Joan Bardina during his Carlist phase in the s fathered politically very militant and exalted poems  and satires, yet they remain unknown even in the Catalan literature. As author of heterogeneous short pieces Recorts de la darrera carlinada he is compared to such authors of war stories as Hemingway or Babel ,  while his novel La Punyalada is counted among masterpieces of Catalan literature of all time. Spanish literature of the 20th century poses a major problem in terms of periodisation, with many conflicting proposals offered; it seems close to impossible to single out an aesthetic literary trend generally accepted as prevailing or even to specify temporal borderlines for any given period, regardless of its would-be name.
Harboring a concept of violent clash as unavoidable outcome of current crisis, from the late regeneracionistas to the personalities of the Second Republic, is at times dubbed "catastrofismo". The Civil War produced a brief spate of literature intended to mobilise support for the belligerent parties, including the Carlists.
Unamuno has abandoned the Carlist motive, though he kept tackling the phenomenon in his treaties and studies. One of few rare cases of Carlism featured as key motive in writings of a literary giant who did not come from a Hispanic culture is The Arrow of Gold by Joseph Conrad The Polish-English writer claimed he had been himself involved in smuggling arms for the rebels along the Mediterranean coast during the Third Carlist War, yet historians of literature do not agree whether these claims should be taken seriously. The Arrow of Gold seems heavily based on these juvenile experiences, yet Carlism serves mostly as a background evoking an atmosphere of mystery.
It is difficult to find either particular sympathy or particular hostility for the movement, yet many scholars claim that the key protagonist considered Conrad's alter-ego was cynically used by Carlist conspirators. Overall, the novel is considered a treaty on "emotional boundary between people";  Conrad has never again displayed any literary interest in Spanish issues. Carlism atracted also another English writer, at that time yet to become eminent, Graham Greene.
Either in the late s or in the very early s he wrote The Episode , the novel which traced the experiences of an idealistic young man against very loose background of revolutionary turmoil in the 19th-century Spain; the narrative contained non-marginal Carlist threads. Another foreigner who demonstrated interest in Carlism was Pierre Benoit , one of the most-read French writers of the 20th century and himself a Traditionalist; he adhered to its specific secular breed, in France shaped by the personality of Charles Maurras.
His Pour don Carlos was marked by Benoit's trademark style: well-constructed adventurous plot combined with good historiographic research and somewhat simplified psychology; in terms of political sympathies it clearly hailed the legitimist cause. He is worth noting because some of his novels, e. El abuelo del rey , provide a veiled discourse on tradition and change with Traditionalism present in the background. Moreover, in his later novels some of his Carlist personalities, like Don Alvaro from Nuestro Padre San Daniel and El obispo leproso escape the usual scheme and provide an ambiguous and rather mysterious point of reference.
In El barrio maldito he portrays the province as held in reactionary grip of the Carlists, who themselves are traditionally presented as hyprocrytes;  in Centauros del Pirineo in a somewhat Barojian manner he hailed smugglers, who represent "sensibilidad fina, moderna, europea" as opposed to "elemento tradicionalista". Drama lost importance as political battleground already in the midth century, yet echoes of Carlism-related debates were heard also among the playwrights.
Among the spate of pro- Republican theatrical pieces of the s or even more militantly left-wing dramas of the early s many contained more or less explicit Carlist threads. In three first decades of the 20th century he was contributing as a prosaist and publisher, though especially as a playwright; his dramas embrace religious topics in historical setting, like La Reina Lupa The outbreak of the warfare triggered a spate of literary works intended to mobilize support and sustain enthusiasm.
Literary production of the Republicans remained far lower than on the opposite side; in none of some 30 works identified there is a Carlist personaje worth noting,  though some feature Carlist themes, like A sangre y fuego by Manuel Chaves Nogales  or Loretxo by Txomin Arruti The Carlist theme attracted also few less-known writers, though. Terminology and periodization problems related to history of Spanish literature in the 20th century apply also to the years after the Civil War. Alternative designations applied to culture of the era are "nacionalcatolicismo"  or "fascismo",  though both are disputed.
In terms of the Carlist motive in literature, the period is marked by a specific approach, which was heavily related to official control over cultural life and which reflected political role of Carlism in the Francoist Spain. Carlism was welcome when presented as a glorious movement of the past; on the other hand, Carlism was unwelcome as a cultural proposal for the present.
During first decades of post-war Spain the trend which clearly prevailed when it comes to the Carlist theme was continuation of the wartime-style novels; it was visible in the s but started to dry out and disappeared almost completely in the s. None of the key features changed: nagging moralising objectives, sketchy and Manichean characters, Civil War setting, lively yet predictable plot.
Casariego kept writing, but the most successful of his wartime novels, Con la vida hicieron fuego , did not contain Carlist threads. Re-published a number of times and translated into French, English, German and Italian, it featured a fisherman's son turned navy commander; the novel soon served as screenplay for a movie.
The novels of Jaime del Burgo assumed a heterogeneous format. The protagonist, a young Santiago, was constantly harassed by revolutianary mob, until during the war he fled to the Nationalist zone and enlisted to the Carlist units, wreaking havoc on his enemies; the only non-conventional motive was his Communist friend, who at the end abandoned the false prophets.
It was inhabited by descendants of those fighting in the 19th-century Carlist wars; for a century they lived in complete isolation, descendants of the Carlists becoming an honest, brave community, and descendants of the Liberals becoming an immoral, bestial bunch. The case is presented by a story of longtime rivalry between two Navarrese families, a Carlist and a Liberal one. The former features a patriarch Basque Carlist who decides to join the gudaris ,  the latter pictures a girl from a well-off family who has to overcome resistance of her Carlist relatives to marry a simple worker, a Basque nationalist.
Many of the wartime novelas de tesis were built upon action-packed intrigues, yet nagging moralising objectives and clear pedagogical if not propagandistic purpose usually prevailed over their adventurous features. This is not the case of another novelistic subgenre, where adventure is on the forefront; it might be cast in historical or contemporaty setting. In Spanish history of literature they are dubbed "novela de aventura" or - usually when romance threads prevail - "novela rosa", the latter intended mostly for female audience.
This literature was on the rise since the s, in mid-Francoism becoming the key platform of sustaining Carlist presence in culture. Most of the Carlist authors who contributed to party propaganda as editors, publishers or authors of novelas de tesis tried their hand in adventure novel. Their novels are cast in vastly different settings, from the early 19th century to contemporary Spain. Intended for popular audience they indeed make an easy read, featuring adventurous or romantic plots; the Carlists often appear as key protagonists.
An analytical intellectual, she diagnosed that in culture dominated by mass media the dissemination was key, and Carlism would be better served by simple but popular novels rather than by great sophisticated works read by few. However, the original lyrics have been changed: passages "Inmolarse por Dios" and "servir al Rey" were replaced.
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Deprived of clearly Carlist or Traditionalist threads, his poetry is spanned between irony and melancholy. However, he is best known as the moving spirit behind La Tertulia Literaria Hispanoamericana, weekly sessions of live poetry; the event was launched in and has been operating as part of various institutional frameworks; the project outlived Francoism and earned Montesinos prestigious standing especially among the younger generation. In terms of the Carlist theme, the literary works fall into two rubrics. The majoritarian one is about Carlism as a setting for adventure stories , usually combined with elements of historical novel, psychology, romance, fantasy, alternative history, horror and so on; historically these works are usually though not always set in the 19th century.
Another, the minoritarian one, is part of broadly designed discourse about the Spanish self, with key points of reference set by democratic, tolerant, progressive mindset; these works tend to focus on the 20th century. In none of the above Carlism occupies a central or first-rate position. Definitely the most popular role of Carlism in contemporary literature is to provide a setting for adventure novels, by some scholars dubbed also "literatura juvenil".
In terms of key message they advance praise of general values such as friendship, loyalty, courage, and can hardly be associated with any particular camp, though in some cases, e. Atxaga or Landaluce, Carlist protagonists seem to be treated with particular sympathy; they also usually convey more or less explicit message about absurdity of civil wars.
There are at least 50 novels falling into the genre identified. There is a group of novels which might be classified as falling into the adventure genre, yet they stand out because they focus on historical detail, feature — at times extensively or as key protagonists — historical figures, and their authors seem concerned with historical analysis rather than with offering an interesting plot. El tigre rojo by Carlos Domingo is styled as unorthodox homage to a free man, always willing to pursue his convictions regardless of political circumstances; hailing late departure of Cabrera from the legitimist path, by no means can it be considered an orthodox Carlist lecture.
It reflects the Unamunian attempt to follow "the inner history" made by the mute masses and adheres to the theory of two Carlisms, the popular one and the elitist one. The Spanish Civil War is immensely popular as a setting for contemporary narrative prose and as a matter of literary discourse. There were thousands of related fiction titles published in Spain since the fall of Francoism; in the 21st century only there were 1, such works which appeared on the market.
Novels where Carlism is granted more than a negligible role are few. Its Manichean personalities  are representative for "novela do confrontacion historica",  penned by young authors who construct their own identity by means of "acto afiliativo" versus the Republican combatants. By the end of his life he returned to drama with Llamada sin respuesta and to poetry with Soliloquios: en busca de un rayo de luz perdido Few of his verses, however, are fairly explicit in their political militancy.
This is especially the case of El Quijote carlista , a poem which gained sort of iconic status in the Carlist realm  and is itself — like in case of del Burgo's late poems — a demonstration of pessimism if not defeatism among the Carlists. A different chord is struck with Luis Hernando de Larramendi, the third in sequence from a dynasty of Carlist authors. Since his 40s he had been publishing poetic volumes;  Traditionalist zeal  is more than explicit in his latest collection, Fronda Carlista , much of its content dedicated to Carlist kings and leaders.
The author whose poetic contribution to the Carlist cause is by many considered of greatest literary value — not only in terms of contemporary poetry but in terms of years of Carlist history — came from a somewhat unexpected side. From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia. For detailed discussion compare e. Madrid , p. For scholarly discussion see e. The novel tells a story of an officer serving in a Polish unit within the French army, sort of legacy from the Napoleonic era. The French "leased" the unit to the Madrid government and as a result, the Poles fought on the Cristinos side.
Some scholars summarise the book as "complicada intriga sentimental con evidentes connotaciones cervantinas", Piotr Sawicki, Don Quijote vence en Polonia. No title from the French belles-lettres is quoted as related. Similarly, no great or even not-so-great work of English literature refers to the Carlist War. Tennyson was himself in Spain shortly before outbreak of the war, yet all found is vague references "to these inquisition dogs and the devildoms of Spain". Working Papers on English Studies 23 , p. The war was followed closely also far away, compare the sections of Dostoyevsky's Writer's Diary , an extremely hostile account, interesting when combined with Dostoyevsky's anti-democratic and highly religious outlook.
However, none of the works mentioned qualifies as belles-lettres. Dal Legittimismo al Carlismo , [in:] Gianandrea de Antonellis ed. Payne ed. Notes aproximatives , [in:] eHumanista 5 , pp. I, Gijon , p. La Cruzada Memorias de su secretario , Madrid , p.
Vida de Nuestro Senor Jesucristo
It was noted for conventional plots which can hardly support the weight of nagging moralizing objectives, Sanz Ponce , p. In Unamuno, somewhat disappointed that the first edition did not receive much attention, re-published it with a specific prologue. Revista Cultural Hispanica This is the view that the author of so far most exhaustive work on the issue tends to agree with, see Santos Zas However, reviewers point out to some problematic omissions in her work, e. Literatura, sociedad, historia 3 , p. Following the incident Baroja was detained and spent a night in the Guardia Civil prison in the nearby Santesteban, yet he seemed to prefer this option, as he felt safer in prison than among the Carlists.
Badia i Margarit , Paris , pp. Revista cultural d'Amics de les Arts i Joventuts Musicals 10 , p. The story was first published in a volume issued in Paris in ; it contained French translations of Lord Arthur Savile's Crime and Other Stories collection, but also a number of previously unknown stories, also in French. Ego te absolvo was among them, reportedly a translation from an earlier publication in an unidentified US magazine. It was soon claimed that the story was among those "fraudulently attributed to Oscar Wilde, generally by unscrupulous publishers"; this was e.
Since then Ego te absolvo is generally ignored in the English-language publications, compare e. Others simply follow the sequence set by the centuries, see Felipe B. Estaba tan puesto como yo. Sus ojos negros de alguna manera me recordaron a los ojos de mi padre. Ya sabes lo oscuras que son las casas de cafe. Me di la vuelta y Padre Pederastia todo mi brazo amablemente. Cual fue el principio de mi de Simon larga y de la parte mas ajetreada educacion, y de donde no podemos, todabia, seguirle. El duerme ahora, profesor mas que aprendiz, mientras Mary Lou Servix se despierta tras el y trata de decidir si fue la olla o si es algo realmente fantasmal.
In fact, I don't even know that there is a universe. More likely, there are many multiverses, each with its own dimensions, times, spaces, laws and eccentricities. We wander between and among these. For to deny that axiom leads to what is called schizophrenia. Yeah, that's it: every man's skin is his own private multiverse, just like every man's home is supposed to be his castle. But all the multiverses are trying to merge, to create a true universe such as we have only imagined previously. Maybe it will be spiritual, like Zen or telepathy, or maybe it will be physical, one great big gang-fuck, but it has to happen: the creation of a universe and the one great eye opening to see itself at last.
Aum Shiva! You're writing gibberish. No, I'm writing with absolute clarity, for the first time in my life. Never mind that. Who the hell are you and how did you get into my head? Sheriff Cartwright stood in the door, a monk in a strange red and white robe beside him, holding some kind of wand the deep color of a fire engine. They were at the foot of the gallows. Yes: if the universe is one big eye looking at itself, then telepathy is no miracle, for anyone who opens his own eyes fully can then look through all other eyes.
You can say I can't recall. I can't give any answer to that that I can recall. Numbly, George clasped the man's hot, reptilian palm. The monk walked beside him up the gallows' steps. Thirteen, George was thinking, there are always thirteen steps on a gallows. And you always cream in your jeans when your neck breaks.
It has something to do with the pressure on the spinal cord being transmitted through the prostate gland. The Orgasm-Death Gimmick, Burroughs calls it. George stared at the man dumbfounded. Who was Eris? Somebody in Greek mythology, but somebody very important. I got some bad pot, George decided, and I'm still back on the hotel bed, hallucinating all this. But he repeated, uncertainly: "Hail Eris. Immediately, just like his one and only acid trip, dimension began to alter. The steps grew larger, steeper-ascending them seemed as perilous as climbing Mount Everest. The air was suddenly lit with reddish flame- Definitely, George thought, some weird and freaky pot.
Each step was now higher than an ordinary building. He was near the bottom of a pyramidal skyscraper of thirteen colossal levels. And at the top. And at the top And at the top One Enormous Eye-a ruby and demonic orb of cold fire, without mercy or pity or contempt -looked at him and into him and through him. The hand reaches down, turns on both bathtub faucets full-power, then reaches upward to do the same to the sink faucets.
Banana-Nose Maldonado leans forward and whispers to Carmel, "Now you can talk. He gave his report in terse, unemotional sentences. The guy on the triple underpass was definitely Harry Coin. I recognized him through my binoculars. The guy in the window at the Book Depository very likely was this galoot Oswald that they've arrested. But I didn't get a good look at the gink on the County Records building.
One thing I'm sure of: we can't keep all this to ourselves. At the very least, we pass the word on to ELF. It might alter their plans for OM. You've heard of OM? It's their big project for the next decade or so. This is a bigger Mindfuck than anything they had planned. We get all our horse from friendly governments like Laos. The CIA would have our ass otherwise. Maldonado stares at him levelly.
Bernard Barker, former servant of both Batista and Castro, dons his gloves outside the Watergate; in a flash of memory he sees the grassy knoll, Oswald, Harry Coin, and, further back, Castro negotiating with Banana-Nose Maldonado. But this present year, on March 24, Generalissimo Tequilla y Mota finally found the book he was looking for, the one that was as precise and pragmatic about running a country as Luttwak's Coup. It was called The Prince and its author was a subtle Italian named Machiavelli; it told the Generalissimo everything he wanted to know-except how to handle American hydrogen bombs, which, unfortunately, Machiavelli had lived too soon to foresee.
Seven ambulances and thirty police cars were soon racing to scene But only five years earlier Atlanta had a different message.
When God's Lightning was first founded, as a splinter off Women's Liberation, it had as its slogan "No More Sexism," and its original targets were adult bookstores, sex-education programs, men's magazines, and foreign movies. It was at that point, really, that God's Lightning and orthodox Women's Lib totally parted company, for the orthodox faction, just then, were teaching that male supremacy and orgasms were part of the International Kapitalist Conspiracy.
President began; but in Santa Isabel itself, as Tequilla y Mota underlined a passage in Machiavelli,. I've been here nine days now and I am absolutely convinced there is not one Russian or Chinese agent in any way involved with Generalissimo Tequilla y Mota, nor are there any troops of either of those governments hiding anywhere in the jungles. At the same time, in a different hotel, Tobias Knight, on special loan from the FBI to the CIA, concluded his nightly shortwave broadcast to an American submarine 23 miles off the coast: "The Russian troops are definitely engaged in building what can only be a rocket-launching site, and the Slants are constructing what seems to be a nuclear installation.
And Hagbard Celine, lying 40 miles out in the Bight of Biafra in the Lief Erickson, intercepted both messages, and smiled cynically, and wired P. While the most obscure, seemingly trivial part of the whole puzzle appeared in a department store in. This replaced an earlier sign that had hung on the main showroom wall for many years, saying only. The change, although small, had subtle repercussions. The store catered only to the very wealthy, and this clientele did not object to being told that they could not smoke.
The fire hazard, after all, was obvious. On the other hand, that bit about spitting was somehow a touch offensive; they most certainly were not the sort of people who would spit on somebody's floor-or, at least, none of them had done such a thing at any time since about one month or at most one year after they became wealthy. Yes, the sign was definitely bad diplomacy. Resentment festered. Sales fell off. And membership in the Houston branch of God's Lightning increased.
Wealthy, powerful membership. The odd thing was that the Management had nothing at all to do with the sign. George Dorn awoke screaming. He lay on the floor of his cell in Mad Dog County Jail. His first frantic, involuntary glance told him that Harry Coin had vanished completely from the adjoining cell. The shit-pot was back in its corner and he knew, without being able to check, that there would be no human intestines in it.
Terror tactics, he thought They were out to break him-a task which was beginning to look easy-but they were covering up the evidence as they went along. There was no light through the cell window; it was, therefore, still night. He hadn't slept but merely fainted. Like a long-haired commie faggot. Oh, shit and prune juice, he told himself sourly, cut it out. You've known for years that you're no hero. Don't take that particular sore out and rub sandpaper on it now.
You're not a hero, but you're a goddam stubborn, pigheaded, and determined coward. That's why you've stayed alive on assignments like this before. Show these redneck mammyjammers just how stubborn, pig-headed, and determined you can be. George started with an old gimmick. A piece torn off the tail of his shirt gave him a writing. The point of his shoelace became a temporary pen. His own saliva, spat onto the polish of the shoes themselves, created a substitute ink. The message shouldn't land too close to the jail, so George began looking for a weighted object.
In five minutes, he decided on a spring from the bunk mattress; it took him seventeen minutes more to pry it loose. After the missile was hurled out toe window-probably, George knew, to be found by somebody who would immediately turn it over to Sheriff Jim Cartwright-he began thinking of alternate plans. He found, however, that instead of devising schemes for escape or deliverance, his mind insisted on going off in an entirely different direction.
The face of the monk from his dream pursued him. He had seen that face somewhere before, he knew; but where? Somehow, the question was important. He began trying in earnest to re-create the face and identify it-James Joyce, H. Lovecraft, and a monk in a painting by Fra Angelico all came to mind. It was none of them, but it looked somehow a little like each of them. Suddenly tired and discouraged, George slouched back on the bunk and let his hand lightly clutch his penis through his trousers.
Heroes of fiction don't jack off when the going gets rough, he reminded himself. Well, hell, he wasn't a hero and this wasn't fiction. Besides, I wasn't going to jack-off after all, They might be watching through a peephole, ready to use this natural jailhouse weakness to humiliate me further and break my ego. No, I definitely wasn't going to jack-off: I was just going to hold it, lightly, through my trousers, until I felt some life-force surging back into my body and displacing fear, exhaustion and despair. Meanwhile, I thought about Pat back in New York.
She was wearing nothing but her cute black lace bra and panties, and her nipples are standing up pointy and hard. Make it Sophia Loren, and take the bra off so I can see the nipples directly. Ah, yes, and now try it the other way: she Sophia, no make it Pat again is wearing the bra but the panties are off showing the pubic bush. Let her play with it, get her fingers in there, and the other hand on a nipple, ah, yes, and now she Pat-no, Sophia is kneeling to unzipper my fly.
My penis grew harder and her mouth opened in expectation. I reached down and cupped her breast with one hand, taking the nipple she had been caressing, feeling it harden more. Did James Bond ever do this in Doctor No's dungeon? Sophia's tongue not my hand, not my hand is busy and hot, sending pulsations through my entire body. Take it, you cunt. Take it, O God, a flash of the Passaic and the gun at my forehead, and you can't call them cunts nowadays, ah, you cunt, you cunt, take it, and it is Pat, it's that night at her pad when we were both zonked on hashish and I never never never had a blow-job like that.
The second blast lifted me again and threw me with a crunch against the wall. Jesus H. Particular Christ on a crutch, I thought frantically, whatever it is that's happening they're going to find me with come on the front of my trousers. The machine gun suddenly stopped stuttering and I thought I heard a voice cry "Earwicker, Bloom and Craft. Then the third explosion came, and I covered my head as parts of the ceiling began falling on me. A key suddenly clanked against his cell door. Looking up, I saw a young woman in a trench coat, carrying a tommy gun, and desperately trying one key after another in the lock.
The woman grinned tensely at the sound. I limped after her down the hall. Suddenly she stopped, studied the wall a moment, and pressed against a brick. The wall slid smoothly aside and we entered what appeared to be a chapel of some sort. For the chapel was not anything that a sane man would expect to find in Mad Dog County Jail. A black Cadillac awaited us. He was an old man, more than sixty, but hard and shrewd-looking.
I was pushed into the back seat-which was already full of grim-looking men and grimmer-looking munitions of various sorts-and the car started at once. A taste of their own medicine. What makes you think Sheriff. Meanwhile, wipe the come off your pants. Cowboy the son of a bitch. In an ordinary hit, you can be precise, even artistic, because after all the only thing that matters is that the person so honored should be definitely dead afterwards.
Cowboying, in the language of the profession, leaves no room for personal taste or delicacy: the important thing is that there should be a lot of lead in the air and the victim should leave a spectacularly gory corpse for the tabloids, as notification that the Brotherhood is both edgy and short-tempered and everybody better watch his.
Although it wasn't obligatory, it was considered a sign of true enthusiasm on a cowboy job if the guest of honor took along a few innocent bystanders, so everybody would understand exactly how edgy the Brotherhood was feeling. The Dutchman took two such bystanders. And in a different. Further back, back further: February 7, , Vincent "Mad Dog" Coll looks through the phone-booth door and sees a familiar face crossing the drugstore and a.
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But tilt the picture another way and-this emerges: On November 10, , the "World's Greatest Newspaper," the Chicago Tribune announced the election to the Presidency of the United States of America of Thomas Dewey, a man who not only was not elected but would not even have been alive if Banana Nose Maldonado had not given such specific instructions concerning the Dutchman to Charlie the Bug, Mendy Weiss and Jimmy the Shrew. Who shot you?
Mother is the best bet, Oh mama mama mama. I want harmony. The Dutchman still replies: Oh mama mama mama. French Canadian bean soup. We drove till dawn. The car stopped on a road by a beach of white sand. Tall, skinny palm trees stood black against a turquoise sky. This must be the Gulf of Mexico, I thought. They could now load me with chains and drop me in the gulf, hundreds of miles from Mad Dog, without involving.
Sheriff Jim. No, they had raided Sheriff Jim's jail. Or was that a hallucination? I was going to have to keep more of an eye on reality. This was a new day, and I was going to know facts hard and sharp- edged in the sunlight and keep them straight. I was stiff and sore and tired from a night of driving. The only rest I'd gotten was fitful dozing in which cyclopean ruby eyes looked at me till I awoke in terror. Mavis, the woman with the tommy gun, had put her arms around me several times when I screamed.
She would murmur soothingly to me, and once her lips, smooth, cool and soft, had brushed my ear. At the beach, Mavis motioned me out of the car. The sun was as hot as the bishop's jock strap when he finished his sermon on the evils of pornography. She stepped out behind me and slammed the door. Just then the driver of the car gunned the motor. The car swung round in a wide U-turn. In a minute its rear end had disappeared beyond a bend in the Gulf highway.
We were alone with the rising sun and the sand-strewn asphalt. Mavis motioned me to walk down the beach with her. A little ways ahead, far back from the water, was a small white-painted frame cabana. A woodpecker landed wearily on its roof like he had flown more missions than Yossarian and never intended to go up again. A private execution on a lonely beach in another state so Sheriff Jim can't get blamed? If ever a man had KKK written all over his forehead, it was that reactionary redneck prick.
If you're against commies, you've got to be against me. And a militant radical is nothing but a big- mouthed liberal with a Che costume. We're the real radicals, George. We do things, like last night Except for Weatherman and Morituri, all the militant radicals in your crowd ever do is take out the Molotov cocktail diagram that they carefully clipped from The New York Review of Books, hang it on the bathroom door and jack-off in connection with it. No offense meant.
Preferably not at all. And I. Why did you rescue me? The woodpecker turned his head and looked at us with the other eye. I might have guessed, I thought, a Hope fiend. She went on, "It took a whole book to answer that one. As for Hagbard, you'll learn by seeing. Enough for now that you know that he's the man who requested that we rescue you. That splotch of come on your trousers has had me horny ever since Mad Dog. Also the excitement of the raid. I've got some tension to burn off. I'd prefer to save myself for a man who completely meets the criteria of my value system.
But I could get awfully horny waiting for him. No regrets, no guilt, though. You're all right. You'll do. I doubt you ever met a woman who believed in the real laissez faire capitalist system. Such a woman is not likely to. She shrugged out of her trench coat and spread it carefully on the floor.
She was wearing a black sweater and a pair of blue jeans, both tight-fitting. She pulled the sweater off over her head. She was wearing no bra, and her breasts were apple-sized cherry-tipped cones. There was some sort of dark red birthmark between them. She tugged them down over her hips. I felt my hardon swelling up inside my pants.
How can I know facts hard and sharp-edged in the sunlight and keep them straight when this happens? The Woodpecker pecked on the out-house door; He pecked and he pecked till his pecker was sore Don't you know how to play? Did you ever think that life is maybe a. Life is a toy, George, I'm a toy. Think of me as a doll. Instead of sticking pins in me, you can stick your thing in me. Fm a magic doll, like a voodoo doll. A doll is a work of art. Art is magic. You make an image of the thing you want to possess or cope with, so you can cope with it.
You make a model, so you have it under control. Don't you want to possess me? You can, but just for a moment. I shook my head. The way you're talking-it's not real. It happens that at such times I'm more open to the vibrations from outer space. George, are unicorns real? Who made unicorns? Is a thought about unicorns a real thought? How is it different from the mental picture of my pussy-which you've never seen-that. Does the fact that you can think of fucking me and I can think of fucking with you mean we are going to fuck? Or is the universe going to surprise us? Wisdom is wearying, folly is fun.
What does a horse with a single long horn sticking straight out of its head. Then she bowed her head. I had no right to do that. Hit me back, if you want. But I'm afraid you've turned me off sexually. You're a healthy man. But now I want to give you something without taking anything from you.
She slipped her mouth around it. It was my jail. She took her lips away from my penis, and I looked down and saw that the head was shiny with saliva and swelling visibly in rapid throbs. Her breasts-my glance avoided the Masonic tattoo-were somewhat fuller, and the nipples stuck out erect. She smiled. Shut up and get hard. This is just quid pro quo. When I came I didn't feel much juice jetting out through my penis; I'd used a lot up whacking off in jail.
I noted with pleasure that what there was of it she didn't spit out. She smiled and swallowed it. The sun was higher and hotter in the sky and the woodpecker celebrated by drumming faster and harder. The Gulf sparkled like Mrs. Aster's best diamonds. I peered out at the water: just below the horizon there was a flash of gold among the diamonds.
Mavis suddenly struck her legs out in front of her and dropped onto her back. I can't give without taking. Please, quick, while it's still hard, get down here and slip it to me. I looked down. Her lips were trembling. She was tugging the gold panties away from her black- escutcheoned crotch. My wet cock was already beginning to droop. I looked down at her and grinned. They don't meet the criteria of my value system. I think they're nuts. It was sore anyway, like in the rhyme. Her hand was moving rapidly between her legs. In a moment she arched her back, eyes clenched tight, and emitted a little scream, like a baby seagull out on its first flight, a strangely virginal sound.
She lay relaxed for a moment, then picked herself up off the cabana floor and started to dress. She glanced out at the water and I followed her eyes. She pointed at the distant glint of gold. A buzzing sound floated across the water. After a moment, I spotted a small black motorboat coming toward us. We watched in silence as the boat grounded its bow on the white beach.
Mavis motioned at me, and I followed her down the sand to the water's edge. There was a man in a black turtleneck. Mavis climbed in the bow and turned to me with a questioning look. The woodpecker felt bad vibes and took off with a flapping and cawing like the omen of.
What the hell am I getting into, and why am I so crazy as to go along? I tried to see what it was out there that the motorboat had come from, but the sun on the gold metal was flashing blindingly and I couldn't make out a shape. I looked back at the black motorboat and saw that there was a circular gold object painted on the bow and there was a little black flag flying at the stern with the same gold object in its center.
I pointed at the emblem on the bow. People who chose a golden apple as their symbol couldn't be all bad. I jumped into the boat, and its pilot used an oar to push off. We buzzed over the smooth water of the Gulf toward the golden object on the horizon. It was still blinding from reflected sunlight, but I was now able to make out a long, low silhouette with a small tower in the center, like a matchbox on top of a broomstick.
Then I realized that I had my judgment of distances wrong. The ship, or whatever it was, was much more distant than I'd first realized. It was a submarine-a golden submarine-and it appeared to be the equivalent of five city blocks long, as big as the biggest ocean liner I had ever heard of.
The conning tower was about three stories high. As we drew up beside it I saw a man on the tower waving to us. Mavis waved back.
La parole aux lecteurs
I waved halfheartedly, supposing somehow that it was the thing to do. I was still thinking about that Masonic tattoo. A hatch opened in the submarine's side, and the little motorboat floated right in. The hatch closed, the water drained out, and the boat settled into a cradle. Mavis pointed to a door that looked like an entrance to an elevator. She pressed a button and the door opened, revealing a carpeted gilt cage.
I stepped in and was whisked up three stories. The door opened and I stepped out into a small room where a man was waiting, standing with a grace that reminded me of a Hindu or an American Indian. I thought at once of Metternich's remark about Talleyrand: "If somebody kicked him in the backside, not a muscle would move in his face until he decided what to do.
He bore a striking resemblance to Anthony Quinn; he had thick black eyebrows, olive skin, and a strong nose and jaw. He was big and burly, powerful muscles bulging under his black-and-green striped nautical sweater. He held out his hand. We shook hands; he had a grip like King Kong.
Fortunately, I have Viking ancestors, as well. My mother is Norwegian. However, blond hair, blue eyes, and fair skin are all recessive. My Sicilian father creamed my mother in the genes. I wouldn't have believed a submarine like this could exist without the whole world knowing about it. This is what the liberated mind can do. I am the twentieth-century Leonardo, except that I'm not gay. I've tried it, of course, but women interest me more. The world has never heard of Hagbard Celine.
That is because the world is stupid and Celine is very smart. The submarine is radar and sonar transparent. It is superior to the best either the American or Russian government even has on the drawing board. It can go to any depth in any ocean. We've sounded the Atlantic Trench, the Mindinao Deep, and a few holes in the floor of the sea that no one's ever heard of or named. Lief Erickson is capable of meeting the biggest, most ferocious, and smartest monsters of the deep, of which we've found God's plenty.
I'd even risk her in battle with Leviathan himself, though I'm just as pleased that we've only seen him. That fish-if fish it be-that is to your whale what your whale is to your meanest guppy. Don't ask me what Leviathan is-I haven't even gotten close enough to tell you his shape. There's only one of him, her, or it in all that world that's water. I don't know how it reproduces-maybe it doesn't have to reproduce-maybe it's immortal. It may be neither plant nor. Oh, we've seen monsters, George. I'm talking about seeing things and being with people that will really liberate your mind-not just replacing liberalism with Marxism so you can shock your parents.
I'm talking about getting altogether off the grubby plane you live on and taking a trip with Hagbard to a transcendental universe. Did you know that on sunken Atlantis there is a. The fact is I simply don't believe Atlantis ever existed. This is pure bullshit. Do you trust the evidence of your senses? I hope so, because you'll see Atlantis and the pyramid, just as I said.
Those bastards, the Illuminati, are trying to get gold to further their conspiracies by looting an Atlantean temple. And Hagbard is going to foil them by robbing it first. Because I fight the Illuminati every chance I get. And because I'm an. Will you join us? You're free to leave right now, if you wish. I'll put you. I write magazine articles for a living. And even if ninety percent of what you say is bullshit, moonshine, and the most elaborate put-on since Richard Nixon, this is the best story I've ever come across. A nut with a gigantic golden submarine whose followers include beautiful guerrilla women who blow up southern jails and take out the prisoners.
No, I'm not leaving. You're too big a fish to let get away. Hagbard Celine slapped me on the shoulder. You've got courage and initiative. You trust only the evidence of your eyes and believe what no man tells you. I was right about you. Come on down to my stateroom. Celine pressed a button and the elevator door and the gate outside both slid back.
We stepped out into a carpeted room with a lovely black woman sitting at one end under an elaborate emblem concocted of anchors, seashells, Viking figureheads, lions, ropes, octopi, lightning bolts, and, occupying the central position, a golden apple. Celine led me down a long corridor, saying, "You'll find this submarine is opulently furnished.
I have no need to live in monklike surroundings like those masochists who become naval officers. No Spartan simplicity for me. This is more like an ocean liner or a grand European hotel of the. Edwardian era. Wait till you see my suite. You'll like your stateroom, too. To please myself, I built this thing on the grand scale. No finicky naval architects or parsimonious accountants in my business. I believe you've got to spend money to make money and spend the money you make to enjoy money. Besides, I have to live in the damned thing.
No bullshit authority titles for me. I'm Freeman Hagbard Celine, but the. If I don't like it, I'll punch you in the nose. If there were more bloody noses, there'd be fewer wars. I'm in smuggling mostly. With a spot of piracy, just to keep ourselves on our toes. But that only against the Illuminati and their communist dupes. We aim to prove that no state has the right to regulate commerce in any way. Nor can it, when it is up against free men. My crew are all volunteers. We have among us liberated sailors who were indentured to the navies of America, Russia, and China. Excellent fellows.
The governments of the world will never catch us, because free men are always cleverer than slaves, and any man who works for a government is a slave. I've got to warn you, I come from a long line of labor agitators and Reds. You'll never convert me to a right-wing position. Celine reared back as if I had waved offal under his nose. Didn't you understand that much? We've got nothing to do with right-wing, left-wing or any other half-assed political category.
You're talking like a medieval serf, asking the first agnostic whether he worships God or the Devil. We're outside the system's categories. You'll never get the hang of our game if you keep thinking in flat-earth imagery of right and left, good and evil,. If you need a group label for us, we're political non-Euclideans. But even that's not.
Sink me, nobody of this tub agrees with anybody else about anything, except maybe what the fellow with the horns told the old man in the clouds: Non serviam. He threw open an oaken door, and I entered a living room furnished in handsome teak and rosewood Scandinavian, upholstered in bright solid colors. He hadn't been exaggerating about the scale: you could have parked a Greyhound bus in the middle of the carpet and the room would still seem uncluttered.
Above an orange couch hung a huge oil painting in an elaborate gilt frame easily a foot deep on all sides. The painting was essentially a cartoon. It showed a man in robes with long,. Above his head a fiery hand traced flaming letters with its index finger on the rock. The words it wrote were:.
As I started to laugh, I felt, through the soles of my feet, an enormous engine beginning to throb. Celine's crowd take Dorn, according to plan, and, Harry Coin is, ah, no longer with us. Everything is GO. The following. And then I sat back and thought about Harry Coin. Once I imagined I could make it with him: there was something so repulsive, so cruel, so wild and psychopathic there. The same as every other man.
Hurt me. Do something. Nothing, nothing, nothing. The closest miss was that strange banker, Drake, from Boston. What a scene. I'd gotten into his. Old white-haired buzzard, between sixty and seventy: typical of our wealthier members, I thought. I started the usual spiel, communism, sexism, smut, and all the time his eyes were bright and hard as a snake's. It finally hit me that he didn't believe a word of it, so I started to cut it off, and then he pulled out his checkbook and wrote and held it up so I could see it.
Twenty thousand dollars. I didn't know what to say, and I started something about how all true Americans would appreciate this great gesture and so on, and he said, "Rubbish. You're not rich but you're famous. I want to add you to my collection. He took me into a private suite off of his business office and he touched one button, the lights dimmed, another button, down came a movie screen, a third button, and I was watching a pornographic movie.
He didn't approach me, just watched, and I tried to get excited, wondering if the actress was really making it or just faking it, and then a second film began, four of them this time in permutations and combinations, he led me to the couch, every time I opened my eyes I could still see the film over his shoulder, and it was the same, the same, as soon as he got his thing inside me, nothing, nothing, nothing, I kept looking at the actors trying to feel something, and then, as he came, be whispered in my ear, "Heute. Later, I tried to find out about him, but nobody above me in the Order would say a word, and those below me didn't know anything.
But I finally found out: he was very big in the Syndicate, maybe the top. And that's how I figured out that the old rumor was true, the Syndicate was run by the Order, too, just like everything else. But that cold sinister old man never said another word about it. I kept waiting while we dressed, when he gave me the check, when he escorted me to the door, and even his expression seemed to deny that he had said it or knew what it meant.
When he opened the door for me, he put an arm on. And yet he had read me to the core, knew I was faking, and guessed that terror alone could unlock my reflexes: maybe he even knew that I had already tried physical sadism and it hadn't worked. Out on Wall Street in the crowd, I saw a man with a gas mask- they were still rare that year- and I felt the whole world was moving faster than I could understand and that the Order wasn't telling me nearly. Brother Beghard, who is actually a politician in Chicago under his "real" name, once explained the Law of Fives to me in relation to the pyramid-of-power principle.
Intellectually, I understand: it's the only way we can work, each group a separate vector so that the most any infiltrator can learn is a small part of the design. Emotionally, though, it does get frightening at times: do the Five at the top really have the whole picture? I don't know, and I don't see how they can predict a man like Drake or. I joined the Order seeking power, and now I am more a tool, an object, than ever before. If a man like Drake ever thought that, he might tear the whole show apart.
Unless the Five really do have the powers they claim; but I'm not gullible enough to believe that bull. Some of it's hypnotism, and some is plain old stage magic, but none of it is really supernatural. Nobody has sold me on a fairy tale since my uncle got into me when I was twelve with his routine about stopping the bleeding. If my parents had only told me the truth about menstruation in. Enough of that. There was work to be done. I hit the buzzer on my desk and my secretary, Mr. Mortimer, came in. As I'd guessed, it was past nine o'clock and he'd been out there in the reception area straightening up and worrying about my mood for God knows how long, while I was daydreaming.
I studied my memo pad, while he waited apprehensively. Finally, I noticed him and said, "Be seated. Tell bun to cream them; I won't be satisfied unless a dozen of the perverts are put in the hospital, and I don't care how many of our people get arrested doing it The bail fund is available, if they need it.
If Zev has any objections, I'll talk to him, but otherwise you handle it. Then make up the standard number-two press release, where I deny any knowledge of illegal activities-by that chapter and promise we will investigate and expel anybody guilty of mob action— have that ready for release this afternoon. Then get me the latest sales figures on Telemachus Sneezed.
Guess who it was? She's frigid for one thing. She joined women's liberation at the same age George joined Weatherman, and they both split after a few months. And you'd be surprised how similar their mothers were, or how the successful careers of their older brothers annoy them—". Hagbard Celine knocked an ash off his long Italian cigar. He felt the cold wetness on his thighs before he realized he was urinating in his pants; a shell exploded nearby and he sobbed. Don't let them kill me. I'm afraid to die. Please, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.
Mary Lou and Simon are eating breakfast in bed, still naked as Adam and Eve. Mary Lou spread jam on toast and asked, "No, seriously: which part was hallucination and which part was real? Simon sipped at his coffee. Handing us a line. The Purple Sage cursed and waxed sorely pissed and cried out in a loud voice: A pox upon the accursed Illuminati of Bavaria; may their seed take no root. May their hands tremble, their eyes dim and their spines curl up, yea, verily, like unto the backs of snails; and may the vaginal orifices of their women be clogged with Brillo pads.
For they have sinned against God and Nature; they have made of life a prison; and they have stolen the green from the grass and the blue from the sky. And so saying, and grimacing and groaning, the Purple Sage left the world of men and women and retired to the desert in despair and heavy grumpiness. But the High Chapperal laughed, and said to the Erisian faithful: Our brother torments himself with no cause, for even the malign Illuminati are unconscious pawns of the Divine Plane of Our Lady.
October 23, , was the thirty-fifth anniversary of the murder of Arthur Flegenheimer alias "The Dutchman," alias "Dutch Schultz" , but this dreary lot has no intention of commemorating that occasion. Smiling Jim Treponema, has noted a bearded and therefore suspicious young man among the delegates. Such types were not likely to be KCUF members and might even be dope fiends. Smiling Jim told the Andy Frain ushers to keep a watchful eye on the young man so no "funny business" could occur, and then went to the podium to begin his talk on "Sex Education: Communist Trojan Horse in Our Schools.
The bearded young man, who happened to be Simon Moon, adviser to Teenset magazine on II-luminati affairs and instructor in sexual yoga to numerous black young ladies, observed that he was being observed which made him think of Heisenberg and settled back in his chair to doodle pentagons on his note pad. Three rows ahead, a crew-cut middle-aged man, who looked like a suburban Connecticut doctor, also settled back comfortably, awaiting his opportunity: the funny business that he and Simon had in mind would be, he hoped, very funny indeed.
There is a road going due east from Dayton, Ohio, toward New Lebanon and Brookville, and on a small farm off that road lives an excellent man named James V. Riley, who is a sergeant on the Dayton police force. Although he grieves the death of his wife two years back in '67 and worries about his son, who seems to be in some shady business involving frequent travel between New York City and Cuernavaca, the sergeant is basically a cheerful man; but on June 25, , he was a bit out of sorts and generally not up to snuff because of his arthritis and the seemingly endless series of pointless and peculiar questions being asked by the reporter from New York.
It didn't make sense- who would want to publish a book about John Dillinger at this late date? And why would such a book deal with Dillinger's dental history? I don't hold with some of these people who've written books about him and said the long sentence he got back then is what made him bitter and turned him bad. He got the long sentence because he was so snotty to the judge. Not a sign of repentence or remorse, just wisecracks and a know-it-all grin spread all over his face. A bad apple from the start. And always hellbent-for-leather. In a hurry to get God knows where.
Sometimes folks used to joke that there were two of him, he'd go through town so fast. Rushing to his own funeral. Young punks like that never get long enough sentences, if you want my opinion. Might slow them down a bit". The reporter— what was his name again? James Mallison, hadn't he said? But what I want to know was where was Dillinger's missing tooth— on the right side or the left side of his face? The reporter dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief— very nervous he seemed to be. Now, just try to picture John Dillinger as you remember him, with that know-it-all grin as you called it Can you get the picture into focus?
Which side is the missing tooth on? Mallison's faced changed, as if in desperation which he was trying to conceal. Are you a Mason? Bejesus, no—I've been a Catholic all my life, I'll have you know. I mean, to talk to? The reporter plunged on, "All the books on Dillinger say that the intended victim of that first robbery, the grocer B.
Morgan, summoned help by giving the Masonic signal of distress. Do you know what that is?