Quotes
Call me Jonah. My parents did, or nearly did. They called me John. Jonah — John — if I had been a Sam, I would have been a Jonah still — not because I have been unlucky for others, but because somebody or something has compelled me to be certain places at certain times, without fail. Conveyances and motives, both conventional and bizarre, have been provided. And, according to plan, at each appointed second, at each appointed place this Jonah was there.
We Bokononists believe that humanity is organized into teams, teams that do God's Will without ever discovering what they are doing. Such a team is called a karass by Bokonon, and the instrument, the kan-kan, that brought me into my own particular karass was the book I never finished, the book to be called The Day the World Ended.
Nowhere does Bokonon warn against a person's trying to discover the limits of his karass and the nature of the work God Almighty has had it do. Bokonon simply observes that such investigations are bound to be incomplete.
The first sentence in The Books of Bokonon is this: “All of the true things I am about to tell you are shameless lies.” My Bokononist warning is this: Anyone unable to understand how a useful religion can be founded on lies will not understand this book either. So be it.
“Have you ever read the speech he made when he accepted the Nobel Prize? This is the whole speech: ‘Ladies and Gentlemen. I stand before you now because I never stopped dawdling like an eight-year-old on a spring morning on his way to school. Anything can make me stop and look and wonder, and sometimes learn. I am a very happy man. Thank you.’
There are lots of other good anecdotes about the bomb and Father, from other days. For instance, do you know the story about Father on the day they first tested a bomb out at Alamogordo? After the thing went off, after it was a sure thing that America could wipe out a city with just one bomb, a scientist turned to Father and said, ‘Science has now known sin.’ And do you know what Father said? He said, ‘What is Sin?’
Here, and shockingly few other places in this country, men are paid to increase knowledge, to work toward no end but that.” “That’s very generous of General Forge and Foundry Company.” “Nothing generous about it. New knowledge is the most valuable commodity on earth. The more truth we have to work with, the richer we become.” Had I been a Bokononist then, that statement would have made me howl.
But suppose, young man, that one Marine had with him a tiny capsule containing a seed of ice-nine, a new way for the atoms of water to stack and lock, to freeze. If that Marine threw that seed into the nearest puddle...” “The puddle would freeze?” I guessed. “And all the muck around the puddle?” “It would freeze?” “And all the puddles in the frozen muck?” “They would freeze?” “And the pools and the streams in the frozen muck?” “They would freeze?” “You bet they would!” he cried. “And the United States Marines would rise from the swamp and march on!
Anything can be a wampeter: a tree, a rock, an animal, an idea, a book, a melody, the Holy Grail. Whatever it is, the members of its karass revolve about it in the majestic chaos of a spiral nebula. The orbits of the members of a karass about their common wampeter are spiritual orbits, naturally. It is souls and not bodies that revolve.
Dr. Breed keeps telling me the main thing with Dr. Hoenikker was truth.” “You don’t seem to agree.” “I don’t know whether I agree or not. I just have trouble understanding how truth, all by itself, could be enough for a person.” Miss Faust was ripe for Bokononism.
“There was one where he bet I couldn’t tell him anything that was absolutely true. So I said to him, ‘God is love.’ ” “And what did he say?” “He said, ‘What is God? What is love?’ ” “Um.”
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 anyone suggested. As Bokonon says: “Peculiar travel suggestions are dancing lessons from God.
Had I been a Bokononist then, pondering the miraculously intricate chain of events that had brought dynamite money to that particular tombstone company, I might have whispered, “Busy, busy, busy.” Busy, busy, busy, is what we Bokononists whisper whenever we think of how complicated and unpredictable the machinery of life really is. But all I could say as a Christian then was, “Life is sure funny sometimes.” “And sometimes it isn’t,” said Marvin Breed.
But,” he said, “but how the hell innocent is a man who helps make a thing like an atomic bomb? And how can you say a man had a good mind when he couldn’t even bother to do anything when the best-hearted, most beautiful woman in the world, his own wife, was dying for lack of love and understanding...” He shuddered, “Sometimes I wonder if he wasn’t born dead. I never met a man who was less interested in the living. Sometimes I think that’s the trouble with the world: too many people in high places who are stone-cold dead.”
t was in the tombstone salesroom that I had my first vin-dit, a Bokononist word meaning a sudden, very personal shove in the direction of Bokononism, in the direction of believing that God Almighty knew all about me, after all, that God Almighty had some pretty elaborate plans for me.
The room seemed to tip, and its walls and ceiling and floor were transformed momentarily into the mouths of many tunnels — tunnels leading in all directions through time. I had a Bokononist vision of the unity in every second of all time and all wandering mankind, all wandering womankind, all wandering children. “There you’re wrong,” I said, when the vision was gone. “You know some people by that name?” “Yes.” The name was my last name, too.
I have not seen Krebbs since. Nonetheless, I sense that he was my karass. If he was, he served it as a wrang-wrang. A wrang-wrang, according to Bokonon, is a person who steers people away from a line of speculation by reducing that line, with the example of the wrang-wrang’s own life, to an absurdity.
They were lovebirds. They entertained each other endlessly with little gifts: sights worth seeing out the plane window, amusing or instructive bits from things they read, random recollections of times gone by. They were, I think, a flawless example of what Bokonon calls a duprass, which is a karass composed of only two persons.
Hazel’s obsession with Hoosiers around the world was a textbook example of a false karass, of a seeming team that was meaningless in terms of the ways God gets things done, a textbook example of what Bokonon calls a granfalloon. Other examples of granfalloons are the Communist party, the Daughters of the American Revolution, the General Electric Company, the International Order of Odd Fellows — and any nation, anytime, anywhere.
But there was one sentence they kept coming to again and again in the loyalty hearing,” sighed Minton. “ ‘Americans,’ ” he said, quoting his wife’s letter to the Times, “ ‘are forever searching for love in forms it never takes, in places it can never be. It must have something to do with the vanished frontier.’”
The words were a paraphrase of the suggestion by Jesus: “Render therefore unto Caesar the things which are Caesar’s.” Bokonon’s paraphrase was this: “Pay no attention to Caesar. Caesar doesn’t have the slightest idea what’s really going on.”
I was serious and excited about Bokonon’s theory of what he called “Dynamic Tension,” his sense of a priceless equilibrium between good and evil.
It was the belief of Charles Atlas that muscles could be built without bar bells or spring exercisers, could be built by simply pitting one set of muscles against another. It was the belief of Bokonon that good societies could be built only by pitting good against evil, and by keeping the tension between the two high at all times.
“I’m not a drug salesman. I’m a writer.” “What makes you think a writer isn’t a drug salesman?”
What I had seen, of course, was the Bokononist ritual of boko-maru, or the mingling of awarenesses. We Bokononists believe that it is impossible to be sole-to-sole with another person without loving the person, provided the feet of both persons are clean and nicely tended.
“How does he know what’s important? I could carve a better man out of a banana.”
The painting on which Newt had been working was set on an easel next to the aluminum railing. The painting was framed in a misty view of sky, sea, and valley. Newt’s painting was small and black and warty. It consisted of scratches made in a black, gummy impasto. The scratches formed a sort of spider’s web, and I wondered if they might not be the sticky nets of human futility hung up on a moonless night to dry.
Newt remained curled in the chair. He held out his painty hands as though a cat’s cradle were strung between them. “No wonder kids grow up crazy. A cat’s cradle is nothing but a bunch of X’s between somebody’s hands, and little kids look and look and look at all those X’s...” “And?” “No damn cat, and no damn cradle.”
“Well, when it became evident that no governmental or economic reform was going to make the people much less miserable, the religion became the one real instrument of hope. Truth was the enemy of the people, because the truth was so terrible, so Bokonon made it his business to provide the people with better and better lies.”
“But people didn’t have to pay as much attention to the awful truth. As the living legend of the cruel tyrant in the city and the gentle holy man in the jungle grew, so, too, did the happiness of the people grow. They were all employed full time as actors in a play they understood, that any human being anywhere could understand and applaud.” “So life became a work of art,” I marveled. “Yes. There was only one trouble with it.” “Oh?” “The drama was very tough on the souls of the two main actors, McCabe and Bokonon. As young men, they had been pretty much alike, had both been half- angel, half-pirate. “But the drama demanded that the pirate half of Bokonon and the angel half of McCabe wither away. And McCabe and Bokonon paid a terrible price in agony for the happiness of the people — McCabe knowing the agony of the tyrant and Bokonon knowing the agony of the saint. They both became, for all practical purposes, insane.”
From the way she talked,” I said, “I thought it was a very happy marriage.” Little Newt held his hands six inches apart and he spread his fingers. “See the cat? See the cradle?”
When the music was done, I shrieked at Julian Castle, who was transfixed, too, “My God — life! Who can understand even one little minute of it?”
Tiger got to hunt, Bird got to fly; Man got to sit and wonder, “Why, why, why?” Tiger got to sleep, Bird got to land; Man got to tell himself he understand.
Little Newt snorted. “Religion!” “Beg your pardon?” Castle said. “See the cat?” asked Newt. “See the cradle?”
“Ask him,” said Frank. “I’ve got to go now.” He hung up. So I asked Julian Castle what zah-mah-ki-bo meant. “You want a simple answer or a whole answer?” “Let’s start with a simple one.” “Fate — inevitable destiny.”
It is not possible to make a mistake,” she assured me. I did not know that this was a customary greeting given by all Bokononists when meeting a shy person. So, I responded with a feverish discussion of whether it was possible to make a mistake or not.
“Is — is there anyone else in your life?” She was puzzled. “Many,” she said at last. “That you love?” “I love everyone.” “As — as much as me?” “Yes.” She seemed to have no idea that this might bother me.
“A sin-wat!” she cried. “A man who wants all of somebody’s love. That’s very bad.” “In the case of marriage, I think it’s a very good thing. It’s the only thing.”
“What is sacred to Bokononists?” I asked after a while. “Not even God, as near as I can tell.” “Nothing?” “Just one thing.” I made some guesses. “The ocean? The sun?” “Man,” said Frank. “That’s all. Just man.”
I turned to look at the hook again, and that thing of sharp iron communicated to me that I really was going to rule. I would chop down the hook! And I flattered myself that I was going to be a firm, just, and kindly ruler, and that my people would prosper. Fata Morgana. Mirage!
“I agree with one Bokononist idea. I agree that all religions, including Bokononism, are nothing but lies.
“Gott mate mutt,” crooned Dr. von Koenigswald. “Dyot meet mat,” echoed “Papa” Monzano. “God made mud,” was what they’d said, each in his own dialect. I will here abandon the dialects of the litany. “God got lonesome,” said Von Koenigswald. “God got lonesome.” “So God said to some of the mud, ‘Sit up!’ ” “So God said to some of the mud, ‘Sit up!’ ” “ ‘See all I’ve made,’ said God, ‘the hills, the sea, the sky, the stars.’ ” “ ‘See all I’ve made,’ said God, ‘the hills, the sea, the sky, the stars.’ ” “And I was some of the mud that got to sit up and look around.” “And I was some of the mud that got to sit up and look around.” “Lucky me; lucky mud.” “Lucky me, lucky mud.” Tears were streaming down “Papa’s” cheeks. “I, mud, sat up and saw what a nice job God had done.” “I, mud, sat up and saw what a nice job God had done.” “Nice going, God!” “Nice going, God!” “Papa” said it with all his heart. “Nobody but You could have done it, God! I certainly couldn’t have.” “Nobody but You could have done it, God! I certainly couldn’t have.” “I feel very unimportant compared to You.” “I feel very unimportant compared to You.” “The only way I can feel the least bit important is to think of all the mud that didn’t even get to sit up and look around.” “The only way I can feel the least bit important is to think of all the mud that didn’t even get to sit up and look around.” “I got so much, and most mud got so little.” “I got so much, and most mud got so little.” “Deng you vore da on-oh!” cried Von Koenigswald. “Tz-yenk voo vore lo yon-yo!” wheezed “Papa.” What they had said was, “Thank you for the honor!” “Now mud lies down again and goes to sleep.” “Now mud lies down again and goes to sleep.” “What memories for mud to have!” “What memories for mud to have!” “What interesting other kinds of sitting-up mud I met!” “What interesting other kinds of sitting-up mud I met!” “I loved everything I saw!” “I loved everything I saw!” “Good night.” “Good night.” “I will go to heaven now.” “I will go to heaven now.” “I can hardly wait...” “I can hardly wait...” “To find out for certain what my wampeter was...” “To find out for certain what my wampeter was...” “And who was in my karass...” “And who was in my karass...” “And all the good things our karass did for you.” “And all the good things our karass did for you.” “Amen.” “Amen.”
And I found it impossible not to lean on God. I had never needed such support before, and so had never believed that such support was available. Now, I found that I had to believe in it — and I did.
As Bokonon tells us, “It is never a mistake to say goodbye.”
Rigor mortis does not set in in seconds,” he declared. “I turned my back to ‘Papa’ for just a moment. He was raving...” “What about?” I asked. “Pain, ice, Mona — everything. And then ‘Papa’ said, ‘Now I will destroy the whole world.’ ” “What did he mean by that?” “It’s what Bokononists always say when they are about to commit suicide.” Von Koenigswald went to a basin of water, meaning to wash his hands. “When I turned to look at him,” he told me, his hands poised over the water, “he was dead — as hard as a statue, just as you see him. I brushed my fingers over his lips. They looked so peculiar.” He put his hands into the water. “What chemical could possibly...” The question trailed off. Von Koenigswald raised his hands, and the water in the basin came with them. It was no longer water, but a hemisphere of ice-nine. Von Koenigswald touched the tip of his tongue to the blue-white mystery. Frost bloomed on his lips. He froze solid, tottered, and crashed. The blue-white hemisphere shattered. Chunks skittered over the floor. I went to the door and bawled for help. Soldiers and servants came running. I ordered them to bring Frank and Newt and Angela to “Papa’s” room at once. At last I had seen ice-nine!
And I remembered The Fourteenth Book of Bokonon, which I had read in its entirety the night before. The Fourteenth Book is entitled, “What Can a Thoughtful Man Hope for Mankind on Earth, Given the Experience of the Past Million Years?” It doesn’t take long to read The Fourteenth Book. It consists of one word and a period. This is it: “Nothing.”
There was a sound like that of the gentle closing of a portal as big as the sky, the great door of heaven being closed softly. It was a grand AH-WHOOM. I opened my eyes — and all the sea was ice-nine. The moist green earth was a blue-white pearl. The sky darkened. Borasisi, the sun, became a sickly yellow ball, tiny and cruel. The sky was filled with worms. The worms were tornadoes.
In the beginning, God created the earth, and he looked upon it in His cosmic loneliness. And God said, “Let Us make living creatures out of mud, so the mud can see what We have done.” And God created every living creature that now moveth, and one was man. Mud as man alone could speak. God leaned close as mud as man sat up, looked around, and spoke. Man blinked. “What is the purpose of all this?” he asked politely. “Everything must have a purpose?” asked God. “Certainly,” said man. “Then I leave it to you to think of one for all this,” said God. And He went away.
“As the poet said, Mom, ‘Of all the words of mice and men, the saddest are, “It might have been.”’” “That’s so beautiful, and so true.”
I recalled a thing I had read about the aboriginal Tasmanians, habitually naked persons who, when encountered by white men in the seventeenth century, were strangers to agriculture, animal husbandry, architecture of any sort, and possibly even fire. They were so contemptible in the eyes of white men, by reason of their ignorance, that they were hunted for sport by the first settlers, who were convicts from England. And the aborigines found life so unattractive that they gave up reproducing. I suggested to Newt now that it was a similar hopelessness that had unmanned us. Newt made a shrewd observation. “I guess all the excitement in bed had more to do with excitement about keeping the human race going than anybody ever imagined.”
I blurted out my dream of climbing Mount McCabe with some magnificent symbol and planting it there. I took my hands from the wheel for an instant to show him how empty of symbols they were. “But what in hell would the right symbol be, Newt? What in hell would it be?” I grabbed the wheel again. “Here it is, the end of the world; and here I am, almost the very last man; and there it is, the highest mountain in sight. I know now what my karass has been up to, Newt. It’s been working night and day for maybe half a million years to get me up that mountain.” I wagged my head and nearly wept. “But what, for the love of God, is supposed to be in my hands?”
If I were a younger man, I would write a history of human stupidity; and I would climb to the top of Mount McCabe and lie down on my back with my history for a pillow; and I would take from the ground some of the blue-white poison that makes statues of men; and I would make a statue of myself, lying on my back, grinning horribly, and thumbing my nose at You Know Who.