KurtVonnegut
Cat'sCradle
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.
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.
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].
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
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—“
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
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
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.”
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
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.
“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”
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.”
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.
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.”
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
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.”
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.”
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.”
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.”
“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.
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
wayhome.Itdidsomethingtoherpelvis…”Thetrafficwasn’tmovingjustthen.Dr.Breedclosedhiseyesandtightenedhishandsonthesteeringwheel.“AndthatwaswhyshediedwhenlittleNewtwasborn.”
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.
“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.”
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.”
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!”
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
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.
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.”
“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.”
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
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.”
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!”
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!”
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.
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.
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.
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.”
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?”
“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.”
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.’”
“Oh?”“Justenteredanewdimension.Yes,yes!”Hepunchedabutton,anddown
wewent.“DidyouknowtheHoenikkerchildren?”Iaskedhim.“Babiesfullofrabies,”hesaid.“Yes,yes!”
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
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.
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.
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.
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.
“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.”
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.”
“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
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.
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?”
“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!”
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.
Somebody or something did notwishme to be a nihilist. ItwasKrebbs’smission,whetherheknewitornot,todisenchantmewiththatphilosophy.Well,done,Mr.Krebbs,welldone.
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.
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.
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.”
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.
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.
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.
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.”
“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:
Ifyouwishtostudyagranfalloon,Justremovetheskinofatoyballoon.
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.”
“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.”
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.’”
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.”
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.”
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?
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.
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
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
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.”
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.”
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
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.
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
chair.”Sheshookherhead.“Idon’tthinkhesufferedany.Hejustlookedasleep.Hecouldn’thavelookedlikethatifthere’dbeentheleastbitofpain.”Sheleftoutaninterestingpartofthestory.Sheleftoutthefactthatitwason
thatsameChristmasEvethatsheandFrankandlittleNewthaddivideduptheoldman’sice-nine.
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.
“Twoweekslater,weweremarried.”
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.
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.”
“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.”
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.
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
queasydream.
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.
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.
“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.
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.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.”
“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.
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,
orgiasticrigidityofonereceivingtheCongressionalMedalofHonor.IlookeddownandIsawwhatIwasnotmeanttosee.Monahadslippedoffhersandal.Hersmallbrownfootwasbare.And with that foot, she was kneading and kneading and kneading —
obscenelykneading—theinstepoftheflyer’sboot.
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.”
Hepronouncedthatlastword:“hy-u-o-ook-kuh.”
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.”
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.”
“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.”
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.”
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.”
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.”
“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.
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?”
“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.
“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.’”
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
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.”
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.”
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
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.”
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…”
Helaughed.“Youhaven’tcaughton,yet?”“Towhat?”“Everybody on San Lorenzo is a devout Bokononist, the hy-u-o-ook-kuh
notwithstanding.”
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.
“And then the leaders of the remorseless ring would have to report toMcCabe,fullofchagrinandapoplexy,thatBokononhaddonetheimpossible.“Hehadescaped,hadevaporated,hadlivedtopreachanotherday.Miracle!”
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?”
“It’s what we Bokononists say,” he said, “when we feel that a lot ofmysteriousthingsaregoingon.”“You?”Iwasamazed.“ABokononist,too?”Hegazedatmelevelly.“You,too.You’llfindout.”
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.”
“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?”
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.
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?”
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.”
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.”
“Goodforhim.”“Yes. If he keeps going at his present rate, working night and day, the
numberofpeoplehe’ssavedwillequalthenumberofpeopleheletdie—intheyear3010.”Sothere’sanothermemberofmykarass:Dr.SchlichtervonKoenigswald.
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.
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
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!”
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.
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.
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.
“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.”
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.”
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
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?”
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.
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.
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.
OnthePoet’sCelebrationofHisFirstBoko-maru92
ThesearenotBokonon’swords.Theyaremine.
Sweetwraith,Invisiblemistof…Iam—Mysoul—Wraithlovesicko’erlong,O’erlongalone:Wouldstanothersweetsoulmeet?LonghaveIAdvisedtheeillAstowheretwosoulsMighttryst.Mysoles,mysoles!Mysoul,mysoul,Gothere,Sweetsoul;Bekissed.Mmmmmmm.
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!”
“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.”
“Good.Iloveyou.”“AndIloveyou,”Isighed.
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.”
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!
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
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.”
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
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.”
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.
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!”
“Whatmemoriesformudtohave!”“Whatinterestingotherkindsofsitting-upmudImet!”“Whatinterestingotherkindsofsitting-upmudImet!”“IlovedeverythingIsaw!”“IlovedeverythingIsaw!”“Goodnight.”“Goodnight.”“Iwillgotoheavennow.”“Iwillgotoheavennow.”“Icanhardlywait…”“Icanhardlywait…”“Tofindoutforcertainwhatmywampeterwas…”“Tofindoutforcertainwhatmywampeterwas…”“Andwhowasinmykarass…”“Andwhowasinmykarass…”“Andallthegoodthingsourkarassdidforyou.”“Andallthegoodthingsourkarassdidforyou.”“Amen.”“Amen.”
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.”
“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.
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.
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
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.
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
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!”
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?”
“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.
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.
“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.
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!
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.
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.”
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.
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.”
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.”
“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.”
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.
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!”
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
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
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.”
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.
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!
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.
Theskywasfilledwithworms.Thewormsweretornadoes.
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.”
“Oh?”Ispreadmyhands.“Hereweare.”
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.
“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.”
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
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.
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
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.
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.
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.”
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.”
“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.”
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.”
“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.
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.”
“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!
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.
“What’sthematter?”askedNewt.“IsawBokononbackthere.”
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.