.“There’soldJoeStalin,

closestin,andoldFidelCastro’sanchoredrightnexttohim.”“And there’s old Hitler,” chuckled Hazel, delighted. “And there’s old

MussoliniandsomeoldJap.”“Andthere’soldKarlMarx.”“And there’s old Kaiser Bill, spiked hat and all,” cooed Hazel. “I never

expectedtoseehimagain.”“Andthere’soldMao.YouseeoldMao?”“Isn’thegonnagetit?”askedHazel.“Isn’thegonnagetthesurpriseofhis

life?Thissureisacuteidea.”“They got practically every enemy that freedom, ever had out there,” H.

LoweCrosbydeclared.

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AMedicalOpinionontheEffectsofaWriters’Strike103

None of the guests knew yet that I was to be President. None knew howclose to death “Papa”was. Frank gave out the official word that “Papa”wasrestingcomfortably,that“Papa”senthisbestwishestoall.Theorderofevents, asannouncedbyFrank,was thatAmbassadorMinton

wouldthrowhiswreathintothesea,inhonoroftheHundredMartyrs;andthentheairplaneswouldshootthetargetsinthesea;andthenhe,Frank,wouldsayafewwords.He did not tell the company that, following his speech, there would be a

speechbyme.SoIwastreatedasnothingmorethanavisitingjournalist,andIengagedin

harmlessgranfallooneryhereandthere.“Hello,Mom,”IsaidtoHazelCrosby.“Why, if it isn’t my boy!” Hazel gave me a perfumed hug, and she told

everybody,“Thisboy’saHoosier!”TheCastles, father and son, stood separate from the rest of the company.

Longunwelcomeat“Papa’s”palace,theywerecuriousastowhytheyhadnowbeeninvitedthere.YoungCastlecalledme“Scoop.”“Goodmorning,Scoop.What’snewinthe

wordgame?”“Imightaskthesameofyou,”Ireplied.“I’mthinkingofcallingageneralstrikeofallwritersuntilmankindfinally

comestoitssenses.Wouldyousupportit?”“Do writers have a right to strike? That would be like the police or the

firemenwalkingout.”“Orthecollegeprofessors.”“Orthecollegeprofessors,”Iagreed.Ishookmyhead.“No,Idon’tthinkmy

conscience would let me support a strike like that. When a man becomes awriter, I think he takes on a sacred obligation to produce beauty andenlightenmentandcomfortattopspeed.”“Ijustcan’thelpthinkingwhatarealshakingupitwouldgivepeopleif,all

ofasudden,therewerenonewbooks,newplays,newhistories,newpoems…”“And how proud would you be when people started dying like flies?” I

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demanded.“They’ddiemore likemaddogs, I think—snarling and snappingat each

otherandbitingtheirowntails.”IturnedtoCastletheelder.“Sir,howdoesamandiewhenhe’sdeprivedof

theconsolationsofliterature?”“Inoneof twoways,” he said, “petrescenceof theheart or atrophyof the

nervoussystem.”“Neitheroneverypleasant,Iexpect,”Isuggested.“No,”saidCastletheelder.“FortheloveofGod,bothofyou,pleasekeep

writing!”

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Sulfathiazole104My heavenlyMona did not approach me and did not encourage me with

languishing glances to come to her side. She made a hostess of herself,introducingAngelaandlittleNewttoSanLorenzans.As I ponder now the meaning of that girl — recall her indifference to

“Papa’s”collapse, toherbetrothal tome—Ivacillatebetweenloftyandcheapappraisals.Didsherepresentthehighestformoffemalespirituality?Orwassheanesthetized,frigid—acoldfish,infact,adazedaddictofthe

xylophone,thecultofbeauty,andboko-maru?Ishallneverknow.Bokonontellsus:

Alover’saliar,Tohimselfhelies.Thetruthfulareloveless,Likeoysterstheireyes!

So my instructions are clear, I suppose. I am to remember my Mona ashavingbeensublime.“Tell me,” I appealed to young Philip Castle on the Day of the Hundred

MartyrstoDemocracy,“haveyouspokentoyourfriendandadmirer,H.LoweCrosby,today?”“Hedidn’trecognizemewithasuitandshoesandnecktieon,”youngCastle

replied.“We’vealreadyhadanicetalkaboutbicycles.Wemayhaveanother.”IfoundthatIwasnolongeramusedbyCrosby’swantingtobuildbicyclesin

SanLorenzo.As chief executiveof the island Iwanted abicycle factoryverymuch.IdevelopedsuddenrespectforwhatH.LoweCrosbywasandcoulddo.“How do you think the people of San Lorenzo would take to

industrialization?”IaskedtheCastles,fatherandson.“ThepeopleofSanLorenzo,”thefathertoldme,“areinterestedinonlythree

things:fishing,fornication,andBokononism.”“Don’tyouthinktheycouldbeinterestedinprogress?”“They’ve seen some of it. There’s only one aspect of progress that really

excitesthem.”“What’sthat?”

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“Theelectricguitar.”IexcusedmyselfandIrejoinedtheCrosbys.FrankHoenikkerwaswiththem,explainingwhoBokononwasandwhathe

wasagainst.“He’sagainstscience.”“Howcananybodyinhisrightmindbeagainstscience?”askedCrosby.“I’dbedeadnowifitwasn’tforpenicillin,”saidHazel.“Andsowouldmy

mother.”“Howoldisyourmother?”Iinquired.“Ahundredandsix.Isn’tthatwonderful?”“Itcertainlyis,”Iagreed.“And I’d be a widow, too, if it wasn’t for the medicine they gave my

husband that time,” said Hazel. She had to ask her husband the name of themedicine. “Honey, what was the name of that stuff that saved your life thattime?”“Sulfathiazole.”AndImadethemistakeoftakinganalbatrosscanapefromapassingtray.

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Pain-killer105Asithappened—“Asitwassupposed tohappen,”Bokononwouldsay—

albatross meat disagreed with me so violently that I was ill the moment I’dchoked the first piece down. Iwas compelled to canter down the stone spiralstaircaseinsearchofabathroom.Iavailedmyselfofoneadjacent to“Papa’s”suite.When I shuffled out, somewhat relieved, Iwasmet byDr. Schlichter von

Koenigswald,whowasboundingfrom“Papa’s”bedroom.Hehadawildlook,and he took me by the arms and he cried, “What is it?What was it he hadhangingaroundhisneck?”“Ibegyourpardon?”“He took it!Whateverwas in that cylinder, ‘Papa’ took— and now he’s

dead.”Irememberedthecylinder“Papa”hadhungaroundhisneck,andImadean

obviousguessastoitscontents.“Cyanide?”“Cyanide?Cyanideturnsamantocementinasecond?”“Cement?”“Marble! Iron! I have never seen such a rigid corpse before. Strike it

anywhere andyouget a note like amarimba!Come look!”VonKoenigswaldhustledmeinto“Papa’s”bedroom.Inbed,inthegoldendinghy,wasahideousthingtosee.“Papa”wasdead,

buthiswasnotacorpsetowhichonecouldsay,“Atrestatlast.”“Papa’s”headwasbentbackasfarasitwouldgo.Hisweightrestedonthe

crownofhisheadandthesolesofhisfeet,withtherestofhisbodyformingabridgewhosearchthrusttowardtheceiling.Hewasshapedlikeanandiron.Thathehaddiedofthecontentsofthecylinderaroundhisneckwasobvious.

Onehandheldthecylinderandthecylinderwasuncapped.Andthethumbandindex fingerof theotherhand, as thoughhaving just released a little pinchofsomething,werestuckbetweenhisteeth.Dr.vonKoenigswaldslippedthetholepinofanoarlockfromitssocketinthe

gunwale of the gilded dinghy. He tapped “Papa” on his belly with the steeloarlock,and“Papa”reallydidmakeasoundlikeamarimba.And“Papa’s” lips andnostrils and eyeballswereglazedwith a blue-white

frost.Suchasyndromeisnonoveltynow,Godknows.Butitcertainlywasthen.

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“Papa”Monzanowasthefirstmaninhistorytodieofice-nine.Irecordthatfactforwhateveritmaybeworth.“Writeitalldown,”Bokonon

tells us. He is really telling us, of course, how futile it is to write or readhistories. “Without accurate records of the past, how canmen andwomen beexpectedtoavoidmakingseriousmistakesinthefuture?”heasksironically.So,again:“Papa”Monzanowasthefirstmaninhistorytodieofice-nine.

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WhatBokononistsSayWhenTheyCommitSuicide106

Dr.vonKoenigswald,thehumanitarianwiththeterribledeficitofAuschwitzinhiskindlinessaccount,wasthesecondtodieofice-nine.Hewastalkingaboutrigormortis,asubjectIhadintroduced.“Rigormortisdoesnotsetininseconds,”hedeclared.“Iturnedmybackto

‘Papa’forjustamoment.Hewasraving…”“Whatabout?”Iasked.“Pain, ice,Mona—everything.And then‘Papa’said, ‘NowIwilldestroy

thewholeworld.’”“Whatdidhemeanbythat?”“It’swhatBokononistsalwayssaywhentheyareabouttocommitsuicide.”

VonKoenigswaldwenttoabasinofwater,meaningtowashhishands.“WhenIturnedtolookathim,”hetoldme,hishandspoisedoverthewater,“hewasdead—ashardasastatue, justasyouseehim. Ibrushedmyfingersoverhis lips.Theylookedsopeculiar.”He put his hands into the water. “What chemical could possibly…” The

questiontrailedoff.VonKoenigswald raised his hands, and the water in the basin camewith

them.Itwasnolongerwater,butahemisphereofice-nine.VonKoenigswaldtouchedthetipofhistonguetotheblue-whitemystery.Frostbloomedonhislips.Hefrozesolid,tottered,andcrashed.Theblue-whitehemisphereshattered.Chunksskitteredoverthefloor.Iwenttothedoorandbawledforhelp.Soldiersandservantscamerunning.I ordered them to bring Frank andNewt andAngela to “Papa’s” room at

once.AtlastIhadseenice-nine!

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FeastYourEyes!107I let the three children of Dr. Felix Hoenikker into “Papa” Monzano’s

bedroom. I closed the door and put my back to it. My mood was bitter andgrand.Iknewice-nineforwhatitwas.Ihadseenitofteninmydreams.There could be no doubt that Frank had given “Papa” ice-nine. And it

seemedcertain that if ice-ninewereFrank’s togive, then itwasAngela’s andlittleNewt’stogive,too.SoIsnarledatallthree,callingthemtoaccountformonstrouscriminality.I

told them that the jigwas up, that I knew about them and ice-nine. I tried toalarm them about ice-nine’s being a means to ending life on earth. I was soimpressivethattheyneverthoughttoaskhowIknewaboutice-nine.“Feastyoureyes!”Isaid.Well,asBokonontellsus:“GodneverwroteagoodplayinHisLife.”The

scene in “Papa’s” roomdid not lack for spectacular issues andprops, andmyopeningspeechwastherightone.ButthefirstreplyfromaHoenikkerdestroyedallmagnificence.LittleNewtthrewup.

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FrankTellsUsWhattoDo108Andthenweallwantedtothrowup.Newtcertainlydidwhatwascalledfor.“I couldn’t agreemore,” I toldNewt.And I snarled atAngela and Frank,

“Nowthatwe’vegotNewt’sopinion,I’dliketohearwhatyoutwohavetosay.”“Uck,”saidAngela,cringing,hertongueout.Shewasthecolorofputty.“Are thoseyour sentiments, too?” I askedFrank. “ ‘Uck?’General, is that

whatyousay?”Frankhadhisteethbared,andhisteethwereclenched,andhewasbreathing

shallowlyandwhistlinglybetweenthem.“Likethedog,”murmuredlittleNewt,lookingdownatVonKoenigswald.“Whatdog?”Newt whispered his answer, and there was scarcely any wind behind the

whisper.Butsuchweretheacousticsofthestonewalledroomthatweallheardthewhisperasclearlyaswewouldhaveheardthechimingofacrystalbell.“ChristmasEve,whenFatherdied.”Newtwastalkingtohimself.And,whenIaskedhimtotellmeaboutthedog

on thenighthis fatherdied,he lookedupatmeas thoughIhad intrudedonadream.Hefoundmeirrelevant.Hisbrotherandsister,however,belongedinthedream.Andhetalkedtohis

brotherinthatnightmare;toldFrank,“Yougaveittohim.“That’showyougotthisfancyjob,isn’tit?”NewtaskedFrankwonderingly.

“What did you tell him— that you had something better than the hydrogenbomb?”Frank didn’t acknowledge the question. He was looking around the room

intently, taking it all in. He unclenched his teeth, and he made them clickrapidly,blinkinghiseyeswitheveryclick.Hiscolorwascomingback.Thisiswhathesaid.“Listen,we’vegottocleanupthismess.”

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FrankDefendsHimself109“General,” I told Frank, “that must be one of the most cogent statements

made by a major general this year. As my technical advisor, how do yourecommendthatwe,asyouputitsowell,‘cleanupthismess’?”Frank gaveme a straight answer.He snapped his fingers. I could see him

dissociating himself from the causes of the mess; identifying himself, withgrowingprideandenergy,withthepurifiers,theworld-savers,thecleaners-up.“Brooms, dustpans, blowtorch, hot plate, buckets,” he commanded,

snapping,snapping,snappinghisfingers.“Youproposeapplyingablowtorchtothebodies?”Iasked.Frankwassochargedwithtechnicalthinkingnowthathewaspracticallytap

dancingtothemusicofhisfingers.“We’llsweepupthebigpiecesonthefloor,melt theminabucketonahotplate.Thenwe’llgoovereverysquare inchoffloorwithablowtorch,incasethereareanymicroscopiccrystals.Whatwe’lldowiththebodies—andthebed…”Hehadtothinksomemore.“Afuneralpyre!”hecried,reallypleasedwithhimself.“I’llhaveagreatbig

funeralpyrebuiltoutbythehook,andwe’llhavethebodiesandthebedcarriedoutandthrownon.”Hestartedtoleave,toorderthepyrebuiltandtogetthethingsweneededin

ordertocleanuptheroom.Angelastoppedhim.“Howcouldyou?”shewantedtoknow.Frankgaveheraglassysmile.“Everything’sgoingtobeallright.”“Howcouldyougiveittoamanlike‘Papa’Monzano?”Angelaaskedhim.“Let’scleanupthemessfirst;thenwecantalk.”Angelahadhimbythearms,andshewouldn’tlethimgo.“Howcouldyou!”

Sheshookhim.Frankpriedhissister’shandsfromhimself.Hisglassysmilewentawayand

heturnedsneeringlynastyforamoment—amomentinwhichhetoldherwithallpossiblecontempt,“Iboughtmyselfajob,justthewayyouboughtyourselfatomcathusband,justthewayNewtboughthimselfaweekonCapeCodwithaRussianmidget!”Theglassysmilereturned.Frankleft;andheslammedthedoor.

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TheFourteenthBook110“Sometimesthepool-pah,”Bokonontellsus,“exceedsthepowerofhumans

to comment.” Bokonon translates pool-pah at one point in The Books ofBokononas“shitstorm”andatanotherpointas“wrathofGod.”FromwhatFrankhadsaidbeforeheslammed thedoor, Igathered that the

RepublicofSanLorenzoand the threeHoenikkersweren’t theonlyoneswhohadice-nine.ApparentlytheUnitedStatesofAmericaandtheUnionofSovietSocialist Republics had it, too. The United States had obtained it throughAngela’shusband,whoseplant in Indianapoliswasunderstandablysurroundedbyelectrified fencesandhomicidalGermanshepherds.AndSovietRussiahadcomebyitthroughNewt’slittleZinka,thatwinsometrollofUkrainianballet.Iwaswithoutcomment.Ibowedmyheadandclosedmyeyes;andIawaitedFrank’sreturnwiththe

humbletoolsitwouldtaketocleanuponebedroom—onebedroomoutofallthebedroomsintheworld,abedroominfestedwithice-nine.Somewhere, in theviolet,velvetoblivion,IheardAngelasaysomethingto

me.Itwasn’tinherowndefense.ItwasindefenseoflittleNewt.“Newtdidn’tgiveittoher.Shestoleit.”Ifoundtheexplanationuninteresting.“Whathopecantherebeformankind,”Ithought,“whentherearesuchmen

as Felix Hoenikker to give such playthings as ice-nine to such short-sightedchildrenasalmostallmenandwomenare?”AndIrememberedTheFourteenthBookofBokonon,whichIhadreadinits

entirety the night before. The Fourteenth Book is entitled, “What Can aThoughtfulManHopeforMankindonEarth,GiventheExperienceofthePastMillionYears?”Itdoesn’ttakelongtoreadTheFourteenthBook.Itconsistsofonewordand

aperiod.Thisisit:“Nothing.”

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TimeOut111Frankcamebackwithbroomsanddustpans,ablowtorch,andakerosenehot

plate,andagoodoldbucketandrubbergloves.Weputon thegloves inordernot to contaminateourhandswith ice-nine.

FranksetthehotplateontheheavenlyMona’sxylophoneandputthehonestoldbucketontopofthat.And we picked up the bigger chunks of ice-nine from the floor; and we

droppedthemintothathumblebucket;andtheymelted.Theybecamegoodold,sweetold,honestoldwater.AngelaandIsweptthefloor,andlittleNewtlookedunderfurnitureforbits

of ice-ninewemighthavemissed.AndFrank followedour sweepingwith thepurifyingflameofthetorch.Thebrainlessserenityofcharwomenandjanitorsworkinglateatnightcame

overus.Inamessyworldwewereatleastmakingourlittlecornerclean.And I heardmyself askingNewt andAngela and Frank in conversational

tonestotellmeabouttheChristmasEveonwhichtheold-mandied,totellmeaboutthedog.And,childishlysurethattheyweremakingeverythingallrightbycleaning

up,theHoenikkerstoldmethetale.Thetalewentlikethis:On that fatefulChristmasEve,Angelawent into the village forChristmas

tree lights, andNewt and Frankwent for a walk on the lonely winter beach,wheretheymetablackLabradorretriever.Thedogwasfriendly,asallLabradorretrieversare,andhefollowedFrankandlittleNewthome.FelixHoenikkerdied—diedinhiswhitewickerchairlookingoutatthesea

— while his chldren were gone. All day the old man had been teasing hischildrenwithhintsaboutice-nine,showingittotheminalittlebottleonwhoselabelhehaddrawnaskullandcrossbones,andonwhoselabelhehadwritten:“Danger!Ice-nine!Keepawayfrommoisture!”All day long the old man had been nagging his children with words like

these,merry in tone: “Comeonnow, stretchyourmindsa little. I’ve toldyouthat itsmelting point is a hundred fourteen-point-four degreesFahrenheit, andI’ve told you that it’s composed of nothing but hydrogen and oxygen.Whatcouldtheexplanationbe?Thinkalittle!Don’tbeafraidofstrainingyourbrains.Theywon’tbreak.”

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“Hewasalwaystellingustostretchourbrains,”saidFrank,recallingoldentimes.“I gave up trying to stretchmy brain when I-don’t-know-how-old-I-was,”

Angelaconfessed,leaningonherbroom.“Icouldn’tevenlistentohimwhenhetalkedaboutscience.I’djustnodandpretendIwastryingtostretchmybrain,butthatpoorbrain,asfarassciencewent,didn’thaveanymorestretchthananoldgarterbelt.”Apparently, before he sat down in hiswicker chair and died, the oldman

playedpuddlygamesinthekitchenwithwaterandpotsandpansandice-nine.Hemust have been convertingwater to ice-nine and back towater again, foreverypotandpanwasoutonthekitchencountertops.Ameatthermometerwasout,too,sotheoldmanmusthavebeentakingthetemperatureofthings.Theoldmanmeanttotakeonlyabrieftimeoutinhischair,forheleftquite

amessinthekitchen.Partofthedisorderwasasaucepanfilledwithsolidice-nine.Henodoubtmeanttomeltitup,toreducetheworld’ssupplyoftheblue-whitestufftoasplinterinabottleagain—afterabrieftimeout.But,asBokonon tellsus,“Anymancancall timeout,butnomancansay

howlongthetimeoutwillbe.”

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Newt’sMother’sReticule112“I should have know he was dead the minute I came in,” said Angela,

leaning on her broom again. “Thatwicker chair, itwasn’tmaking a sound. Italways talked, creaked away, when Father was in it — even when he wasasleep.”ButAngela had assumed that her fatherwas sleeping, and shewent on to

decoratetheChristmastree.NewtandFrankcameinwiththeLabradorretriever.Theywentoutintothe

kitchentofindsomethingforthedogtoeat.Theyfoundtheoldman’spuddles.Therewaswateronthefloor,andlittleNewttookadishragandwipeditup.

Hetossedthesoppingdishragontothecounter.Asithappened,thedishragfellintothepancontainingice-nine.Frank thought thepancontained somesortof cake frosting, andheheld it

downtoNewt,toshowNewtwhathiscarelessnesswiththedishraghaddone.Newtpeeled thedishrag from thesurfaceand found that thedishraghada

peculiar,metallic, snakyquality,as though itweremadeof finely-wovengoldmesh.“ThereasonIsay‘goldmesh,’”saidlittleNewt,therein“Papa’s”bedroom,

“isthatitremindedmerightawayofMother’sreticule,ofhowthereticulefelt.”Angela explained sentimentally thatwhen a child,Newt had treasured his

mother’sgoldreticule.Igatheredthatitwasalittleeveningbag.“It felt so funny to me, like nothing else I’d ever touched,” and Newt,

investigatinghisoldfondnessforthereticule.“Iwonderwhateverhappenedtoit.”“I wonder what happened to a lot of things,” said Angela. The question

echoedbackthroughtime—woeful,lost.Whathappened to thedishrag that felt likea reticule, at any rate,was that

Newthelditouttothedog,andthedoglickedit.Andthedogfrozestiff.Newtwenttotellhisfatheraboutthestiffdogandfoundoutthathisfather

wasstiff,too.

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History113Ourworkin“Papa’s”bedroomwasdoneatlast.Butthebodiesstillhadtobecarriedtothefuneralpyre.Wedecidedthatthis

should be done with pomp, that we should put it off until the ceremonies inhonoroftheHundredMartyrstoDemocracywereover.The last thingwe didwas standVonKoenigswald on his feet in order to

decontaminate the place where he had been lying. And then we hid him,standingup,in“Papa’s”clothescloset.I’mnotquitesurewhywehidhim.Ithinkitmusthavebeentosimplifythe

tableau.As for Newt’s andAngela’s and Frank’s tale of how they divided up the

world’ssupplyofice-nineonChristmasEve—itpeteredoutwhentheygottodetailsof thecrimeitself.TheHoenikkerscouldn’trememberthatanyonesaidanythingtojustifytheirtakingice-nineaspersonalproperty.Theytalkedaboutwhatice-ninewas,recallingtheoldman’sbrain-stretchers,buttherewasnotalkofmorals.“Whodidthedividing?”Iinquired.So thoroughly had the three Hoenikkers obliterated their memories of the

incidentthatitwasdifficultforthemtogivemeeventhatfundamentaldetail.“Itwasn’tNewt,”saidAngelaatlast.“I’msureofthat.”“Itwaseitheryouorme,”musedFrank,thinkinghard.“YougotthethreeMasonjarsoffthekitchenshelf,”saidAngela.“Itwasn’t

untilthenextdaythatwegotthethreelittleThermosjugs.”“That’sright,”Frankagreed.“Andthenyoutookanicepickandchippedup

theice-nineinthesaucepan.”“That’s right,” said Angela. “I did. And then somebody brought tweezers

fromthebathroom.”Newtraisedhislittlehand.“Idid.”Angela andNewtwere amazed, rememberinghowenterprising littleNewt

hadbeen.“Iwas the onewhopicked up the chips and put them in theMason jars,”

Newtrecounted.Hedidn’tbothertohidetheswaggerhemusthavefelt.“Whatdidyoupeopledowiththedog?”Iaskedlimply.“Weputhimintheoven,”Franktoldme.“Itwastheonlythingtodo.”“History!”writesBokonon.“Readitandweep!”

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WhenIFelttheBulletEnterMyHeart114

SoIonceagainmountedthespiralstaircaseinmytower;onceagainarrivedat the uppermost battlement of my castle; and once more looked out at myguests,myservants,mycliff,andmylukewarmsea.TheHoenikkerswerewithme.Wehadlocked“Papa’s”door,andhadspread

thewordamongthehouseholdstaffthat“Papa”wasfeelingmuchbetter.Soldiers were now building a funeral pyre out by the hook. They did not

knowwhatthepyrewasfor.Thereweremany,manysecretsthatday.Busy,busy,busy.I supposed that the ceremonies might as well begin, and I told Frank to

suggesttoAmbassadorHorlickMintonthathedeliverhisspeech.AmbassadorMintonwent totheseawardparapetwithhismemorialwreath

still in its case.Andhedelivered an amazing speech inhonorof theHundredMartyrstoDemocracy.Hedignifiedthedead,theircountry,andthelifethatwasoverforthembysayingthe“HundredMartyrstoDemocracy”inislanddialect.Thatfragmentofdialectwasgracefulandeasyonhislips.The rest of his speechwas inAmericanEnglish.He had awritten speech

withhim—fustianandbombast,Iimagine.But,whenhefoundhewasgoingtospeak to so few,and to fellowAmericans for themostpart,heput the formalspeechaway.A light sea wind ruffled his thinning hair. “I am about to do a very un-

ambassadorialthing,”hedeclared.“IamabouttotellyouwhatIreallyfeel.”PerhapsMintonhadinhaledtoomuchacetone,orperhapshehadaninkling

of what was about to happen to everybody but me. At any rate, it was astrikinglyBokononistspeechhegave.“Wearegatheredhere,friends,”hesaid,“tohonorloHoon-yeraMora-toorz

tutZamoo-cratz-ya,childrendead,alldead,allmurderedinwar.Itiscustomaryondayslikethistocallsuchlostchildrenmen.Iamunabletocallthemmenforthissimplereason: that in thesamewarinwhich loHoon-yeraMora-toorz tutZamoo-cratz-yadied,myownsondied.“MysoulinsiststhatImournnotamanbutachild.“Idonotsaythatchildrenatwardonotdielikemen,iftheyhavetodie.To

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their everlasting honor and our everlasting shame they do die like men, thusmakingpossiblethemanlyjubilationofpatrioticholidays.“Buttheyaremurderedchildrenallthesame.“And I propose to you that if we are to pay our sincere respects to the

hundred lost children of San Lorenzo, that we might best spend the daydespisingwhatkilledthem;whichistosay,thestupidityandviciousnessofallmankind.“Perhaps,whenwerememberwars,weshouldtakeoffourclothesandpaint

ourselvesblueandgoonallfoursalldaylongandgruntlikepigs.Thatwouldsurelybemoreappropriatethannobleoratoryandshowsofflagsandwell-oiledguns.“Idonotmeantobeungratefulforthefine,martialshowweareabouttosee

—andathrillingshowitreallywillbe…”He looked each of us in the eye, and then he commented very softly,

throwingitaway,“AndhooraysayIforthrillingshows.”WehadtostrainourearstohearwhatMintonsaidnext.“Butiftodayisreallyinhonorofahundredchildrenmurderedinwar,”he

said,“istodayadayforathrillingshow?“Theanswer isyes,ononecondition: thatwe, thecelebrants, areworking

consciously and tirelessly to reduce the stupidity and viciousness of ourselvesandofallmankind.”Heunsnappedthecatchesonhiswreathcase.“SeewhatIhavebrought?”heaskedus.Heopenedthecaseandshowedusthescarletliningandthegoldenwreath.

Thewreath wasmade of wire and artificial laurel leaves, and the whole wassprayedwithradiatorpaint.The wreath was spanned by a cream-colored silk ribbon on which was

printed,“PROPATRIA.”Minton now recited a poem from Edgar Lee Masters’ the Spoon River

Anthology,apoemthatmusthavebeenincomprehensibletotheSanLorenzansin theaudience—and toH.LoweCrosbyandhisHazel, too, for thatmatter,andtoAngelaandFrank.

IwasthefirstfruitsofthebattleofMissionaryRidge.WhenIfeltthebulletentermyheartIwishedIhadstaidathomeandgonetojailForstealingthehogsofCurlTrenary,Insteadofrunningawayandjoiningthearmy.Ratherathousandtimesthecountyjail

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Thantolieunderthismarblefigurewithwings,AndthisgranitepedestalBearingthewords,“ProPatria.”Whatdotheymean,anyway?

“Whatdotheymean,anyway?”echoedAmbassadorHorlickMinton.“Theymean,‘Forone’scountry.’”Andhethrewawayanotherline.“Anycountryatall,”hemurmured.“ThiswreathIbringisagiftfromthepeopleofonecountrytothepeopleof

another.Nevermindwhichcountries.Thinkofpeople…“Andchildrenmurderedinwar.“Andanycountryatall.“Thinkofpeace.“Thinkofbrotherlylove.“Thinkofplenty.“Thinkofwhatparadise,thisworldwouldbeifmenwerekindandwise.“As stupid andvicious asmenare, this is a lovelyday,” saidAmbassador

HorlickMinton.“I,inmyownheartandasarepresentativeofthepeace-lovingpeopleof theUnitedStatesofAmerica,pity loHoon-yeraMora-toorz tutZa-moo-cratz-yaforbeingdeadonthisfineday.”Andhesailedthewreathofftheparapet.Therewasahum in theair.Thesixplanesof theSanLorenzanAirForce

werecoming,skimmingmylukewarmsea.TheyweregoingtoshoottheeffigiesofwhatH.LoweCrosbyhadcalled“practicallyeveryenemythatfreedomeverhad.”

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AsItHappened115Wewenttotheseawardparapettoseetheshow.Theplaneswerenolarger

than grains of black pepper. We were able to spot them because one, as ithappened,wastrailingsmoke.Wesupposedthatthesmokewaspartoftheshow.IstoodnexttoH.LoweCrosby,who,asithappened,wasalternatelyeating

albatrossanddrinkingnativerum.Heexhaledfumesofmodelairplanecementbetweenlipsglisteningwithalbatrossfat.Myrecentnauseareturned.Iwithdrewtothelandwardparapetalone,gulpingair.Thereweresixtyfeet

ofoldstonepavementbetweenmeandalltherest.I saw that the planes would be coming in low, below the footings of the

castle,andthatIwouldmisstheshow.Butnauseamademeincurious.Iturnedmyheadinthedirectionoftheirnowsnarlingapproach.Justastheirgunsbegantohammer,oneplane,theonethathadbeentrailingsmoke,suddenlyappeared,bellyup,inflames.It dropped frommy line of sight again and crashed at once into the cliff

belowthecastle.Itsbombsandfuelexploded.The surviving planes went booming on, their racket thinning down to a

mosquitohum.And then there was the sound of a rockslide — and one great tower of

“Papa’s”castle,undermined,crasheddowntothesea.The people on the seaward parapet looked in astonishment at the empty

socketwherethetowerhadstood.ThenIcouldhearrockslidesofallsizesinaconversationthatwasalmostorchestral.Theconversationwentveryfast,andnewvoicesenteredin.Theywerethe

voices of the castle’s timbers lamenting that their burdenswere becoming toogreat.And then a crack crossed the battlement like lightning, ten feet from my

curlingtoes.Itseparatedmefrommyfellowmen.Thecastlegroanedandweptaloud.Theotherscomprehendedtheirperil.They,alongwithtonsofmasonry,were

about to lurchoutanddown.Althoughthecrackwasonlyafootwide,peoplebegantocrossitwithheroicleaps.OnlymycomplacentMonacrossedthecrackwithasimplestep.

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Thecrackgnashedshut;openedwider,leeringly.StilltrappedonthecanteddeathtrapwereH.LoweCrosbyandhisHazelandAmbassadorHorlickMintonandhisClaire.PhilipCastleandFrankandIreachedacrosstheabysstohaultheCrosbysto

safety.OurarmswerenowextendedimploringlytotheMintons.Theirexpressionswerebland.Icanonlyguesswhatwasgoingthroughtheir

minds.Myguessis that theywerethinkingofdignity,ofemotionalproportionaboveallelse.Panicwasnottheirstyle.Idoubtthatsuicidewastheirstyleeither.Buttheir

goodmannerskilledthem,forthedoomedcrescentofcastlenowmovedawayfromuslikeanoceanlinermovingawayfromadock.TheimageofavoyageseemstohaveoccurredtothevoyagingMintons,too,

fortheywavedtouswithwanamiability.Theyheldhands.Theyfacedthesea.Outtheywent;thendowntheywentinacataclysmicrush,weregone!

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TheGrandAh-whoom116Theraggedrimofoblivionwasnowinchesfrommycurlingtoes.I looked

down.Mylukewarmseahadswallowedall.Alazycurtainofdustwaswaftingouttosea,theonlytraceofallthatfell.Thepalace, itsmassive, seawardmasknowgone,greeted thenorthwith a

leper’ssmile,snaggle-toothedandbristly.Thebristleswerethesplinteredendsoftimbers.Immediatelybelowmealargechamberhadbeenlaidopen.Thefloorofthatchamber,unsupported,stabbedoutintospacelikeadivingplatform.Idreamedforamomentofdroppingtotheplatform,ofspringingupfromit

inabreath-taking swandive,of foldingmyarms,ofknifingdownward intoablood-warmeternitywithneverasplash.I was recalled from this dream by the cry of a darting bird above me. It

seemedtobeaskingmewhathadhappened.“Pootee-phweet?”itasked.Wealllookedupatthebird,andthenatoneanother.Webackedawayfrom

the abyss, full of dread. And, when I stepped off the paving stone that hadsupportedme,thestonebegantorock.Itwasnomorestablethanateeter-totter.Andittotterednowoverthedivingplatform.Downitcrashedontotheplatform,madetheplatformachute.Anddownthe

chutecamethefurnishingsstillremainingintheroombelow.Axylophoneshotout first, scampering faston its tinywheels.Outcamea

bedsidetableinacrazyracewithaboundingblowtorch.Outcamechairsinhotpursuit.And somewhere in that room below, out of sight, something mightily

reluctanttomovewasbeginningtomove.Downthechuteitcrept.Atlastitshoweditsgoldenbow.Itwastheboatin

whichdead“Papa”lay.Itreachedtheendofthechute.Itsbownodded.Downittipped.Downitfell,

endoverend.“Papa”wasthrownclear,andhefellseparately.Iclosedmyeyes.Therewasasoundlikethatofthegentleclosingofaportalasbigasthesky,

thegreatdoorofheavenbeingclosedsoftly.ItwasagrandAH-WHOOM.Iopenedmyeyes—andalltheseawasice-nine.Themoistgreenearthwas

ablue-whitepearl.Theskydarkened.Borasisi,thesun,becameasicklyyellowball,tinyandcruel.

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Theskywasfilledwithworms.Thewormsweretornadoes.

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Sanctuary117Ilookedupattheskywherethebirdhadbeen.Anenormouswormwitha

violetmouthwasdirectlyoverhead.Itbuzzedlikebees.Itswayed.Withobsceneperistalsis,itingestedair.We humans separated; fled my shattered battlements tumbled down

staircasesonthelandwardside.OnlyH.LoweCrosbyandhisHazelcriedout.“American!American!”they

cried, as though tornadoes were interested in the granfalloons to which theirvictimsbelonged.IcouldnotseetheCrosbys.Theyhaddescendedbyanotherstaircase.Their

cries and the sounds of others, panting and running, came gabbling to methrough a corridor of the castle.Myonly companionwasmyheavenlyMona,whohadfollowednoiselessly.WhenIhesitated,sheslippedpastmeandopenedthedoortotheanteroom

of“Papa’s”suite.Thewallsandroofoftheanteroomweregone.Butthestonefloorremained.Andinitscenterwasthemanholecoveroftheoubliette.Underthewormysky, in theflickeringviolet lightfromthemouthsof tornadoes thatwishedtoeatus,Iliftedthecover.The esophagus of the dungeon was fitted with iron rungs. I replaced the

manholecoverfromwithin.Downthoseironrungswewent.Andat thefootof theladderwefoundastatesecret.“Papa”Monzanohad

caused a cozy bomb shelter to be constructed there. It had a ventilation shaft,witha fandrivenbyastationarybicycle.A tankofwaterwasrecessed inonewall.Thewaterwassweetandwet,asyetuntaintedbyice-nine.Andtherewasachemical toilet, and a short-wave radio, and a Sears, Roebuck catalogue; andtherewere cases of delicacies, and liquor, and candles; and therewere boundcopiesoftheNationalGeographicgoingbacktwentyyears.AndtherewasasetofTheBooksofBokonon.Andthereweretwinbeds.I lightedacandle.Iopenedacanofcampbell’schickengumbosoupandI

putitonaSternostove.AndIpouredtwoglassesofVirginIslandsrum.Monasatononebed.Isatdownontheother.“Iamabouttosaysomething

thatmust have been said bymen towomen several times before,” I informedher. “However, I don’t believe that these words have ever carried quite thefreighttheycarrynow.”

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“Oh?”Ispreadmyhands.“Hereweare.”

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TheIronMaidenandtheOubliette118TheSixthBookofTheBooksofBokononisdevotedtopain,inparticularto

tortures inflicted by men on men. “If I am ever put to death on the hook,”Bokononwarnsus,“expectaveryhumanperformance.”Thenhespeaksoftherackandthepeddiwinkusandtheironmaidenandthe

vegliaandtheoubliette.Inanycase,there’sboundtobemuchcrying.Buttheoubliettealonewillletyouthinkwhiledying.AndsoitwasinMona’sandmyrockwomb.Atleastwecouldthink.And

onethingIthoughtwasthatthecreaturecomfortsofthedungeondidnothingtomitigatethebasicfactofoubliette.Duringour first day andnightunderground, tornadoes rattledourmanhole

cover many times an hour. Each time the pressure in our hole would dropsuddenly,andourearswouldpopandourheadswouldring.Asfortheradio—therewascrackling,fizzingstaticandthatwasall.From

oneendoftheshort-wavebandtotheothernotoneword,notonetelegrapher’sbeep,didIhear.Iflifestillexistedhereandthere,itdidnotbroadcast.Nordoeslifebroadcasttothisday.This I assumed: tornadoes, strewing the poisonous blue-white frost of ice-

nine everywhere, tore everyone and everything above ground to pieces.Anythingthatstilllivedwoulddiesoonenoughofthirst—orhunger—orrage—orapathy.IturnedtoTheBooksofBokonon,stillsufficientlyunfamiliarwiththemto

believe that theycontainedspiritualcomfortsomewhere. IpassedquicklyoverthewarningonthetitlepageofTheFirstBook:“Don’tbeafool!Closethisbookatonce!Itisnothingbutfoma!”Foma,ofcourse,arelies.AndthenIreadthis:Inthebeginning,Godcreatedtheearth,andhelookeduponitinHiscosmic

loneliness.AndGodsaid,“LetUsmakelivingcreaturesoutofmud,sothemudcansee

whatWehavedone.”AndGodcreatedeverylivingcreaturethatnowmoveth,andonewasman.Mudasmanalonecouldspeak.Godleanedcloseasmudasmansatup,lookedaround,andspoke.Manblinked.“Whatisthepurposeofallthis?”heaskedpolitely.

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“Everythingmusthaveapurpose?”askedGod.“Certainly,”saidman.“ThenIleaveittoyoutothinkofoneforallthis,”saidGod.AndHewentaway.Ithoughtthiswastrash.“Ofcourseit’strash!”saysBokonon.AndIturnedtomyheavenlyMonaforcomfortingsecretsagooddealmore

profound.Iwasable,whilemooningatheracrossthespacethatseparatedourbeds,to

imaginethatbehindhermarvelouseyeslurkedmysteriesasoldasEve.Iwillnotgointothesordidsexepisodethatfollowed.SufficeittosaythatI

wasbothrepulsiveandrepulsed.The girl was not interested in reproduction— hated the idea. Before the

tusslewasover, Iwasgiven full creditbyher, andbymyself, too, forhavinginventedthewholebizarre,grunting,sweatingenterprisebywhichnewhumanbeingsweremade.Returningtomyownbed,gnashingmyteeth, Isupposed thatshehonestly

hadnoideawhatlove-makingwasallabout.Butthenshesaidtome,gently,“Itwouldbeverysadtohavealittlebabynow.Don’tyouagree?”“Yes,”Iagreedmurkily.“Well,that’sthewaylittlebabiesaremade,incaseyoudidn’tknow.”

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MonaThanksMe119“Today I will be a Bulgarian Minister of Education,” Bokonon tells us.

“TomorrowIwillbeHelenofTroy.”Hismeaningiscrystalclear:Eachoneofushastobewhatheorsheis.And,downintheoubliette,thatwasmainlywhatIthought—withthehelpofTheBooksofBokonon.Bokononinvitedmetosingalongwithhim:

Wedo,doodleydo,doodleydo,doodleydo,Whatwemust,muddilymust,muddilymust,muddilymust;Muddilydo,muddilydo,muddilydo,muddilydo,Untilwebust,bodilybust,bodilybust,bodilybust.

ImadeupatunetogowiththatandIwhistleditundermybreathasIdrovethebicyclethatdrovethefanthatgaveusair,goodoldair.“Manbreathesinoxygenandexhalescarbondioxide,”IcalledtoMona.“What?”“Science.”“Oh.”“One of the secrets of life man was a long time understanding: Animals

breatheinwhatanimalsbreatheout,andviceversa.”“Ididn’tknow.”“Youknownow.”“Thankyou.”“You’rewelcome.”WhenI’dbicycledouratmospheretosweetnessandfreshness,Idismounted

and climbed the iron rungs to seewhat theweatherwas like above. I did thatseveraltimesaday.Onthatday,thefourthday,Iperceivedthroughthenarrowcrescent of the lifted manhole cover that the weather had become somewhatstabilized.The stability was of a wildly dynamic sort, for the tornadoes were as

numerousasever,andtornadoesremainnumeroustothisday.Buttheirmouthsno longergobbledandgnashedat theearth.Themouths inalldirectionswerediscreetlywithdrawntoanaltitudeofperhapsahalfofamile.Andtheiraltitudevaried so little from moment to moment that San Lorenzo might have beenprotectedbyatornado-proofsheetofglass.Weletthreemoredaysgoby,makingcertainthatthetornadoeshadbecome

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assincerelyreticentastheyseemed.Andthenwefilledcanteensfromourwatertankandwewentabove.Theairwasdryandhotanddeathlystill.I had heard it suggested one time that the seasons in the temperate zone

ought to be six rather than four in number: summer, autumn, locking,winter,unlocking, and spring.And I remembered that as I straightenedup beside ourmanhole,andstaredandlistenedandsniffed.Therewereno smells.Therewasnomovement.Every step I tookmade a

gravellysqueak inblue-white frost.Andeverysqueakwasechoed loudly.Theseasonoflockingwasover.Theearthwaslockeduptight.Itwaswinter,nowandforever.IhelpedmyMonaoutofourhole.Iwarnedhertokeepherhandsawayfrom

theblue-whitefrostandtokeepherhandsawayfromhermouth,too.“Deathhasneverbeenquitesoeasytocomeby,”Itoldher.“Allyouhavetodoistouchthegroundandthenyourlipsandyou’redonefor.”Sheshookherheadandsighed.“Averybadmother.”“What?”“MotherEarth—sheisn’taverygoodmotheranymore.”“Hello?Hello?”Icalled throughthepalaceruins.Theawesomewindshad

torn canyons through that great stone pile. Mona and I made a half-heartedsearchforsurvivors—half-heartedbecausewecouldsensenolife.Notevenanibbling,twinkle-nosedrathadsurvived.Thearchofthepalacegatewastheonlyman-madeformuntouched.Mona

andIwenttoit.WrittenatitsbaseinwhitepaintwasaBokononist“Calypso.”Theletteringwasneat.Itwasnew.Itwasproofthatsomeoneelsehadsurvivedthewinds.The“Calypso”wasthis:

Someday,someday,thiscrazyworldwillhavetoend,AndourGodwilltakethingsbackthatHetousdidlend.Andif,onthatsadday,youwanttoscoldourGod,WhygorightaheadandscoldHim.He’lljustsmileandnod.

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ToWhomItMayConcern120Irecalledanadvertisementforasetofchildren’sbookscalledTheBookof

Knowledge.Inthatad,atrustingboyandgirllookedupattheirfather.“Daddy,”oneasked,“whatmakestheskyblue?”Theanswer,presumably,couldbefoundinTheBookofKnowledge.IfIhadhadmydaddybesidemeasMonaandIwalkeddowntheroadfrom

thepalace, Iwouldhavehadplentyofquestions toaskasIclung tohishand.“Daddy,whyareallthetreesbroken?Daddy,whyareallthebirdsdead?Daddy,whatmakestheskysosickandwormy?Daddy,whatmakestheseasohardandstill?”ItoccurredtomethatIwasbetterqualifiedtoanswerthosetoughquestions

thananyotherhumanbeing,providedtherewereanyotherhumanbeingsalive.Incaseanyonewasinterested,Iknewwhathadgonewrong—whereandhow.Sowhat?Iwonderedwherethedeadcouldbe.MonaandIventuredmorethanamile

fromouroubliettewithoutseeingonedeadhumanbeing.I wasn’t half so curious about the living, probably because I sensed

accuratelythatIwouldfirsthavetocontemplatealotofdead.Isawnocolumnsofsmokefrompossiblecampfires;buttheywouldhavebeenhardtoseeagainstanhorizonofworms.Onethingdidcatchmyeye:alavendercoronaaboutthequeerplugthatwas

thepeakonthehumpofMountMcCabe.Itseemedtobecallingme,andIhadasilly, cinematic notion of climbing that peak with Mona. But what would itmean?WewerewalkingintothewrinklesnowatthefootofMountMcCabe.And

Mona,as thoughaimlessly, leftmyside, left the road,andclimbedoneof thewrinkles.Ifollowed.Ijoinedheratthetopoftheridge.Shewaslookingdownraptlyintoabroad,

naturalbowl.Shewasnotcrying.Shemightwellhavecried.In that bowlwere thousands upon thousands of dead.On the lips of each

decedentwastheblue-whitefrostofice-nine.Sincethecorpseswerenotscatteredortumbledabout,itwasclearthatthey

hadbeenassembledsincethewithdrawalofthefrightfulwinds.And,sinceeachcorpse had its finger in or near its mouth, I understood that each person had

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deliveredhimselftothismelancholyplaceandthenpoisonedhimselfwith ice-nine.Thereweremen,women,andchildren, too,many in theattitudesofboko-

maru. All faced the center of the bowl, as though theywere spectators in anamphitheater.MonaandIlookedatthefocusofallthosefrostedeyes,lookedatthecenter

ofthebowl.Therewasaroundclearingthere,aplaceinwhichoneoratormighthavestood.MonaandIapproachedtheclearinggingerly,avoidingthemorbidstatuary.

Wefoundaboulderinit.Andundertheboulderwasapencilednotewhichsaid:To whom it may concern: These people around you are almost all of the

survivors on San Lorenzo of the winds that followed the freezing of the sea.Thesepeoplemadeacaptiveof the spuriousholymannamedBokonon.Theybroughthimhere,placedhimat theircenter,andcommandedhimto tell themexactly what God Almighty was up to and what they should now do. ThemountebanktoldthemthatGodwassurelytryingtokillthem,possiblebecauseHewasthroughwiththem,andthattheyshouldhavethegoodmannerstodie.This,asyoucansee,theydid.ThenotewassignedbyBokonon.

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IAmSlowtoAnswer121“Whatacynic!” Igasped. I lookedupfromthenoteandgazedaround the

death-filledbowl.“Isheheresomewhere?”“Idonotseehim,”saidMonamildly.Shewasn’tdepressedorangry.Infact,

sheseemedtovergeonlaughter.“Healwayssaidhewouldnevertakehisownadvice,becauseheknewitwasworthless.”“He’dbetterbehere!”Isaidbitterly.“Thinkofthegalloftheman,advising

allthesepeopletokillthemselves!”NowMonadidlaugh.Ihadneverheardherlaugh.Herlaughwasstartlingly

deepandraw.“Thisstrikesyouasfunny?”Sheraisedherarmslazily.“It’sallsosimple,that’sall.Itsolvessomuchfor

somany,sosimply.”Andshewentstrollingupamongthepetrifiedthousands,stilllaughing.She

paused about midway up the slope and faced me. She called down to me,“Wouldyouwishanyofthesealiveagain,ifyoucould?Answermequickly.“Not quick enough with your answer,” she called playfully, after half a

minute had passed. And, still laughing a little, she touched her finger to theground,straightenedup,andtouchedthefingertoherlipsanddied.DidIweep?TheysayIdid.H.LoweCrosbyandhisHazelandlittleNewton

HoenikkercameuponmeasIstumbleddowntheroad.TheywereinBolivar’sone taxicab,which had been spared by the storm. They tellme Iwas crying.Hazelcried,too,criedforjoythatIwasalive.Theycoaxedmeintothecab.Hazel put her arm around me. “You’re with your mom, now. Don’t you

worryaboutathing.”Iletmymindgoblank.Iclosedmyeyes.Itwaswithdeep,idioticreliefthat

Ileanedonthatfleshy,humid,barn-yardfool.

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TheSwissFamilyRobinson122TheytookmetowhatwasleftofFranklinHoenikker’shouseattheheadof

the waterfall. What remained was the cave under the waterfall, which hadbecomeasortofigloounderatranslucent,blue-whitedomeofice-nine.The ménage consisted of Frank, little Newt, and the Crosbys. They had

survivedinadungeoninthepalace,onefarshallowerandmoreunpleasantthanthe oubliette. They had moved out the moment the winds had abated, whileMonaandIhadstayedundergroundforanotherthreedays.As it happened, they had found the miraculous taxicab waiting for them

underthearchofthepalacegate.Theyhadfoundacanofwhitepaint,andonthefrontdoorsofthecabFrankhadpaintedwhitestars,andontheroofhehadpaintedthelettersofagranfalloon:U.S.A.“Andyouleftthepaintunderthearch,”Isaid.“Howdidyouknow?”askedCrosby.“Somebodyelsecamealongandwroteapoem.”IdidnotinquireatonceastohowAngelaHoenikkerConnersandPhilipand

JulianCastlehadmet their ends, for Iwouldhavehad to speakatonceaboutMona.Iwasn’treadytodothatyet.I particularly didn’t want to discuss the death ofMona since, as we rode

alonginthetaxi,theCrosbysandlittleNewtseemedsoinappropriatelygay.Hazelgavemeacluetothegaiety.“Waituntilyouseehowwelive.We’ve

got all kinds of good things to eat.Wheneverwewantwater,we just build acampfire andmelt some. The Swiss Family Robinson— that’s what we callourselves.”

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OfMiceandMen123Acurioussixmonthsfollowed—thesixmonthsinwhichIwrotethisbook.

Hazel spoke accurately when she called our little society the Swiss FamilyRobinson, for we had survived a storm, were isolated, and then the livingbecameveryeasyindeed.ItwasnotwithoutacertainWaltDisneycharm.No plants or animals survived, it’s true. But ice-nine preserved pigs and

cowsand littledeer andwindrowsofbirdsandberriesuntilwewere ready tothawandcookthem.Moreover, thereweretonsofcannedgoodstobehadforthegrubbingintheruinsofBolivar.AndweseemedtobetheonlypeopleleftonSanLorenzo.Foodwasnoproblem,andneitherwereclothingorshelter,fortheweather

was uniformly dry and dead and hot. Our health was monotonously good.Apparentlyallthegermsweredead,too—ornapping.Ouradjustmentbecamesosatisfactory,socomplacent,thatnoonemarveled

orprotestedwhenHazelsaid,“Onegoodthinganyway,nomosquitoes.”Shewassittingonathree-leggedstoolintheclearingwhereFrank’shouse

had stood. Shewas sewing strips of red,white, and blue cloth together. LikeBetsyRoss, shewasmakinganAmerican flag.Noonewasunkindenough topointouttoherthattheredwasreallyapeach,thatthebluewasnearlyaKellygreen, and that the fifty stars she had cut outwere six-pointed stars ofDavidratherthanfive-pointedAmericanstars.Her husband, who had always been a pretty good cook, now simmered a

stewinan ironpotoverawoodfirenearby.Hedidallourcookingforus;helovedtocook.“Looksgood,smellsgood,”Icommented.Hewinked.“Don’tshootthecook.He’sdoingthebesthecan.”Inthebackgroundofthiscozyconversationwerethenaggingdah-dah-dahs

and dit-dit-dits of an automatic SOS transmitter Frank hadmade. It called forhelpbothnightandday.“Saveoursoullllls,”Hazelintoned,singingalongwiththetransmitterasshe

sewed,“saveoursoulllllls.”“How’sthewritinggoing?”Hazelaskedme.“Fine,Mom,justfine.”“Whenyougoingtoshowussomeofit?”“Whenit’sready,Mom,whenit’sready.”

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“AlotoffamouswriterswereHoosiers.”“Iknow.”“You’ll be one of a long, long line.” She smiled hopefully. “Is it a funny

book?”“Ihopeso,Mom.”“Ilikeagoodlaugh.”“Iknowyoudo.”“Eachpersonherehadsomespecialty,somethingtogivetherest.Youwrite

booksthatmakeuslaugh,andFrankgoessciencethings,andlittleNewt—hepaintspicturesforusall,andIsew,andLowiecooks.”“‘Manyhandsmakemuchworklight.’OldChineseproverb.”“Theyweresmartinalotofways,thoseChinesewere.”“Yes,let’skeeptheirmemoryalive.”“IwishnowI’dstudiedthemmore.”“Well,itwashardtodo,evenunderidealconditions.”“IwishnowI’dstudiedeverythingmore.”“We’veallgotregrets,Mom.”“Nousecryingoverspiltmilk.”“Asthepoetsaid,Mom,‘Ofallthewordsofmiceandmen,thesaddestare,

“Itmighthavebeen.”’”“That’ssobeautiful,andsotrue.”

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Frank’sAntFarm124I hated to seeHazel finishing the flag, because Iwas all balled up in her

addledplansforit.ShehadtheideathatIhadagreedtoplantthefoolthingonthepeakofMountMcCabe.“IfLoweand Iwereyounger,we’ddo it ourselves.Nowallwe cando is

giveyoutheflagandsendourbestwisheswithyou.”“Mom,Iwonderifthat’sreallyagoodplacefortheflag.”“Whatotherplaceisthere?’“I’llputonmythinkingcap.”Iexcusedmyselfandwentdownintothecave

toseewhatFrankwasupto.Hewasuptonothingnew.Hewaswatchinganantfarmhehadconstructed.

Hehaddugupafewsurvivingantsinthethree-dimensionalworldoftheruinsofBolivar,andhehadreducedthedimensionstotwobymakingadirtandantsandwich between two sheets of glass. The ants could do nothing withoutFrank’scatchingthematitandcommentinguponit.The experiment had solved in short order the mystery of how ants could

surviveinawaterlessworld.AsfarasIknow,theyweretheonlyinsectsthatdidsurvive,andtheydiditbyformingwiththeirbodiestightballsaroundgrainsofice-nine.Theywouldgenerateenoughheatatthecentertokillhalftheirnumberandproduceonebeadofdew.Thedewwasdrinkable.Thecorpseswereedible.“Eat,drink,andbemerry,fortomorrowwedie,”IsaidtoFrankandhistiny

cannibals.Hisresponsewasalwaysthesame.Itwasapeevishlectureonallthethings

thatpeoplecouldlearnfromants.My responses were ritualized, too. “Nature’s a wonderful thing, Frank.

Nature’sawonderfulthing.”“You knowwhy ants are so successful?” he askedme for the thousandth

time.“Theyco-op-er-ate.”“That’sahellofagoodword—co-operation.”“Whotaughtthemhowtomakewater?”“Whotaughtmehowtomakewater?”“That’sasillyanswerandyouknowit.”“Sorry.”“TherewasatimewhenItookpeople’ssillyanswersseriously.I’mpastthat

now.”

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“Amilestone.”“I’vegrownupagooddeal.”“Atacertainamountofexpensetotheworld.”Icouldsaythingslikethatto

Frankwithanabsoluteassurancethathewouldnothearthem.“There was a time when people could bluff me without much trouble

becauseIdidn’thavemuchself-confidenceinmyself.”“Themerecuttingdownofthenumberofpeopleonearthwouldgoalong

way toward alleviating your own particular social problems,” I suggested.Again,Imadethesuggestiontoadeafman.“You tell me, you tell me who told these ants how to make water,” he

challengedmeagain.Several times I had offered the obvious notion thatGod had taught them.

AndIknewfromonerousexperiencethathewouldneitherrejectnoracceptthistheory.Hesimplygotmadderandmadder,puttingthequestionagainandagain.IwalkedawayfromFrank,justasTheBooksofBokononadvisedmetodo.

“Beware of the man who works hard to learn something, learns it, and findshimself no wiser than before,” Bokonon tells us. “He is full of murderousresentmentofpeoplewhoareignorantwithouthavingcomebytheirignorancethehardway.”Iwentlookingforourpainter,forlittleNewt.

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TheTasmanians125When I found littleNewt, painting ablasted landscape aquarter of amile

fromthecave,heaskedmeifIwoulddrivehimintoBolivartoforageforpaints.Hecouldn’tdrivehimself.Hecouldn’treachthepedals.Sooffwewent,and,ontheway,Iaskedhimifhehadanysexurgeleft.I

mournedthatIhadnone—nodreamsinthatline,nothing.“Iusedtodreamofwomentwenty,thirty,fortyfeettall,”hetoldme.“But

now?God,Ican’tevenrememberwhatmyUkrainianmidgetlookedlike.”I recalled a thing I had read about the aboriginal Tasmanians, habitually

nakedpersonswho,whenencounteredbywhitemenintheseventeenthcentury,were strangers to agriculture, animal husbandry, architecture of any sort, andpossibly even fire. They were so contemptible in the eyes of white men, byreason of their ignorance, that theywere hunted for sport by the first settlers,whowereconvictsfromEngland.Andtheaboriginesfoundlifesounattractivethattheygaveupreproducing.I suggested to Newt now that it was a similar hopelessness that had

unmannedus.Newt made a shrewd observation. “I guess all the excitement in bed had

moretodowithexcitementaboutkeepingthehumanracegoingthananybodyeverimagined.”“Ofcourse,ifwehadawomanofbreedingageamongus,thatmightchange

thesituationradically.PooroldHazelisyearsbeyondhavingevenaMongolianidiot.”NewtrevealedthatheknewquiteabitaboutMongolianidiots.Hehadonce

attendedaspecialschoolforgrotesquechildren,andseveralofhisschoolmateshad beenMongoloids. “The best writer in our class was aMongoloid namedMyrna—Imeanpenmanship,notwhatsheactuallywrotedown.God,Ihaven’tthoughtaboutherforyears.”“Wasitagoodschool?”“All I remember iswhat the headmaster used to say all the time.Hewas

alwaysbawlingusoutovertheloudspeakersystemforsomemesswe’dmade,andhealwaysstartedoutthesameway:‘Iamsickandtired…’”“ThatcomesprettyclosetodescribinghowIfeelmostofthetime.”“Maybethat’sthewayyou’resupposedtofeel.”“YoutalklikeaBokononist,Newt.”

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“Why shouldn’t I?As far as I know,Bokononism is theonly religion thathasanycommentaryonmidgets.”WhenIhadn’tbeenwriting,I’dbeenporingoverTheBooksofBokonon,but

thereferencetomidgetshadescapedme.IwasgratefultoNewtforcallingittomy attention, for the quotation captured in a couplet the cruel paradox ofBokononist thought, theheartbreakingnecessityof lyingabout reality, and theheartbreakingimpossibilityoflyingaboutit.

Midget,midget,midget,howhestrutsandwinks,Forheknowsaman’sasbigaswhathehopesandthinks!

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SoftPipes,PlayOn126“Such a depressing religion!” I cried. I directed our conversation into the

areaofUtopias, ofwhatmight havebeen, ofwhat shouldhavebeen, ofwhatmightyetbe,iftheworldwouldthaw.ButBokononhadbeenthere,too,hadwrittenawholebookaboutUtopias,

TheSeventhBook,whichhecalled“Bokonon’sRepublic.”Inthatbookaretheseghastlyaphorisms:Thehandthatstocksthedrugstoresrulestheworld.Let us start our Republic with a chain of drug stores, a chain of grocery

stores, achainofgaschambers, andanationalgame.After that,wecanwriteourConstitution.IcalledBokononajigaboobastard,andIchangedthesubjectagain.Ispoke

ofmeaningful, individual heroic acts. I praised in particular theway inwhichJulianCastleandhissonhadchosentodie.Whilethetornadoesstillraged,theyhad set out on foot for the House of Hope andMercy in the Jungle to givewhateverhopeandmercywastheirstogive.AndIsawmagnificenceinthewaypoorAngelahaddied,too.ShehadpickedupaclarinetintheruinsofBolivarandhadbegun toplay itatonce,withoutconcerningherselfas towhether themouthpiecemightbecontaminatedwithice-nine.“Softpipes,playon,”Imurmuredhuskily.“Well,maybeyoucanfindsomeneatwaytodie,too,”saidNewt.ItwasaBokononistthingtosay.IblurtedoutmydreamofclimbingMountMcCabewithsomemagnificent

symbolandplanting it there. I tookmyhandsfromthewheelforan instant toshowhimhowemptyofsymbols theywere.“Butwhat inhellwouldtherightsymbolbe,Newt?Whatinhellwoulditbe?”Igrabbedthewheelagain.“Hereitis,theendoftheworld;andhereIam,almosttheverylastman;andthereitis,thehighestmountaininsight.Iknownowwhatmykarasshasbeenupto,Newt.It’sbeenworkingnightanddayformaybehalfamillionyearstogetmeupthatmountain.”Iwaggedmyheadandnearlywept.“Butwhat,fortheloveofGod,issupposedtobeinmyhands?”IlookedoutofthecarwindowblindlyasIaskedthat,soblindlythatIwent

morethanamilebeforerealizingthatIhadlookedintotheeyesofanoldNegroman,alivingcoloredman,whowassittingbythesideoftheroad.AndthenIsloweddown.AndthenIstopped.Icoveredmyeyes.

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“What’sthematter?”askedNewt.“IsawBokononbackthere.”

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TheEnd127Hewassittingonarock.Hewasbarefoot.Hisfeetwerefrostywithice-nine.

His only garment was a white bedspreadwith blue tufts. The tufts said CasaMona.Hetooknonoteofourarrival.Inonehandwasapencil.Intheotherwaspaper.“Bokonon?”“Yes?”“MayIaskwhatyou’rethinking?”“I am thinking, young man, about the final sentence for The Books of

Bokonon.Thetimeforthefinalsentencehascome.”“Anyluck?”Heshruggedandhandedmeapieceofpaper.ThisiswhatIread:

IfIwereayoungerman,Iwouldwriteahistoryofhumanstupidity;andIwouldclimbtothetopofMountMcCabeandliedownonmybackwithmyhistoryforapillow;andIwouldtakefromthegroundsomeoftheblue-whitepoisonthatmakesstatuesofmen;andIwouldmakeastatueofmyself,lyingonmyback,grinninghorribly,andthumbingmynoseatYouKnowWho.