by Daniel Quinn
Find out what day it is. The ninth? The tenth? The eleventh? If it’s the eleventh you’re in trouble so get out. Quick. Scram. Hurry. Make yourself scarce. Behind that rock, where the empty sacks sit waiting to be filled up.
Leave them alone. They’re not really empty, but filled with poisonous dust. Can’t you read? Head for the halo of flames.
“Ouch!”
Yes, it is difficult to put it out with your hands, but did you think your liberation would be easy?
Rock for an hour on the balls of your feet and Mother Ratna will speak to you in a vision.
“Here there everywhere blown around the middle.”
Then she will point to the bean vine trailing away into the landscape and tell you to follow it. Don’t. Go to a movie instead.
Go see I Was a Deadman Adrift in a Cosmic Passage playing at the Cameo in Magnolia, Arkansas. It’s a bad film but you can obtain some much-needed sleep there.
Draw a deep breath, it will be your last, here is the coach that will take you to Tibet.
Thunder thunder thunder. It is winter. Girls in veils float through the streets. Don’t worry if your clothes are impractical, if the wind whistles with ease through your ribs. Notice the man in the top hat with a boutonniere. What is he doing here? Probably the same as you; his fingers are swollen, too.
THE LAST BOAT IS NOW DEPARTING
Take it. No telling what would have happened back there.
In the Sacred Grove the nobly born are frying the tongues of busybodies and sucking clean their bones. Do not talk with them, these apostles of indolence. They don’t know the way.
Can you feel your elbow smiling now? Your lungs rubbing against the clammy wall?
“The Doubtful.”
“The Suggestive.”
“The Double-layered.”
Did you find out what day it is? The thirteenth? Then enter now the setting face-to-face.
Drink lustily from the skull-bowl; happiness is closer.
From the ceiling descend hundreds of miniature parachutists with their purple tumescent faces and their little knives. They scamper through your hair, your eyes. Lie quietly. You are in the condition of nothing-to-do, but it will pass. Here come the Buzzing Helicopters.
Here come the Buzzing Helicopters, don’t just lie there, take off; they carry “lokas” with them that will cause you great pain.
You may suspend yourself in the silence, if you like, of the air-so-thick-you-can-cut-it.
Bridgeheads, temples, dotings, and hankerings.
“Rage.”
“Despair.”
“Stupidity.”
THE DANGEROUS NARROW PASSAGEWAY
You are in it, the warm black ooze lifting you up under the arms. Tuck up your head and your knees, this isn’t the path of good wishes any longer. And pay attention, damn it! Do you think this is a game? I could as easily lead you through the lobster priests, you know. Or put you through the glazing ceremony or the river of twitching.
Facts and rumors, who cares which at this point with the dancers vaporizing all around and ancestors feeding like fetuses on your flesh. Would you let them dehydrate?
“We’re not talking tonight.”
“Are we singing?”
Smells drift in the dark. At the borders red eyes reappear.
YOU ARE NEARING THE GREAT SYMBOL
That’s right, the signs don’t lie. You are nearing the great symbol. Close your eyes and hang on to the body-aggregate. Whoever is to be freed from the ambuscades must offend the madmen with a like madness.
Watch out for the wall of green jelly! Can’t you see? Then open your eyes. And pay attention! This is it. Here we go.
Past slate houses stacked on hills, ladders angling out the windows, pervaders and knowers waggling wombs at the door. Ignore the interrupters. Concentrate on the red light ahead. The conditions are collapsing. Gestures, bridles, homunculi afloat in the black water.
“The heart drops.”
“The three times.”
“The secret doctrines.”
Hazard no thoughts; begin the process of untalking.
In the invocation to the seven sattvas the body crumbl mind slips into its nest, the eyes into their cages.
The fingers fall; the feet dissolve.
Now through the mirror, now through the smile.
Wave after wave after wave …
Well?
Did you make it? Is it over? Are you there?
1 I should not have to remind the reader that the reckoning of time in the Afterlife is highly subjective. What is noteworthy in this connection is that the Radiant claim that their coven meetings occur like clockwork, without members being prepared or notified in advance. On the thirteenth hour of the thirteenth day of the first month of the thirteenth year, all spontaneously and simultaneously come together (they say).
2 The first English translation of the Thirteen Stages was made by John Colet (1466–1519), a friend of Erasmus and of Thomas More. The author of this recent translation is unknown.
3 Periods … of indeterminate length, presumably the equivalent of centuries.
4 Three Ponies is held among the Radiant to be a veridical town, city, or crossroads whose location is well-known (but never to the particular member of the sect you happen to be talking to). “Others know where it is,” you will be assured. The following is a typical tale of this legendary place.
A certain man was walking toward Three Ponies when he met another coming from the opposite direction.
The stranger nodded in a friendly way and asked where he was going.
“I’m going to Three Ponies,” he replied.
The stranger blinked in surprise. “That’s odd,” he said, “for I too am going to Three Ponies.”
“It looks to me as though you’ve just come from Three Ponies.”
“It looks the same to me with respect to you.”
The two men stood for a moment in perplexed silence, then the stranger said: “I’m perfectly satisfied that Three Ponies lies ahead of me.”
“I’m no less well satisfied that it lies ahead of me.”
Further discussion of the matter seemed pointless, so each wished the other luck in his quest and went on his way.
Soon the man came to a small, dusty town. He kept on walking till he found its one hotel, where an old man sat on the porch.
“What is this place?” the traveler asked him.
“This is Three Ponies,” the old man replied.
“Ah! I thought it must be. Have you been sitting here long?”
“All morning,” the old man said.
“Then you may have seen a friend of mine walk through town.” And he described the stranger he’d met on the road.
“Oh yes, I saw him,” the old man said. “In fact, he asked me to tell you that he’s waiting for you inside.”
Flabbergasted, the man entered the hotel and immediately saw that the stranger he’d met on the road was sitting in the lobby.
“But how on earth did you get here ahead of me?” he demanded to know.
“I walked more quickly, of course.”
“But you didn’t pass me—I would have seen you!”
“Why would I want to pass you? You were going the wrong way!”
The man shook his head in bewilderment. “But that doesn’t make any sense. I’m here, as you see!”
The stranger laughed. “Clearly you don’t understand.”
“You’re quite right.”
“Sit down and we’ll discuss it.”
The man did so.
“It’s really very simple,” the stranger said. “You can probably work it out for yourself.”
“I don’t see how. Going the wrong direction—according to you!—I arrived in Three Ponies. You, going the opposite direction, arrived in the same place ahead of me. I find it totally inexplicable!”
Smiling, the stranger shook his head. “You’ve missed the obvious.”
“Please tell me what it is.”
“What do you mean?”
“Didn’t I tell you that you were going in the wrong direction to find Three Ponies?”
“Well, yes. Of course you did.”
“And what do you conclude from this?”
The man stared at him in stupefaction.
“You went in the wrong direction,” the stranger said, “and so you arrived in the wrong place.”
“But this is Three Ponies!”
“Indeed it is,” the stranger replied. “But this Three Ponies is not the real Three Ponies. You’ve made your journey for nothing.”
5 The number given to this particular version is 403M. All versions numbered 403 are basically the same. The letter designation indicates that it was assembled after variant L and before variant N. The difference between lettered variants may be no more than a word or two.
APPENDIX II
TWO
SPONTANEOUS
RELIGIONS
THE NAY-SAYERS
Led by Rev. Leo Bernhard, formerly a wine presser from the Neckar Valley, the Nay-Sayers meet in a “public” building (all buildings are public, of course, but they don’t all look public). After a few preliminary remarks by the Reverend pertaining to the issues of negation, a member of the congregation will rise and come forth to state his or her piece, not unlike, say, what one used to find at meetings for the alcohol addicted in the previous realm. Also in the manner of an AA meeting, only the “elect” are allowed to be present, and these, as their “brother” or “sister” speaks, shake their heads rapidly back and forth, apparently in joyous negation of what they are hearing.
The following transcript of a young female Nay-Sayer was recorded clandestinely by Braz Cubas, formerly a gaffer for an independent film company based in Tampa, Florida:
I’d rather not, thank you. No. No, I am not ready. Don’t ask me again, please. No, the trip does not seem worth it despite the shuffleboard tournament. The bullet can stay right where it is, thank you. You do not want me, I assure you. I am too young for your army. I will not sign. That simple? Of course it’s not that simple. Your first concern is not my first concern. No, I won’t tell you. I can’t help it. I will not drink that water. Do you think I’m an idiot? I will not visit you, marry you, take you to Costa Rica. Your cuspids do not interest me. I do not practice zik-e-ruhe, tai chi, or rastafari. No. Thank you, no. I do not want to eat dinner. I don’t care about lentil pâté. No, I don’t want to see that movie. I did not get off at Alameda. The truck did not continue north on I-25. I did not pull the trigger. The bullet did not lodge in my skull. I will not cite studies of Indian tribes in Mexico or the rural inhabitants of Appalachia or certain groups in the Andes Mountains in Ecuador or the Hunzas in the Himalayas who live unusually long, healthful lives. I do not want a Naples biscuit, thank you. The staghound did not slobber on the rug at my feet. I did not turn away when, with a trembling voice, the boy whispered, “Cockles.” Now was not the time for the arrival of Don Bedaya dressed in his velour robes. Never have you heard me say, “What sagacity!” I am not happy you have come. I did not know Roland was also here. I do not give a fig for Roland. I did not take this long without good reason. I did not need to purchase books to pursue the subject. My heart is not filled with joy. The dwarf did not turn, stagger, collapse to his knees. Autumn was not rather advanced. No, I do not find this particularly funny. That’s not the point. On those trips she did not seek or find lasting serenity. I am not, sorry, an apostle of Hebbel. The young serving girl did not begin to fill each bowl with soup. Her dreams were not chaste. No, I do not wish to attend your free intensive workshop wherein I might discover my hidden potential, improve my self-confidence and self-discipline, attain inner peace, achieve personal goals, learn to relax and be happy. Thank you, no. I will not go to the gardener’s house where the ladies are chatting. I will not pray. I will not join you in silent prayer. I am not in a fool’s paradise. I cannot tell you. No one would relish a joke like that if he were the butt of it. The poet did not pause for a moment to reflect on the wisdom of his words. This is not Florence water. I am not repeating myself; it is not necessary. These fresh beginnings did not lead me into a new intellectual world. When I entered, I did not see distress in her eyes. I am not distressed by dullness or the lack of it. These are not strange songs. I am not untroubled. It does not please me to say this. I did not see that the child’s parted lips were tremulous. “Well, well,” the Duke did not cry petulantly. You are not invited. My time is not come. I did not interrupt him with an ironic tone. The President is not asleep. No. Absolutely not. You certainly may not. Nor may I. You shouldn’t think so. You shouldn’t be seen around here for the next one hundred years. Take it elsewhere. You may not say I said that. The incident with the cow is not an isolated one. The President is not at home. No, I don’t know where he is. No, Eglamore did not run him through and give vent to a strangled, growling cry. No, I am not done with this. The car did not start up. I am not waiting for you. My eyes do not follow you as you walk away. I am not feverish. No, thank you. Thank you, no. I said No. You are not right. I am not going away anytime soon. You can forget it. It’s not my problem, thank you.
THE CHURCH OF CONSTANT CRISIS
The popularity of this particular street-corner religion is inexplicable, but followers in abundance it has. They fill the auditorium, they hang from the balcony, they cram the aisles. But to do what? Well, to participate in a bipartite service that begins with a Sermon of Interrogatives:
What are the issues? Are they clear? Are there parameters? What do they look like? Mountains in the distance? An island surrounded by an ocean? Whales? Does the possibility there are no parameters help establish parameters (albeit illusory) we might work within to come to terms with the crisis, if not solve it altogether? What might those terms be? What’s our next move? To shore up our defenses? Is it true that help is on the way is a lie? Is it true that evacuation is really only a sham that has us going to point A to point B to point C to point D to point A? Should we establish a regimen to which we strictly adhere? Have we not much boning up to do before confronting the crisis? Don’t we often stand in line and start talking to an Adept or a Shade and then realize we have made fools of ourselves? Do we dream? Can we recall our last dreams? Are these questions going to help us when the crisis comes? What do you make of the Adepts’ refusal to join us? Why won’t they go away? Can we be more troubled than we are? Are these teeth in our heads real? Is our peduncle, the stalk-like bundle of nerve fibers connecting various parts of our brain, in proper working order? That paltry surrogate for that which we’ve never understood, the self, what does it have to do with the crisis? Could thirteen geniuses solve the crisis? Is the crisis due to the fact that even though we’re dead we can’t find our dead mother? Will crawling into a lean- to help? Has someone already anticipated us? Are all the lean-tos occupied? When was the last time we looked into a mirror? Is the crisis to come or is it already here? Is it to come? Already here?
Members assemble in the Liverpool Soccer Theatre for a meeting of the Church of Constant Crisis. (illustration credits appII.1)
At which point the crowd begins to sway, to murmur, then flail madly about, as the preacher shifts from the interrogative mode to the more fragmented incoherence of the second part of the service, which is called “Going On After It’s Over”:
Going on. Not going on. This no light, this pall. Despair. Stupidity. That’s good. The tongue is an envelope and when sealed there’s no end to this. Begin again against the wall. Come into my arms. We can’t kid them for long. Little headless figures in the swarm of the eye. The bending of a thumbnail. Remember that. Kneecaps as big as balloons. A blood clot dangling from the nose. Instant eradication. Toss the matches in the pool, sink our toes into the flames. Hold it. Now see here how our endocranial trousers respond to the new wet. Well. Very well. What takes away the shadow? Sinking, floating; floating, sinking. A chiasmus! Language i
nto the vat. Scrabbling in the dust. The dust-coated tongues. One thing and then the next thing. What else! We can’t go on a trip dressed like this. Is this the place? This is the only place. The place for what? Everyone is welcome. Pick up your trousers. Stand at attention. Tiny holes in the air. Good. Go on. Don’t go on. Right in the middle. The whole sinister saga. The backdrops. Nothing else. Summoning a last. A last flutter. A last last. Very good. Too bad about the weather. Don’t say a word. Nailed frowns! Maledictions. Fastigium! That’s it. Flail, flail. You can’t bleed. All for the best. Yes yes. Always. It’ll never stop. The white of the eyes to bursting …
And now the congregation is wailing so loudly they drown out the preacher, who leaps into the chaos at his feet and is swept along with the crowd back into the street, where for some time they continue their wailing and flailing about.
This service seems to provide its members only a brief relief from anxiety, for a few hours later they reassemble to await another.
APPENDIX III
TWO
THEORETICAL
CONCERNS
In each edition of The Little Book I like to include a few tidbits for the more ambitious reader. Here are two essays you may find challenging.
No writer has sufficiently explained the first phenomenon discussed here,1 but it is one that will provoke a delight you may have missed in your sublunary life. The following is excerpted from L. J. Osberg’s 1899 The Race (which appeared in the Appendix to the IIth edition of The Little Book):
THE BEMUSED TORTOISE, THE BEWILDERED HARE
First, a basic description of one of Zeno’s paradoxes, more or less in Zeno’s words, may be in order:
If there is space, it will be in something; for all that is is in something, and to be in something is to be in space. This goes on ad infinitum, therefore there is no space.