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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?

Sex and Ethics in Spanish Cinema

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?

The way they keep their secrets, by the saints, I'm sure even the FBI couldn't find out. Mallison — or had he said Joseph Mallison? A strange book he claimed to be writing about Dillinger's teeth and the bloody atheistic Freemasons. There was more to this than met the eye, obviously. Miskatonic University, in Arkham, Massachusetts, is not a well-known campus by any means, and the few scholarly visitors who come there are an odd lot, drawn usually by the strange collection of occult books given to the Miskatonic Library by the late Dr.

Henry Armitage. Miss Doris Horus, the librarian, had never seen quite such a strange visitor though, as this Professor J. Mallison who claimed to come from Dayton, Ohio, but spoke with an unmistakable New York accent. Considering his fur-tiveness, she found it no surprise that he spent the whole day June 26, pouring over the rare copy of Dr. John Dee's translation of the Necronomicon of Abdul Alhazred. Doris didn't like the Necronomicon, although she considered herself an emancipated and free- thinking young woman.

There was something sinister, or to be downright honest about it, perverted about that book and not in a nice, exciting way, but in a sick and frightening way. All those strange illustrations, always with five-sided borders just like the Pentagon in Washington, but with those people inside doing all those freaky sex acts with those other creatures who weren't people at all. It was frankly Doris's opinion that old Abdul Alhazred had been smoking some pretty bad grass when he dreamed up those things.

Or maybe it was something stronger than grass: she remembered one sentence from the text: "Onlie those who have eaten a certain alkaloid herb, whose name it were wise not to disclose to the unilluminated, maye in the fleshe see a Shoggothe. She was glad when J. Mallison- finally left and she could return the Necronomicon to its position on the closed shelves.

She remembered the brief biography of crazy old Abdul Alhazred that Dr. Armitage had written and also given to the library: "Spent seven years in the desert and claimed to have visited Irem, the city forbidden in the Koran, which Alhazred asserted was of pre-human origin.

Who was around to build cities before there were people? Those Shoggothes? And that insidious line: "According to contemporary historians, Alhazred's death was both tragic and bizarre, since it was asserted that he was eaten alive by an invisible monster in the middle of the market-place. Armitage had been such a nice old man, Doris remembered, even if his talk about cabalistic numbers and Masonic symbols was a little peculiar at times; why would he collect such icky books by creepy people? On the other hand, they didn't know either about certain legitimate business expenses which he had not cared to claim, including more than.

He was holding an amulet in his hand. It means that opposites are equal. You'd have to be a Chinaman to think otherwise. Saul ignored the comment. It's from Greek mythology. There was a banquet on Olympus, and Eris wasn't invited, because she was the Goddess of Discord and always made trouble. So, to get even, she made more trouble: she created a beautiful golden apple and wrote on it Kallisti.

That means 'for the prettiest one' in Greek. It's what the K stands for, obviously. Then she rolled it into the banquet hall, and, naturally, all the goddesses there immediately claimed it, each one saying that she was 'the prettiest one. He chose Aphrodite, and as a reward she gave him an opportunity to kidnap Helen, which led to the Trojan War.

Or where he's disappeared to? I just wish I. The next memo, however, stopped them cold:. The chart hangs at the top of the page, the rest of which is empty space— as if the editors originally intended to publish an article explaining it, but decided or were persuaded to suppress all but the diagram itself. But he sounded uncertain. The Elders of Zion section is just a parody of Nazi ideology.

If there really was a Jewish conspiracy to run the world, my rabbi would have let me in on it by now. I contribute enough to the schule. Adam Weishaupt is supposed to have originated the Bavarian Illuminati after studying Sabbah, according to the third memo, so this part. That ties in with Weishaupt's growing hemp and Washington's having a big hemp crop at Mount Vernon. Look at how the whole design revolves around the pentagon.

Everything else sort of grows out of it". You think the Defense Department is the international hub of the Illuminati conspiracy? The Indian Agent at the Menominee Reservation in Wisconsin knows this: from the time Billie Freschette returned there until her death in , she received mysterious monthly checks from Switzerland. He thinks he knows the explanation; despite all stories to the contrary, Billie did help to betray Dillinger and this is the payoff.

He is convinced of this. He is also quite wrong. Now, is this an accident? Let me quote you Lenin's own words Banana-Nose Maldonado evidently had his own brand of sentimentality or superstition, and in he ordered his son, a priest, to say one hundred masses for the salvation of the Dutchman's soul.

Even years afterward, he would defend the Dutchman in conversation: "He was OK, Dutch was, if you didn't cross him. If you did, forget it; you were finished. He was almost a Siciliano about that. Otherwise, he was a good businessman, and the first one with a real CPA mind in the whole. If he hadn't gotten that crazy-head idea about gunning down Tom Dewey, he'd still be a big man. I told him myself. The boys won't take the risk; Lucky and the Butcher want to cowboy you right now.

He dies' A.

Table of contents

You know what he said? He said: 'You tell Al that Dillinger was a lone wolf. I have my own pack. I'll light another candle for him at church Sunday. Rebecca Goodman closes her book wearily and stares into space, thinking about Babylon. Her eyes focus suddenly on the statue Saul had bought her for her last birthday: the mermaid of Copenhagen.

How many Danes, she wonders, know that this is one form of representation of the Babylonian sex goddess Ishtar? In Central Park, Perri the squirrel is beginning to hunt for the day's food. A French poodle, held on a leash by a mink-coated lady, barks at him, and he runs three times around a tree. George Dorn looks at the face of a corpse: it is his own face. She said later she would never teach sex in school again. He is thinking, whimsically, that hardly anybody realizes that the shape of the room. Above, beyond Joe Malik's window, Saul Goodman gave up on the line of thought which had led him to surmise that the Illuminati were a front for the International Psychoanalytical Society, conspiring to drive everyone paranoid, and turned back to the desk and the memos.

Barney Muldoon came in from the bedroom, carrying a strange amulet, and asked, "What do you make of this? They sat alone at a table pulled off to the corner; the Friendly Stranger was the same as ever, except that a new group, the American Medical Association consisting, naturally, of four kids from Germany , had replaced H. Lovecraft in the. Nobody knew that the AMA was going to become the world's most popular rock group within a year, but Simon already thought they were superheavy.

Padre Pederastia was, as on the night Simon met Miss Mao, very serious and hardly camping at all. A chao is a single unit of chaos, they figure. Do I have to remind you of that? Yes, we have an alliance, as long as it profits both parties. John— Mr. Sullivan himself authorized this. Later on, quite often, the leader, a most fetching scoundrel and madman named Celine, sometimes tells them it really stands for Little Deluded Dupes.

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That's the pans asinorum, or an early pans asinorum, in Celine's System. He judges them by how they react to that. Well, almost all. They don't invoke You-Know-Who under any circumstances. They rely on Discordia They're part of the Erisian Liberation Front, then? He wondered how people like the President of the U.

Or did they take enough tranquilizers to produce a similar effect? Celine is on the activist side, like us. Some of his capers make Morituri or God's Lightning look like Trappists by comparison. No, ELF will never get on Mr. Celine's trip. Look at his symbol again. Are you sure he's on our side? The American Medical Association came to some kind of erotic or musical climax and the priest's answer was drowned out. Uncertainty is the name of the game. On the origin of the pyramid-and-eye symbol, test your credulity on the following yarn from Flying Saucers in the Bible by Virginia Brasington Saucerian Books, , page.

None of the designs they created or which were submitted to them, were suitable. Fairly late at night, after working on the project all day, Jefferson walked out into the cool night air of the garden to clear his mind. In a few minutes he rushed back into the room, crying, jubilantly: "I have it! I have it! They were the plans showing the Great Seal as we know it today. Asked how he got the plans, Jefferson told a strange story. A man approached him wearing a black cloak that practically covered him, face and all, and told him that he the stranger knew they were trying to devise a Seal, and that he had a design which was appropriate and meaningful.

After the excitement died down, the three went into the garden to find the stranger, but he was gone. Thus, neither these Founding Fathers, nor anybody else, ever knew who really designed the Great Seal of the United States! I, No. The emblem is a tentative design for the Party's campaign button. One wag suggests that everyone cut out the circle from the back of a dollar bill and send the wholly dollar to Governor Leary so he can wallpaper his office with them.

Then paste the emblem on your front door to signify your membership in the party. Both translations are wrong, of course. But — Tim Leary an Illuminatus? And pasting the Eye on the door — I can't help but think of the Hebrews marking their doorways with the blood of a lamb so that the Angel of Death would pass by their houses. Robison was an English Mason who discovered through personal experience that the French Masonic lodges— such as the Grand Orient— were Illuminati fronts and were the main instigators of the French Revolution, His whole book is very explicit about how Weishaupt worked: every infiltrated Masonic group would have several levels, like an ordinary Masonic lodge, but as candidates advanced through the various degrees they would be told more about the real purposes of the movement.

Those at the bottom simply thought they were Masons; in the middle levels,. Only those at the top knew the secret, which— according to Robison— is this: the Illuminati aims to overthrow all government and religion, setting up an anarcho-communist free-love world, and, because "the end justifies the means" a principle Weishaupt acquired from his Jesuit youth , they didn't care how many people they killed to accomplish that noble purpose.

Robison knows nothing of earlier.

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Illuminati movements, but does say specifically that the Bavarian Illuminati was not destroyed by the government's crackdown in but was, in fact, still active, both in England and France and possibly elsewhere, when he wrote, in On page , he mentions that there are 13 ranks in the Order; this may account for the 13 steps on their. Page 84 gives the code name of Weishaupt, which was Spartacus; his second-in-command, Freiherr Knigge, had the code name Philo page ; this is revealed in papers seized by the Bavarian government in a raid on the home of a lawyer named Zwack, who had the code name Cato.

Babeuf, the French revolutionary,. Robison's conclusion, page , is worth quoting:. Nothing is as dangerous as a mystic Association. The object remaining a secret in the hands of the managers, the rest simply put a ring in their own noses, by which they may be led about at pleasure; and still panting after the secret they are the more pleased the less they see.

At the bottom of the page was a note in pencil, scrawled with a decisive masculine hand. It said: "In the beginning was the Word and it was written by a baboon. The survival of the Bavarian Illuminati throughout the nineteenth century and into the twentieth is the subject of World Revolution by Nesta Webster Constable and Company, London, Webster follows Robison fairly closely on the early days of the movement, up to the French Revolution, but then veers off and says that the Illuminati never intended to create their Utopian anarcho-communist society: that was just another of their masks.

Their real purpose was dictatorship over the world, and so they soon formed a secret alliance with the Prussian government. All subsequent socialist, anarchist, and communist movements are mere decoys, she argues, behind which the German General Staff and the Illuminati are plotting to overthrow other governments, so Germany can conquer them. I see no way of reconciling this with the Birchers"" thesis that the Illuminati has become a front for the Rhodes Scholars to take over the world for English domination.

Obviously— as Robison states— the Illuminati say. As for the links with modern communism, here are some passages from her pages But now that the First Internationale was dead it became necessary for the secret societies to reorganize, and it is at this crisis that we find that "formidable sect" springing to life again—the original llluminati of Weishaupt.

What we do know definitely is that the society was refounded in Dresden in That it was. In London a lodge called by the same name. Was it He says there were two Zoroasters, a true one who taught white "right hand" magic and a false one who taught black "left hand" magic. He goes on:. To the false Zoroaster must be referred the cultus of material fire and that impious doctrine of divine dualism which produced at a later period the monstrous Gnosis of Manes and the false principles of spurious Masonry. The Zoroaster in question was the father of that materialized Magic which led to the massacre of the Magi and brought their true doctrine at first into.

Ever inspired by the spirit of truth, the Church was forced to condemn— under the names of Magic, Manicheanism, Illuminism and Masonry— all that was in kinship, remote or approximate, with the primitive profanation of the mysteries. One signal example is the history of the Knights Templar, which has been misunderstood to this day. Levi does not elucidate that last sentence; it is interesting, however, that Nesta Webster see memo 13 also traced the Illuminati to the Knights Templar, whereas Daraul and most other sources track them Eastward to the Hashishim.

Is all this making me paranoid? I'm beginning to get the impression that the evidence has not only been hidden in obscure books but also made confusing and contradictory to discourage the researcher. Scrawled on the bottom of this memo was a series of jottings in the same masculine hand Malik's, Saul guessed that had jotted the baboon reference on memo The jottings said:. Oh, shit. We'll end up either become mystics or going crazy before this case is over.

If there's any difference. Taro, usually spelled t-a-r-o-t, is the deck of cards Gypsy fortune tellers use— and the word 'Gypsy' means Egyptian. Tora is the Law, in Hebrew. We keep coming back to something that has roots in both Jewish mysticism and Egyptian magic. Last year, my brother— the Jesuit— gave a lecture about how modern ideas are just old heresies from the Middle Ages warmed over. I had to go for politeness' sake.

I remember something else he said about the Templars. They were engaged in what he called 'unnatural sex acts. Do you get the impression that all these groups related to the Illuminati are all male? Maybe the big secret they're hiding so fanatically is that they're all some vast worldwide homosexual plot.

I've heard show-biz people complain about what they call the. How does that sound? Don't you see, Barney? Whatever they're really up to, they keep creating masks so all sorts of scapegoat groups will get the blame for being the 'real' Illuminati. They came here and ate Malik. Just like they ate that guy in Kansas City, except that time they didn't get to finish the job. No animal was reported missing from any of the local zoos. Look at the Late Late Show some tune.

Saul looked up wearily and glanced around the apartment almost as if he were looking for its absent owner. And how far back does it go? In fact, for Joseph Malik the beginning was several years earlier, in a medley of teargas, hymn singing, billy clubs, and obscenity, all of which were provoked by the imminent nomination for President of a man named Hubert Horatio Humphrey.

It began in Lincoln Park on the night of August 25, , while Joe was waiting to be teargassed. He did not know then that anything was beginning; he was only conscious, in an acid, gut-sour way, of what was ending: his own faith in the Democratic party. He was sitting with the Concerned Clergymen under the cross they had erected.

He was thinking, bitterly, that they should have erected a tombstone instead. It should have said: Here lies the New Deal. Here lies the belief that all Evil is on the other side, among the reactionaries and Ku Kluxers. Here lies twenty years of the hopes and dreams and sweat and blood of Joseph Wendall Malik. Here lies American Liberalism, clubbed to death by Chicago's heroic peace officers.

The Concerned Clergymen immediately began singing, "We shall not be moved. Fields voice said quietly. But he sat there, making his own protest against Hubert Horatio Humphrey by placing his body in front of Chicago's police, for reasons Joe could not understand. How, Joe wondered, can a man have courage without faith, without belief? Burroughs believed in nothing, and yet there he sat stubborn as Luther.

Joe had always had faith in something—Roman Catholicism, long ago, then Trotskyism at college, then for nearly two decades mainstream liberalism Arthur Schlesinger, Jr. Lawrence's return to preindustrial pastoralism, and in Hinduism, Buddhism, Judaism, Christianity, Voodoo, astrology magic; but, above all, in the natural goodness of man.

The natural goodness of man. Joe hadn't fully believed in that, since Buchenwald was revealed to the world in , when he was seventeen. They were coming, clubs in hand, spraying the teargas before them. Auschwitz, U. If they had been issued Zyklon B along with the teargas and Mace, they would be using it just as happily. Slowly, the Concerned Clergymen came to their feet, holding dampened handkerchiefs to their faces. Unarmed and helpless, they prepared to hold their ground as long as possible before the inevitable retreat.

A moral victory, Joe thought bitterly: All we ever achieve are moral victories. The immoral brutes win the real victories. And that was the last sentence Joe Malik remembered clearly, for it was gas and clubs and screams and blood from then on. He had no way of guessing, at the time, that hearing that sentence was the most important thing that happened to him in Lincoln Park.

Harry Coin curls his long body into a knot of tension, resting on his elbows and sighting the Remington rifle carefully, as the motorcade passes the Book Depository and heads toward his perch on the triple underpass. If he carried this off right, they promised him more jobs; it would be the end of petty crime for him, the beginning of big-time money. In a way he was sorry: Kennedy seemed like a nice enough young fellow—Harry would like to make it with both him and that hot-looking wife of his at the same tune— but money talks and sentiment is only for fools.

He released the bolt action, ignoring the sudden barking of a dog, and took aim— just as the three shots resounded from the grassy knoll. Great God Almighty, how the fuck many of us are there here? It was almost a year after being clubbed—June 22, —that Joe returned to Chicago, to witness another rigged convention, to suffer further disillusionment, to meet Simon once more and to hear the mysterious phrase "All hail Discordia" again.

The convention this time was the last ever held by the Students for a Democratic Society, and from the first hour after it opened, Joe realized that the Progressive Labor faction had stacked all the cards in advance. It was the Democratic party all over again— and it would have been equally bloody if. Lacking that factor, the smoldering violence remained purely verbal, but when it was all over another part of Joe Malik was dead and his faith in the natural goodness of man was eroded still further.

And so he found himself, aimlessly searching for something that was not totally corrupt, attending the Anarchist Caucus at the old Wobbly Hall on North Halsted Street. Chicago's Hay-market riot in , Sacco and Vanzetti in Massachusetts, and the Wobbly's own poet-laureate, Joe Hill— had been executed for murders which they apparently hadn't really committed. Beyond that, anarchists wanted to abolish government— a proposition so evidently absurd that Joe had never bothered to read any of their theoretical or polemical works.

Now, however, eating the maggoty meat of his growing disillusionment with every conventional approach to politics, he began to listen to the Wobblies and other anarchists with acute curiosity. After all, the words of his favorite fictional hero, "When you have eliminated all other possibilities, whatever remains, however improbable, must be true. The anarchists, Joe found, were not going to quit SDS—"We'll stay in and do some righteous ass- kicking," one of them said, to the applause and cheers of the others.

Beyond that, however, they seemed to be in a welter of ideological disagreement. Gradually, he began to identify the conflicting positions expressed: the individualist-anarchists, who sounded like right-wing Republicans except that they wanted to get rid of all functions of government ; the anarcho-syndicalists and Wobblies, who sounded like Marxists except that they wanted to get rid of all functions of government ; the anarcho-pacifists, who sounded like Gandhi and Martin Luther King except that they wanted to get rid of all functions of government ; and a group who were dubbed, rather affectionately, "the Crazies"—whose position was utterly unintelligible.

Simon was among the Crazies. In a speech that Joe followed only with difficulty, Simon declared that "cultural revolution" was more important than political revolution; that Bugs Bunny should be adopted as the symbol of anarchists everywhere; that Hoffman's discovery of LSD in was a manifestation of direct intervention by God in human affairs; that the nomination of the boar hog Pigasus for President of the United States by the Yippies had been the most "transcendentally lucid" political act of the.

He also urged deep study of the tarot, "to fight the real enemy with their own weapons," whatever that meant. He was launching into a peroration about the mystic significance of the number 23— pointing out that 2 plus 3 equals 5, the pentad within which the Devil can be invoked "as for example in a pentacle or at the Pentagon building in Washington," while 2 divided by 3 equals 0. Kennedy and Lee Harvey Oswald, November 22 and 24, also had a conspicuous 23 absent in between them— when he finally was shouted down, the conversation returned to a more mundane level.

Half in whimsy and half in despair, Joe decided to perform one of his chronic acts of faith and convince himself, at least for a while, that there was some kind of meaning in Simon's ramblings. His equally chronic skepticism, he knew, would soon enough reassert itself. All the great anarchists died on the 23rd day of some month or other—Sacco and Vanzetti on August 23, Bonnie Parker and Clyde Barrow on May 23, Dutch on October 23—and Vince Coll was 23 years old when he was shot on 23rd Street—and even though John Dillinger died on the 22nd of July, if you look it up, like I did, in Toland's book, The Dillinger Days, you'll find he couldn't get away from the 23 Principle, because.

There was more of it, much more, and Joe patiently listened to all of it, determined to continue his experiment in applied schizophrenia at least for this one evening. They retired to a nearby restaurant, the Seminary, on Fullerton Street, and Simon rambled on, over beers, proceeding to the mystic significance of the letter W—23rd in the alphabet— and its presence in the words "woman" and "womb" as well as in the shape of the feminine breasts and spread-eagle legs of the copulating female. He even found some mystic meaning in the W in Washington, but was strangely evasive about explicating this.

Anarchism remains tied to politics, and remains a form of death like all other politics, until it breaks free from the defined 'reality' of capitalist society and creates its own reality. A pig for President. Acid in the water supply. Fucking in the streets. Making the totally impossible. Reality is thermoplastic, not thermosetting, you know: I mean you can. The hex hoax— original sin, logical positivism, those restriction and constriction myths— all that's based on a thermosetting reality.

Christ, man, there are limits, of course— nobody is nutty enough to deny that—but the limits are nowhere near as rigid as we've been taught to believe. It's much closer to the truth to say there are no practical limits at all and reality is whatever people decide to make it. But we've been on one restriction kick after another for. This isn't shit; I've got a degree in mathematics, man. The land belongs to the landlords, right now, because of magic. People worship the deeds in the government offices, and they won't dare move onto a square of ground if one of the deeds says somebody else owns it.

It's a head-trip, a kind of magic, and you need the opposite magic to lift the curse. You need shock elements to break up and disorganize the chains of command in the brain, the 'mind-forg'd manacles' that Blake wrote about. That's the unpredictable elements, dads: the erratic, the erotic, the Eristic. Tim Leary said it: 'People have to go out of their minds before they can. If you don't want to call it magic, call it counter- conditioning, but the principle is the same. Breaking up the trip society laid on us and starting our own trip. Bringing back old realities that are supposed to be dead.

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Creating new realities. Astrology, demons, lifting poetry off of the written page into the acts of your daily life. Surrealism, dig? Antonin Artaud and Andre Breton put it in a nutshell in the First Surrealist Manifesto: 'total transformation of mind, and all that resembles it. We gotta get into witchcraft ourselves to undo the hex they've cast on everybody's mind. All hail Discordia! Do you read me? When they finally parted, and Joe headed back for his hotel, the spell ended. I've been listening to a spaced-out acid-head all night, Joe thought in his cab headed south toward the Loop, and almost managing to believe him.

See a Problem?

If I keep on with this little experiment, I will believe him. And that's how insanity always begins: you find reality unbearable and start manufacturing a fantasy alternative. With an effort of will, he forced himself back into his usual framework; no matter how cruel reality was, Joe Malik would face it and would not follow the Yippies and Crazies in the joy ride to Cloud Cuckoo Land.

But when he arrived at his hotel door, and noticed for the first time that he had Room 23, he had to fight the impulse to call Simon on the phone and tell him about the latest invasion of surrealism into. And he lay awake in his bed for hours remembering 23s that had occurred in his own life.

After being lost for an hour in Hitler's old neighborhood, Clark Kent and His Supermen finally found Ludwigstrasse and got out of Munich. Just then a tiny Volkswagen inched past their VW bus, like an infant running ahead of its mother, and Kent looked bemused. I saw him once before, and never forgot it because he was acting so weird. It was in Mexico City. Funny seeing him again, halfway around the world and umpteen years later.

Let's make sure that at least he knows we were in Ingolstadt for this gig. Can you possibly stay over a night? I've got something I'd like you to see. It's time we started reaching people in your generation and really showing you instead of just telling you. Are you game? And Joe Malik—ex-Trotskyist, ex-engineering student, ex-liberal, ex-Catholic—heard himself saying, "Yes. He was game— for astrology, for I Ching, for LSD, for demons, for whatever Simon had to offer as an alternative to the world of sane and rational men who were sanely and rationally plotting their course toward what could only be the annihilation of the planet.

Joe shifted nervously in his chair. The blasphemy was exhilarating, but also strangely disturbing. He wondered how much fear of Hell still lingered in the back corridors of his skull, left over from his Catholic boyhood. They were in an elegant apartment, high above Lake Shore Drive—"We always meet here," Simon had explained, "because of the acrostic significance of the street name"—and the sounds of the automobile traffic far below mingled strangely with the preparations for what Joe already guessed was a black Mass. The priest— who was the only one who had not removed his clothes before the beginning of the.

The congregation divided, in Joe's mind, into two easily distinguishable groups: poor full-time hippies, from the Old Town area, and rich part-time hippies, from Lake Shore Drive itself and, no doubt, also from the local advertising agencies on Michigan Avenue. There were only eleven of them, however, including Joe, and Padre Pederastia made twelve— where was the traditional thirteenth? Simon and a rather good-looking young female, both quite unselfconscious in their nakedness, arose and left the group, walking toward the door which Joe had assumed led to the bedroom area.

They stopped to take some chalk from a table on which hashish and sandal-wood incense were burning in a goats-head taper, then squatted to draw a large pentagon on the blood-red rug. A triangle was then added to each side of the pentagon, forming a star— the special kind of star, Joe knew, which was. He found himself remembering the corny old poem from the Lon Chancy, Jr.

Joe felt a strange, ashy, acrid taste gathering in his mouth, and a coldness creeping into his toes and fingers. The air, too, seemed suddenly greasy and unpleasantly, mucidly moist. Was it imagination, or were all their voices subtly changing, in a bestial and pongoid fashion? The congregation arose and moved toward the door. Each person, Joe noticed, was careful to step into the pentagram and pause there a moment gathering strength before actually approaching the door. When it was his turn, he discovered why.

The carving on the door, which had seemed merely obscene and ghoulish from across the room, was more disturbing when you were closer to it. It was not easy— to convince yourself that those eyes were just a trick of trompe I'oeil. The mind insisted on feeling that they very definitely looked at you, not affectionately, as you passed. Joe's fingers and toes were definitely freezing, and auto-suggestion didn't seem a very plausible explanation. He seriously wondered about the possibility of frostbite. But then he stepped into the pentagram and the cold suddenly decreased, the eyes of the Guardian were less menacing, and a feeling of renewed energy flowed through his body, such as he had experienced in a sensitivity- training session after he had been cajoled by the leader into unleashing a great deal of pent-up anxiety and rage by kicking, screaming, weeping, and cursing.

It was as if he had left the twentieth century. The furnishings and the very architecture were Hebraic, Arabic, and medieval European, all mixed together in a most disorienting way, and entirely unrelieved by any trace of the modern or functional. A black-draped altar stood in the center, and upon it lay the thirteenth member of the coven. She was a woman with red hair and green eyes— the traits which Satan supposedly relished most in mortal females. There had been a time, Joe remembered, when any woman having those features was automatically suspected of witchcraft.

She was, of course, naked, and her body would be the medium through which this strange sacrament would be attempted. What am I doing here? Joe thought frantically. Why don't 1 leave these lunatics and get back to the world I know, the world where all the horrors are, after all, merely human?

He could not— literally could not —attempt to pass the Guardian until all those present gave their consent. Padre Pederastia was speaking. If only Our Father Below would allow us to substitute a boy on the altar when I'm officiating —but, alas, He is, as we all know, very rigid about such things. As usual, therefore, I will ask the newest member to take my place for this rite.

Joe knew, from the Malleus malificarum and other grimoires, what the rite was, and he was both excited and frightened.

Finalists May 26-27, 2018

He approached the altar nervously, noting the others forming a pentagon around the nude woman and himself. She had a lovely body with large breasts and fine nipples, but he was still too nervous to become aroused physically. Padre Pederastia handed him the Host. You know what to do? Joe nodded, unable to meet the priest's lascivious eyes. He took the Host and spat upon it quickly. The greasiness and electrically charged quality of the air seemed to increase sharply. The light seemed harsher, like the glint of a sword, just as schizophrenics often described light as a hostile or destructive force.

Immediately, she moaned softly, as if the simple touch were more erotic than one momentary contact could possibly be. Rating details. More filters. Sort order. Rodrigo Espino rated it really liked it Aug 30, Armando Bravo salcido rated it it was amazing Jun 25, Esteban rated it really liked it Oct 03, Ante la tragedia que se le presenta a Arjuna, guerrero e hijo del rey ciego Shritarashtra, la de verse en el campo de batalla obligado luchar contra sus hermanos, amigos, maestros y familiares Arjuna renuncia a combatir prefiriendo la desgracia a matar a seres tan queridos.

El sabio Krishna intenta convencer a Arjuna de que cumpla con su deber y presente batalla. En cumplir con su deber de nacimiento sin buscar el fruto de las acciones. Aprende Arjuna sobre su atman, sobre la propia naturaleza y tiene experiencia de Dios. Y aprende que hay conocimientos superiores a otros en el camino hacia la morada eterna. Leyendo muy puntualmente sus comentarios cuando el propio texto me generara dudas. Martin Incarbone added it Dec 10, Cristina Salgado marked it as to-read Nov 26, Benito is currently reading it Mar 15, Pablo Oliva is currently reading it Aug 31, Luna de Cintra marked it as to-read Apr 17, Luis added it Sep 22, There are no discussion topics on this book yet.

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