mine. If I could not avert these catastrophes, I could at least have prepared for them.’
‘You have an encyclopedic mind, General.’
‘It isn’t enough to be encyclopedic.’ He breathed hard from pain. ‘An encyclopedia is a miz-maze – I mean a mish-mash – of loose facts and opinions. A man must order his world completely. That’s what life’s all about.’
Life was a magazine Miss Nylon read, or pretended to read, near the window on rainy days. She was just out of nursing school, and obviously getting over an unhappy affair. Who else could sigh over Life’s pretty pages?
Watching her tight little ass, the General considered offering her what he would call depth therapy. He decided against it for two reasons: (a) it would upset her small, unstable ethical system to board this sinking hulk; she would feel guilty when he was gone. (b) anything that could shorten his pain-shot life by even a second was foolish now, with the end of his work in sight.
He contented himself with the kind of Hollywood-battle-wound-ward flirtation he knew Miss N. could accommodate:
HE: (pinches her buttock)
SHE: (slaps his hand) You old goat, you!
HE: (touches her leg at hemline)
SHE: (slaps his hand) Naughty little boy!
HE: But you’re so sexy!
SHE: And you are just plain oversexed!
HE: If I were thirty years younger, etc. etc.
The pain dreams intruded often now
(His opposite number was General X, a fat Chinese sitting incredibly heavily on his chest. ‘They are showing a chest x-ray of you in the other room,’ he said. From under the tightly closed door to the other room came a sudden gush of dark blood. ‘My eyes!’)))))
and the occasional dullness of his mind was additional pain.)
The two frightened nurses face him, uncertain whether or not to block his path. The boyish intern crouches near them in a fighter’s stance. The figure on the floor is Dr Godden. The instrument in the naked General’s hand is a surgical knife.
‘This is my body,’ he wants to gargle at them. ‘I know none of youbelieves in the body. And how could you, hacking away at it day after bloody day?
‘I say to you, I am your Frankenstein. You put me together in England, and on the surface the parts matched perfectly. But inside there was an ugly twist, an interface of artist’s hand and murderer’s wrist. Do you appreciate that these medical experiments cannot go on any longer? These Jewish women, kashered by the tens of thousands on your hospitassembly lines –
verstehen Sie?
(The headaches and backaches were horribly constant. He became suddenly jaundiced and went on baby foods
(‘Between forty and fifty, she is like Asia: Worn out but exotic. And finally, after fifty, she is like Australia: Everybody knows it’s down there, but nobody gives a damn.’).
Interviewed, the subject demonstrated lack of affect regarding the death of Ruth (‘She got what she wanted, I guess.’ ‘The marriage was a mistake. I’m sorry I made it, as I always am when I figure things out badly.’) Was reticent about father (‘analsadistic, I guess you’d jargon him. I’ll say no more.’) and mother (‘a non-entity. I’m interested in entities.’), and under the strong delusion that a great discovery of some sort was imminent.)
If the following example appears vaguely worded and incomprehensible, it is merely to demonstrate the kind of problem the Master Plan is now learning to deal with. The author of this monograph apologizes, but prefers to skip over less interesting examples and come to grips with an essential one: The nature of The Enemy.
The Enemy is no one; is someone; is everyone. The Enemy is nowhere; somewhere; everywhere. He is without: within. The Enemy is myself.
These comprise a working vocabulary of statements the truth of which can be tested against various hypotheses. One may construct a hypothetical story, such as the following:
‘I, Brig. Gen. Bernard Parks, USAF, know that I have an opposite number in some unspecified
‘You have an encyclopedic mind, General.’
‘It isn’t enough to be encyclopedic.’ He breathed hard from pain. ‘An encyclopedia is a miz-maze – I mean a mish-mash – of loose facts and opinions. A man must order his world completely. That’s what life’s all about.’
Life was a magazine Miss Nylon read, or pretended to read, near the window on rainy days. She was just out of nursing school, and obviously getting over an unhappy affair. Who else could sigh over Life’s pretty pages?
Watching her tight little ass, the General considered offering her what he would call depth therapy. He decided against it for two reasons: (a) it would upset her small, unstable ethical system to board this sinking hulk; she would feel guilty when he was gone. (b) anything that could shorten his pain-shot life by even a second was foolish now, with the end of his work in sight.
He contented himself with the kind of Hollywood-battle-wound-ward flirtation he knew Miss N. could accommodate:
HE: (pinches her buttock)
SHE: (slaps his hand) You old goat, you!
HE: (touches her leg at hemline)
SHE: (slaps his hand) Naughty little boy!
HE: But you’re so sexy!
SHE: And you are just plain oversexed!
HE: If I were thirty years younger, etc. etc.
The pain dreams intruded often now
(His opposite number was General X, a fat Chinese sitting incredibly heavily on his chest. ‘They are showing a chest x-ray of you in the other room,’ he said. From under the tightly closed door to the other room came a sudden gush of dark blood. ‘My eyes!’)))))
and the occasional dullness of his mind was additional pain.)
The two frightened nurses face him, uncertain whether or not to block his path. The boyish intern crouches near them in a fighter’s stance. The figure on the floor is Dr Godden. The instrument in the naked General’s hand is a surgical knife.
‘This is my body,’ he wants to gargle at them. ‘I know none of youbelieves in the body. And how could you, hacking away at it day after bloody day?
‘I say to you, I am your Frankenstein. You put me together in England, and on the surface the parts matched perfectly. But inside there was an ugly twist, an interface of artist’s hand and murderer’s wrist. Do you appreciate that these medical experiments cannot go on any longer? These Jewish women, kashered by the tens of thousands on your hospitassembly lines –
verstehen Sie?
(The headaches and backaches were horribly constant. He became suddenly jaundiced and went on baby foods
(‘Between forty and fifty, she is like Asia: Worn out but exotic. And finally, after fifty, she is like Australia: Everybody knows it’s down there, but nobody gives a damn.’).
Interviewed, the subject demonstrated lack of affect regarding the death of Ruth (‘She got what she wanted, I guess.’ ‘The marriage was a mistake. I’m sorry I made it, as I always am when I figure things out badly.’) Was reticent about father (‘analsadistic, I guess you’d jargon him. I’ll say no more.’) and mother (‘a non-entity. I’m interested in entities.’), and under the strong delusion that a great discovery of some sort was imminent.)
If the following example appears vaguely worded and incomprehensible, it is merely to demonstrate the kind of problem the Master Plan is now learning to deal with. The author of this monograph apologizes, but prefers to skip over less interesting examples and come to grips with an essential one: The nature of The Enemy.
The Enemy is no one; is someone; is everyone. The Enemy is nowhere; somewhere; everywhere. He is without: within. The Enemy is myself.
These comprise a working vocabulary of statements the truth of which can be tested against various hypotheses. One may construct a hypothetical story, such as the following:
‘I, Brig. Gen. Bernard Parks, USAF, know that I have an opposite number in some unspecified
Similar Books
