Wilson, Robert Anton & Shea, Robert - The Illuminatus! Trilogy.pdf

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Illuminatus! Trilogy
The Illuminatus! Trilogy
The Eye In The Pyramid
Book One: Verwirrung
The First Trip, or Kether
The Second Trip, or Chokmah
The Third Trip, or Binah
Book Two: Zweitracht
The Fourth Trip, or Chessed
The Fifth Trip, or Geburah
The Golden Apple
Book Three: Unordnung
The Sixth Trip, or Tipareth
The Seventh Trip, or Netzach
Book Four: Beamtenherrschaft
The Eighth Trip, or Hod
Leviathan
Book Four: Beamtenherrschaft Continued
The Ninth Trip, or Yesod
Book Five: Grummet
The Tenth Trip, or Malkuth
The Appendices
Appendix Aleph: George Washington's Hemp Crop
Appendix Beth: The Illuminati Cyphers, Codes, and Calendars
Appendix Gimmel: The Illuminati Theory of History
Appendix Daleth: Hassan i Sabbah and Alamount Black
Appendix Tzaddi: 23 Skidoo
Appendix Vau: Flaxscrip and Hempscrip
Appendix Zain: Property and Priviledge
Appendix Cheth: Hagbard's Abdication
Appendix Lamed: The Tactics of Magick
Appendix Yod: Operation Mindfuck
Appendix Kaph: The Rosy Double-Cross
Appendix Teth: Hagbard's Booklet
Appendix Mem: Certain Questions That May Still Trouble Some
Appendix Nun: Additional Information About Some of the Characters
BOOK ONE: VERWIRRUNG
The history of the world is the history of the warfare between secret societies.
-Ishmael Reed, Mumbo-Jumbo
THE FIRST TRIP, OR KETHER
From Dealey Plaza To Watergate ...
The Purple Sage opened his mouth and moved his tongue and so spake to them and he said:
The Earth quakes and the Heavens rattle; the beasts of nature flock together and the nations of men flock
apart; volcanoes usher up heat while elsewhere water becomes ice and melts; and then on other days it
just rains. Indeed do many things come to pass.
-Lord Omar Khayaam Ravenhurst, K.S.C., "The Book of Predications." The Honest Book of Truth
It was the year when they finally immanentized the Eschaton. On April 1, the world's great powers came closer to nuclear
war than ever before, all because of an obscure island named Fernando Poo. By the time international affairs returned to
their normal cold-war level, some wits were calling it the most tasteless April Fool's joke in history. I happen to know all
the details about what happened, but I have no idea how to recount them in a manner that will make sense to most readers.
For instance, I am not even sure who' I am, and my embarrassment on that matter makes me wonder if you will believe
anything I reveal. Worse yet, I am at the moment very conscious of a squirrel-in Central Park, just off Sixty-eighth Street,
in New York City-that is leaping from one tree to another, and I think that happens on the night of April 23 (or is it the
morning of April 24?), but fitting the squirrel together with Fernando Poo is, for the present, beyond my powers. I beg
your tolerance. There is nothing I can do to make things any easier for any of us, and you will have to accept being
addressed by a disembodied voice just as I accept the compulsion to speak out even though I am painfully aware that I am
talking to an invisible, perhaps nonexistent, audience. Wise men have regarded the earth as a tragedy, a farce, even an
illusionist's trick; but all, if they are truly wise and not merely intellectual rapists, recognize that it is certainly some kind
of stage in which we all play roles, most of us being very poorly coached and totally unrehearsed before the curtain rises.
Is it too much if I ask, tentatively, that we agree to look upon it as a circus, a touring carnival wandering about the sun for
a record season of four billion years and producing new monsters and miracles, hoaxes and bloody mishaps, wonders and
blunders, but never quite entertaining the customers well enough to prevent them from leaving, one by one, and returning
to their homes for a long and bored winter's sleep under the dust? Then, say, for a while at least, that I have found an
identity as ringmaster; but that crown sits uneasily on my head (if I have a head) and I must warn you that the troupe is
small for a universe this size and many of us have to double or triple our stints, so you can expect me back in many other
guises. Indeed do many things come to pass.
For instance, right now, I am not at all whimsical or humorous. I am angry. I am in Nairobi, Kenya, and my name is, if
you will pardon me, Nkrumah Fubar. My skin is black (does that disturb you? it doesn't me), and I am, like most of you,
midway between tribalism and technology; to be more blunt, as a Kikuyu shaman moderately adjusted to city life, I still
believe in witchcraft-I haven't, yet, the folly to deny the evidence of my own senses. It is April 3 and Fernando Poo has
ruined my sleep for several nights running, so I hope you will forgive me when I admit that my business at the moment is
far from edifying and is nothing less than constructing dolls of the rulers of America, Russia, and China. You guessed it: I
am going to stick pins in their heads every day for a month; if they won't let me sleep, I won't let them sleep. That is
Justice, in a sense.
In fact, the President of the United States had several severe migraines during the following weeks; but the atheistic rulers
of Moscow and Peking were less susceptible to magic. They never reported a twinge. But, wait, here is another performer
in our circus, and one of the most intelligent and decent in the lot-his name is unpronounceable, but you can call him
Howard and he happens to have been born a dolphin. He's swimming through the ruins of Atlantis and it's April 10
already-time is moving; I'm not sure what Howard sees but it bothers him, and he decides to tell Hagbard Celine all about
it. Not that I know, at this point, who Hagbard Celine is. Never mind; watch the waves roll and be glad there isn't much
pollution out here yet. Look at the way the golden sun lights each wave with a glint that, curiously, sparkles into a silver
sheen; and watch, watch the waves as they roll, so that it is easy to cross five hours of time in one second and find
ourselves amid trees and earth, with even a few falling leaves for a touch of poetry before the horror. Where are we? Five
hours away, I told you-five hours due west, to be precise, so at the same instant that Howard turns a somersault in
Atlantis, Sasparilla Godzilla, a tourist from Simcoe, Ontario (she had the misfortune to be born a human being) turns a
neat nosedive right here and lands unconscious on the ground. This is the outdoor extension of the Museum of
Anthropology in Chapultepec Park, Mexico, D.F., and the other tourists are rather upset about the poor lady's collapse.
She later said it was the heat. Much less sophisticated in important matters than Nkrumah Fubar, she didn't care to tell
anybody, or even to remind herself, what had really knocked her over. Back in Simcoe, the folks always said Harry
Godzilla got a sensible woman when he married Sasparilla, and it is sensible in Canada (or the United States) to hide
certain truths. No, at this point I had better not call them truths. Let it stand that she either saw, or imagined she saw, a
certain sinister kind of tight grin, or grimace, cross the face of the gigantic statue of Tlaloc, the rain god. Nobody from
Simcoe had ever seen anything like that before; indeed do many things come to pass.
And, if you think the poor lady was an unusual case, you should examine the records of psychiatrists, both institutional
and private, for the rest of the month. Reports of unusual anxieties and religious manias among schizophrenics in mental
hospitals skyrocketed; and ordinary men and women walked in off the street to complain about eyes watching them,
hooded beings passing through locked rooms, crowned figures giving unintelligible commands, voices that claimed to be
God or the Devil, a real witch's brew for sure. But the sane verdict was to attribute all this to the aftermath of the
Fernando Poo tragedy.
The phone rang at 2:30 A.M. the morning of April 24. Numbly, dumbly, mopingly, gropingly, out of the dark, I find and
identify a body, a self, a task. "Goodman," I say into the receiver, propped up on one arm, still coming a long way back.
"Bombing and homicide," he electrically eunuchoid voice in the transmitter tells me. I sleep naked (sorry about that), and
I'm putting on my drawers and trousers as I copy the address. East Sixty-eighth Street, near the Council on Foreign
Relations. "Moving," I say, hanging up.
"What? Is?" Rebecca mumbles from the bed. She's naked, too, and that recalls very pleasant memories of a few hours
earlier. I suppose some of you will be shocked when I tell you I'm past sixty and she's only twenty-five. It doesn't make it
any better that we're married, I know.
This isn't a bad body, for its age, and seeing Rebecca, most of the sheets thrown aside, reminds me just how good it is. In
fact, at this point I don't even remember having been the ringmaster, or what echo I retain is confused with sleep and
dream. I kiss her neck, unselfconsciously, for she is my wife and I am her husband, and even if I am an inspector on the
Homicide Squad-Homicide North, to be exact-any notions about being a stranger in this body have vanished with my
dreams into air. Into thin air.
"What?" Rebecca repeats, still more asleep than awake.
"Damned fool radicals again," I say, pulling on my shirt, knowing any answer is as good as another in her half-conscious
state.
"Um," she says, satisfied, and turns over into deep sleep again.
I washed my face somewhat, tired old man watching me from the mirror, and ran a brush through my hair. Just time
enough to think that retirement was only a few years away and to remember a certain hypodermic needle and a day in the
Catskills with my first wife, Sandra, back when they at least had clean air up there . . . socks, shoes, tie, fedora . . . and
you never stop mourning, as much as I loved Rebecca I never stopped mourning Sandra. Bombing and homicide. What a
meshuganah world. Do you remember when you could at least drive in New York at three in the morning without traffic
jams? Those days were gone; the trucks that were banned in the daytime were all making their deliveries now. Everybody
was supposed to pretend the pollution went away before dawn. Papa used to say, "Saul, Saul, they did it to the Indians and
now they're doing it to themselves. Goyische narrs." He left Russia to escape the pogrom of 1905, but I guess he saw a lot
before he got out. He seemed like a cynical old man to me then, and I seem like a cynical old man to others now. Is there
any pattern or sense in any of it?
The scene of the blast was one of those old office buildings with Gothic-and-gingerbread styling all over the lobby floor.
In the dim light of the hour, it reminded me of the shadowy atmosphere of Charlie Chan in the Wax Museum. And a smell
hit my nostrils as soon as I walked in.
A patrolman lounging inside the door snapped to attention when he recognized me. "Took out the seventeenth floor and
part of the eighteenth," he said. "Also a pet shop here on the ground level. Some freak of dynamics. Nothing else is
damaged down here, but every fish tank went. That's the smell."

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