Project Gutenberg's The Book of Gud, by Dan Spain and Harold Hersey This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: The Book of Gud Author: Dan Spain Harold Hersey Release Date: August 22, 2010 [EBook #33501] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BOOK OF GUD *** Produced by Louise Davies, Roger Taft, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net The Book of Gud By Dan Spain and Harold Hersey This etext was produced from Main Street, July 1929. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. CONTENTS Chapter I Chapter II Chapter III Chapter IV Chapter V Chapter VI Chapter VII Chapter VIII Chapter IX Chapter X Chapter XI Chapter XII Chapter XIII Chapter XIV Chapter XV Chapter XVI Chapter XVII Chapter XVIII Chapter XIX Chapter XX Chapter XXI Chapter XXII Chapter XXIII Chapter XXIV DIP INTO THIS NOVEL ANYWHERE.... It deals with a god in whom nobody believed, and of his adventures the day after eternity. For instance, try Chapter XVI. Chapter XXV Chapter XXVI Chapter XXVII Chapter XXVIII Chapter XXIX Chapter XXX Chapter XXXI Chapter XXXII Chapter XXXIII Chapter XXXIV Chapter XXXV Chapter XXXVI Chapter XXXVII Chapter XXXVIII Chapter XXXIX Chapter XL Chapter XLI Chapter XLII Chapter XLIII Chapter XLIV Chapter XLV Chapter XLVI Chapter XLVII Chapter XLVIII Chapter XLIX Chapter L Chapter LI Chapter LII Chapter LIII Chapter LIV Chapter LV Chapter LVI Chapter LVII Chapter LVIII Chapter LIX Chapter LX Chapter LXI Chapter LXII Chapter LXIII Chapter LXIV Chapter LXV Chapter LXVI Chapter LXVII Chapter LXVIII Chapter LXIX Chapter LXX Chapter LXXI Chapter I One Sunday afternoon I was driving through a sparsely settled region on the southwest slope of the Catskills. It was growing late and I was anxious to get back to New York, but I had lost my way. In an attempt to cut across to the Hudson River road I turned up a poorly traveled lane, which, after ten miles of going, petered out into a mere abandoned trail. I kept on this for perhaps three miles further without passing a house, and then came to a low rambling structure half hidden among a grove of ancient overhanging trees. It was near lamp-lighting time and I was puzzled to know whether the place was deserted or not. I turned my car in toward the house, bumped over loose rocks—and my engine died. A man appeared on the porch. He was lanky in build, a little stooped, apparently about forty years of age, and was dressed in a blue flannel shirt and a pair of corduroy trousers. "Can you tell me how far it is to New York?" I asked. "Yes." "How far is it?" "About a hundred miles as the crow flies." "But how far is it by automobile?" "I don't know," replied the man, who seemed to be better posted on crow flights than auto travel. He offered no further remarks, but stood there indifferently eyeing the car. Curbing my annoyance I inquired: "How do I get out to a good automobile road?" "The way you came in." Realizing that I could get no information from this uncivil being, I pushed the starter—not a sound. I got out and cranked the engine—not a kick. I looked into my gas tank—not a drop! "Where is the nearest gas station?" I demanded. "I don't know—I burn kerosene," was the terse reply; and the man turned and entered the house. I tried to recall the last gas station I had passed, and realized it must have been all of fifteen miles behind. It was now growing dark. I climbed into the car to think of a way out of my awkward situation, but all I could think of was that there were sound reasons for abandoned farms. Then I got to wondering who this queer character was and why he was living here. As I had slept but little the night before, I must have dozed off, for the next thing I knew, a voice was saying: "Supper is ready." I got out of the car and followed the man through a dark hall into a large, low room, at one end of which a fire was burning briskly in a huge stone fireplace. In the center of the room was a table where we sat down to a dinner of delicious hot biscuits and a great pot of honey. "These biscuits are fine," I said. "They are." I ate another in silence. "And the honey is exquisite." "It is." "Do you keep bees?" "Yes, millions of them." "Do you keep any other stock?" I asked, thinking a glass of milk would taste fine. "Yes, a blind cat." "Do you find the bees profitable?" "No, I keep them for company." "Why do you live in this lonesome place?" "To avoid automobilists." I ate three more biscuits, drowned in honey, then the silence became unbearable. "Do you do anything else besides keep bees?" "I read." "That is interesting. What do you read?" "Books." "Ah!" I said, "perhaps you write also." "I do." "What do you write?" "Books." We finished the meal in silence, then my host arose and cleared the table. Meanwhile I wandered about the big room and glanced at the titles on the bookshelves. I was amazed at the catholicity of his taste. Side by side, with Godesius was "In His Steps"; leaning against Schopenhauer's "Die Welt Als Wille Und Vorstellung," was a popular novel of the day. Thus made to realize that my host was a person of some caliber, and aspiring to pursue his acquaintance upon an intellectual plane, I stepped forward, as he came through the door, and extended my hand, saying: "My name is Harold Hersey." "What of it?" he said, and turned to adjust a kerosene lamp. Then he came forward and extended his hand. "I will not say I am glad to meet you until I find out that I am." "Your name?" I inquired. "Dan Spain." "That sounds like a nom de plume," I ventured. "It is." Feeling that there was nothing further that I could say, I pulled out my pipe and seated myself before the fire. Dan Spain settled into a chair nearby. "The fact that your name is Harold Hersey means nothing to me," he remarked, "but as I presume that you will spend the night here, I might be able to make it less disagreeable for you if I knew your trade or occupation." I have always been a little sensitive about revealing my profession to strangers, because, unfortunately, some men do not regard it highly; so I replied: "What would you judge me to be from my appearance?" "A cigar salesman." I hastened to controvert him. "Looks are deceiving," I said, "I am a writer." So I read him the following. There was a curious silence afterwards: When the limpid highbrows chatter And their candlelights are low; When their purple souls are bitter From discussing thus and so, And the Lucy Stoners twitter In some frowsy studio; When the fat-legged mantees mutter And you see their eyeballs twitch; When the parlor wobblies hover Around the newly rich, And the men of bread-and-butter Get the "art-for-art's-sake" itch.... Then I don't regret the making Of this idle verse of mine, And my pickling by the Poohbahs In their literary brine, Nor the gesture of a Burdash For not hewing to the line. My humor is the laughter From life's tickled ribs. It's rough, For it's written from the raw Where I like to get my stuff, And it ought to rise in letters: Goodness knows it's light enough. "It is nothing to be ashamed of," said Dan Spain, "I once worked in a slaughter house." "What books have you had published?" I asked after a time. "None." Having had a number of books published myself, I felt that I might be of some service to this hermit scholar who had evidently not adjusted himself to the practical exigencies of the publishing business. "It is just possible," I suggested, "that my experiences and acquaintances might enable me to help you get some of your work in print—that is, if you would care to tell me what you are writing." Dan Spain leaned over and attended the fire. After poking it to his satisfaction, he picked up a live coal and dropped it in the bowl of his pipe. Finally he spoke, and his words were startling enough. "Just at present," he said, "I am writing an autobiography of God." There was a sudden rattle at the shutter. "What was that?" I asked nervously. Dan Spain laughed. "Wind," he replied, "wind through the trees. Lightning may strike us dead at any moment because of my blasphemous ambitions. That is why I live as a hermit—should God's lightning strike at me, there will be no complications through it hitting an innocent bystander. You are the first person who has spent a night under this roof with me. I am sorry to subject you to the danger, but you came without an invitation." "But why," I asked, "do you want to write a blasphemous book? You are aware, I suppose, that it might be suppressed." "In a country, the constitution of which guarantees freedom of speech and religious liberty, I grant the possibility." "Then why," I persisted, "do you want to write it?" "Because," said Spain, "I am tired of tempering the wind of truth to the lamb of stupidity. Must we so fear the anger of the childish mob, that we dare not deprive them of their fairy tales of ghosts and gobblins, lest they kick out the props of civilizations? Must we, who no longer bend the knees of the mind in spook idolatry nor shake with the ague of hell fear, pretend that science and religion have been reconciled and mumble incantations to a metaphysical essence instead of saying to a maternal God to open the windows of the sky and spill rain out of heaven? I want to write a blasphemous book because the gods who throttle human intelligence and block human progress have revealed their vulnerable spot —for they are the gods who fear laughter." "But surely?" I said, "all that is old stuff—Ingersoll has been dead twenty years. Present day thinkers only smile indulgently when some handsome faced bucolic clergyman invades a metropolitan pulpit and gets the forgotten monkey argument into the headlines of the daily press. Modern philosophy has reconciled religion and science and shown that they hail from the same psychic origins." "The dictionary has never been made a sacred book," returned Spain, "and I cannot try men for heresy who blaspheme it. If a man wishes to designate the emotions he experiences when gazing at the stars by the term 'religion' I cannot prevent him. My dictionary defines religion as 'a belief in binding the spirit of man to a supernatural being' and further includes the idea of duties and rites founded upon such belief. If that be religion the war between religion and science can never end. The particular battle ground may change from age to age; it may be concerned with the mobility of the sun, the origin of species or the immaculate conception...." "Well what of it," I remarked, "those things are all relatively unimportant." "True" said Spain, "they are, but science has a job in the future that is vastly important and religion stands in its way." "And what is that?" I asked. "It is the job of saving civilization from degenerating into a chaos besides which the dark ages, medievalism would seem Bericlean by comparison. As we are headed now we are on the road for a grand smash. The growing complexities of civilization can only be managed by a human breed of superior capacity, and instead of breeding a race of better men we are letting the inborn capacity of the human species regress and degenerate. "Natural selection or the survival of the fittest raised us up from brutes, and civilization stops the operation of that law which made it possible. Blind charity preserves the rabbitries of stupidity—the differential birth rate snuffs out the flame of innate intelligence. The only visible salvation is systematic breeding of superior men; and against human breeding religion stands garbed in all her mummeries, shielding behind her wish fancies of immortality, the leering face of the ape man returned to prowl in the ruins of all we have builded. "The little priests of religion play in sweet innocence with their hopes of heaven having not the least conception of the human drift. But the high priests of religion know very well on which side their bread is buttered. They know that spook worship thrives only in the soil of stupidity. They will fight to the last ditch against any serious effort to breed men for brains. Their creeds are smoothly schemed to block intelligence in its efforts at biological perpetuation. The fable of a ghostly paternity of the human species fits their purpose like a glove. By inoculating the new-born human animal with a fantasy called a soul they clothe the act of reproduction with a garb of sanctification and endow all sexual and parental functions with rites so skillfully ingrained into popular thought that men who renounce the more patent absurdities of theology are still soaked in the sacramental conception of reactionary morality whenever it touches the reproduction of the species. So they hope to maintain our present scheme of mongrel breeding which is fast blotting out the hard won grains of the tedious climb of human evolution and riding us for a smash of the fabric of civilization, because the children of the stupid cannot maintain the structure we have wrought." "But surely," I said, "you do not intend to propound such ponderous biological and sociological doctrines in an autobiography of your god—if you do so I am sure it will be very dull. I had hoped you had in mind some readable piece of literary composition." "So I had; I was not telling you what I intended to write. You asked me why I wanted to write it. The god who mustn't be laughed at could make himself very ridiculous by setting down the story of his life. He should not be a metaphysical concept. I should prefer a nice old man with robe and halo and whiskers—I am sure he should have whiskers." "And just when," I asked, "would you have him born?" "I don't know," replied Spain, "I have stalled on eternity. I find it quite an awkward span of life to cover in a manuscript." "Why not dodge the difficulty," I suggested, "by having your story begin the day after eternity." Spain turned his gaze upon me with a twinkling light in his eyes. "Young man," he said, "No wonder you tried to drive an automobile without gasoline—you are suffering from a touch of genius. "I shall doubtless need aid," confessed Spain, more cordial, I felt, than he had previously seemed. As I caught the flame of enthusiasm in this man's conviction, my heart warmed to him. I found myself interested in his proposed "Autobiography of God"—interested and critical. "It might amuse you," I said, "to know that somewhere among my own writing notes I have this item jotted down. 'A tale that should begin the day after eternity.'" Dan Spain looked at me, his eyes twinkling, "Not half bad," he said. And so began an exchange of suggestions, a mutual laying on the table of the most guarded treasures of one's over- reaching ambitions to write the impossible. As the night wore on our wits sharpened each on the other, and before dawn broke, Dan Spain and I both realized that we had cast in outline form the skeleton of a most ambitious piece of writing. Then we awoke to the fact, that we, who were acquaintances of a single session had joined our wits to create something that could not be disentangled without its destruction. "And now," I said, "who is going to write this tale of the adventures of the great god Gud?" "We must write it together," replied Spain, "nothing else would be honest." There followed a period of intermittant work that strung out through several seasons. We worked sometimes alone; at other times I spent week-ends at Spain's hermitage, and on a few occasions I dragged the hermit down to my quarters in Greenwich Village. As the manuscript gathered bulk, I arranged for its typing, having always a copy made for each of us. During the summer of 1924, I spent most of the month of July at Spain's hermitage and we got the book completed, though there were still many parts of it on which we had serious differences of opinion. Taking my draft with me, I went back to New York, where I had to attend to some neglected editorial duties. Spain had agreed to come down to my place on the week-end of August thirtieth for a final effort to see if we could reconcile our differences of opinion. The intervening weather in the city was oppressive and I did no further work on the manuscript. When August thirtieth arrived Spain did not show up. I waited for him another week and then drove my car up to his hermitage in the Catskills. I bumped over the stones of the miserable trail and brought my car to a halt in front of where Spain's house had stood. Before me I saw a yawning circle of trees with the inner sides scorched and withered, and the great gaunt stone chimney alone now rearing from a heap of ashes. The combustion had been complete. Not a charred stick remained. All was white ash, and well packed down, for it had rained heavily a few nights before. The evidence of that rain sent my mind hurtling back in review of the weather since Spain had left New York. I remembered that one night a few days before Spain was due to return I had found my apartment so oppressive that I had gone to Brighton Beach. As I lay on the sands, it must have been toward midnight, a squall had driven across the sky and there had been a bit of a blow and a magnificent electrical display, but only a few heavy drops of rain had fallen. Brighton Beach was over a hundred miles from this spot in the Catskills, and the weather in the two locations might have been wholly dissimilar. Still it was suggestive of the worst possible fears. I looked about for something with which I could prod into the debris. The only thing available was a great twisted steel lightning rod that reared up through the ashes. The result of my effort was a discovery from which I recoiled. For a moment I found it expedient to step away from the place. In doing so, I unconsciously dragged the piece of lightning rod along with me. Behind a screen of foliage I sat down weakly. Presently, my eyes followed along that lightning rod, and I noted that one end was freshly broken where I had bent it until it snapped in two. But the other end had been the tip that pointed skyward above the house. This I now saw was fused and melted in a way that no heat of a burning wood could have possibly accomplished. I need write but little of the duties that followed. Suffice to say, that every paper that might have revealed more than my slight knowledge of Spain's origin or connections had been destroyed. The county records yielded nothing except the deed to his property purchased the year before I met him. There was nothing for me to do but turn matters over to the local authorities and let the law take its course. I returned to New York and slept off the weariness the ordeal had engendered. Then I went to my desk and produced my draft of "The Book of Gud" and turned slowly through it. It was all there, a complete manuscript, but including many things on which our differences of opinion had not been reconciled—and Dan Spain was dead! Gradually the responsibilities of my position dawned upon me. I was joint author of "The Book of Gud." However, my "partner in crime" was dead. We had written much of the prose together although much of it was by Spain alone. The verse was mine. How helpless I felt with this gigantic task staring me in the face! Sensing keenly the sacred trust of fidelity to the intent of a dead author, I did not feel at liberty to make the changes in Spain's draft that I felt should be made. Yet, if my name were to be on the jacket of this book, I did not feel that I could possibly let some of the things in Spain's draft pass without registering my protest. Conversely I must, in all fairness, concede that he had felt the same about some of my lines. My decision on going over the work the first time was that all I could do was to let the manuscript pass on to the world exactly as it was when God's lightning stilled forever the pen of Dan Spain. However, upon going over the manuscript a second time, I found my instincts as an editor overwhelming this excellent resolution. For several months I was torn between my conscience as a writer with its full sense of duty to a dead author and my editorial conscience with its fuller sense of duty to the reading public—and I did nothing with the manuscript. But at last a great compromising thought occurred to me. I could leave the manuscript stand intact, but I could write a preface in which I could explain the dreadful dilemma in which the death of my collaborator left me, and why I do not feel, under the distressing circumstances, that I should be held responsible for those parts of Spain's draft which do not meet my approval. My decision has made possible the publication of "The Book of Gud"; for otherwise I should have burned my copy also. It is my hope that this explanation will mitigate the wrath of many readers, for it is a beautiful fact about human nature that it rarely holds the dead as responsible as it does the living. I frankly confess that it has been a task to hold to this resolution, for I have been sorely tempted to delete as well as comment on some of Spain's text. As proof of my integrity in this matter, I have even left in the text of the book a note addressed to me by Spain in which he has expressed his contempt for my work in a most ungentlemanly manner. I hold that the canons of literary ethics do not permit one to alter a dead man's manuscript. If they did, how quickly we could enrich the literary heritage of American children by expurgating the classics of Europe and rewriting them in a style acceptable to the American sense of decency. To some very literally minded persons it may seem that the view just expressed is not consistent with my capacity as a joint author of "The Book of Gud." Let me therefore discount any such criticisms by explaining that the evil effects of literature all come from its realism. "The Book of Gud" is romantic and symbolic. There is true beauty in symbolism because of the variety of possible interpretations. Each reader can gain the meaning particularly adapted to himself. The greatest art is that which can be interpreted in the most devious ways: Witness the character of Hamlet, the enigma of Mona Lisa, the riddle of the Book of Revelations. To me Hamlet is the personification of a weak will in a strong mind, due to the European habit of inbreeding royalty. Mona Lisa, I believe, reveals the patience of a great woman who knows that she will ultimately get what she wants. The Book of Revelation I deem to be a symbolic anticipation of the Darwinian theory of man's descent from prehistoric animals. In "The Book of Gud" there is great symbolism, and in symbolism there can be nothing degrading, as each mind interprets it according to its own intellectual and moral plane. Hence there can never be degradation in symbolic literature, except for degraded minds. Here then is "The Book of Gud"; and, with the exception of this preface, I bow to the principle that death should end an author's work and so it should remain, even as Sodom and Gomorrah, Pompeii and Herculaneum remained as they were when fire rained down on them from Heaven. (Signed), Harold Hersey. London, England, April First, 1925. Chapter II From out the distant and neglected past, The "is" or "isn'tness" of things remain As ever still unsolved. Admitting this, Outscepting every sceptic, we've indulged Our wildest fancies ... where unknowables Go chasing unattainables. We've spared No god, religion, science, sex or art, But laid about us with a heavy fist. There are so many twists of humor In Euclid's cubes and angles. Laughter hides With playfulness behind philosophy Like little monsters in an ancient's beard. So many gods are out of work—they beg For bread and sympathy to empty stalls Where once delighted thousands paid them praise. Religion simmers in the pot, or boils Completely over as the housewives nod. Strange trolls peek out from books of mathematics, Grimace around cold scientific theories. Dwarfs and goblins play at hide and seek In empty attics of the homes of creeds; While sex is swept with laughter like a gale When we disturb the surface with an axe. Have mercy on our hero, Gud the Great. The clouds of history had cloaked his tomb Like old Zumbissus, Mord and Red Torswaine, Until we carefully unearthed the tale Gud's wild adventures furnish to romance. We took his crumbling bones and gave them life— His human frailties and deeds of valor. No doubt heroically he suffers thus At our faint hands—but let the subject be. The future cannot hide its heroes yet To come beneath a cloud of silence ... hands Other than ours—aliens and scornful, too, Would some day come upon this untold tale And lay it bare with scalpels cold and sharp. At least we had regard for laws of prophesy, The customs of a future time. Here stands The Book of Gud upon the rocks of truth. Yet when one goes to Rome, Dame Rumor says, Burn Roman candles—this have we done. Chapter III There was once a god whose name was Gud. Gud was not a real god such as men believe in. He was only Gud, whom no one believes in, and so does not exist, and will not unless some man who reads this Book of Gud should believe in him and so make him (for that is how gods are made). If there be sufficient faith in a god, all is well with that god, since he is made by faith alone, without works, and is dead. But a little faith is a dangerous thing. Now Gud had had a universe, and had ordered it destroyed, and had ordained that eternity be over and done. The morning after, Gud sat alone in space. All things else had been destroyed save Gud and space; and Gud was lonely, for creation had been done and undone and was no more, and eternity was over; and time was no more, for there were no more stars to mark the course of time. Since this book is being written now, printed now, and read now and burned now; and since printing presses and reading eyes and consuming fires exist in an age of whirling worlds and beating hearts and ticking watches, which mark time and thus seem to make it, it is that this book is not. Those things that seem to happen herein, one after another, really happened instantaneously,—for this is a tale of a timeless time, and there will be, when these things are, no time at all, and no hope of any time, since this story begins, and is finished the day after eternity, which is after the ending of all that was and before the beginning of that which will never be. Therefore, this story is really not a story, because it never could happen until after all things had happened. So what you now are reading has no meaning at all and no existence, real or unreal. So Gud sat alone in space. The fact that Gud was sitting is very important. Gud sat down in haste at the very last moment of eternity, as all things were being destroyed; for he saw that the very next moment there would be nothing left on which to stand. As Gud sat alone in space, he thought of everything that had been and remembered everything that was, and Gud saw that it was not good—for he had nothing at all to do. So Gud thought he would listen to his heart beat; but alas, he could not hear his heart beat for there was no time for his heart to beat to. So Gud decided that he would do nothing, but alas he could do nothing for there was nothing to do; and Gud feared nothing, for it did not exist, and like all of us, Gud most feared that which does not exist. So Gud repented him that he had ordained that eternity be over and done; and that he had destroyed the universe and all that was therein contained, save himself and space. Then Gud said to himself, there being no one else to talk to: "I must find something to do, or I shall go mad." Since Gud knew all things, and remembered all things, he recalled that men in whose image he was made, also frequently retired prematurely from business and were hard put for something to do. Gud remembered also that great men, even though they were not as great as he, when finding themselves in similar circumstances, sometimes wrote their autobiographies. So Gud decided to write his autobiography. And Gud wrote it. He wrote it instantaneously, there being no time in which to write it. Gud did not write it upon tables of stone, as there was no stone out of which to make the tables; and besides there was no gravity and hence the stones would have floated away. So Gud wrote his autobiography on nothing. But as Gud knew all things he saw no need of writing them down, since there was no one else to read them, and so he really never wrote his autobiography on anything. However when he had finished the manuscript, he sent it to a publisher. And waited.... Gud received but little satisfaction from writing his autobiography because it was never published. Had Gud been a true literary artist this would have made no difference, since to the true artist the plaudits and ducats of the multitude have no meaning whatever. But the ducats of the multitude are the only reason publishers ever publish books, as any honest publisher will tell you. The reason that you do not know this is because you have not been told, and the reason that you have not been told is because publishers hate publicity. But, while Gud was not a true artist, as any critic who has looked at his work could tell you, yet he was a good artisan and had considerable experience in his craft, which was that of creating things. So now, receiving no satisfaction from having written his autobiography, Gud decided that there was nothing else to do but to go back to work at his old trade. So he arose and went to get his kit of well-beloved tools, which were the tools of creation. As there was no light Gud was in the dark. So he walked in a circle, as one always does when he walks in the dark and does not know where he is going. The reason that Gud did not know where he was going is because he started out to get his tools of creation. Then Gud recalled that he had destroyed everything, including the tools. And at the thought that he had made a perfect job of destruction, Gud decided that it was the end of a perfect day, and he fell asleep. When Gud awoke it was as it was. He did not even feel rested, for he had not slept very well, having had a bad dream. This dream was so bad that one might have called it a nightmare, had it not been dreamed the day after eternity and perforce must have been a day dream. Gud realized that he ought to have the dream interpreted, for a dream is meaningless until it is interpreted. So he decided that he needed a psychoanalyst. All of these having been destroyed, Gud decided to create one. This decision brought him back to the painful realization that he possessed no tools of creation. So Gud decided to make a new set of tools of creation. But alas there was nothing out of which to make the tools of creation—nothing except Gud himself and space. So not wishing to dismember himself, Gud decided that space was the only raw material available out of which to fashion new tools of creation. There was plenty of space—probably no more than there had always been, but it seemed more because there was nothing in it. As there was no light, Gud could not see the space, but he knew it was there because it had not been destroyed; moreover, he could feel it. In fact it was all about him and plenty more just like it everywhere else. So Gud reached out and felt of the space, and thereby discovered that the space was full of points. Then Gud picked up two of the points and placed them, one on his right and the other on his left. And Gud felt the two points, and lo, there was a straight line between them. As Gud felt of the straight line, he discovered that it was the shortest distance between two points. Now Gud remembered that all through eternity, which was finished and done, a straight line had always been the shortest distance between two points, and Gud remembered also that this was the truth. And the truth that was in the straight line mocked Gud. So he took hold of the straight line and bent it until it was no longer straight. But as he bent the straight line another took its place, and truth was still in the straight line; for it was still the shortest distance between two points. So Gud struck off one of the points that was at one end of the straight line. But straightway another point came at the end of that which remained of the line, and truth was still in the line, for it was still the shortest distance between two points. And Gud became heated with wrath. So he picked up a palm leaf fan and fanned himself. Then Gud said: "That which I cannot destroy I will change." And he set about to make a curved line between two points that should be shorter than a straight line. Gud toiled diligently at the task for for what would have been a long time if there had been any time. After he had made an infinite number of curves between the two points, all of which were longer than the straight line, he chanced to make a curve which he fitted between the two points. When he felt it Gud was filled with pride—for the last curve which he had made was a shorter distance between two points than a straight line, and thus was truth destroyed. But this curve which Gud had made was a changing curve, and it continued to change. And Gud became frightened so that his knees smote one against the other. The curve ceased not in its changing and presently it had changed so much that it became impossible, and Gud said: "This thing which I have made is impossible." So he took the impossible curve and swung it about his head with a mighty swing and hurled it out of space. When Gud had hurled the impossible curve out of space he felt again between the two points and found that the straight line had returned, and was again the shortest distance between the two points. And Gud said: "Let it be so. Old truth is better than new fiction." And the eyes of Gud were opened, and he knew that there was much truth all about him, and that all space was full of truths and that the truths of space were mathematics. And Gud said: "It is good, for lo, here is something out of which I can fashion me the tools of creation!" So Gud took a circle and a square, and, with the square, Gud squared the circle. Then he took a plane and planed off the sides of the circle he had squared and so produced a diamond, which is an element. Then Gud transmuted the first element into many elements and so produced matter. Now Gud was about to mix the matter with the mathematics to form the chemical life, but he was weary and sat down to rest by the heap of matter and mathematics and pondered himself whether life was worth the making. And Gud decided that if he made life he would have to make also many laws of nature to control life and that all of this would be much trouble, especially, if they were to be all hand-made. As he sat debating what he should do, Gud picked up a circle, and, toying with it, he happened to turn it about so that it described a sphere. It was a thing of beauty and he tossed it up to see how it felt from a distance. When Gud tossed the sphere it began whirling; and as it whirled, it gave off a sweet sound. The sound pleased Gud and he turned other circles about and made more spheres and set them whirling; and they made a concord of sweet sounds which was the music of the spheres and like unto the sound made by dewdrops falling on the petals of pale poppies by the amber light of a low hung moon shining upon a moss-covered tomb. Chapter IV Shepherd and Son and little Bo-peep Herd all the souls like frightened sheep. Staff in hand, hair like snow Does even He know where they go? A swish as of a sudden wind.... An open window ... a candle thinned, From broken bodies' spirits leap To join the flock of frightened sheep. So ever They drive them on and on Down the night and over the dawn, And when dusk comes through golden bars They urge them onward up the stars. Chapter V When the music had done Gud picked up a curved line which was shaped like a scimetar and whacked at the whirling spheres. Each time Gud whacked, he whacked off a disk from a whirling sphere; and the disks continued to whirl and ceased not. Soon a corner of space was full of whirling wheels. And Gud wondered what made the wheels go round. As he felt the wheels go round Gud remembered a far and distant world he had once visited before he had destroyed the universe. He remembered that this little world had been full of machines and that the machines had wheels going round, and could make things. And Gud remembered as far back as a god can remember, and yet he could not recall ever having made machines that made things. He saw that he had been unprogressive to have created with hand tools and never to have made machines nor the things that machines made. So Gud resolved straightway to make a creating machine. He gathered the wheels together and filled them with substance from the heap of matter that he had made. And then he took squares and triangles and curves and cones and rhomboids and tetrahedrons and a great many other things that were in space; and he worked very fast and furiously, and presently he had made a machine which ground with a deafening roar, for it was a high-speed, self-acting, creating machine, the like of which had never been. And the machine began to create and to grind out things. But there was nothing alive in the things which the creating machine ground out, for it had not in it the breath of life, but only the spirit of the machine. Those things which the machine made were other machines; and they came out of the creating machine endowed with the spirit of the machine, and straightway they began also to turn and grind with a great and discordant roar. The machines of transportation began to distribute the other machines through space. They roared and shrieked and whistled as they hurtled thither and yon, and Gud fled before them. Then came also great lighting machines and filled all the center of space with light, and drove the darkness into the outer edges of space, toward which Gud had fled. There were many myriads of machines that Gud did not know, and he had no time in which to name them. But there were some machines that were very dreadful, and of these Gud knew the names and the uses, for he had seen the like of them in the little world of machines he had once visited, for these were killing machines. But the killing machines could find nothing to kill for there was not any life, but only the machines that were fast filling all space. The spirit of the killing machines was not to create but to destroy and they boomed and shrieked mightily for their prey. Gud was sore afraid, and because of the great noise of the machines, he could not remember that he was immortal and need not fear even the killing machines. So Gud reached the outer edges of space and stood there in the dark panting and trembling. And Gud regretted that he had made the creating machine which had made all of the other machines, and he wondered what he might do to undo what he had done. Then Gud bolstered his courage, and walked back into the midst of the roaring machines and bade the machines be still. But only hearing the machines, the talking machines and the printing machines obeyed, for they only understood the word of Gud. Then he commanded the talking machines and the printing machines to make words and news and gossip, and to proclaim to the other machines that they should cease to roar. And the word machines obeyed Gud and made words, but the other machines harkened not unto the words of Gud. Gud feared that if the machines did not cease to be made they might fill all space, so that nothing else could ever be. Then Gud, remembering that he was immortal, walked up to a great killing machine which gaped its terrible maw to swallow him. But Gud feared not and walked into the terrible maw and into the throat of the killing machine. And when Gud came out of the bowels of the killing machine he held in his hand a great sword that was as long as hope deferred and as broad as a liberal mind. Carrying the sword, Gud fled again from the midst of the machines and to the outer reaches of space. And Gud swung the mighty sword and cut off the edges of space. He made haste, for the machines did fast approach and he feared that they might fill all space. So Gud ran about swinging his mighty sword, and shearing the edges of space. The edges of space Gud trimmed off from the center of space where the machines were, so that the space occupied by the machines was bounded about by clean edges of space, beyond which no more space was and not anything at all. And it came to pass that there was very little space for Gud to be in, and the machines came on. Gud stood against the clean edges of space and brandished his mighty sword and cried: "Come on, ye soulless machines, for I am Gud and I fear ye not." As the machines came on, Gud swung his sword with might and valor, and the machines that fell before the sword of Gud were as many as there are ways to displease a woman. So great was the destruction of the machines that the calculating machines did call a halt and asked for a truce. But Gud would give no quarter. Then the calculating machines, leaving the others to receive the blows of Gud, hied themselves back to the center of space where the creating machine was. As the result of their calculations, reinforcements came to the cause of the machines. These new recruits came on with whistlings and hummings and greater roaring than Gud had yet heard; and his courage was shaken so that his sword trembled in his hands, for the new recruits to the cause of the machines blew a great blast before them; for they were the fans and the blowers. And Gud felt the blast in his face, and his sword swayed and shivered like a feather in the blast. And the blast became a mighty wind and the wind blew the sword of Gud from his hand and blew it over the edge of space, so that Gud was unarmed and cried aloud for quarter. But the howling of the blast drowned his cry, and the fans and blowers came on, blowing all before them. Gud turned and fled and ran around the narrow rim of the edge of space, but the fans and blowers followed after him and made a great cyclone that blew around the edges of space. Gud fled in the wind and was bruised and torn by the wind and the garments of Gud were shattered and torn ... and Gud was lifted out of space and hurled into an abysmal void where not even space was. Chapter VI But in that wind beyond all space The blast howled fiercely in his face.... Suddenly, from out the sky A mote of dust blew in his eye. With pain he slowly rubbed it out, Examined it with passing doubt, Then burst into a tide of mirth: It was the cinder of an earth! Chapter VII Gud was walking and as he walked he wondered wherein and whereon he was walking. But as he knew all things he realized that he was in the Nth dimension and that he was walking along the Impossible Curve which he had thrown out of space. So Gud walked along the Impossible Curve in the Nth dimension until he came to a heap of discarded theories. It was a tangled heap and looked as if it might be a hiding place of ideas. So Gud caught up one of the sturdier theories and shook it, and the dried facts that the theory had borne rattled off like rotten fruit from a dead branch. Gud plucked the twigs of hypotheses from the heavier theory—and so made for himself a staff. This he rammed lustily into the tangled heap of theories, whereupon something ran out and leaped along the Impossible Curve. When it stopped, Gud, with his staff in hand, walked after it and came up to it, and thought that it was the echo of a voice. "What were you doing?" demanded Gud, "hiding in that heap of discarded theories?" "Alas," said that which Gud thought was the echo of a voice, "I was not hiding. There was nothing left of me to hide, because I was an obedient man and gave myself away even as I was told to do." "What did they tell you to do?" asked Gud. "They told me to do what I did." "What did you do?" The nothing sighed, and then said faintly: "I gave my wealth to the poor, my mind to my work, my heart to my wife, my life to my country and my soul to my god." Gud reached over and picked up the nothing which he had thought was the echo of a voice. He picked it up by the ears, which were very thin, and looked into its eyes, which were pale pink, and stroked its fur, which was soft and white. Then Gud tied the nothing's ears together and hung it over his staff, and proceeded on his way. As Gud walked on along the Impossible Curve he saw himself approaching to meet him. This made Gud very angry at himself because himself insisted on walking in the opposite direction, which seemed to show Gud that he had a dual nature and could go two ways at once. So Gud charged ahead to meet himself, and as he approached himself he swung the staff, which was over his shoulder, with a vicious blow at himself. In his anger, Gud had forgotten the nothing which was hanging by its ears on his staff. As he swung the staff, the Impossible Curve took a sudden turn in an unknown direction so that Gud missed himself at which he struck. But that which was hanging by the ears flew off the staff and went hurtling through the deceitful mirror. In this new excitement Gud forgot himself and peered through the deceitful mirror to see what had become of nothing. Gud saw that nothing was being chased by something, which Gud recognized as the reflection of an Underdog. The chase was exciting; the nothing ducked and the reflection of an Underdog leaped over it. Then the nothing turned and started back toward the deceitful mirror, through which Gud was peering. The reflection of the Underdog turned also, and when the quarry reached the mirror it came back through and its pursuer came after it. Quickly Gud swung his staff again and broke the mirror into ten thousand pieces. Then he turned about and saw, by the contented look on the face of the Underdog, that nothing was no more. Gud was glad he had been engaged in breaking the mirror and so had not seen the finale of the chase, for thus he missed the suffering of the victim and yet could see the satisfaction of the victor. Gud now looked at the staff in his hand and saw that it had borne a luscious fruit. He plucked the fruit and tasted it. At first it tasted very sweet but later the taste turned bitter in his mouth. Gud looked again at the staff which he had picked from the heap of discarded theories, and Gud saw that he held in his hand the theory of conquest. In horror he hurled it from him, and it struck the Underdog, who gave forth a great howl of pain. Gud felt compassion for the Underdog and picked him up and nursed his wound, and the Underdog licked Gud's hands. Then he sat the Underdog down and started on his way, and the Underdog followed at Gud's heels along the Impossible Curve. Chapter VIII The Gogs are good, the Gogs are great, They rule a realm of real estate. Their greedy little eyes are slits That vision beauty torn to bits, And when the night's aglow with stars They stagger through the lupinars. The Gogs are good, the Gogs are great We slave to rent their real estate; We toil in their behalf like fools, Obey their customs, creeds and rules, Because each intellectual hog Would like to be, and is a Gog! Chapter IX So they trudged along very happily until they met some one. Gud was dumbfounded. "What can you be doing on this Impossible Curve?" he cried, "for I destroyed everything and my dog has eaten nothing. Speak up, sir, and tell me what you are before I annihilate you again." "I am Cruickshank, the bookkeeper," replied the some one. "Ah ha," exclaimed Gud, "and so you are another of those living things that evolved out of the ooze and slime of that little sphere that got the valences of its carbon atoms so dreadfully entangled!" "I am a man," said Cruickshank, the bookkeeper. "But," said Gud, quite exasperated, "I told you I destroyed everything." "And so you did," agreed Cruickshank, the bookkeeper, "but do you not recall those that escaped and floated down on the star dust to wait for the day of judgment?" "I certainly remember them very well," said Gud, "but I would have you to know that this is not the day of judgment but the day after eternity, and what is more, you did not escape on the star dust as you claim, for I chased after that bunch and destroyed them quite utterly." "In a way," said Cruickshank, the bookkeeper, "you did, but we saved our souls by losing them." "But," cried Gud, "you are not a soul, for see—" and Gud poked Cruickshank, the bookkeeper, gingerly in the ribs —"you are a material man with ribs and life and a liver and much orthodox and conventional stupidity. In fact, you seem very much like Cruickshank that you always were. How do you explain that?" "The explanation is very simple," said Cruickshank, the bookkeeper, "and also very important; and you would do well not to forget it or tamper with it. I am Cruickshank the bookkeeper, just as I always have been, because you can not change human nature. And what is more, I tell you that if you divided all the wealth up equally it would be unequal again before sunset." "Mere popular fallacies," said Gud. "And now I am going to show you who I really am. When my Underdog here barks at the moon you are going to change into a boiled lobster with one great claw—a very red lobster, on which your in...