Authors: John Norman
I regard myself as privileged, as honored, in a sense, to be the editor of the Cabot manuscripts.
I do not regret, for one instant, that this opportunity, this responsibility, this honor, has been bestowed on me.
To be sure, as I have learned, it is one not without its perils, social, political, and professional. As the Armenian proverb has it, one who tells the truth must have one foot in the stirrup. But, alas, I fear my foot missed the stirrup. Accordingly I have found myself in the unenviable position of having spoken the truth, and remaining afoot. As is well-known, the last thing most individuals wish to do is seek the truth. It is hard to blame them, for there are dangers in seeking the truth, foremost amongst them that one might find it.
As far as I know, I am the only individual to whom these various mss., or similar mss., have been entrusted, at least for a particular purpose, that apparently of bringing them to the attention of a presumably small, but, I suspect, extraordinarily select, public.
Surely they are not for everyone.
Apparently several individuals have failed to understand that. Their view, it seems, is that everything should be for everyone. Or rather, perhaps, that everything should be for them, for they seem to take themselves, with their various interesting and impressive lacunae and limitations, intellectual and otherwise, for everyone. We are all free, it seems, to be just like them. It is only to be expected then, one supposes, that they are troubled, if not astonished, even occasionally outraged, by those who, however reluctantly, and deplorably, decline to avail themselves of their so generously and cordially accorded opportunity, that of being just like them.
Better perhaps to be dead.
The human being makes an excellent bigot. Millennia have gone into honing such skills.
The difficulty, of course, is that there are competitive bigotries. And, unfortunately, several of them are well armed.
Naturally they deny what they choose not to see, and denounce what they are afraid to hear.
This is common to bigotries.
And what else would you expect them to do, to look, to listen?
To think, to feel?
Those who claim the human being is manufactured, and should be produced according to one and only one plan, theirs, neglect to note that there must be raw materials for such a project, and, furthermore, that these materials have natures of their own.
This may be inconvenient, but nature, nonetheless, got there first. It is not to be denied that a human being, like any other form of life, animal or vegetable, may be cut, clipped, chopped, twisted, stunted, tortured, poisoned, and burned into any number of diverse and bizarre forms. There is much historical evidence supporting this claim. But still, nature got there first, and while she may be thwarted, even destroyed, she cannot be benignly replaced. It doesn't work. The great, slow, vast, patient systemic processes of biological evolution are not so easily set aside as the superficial and uninformed might suspect. Let those who will, should it please them, lecture chemistry and advise physics; let them dictate to heat and light, legislate planetary routes and scold molecules. But let them not dictate to the mind and heart of man, or woman.
Words may mask as well as reveal truth; it is fortunate that reality cannot read; otherwise it would doubtless be much confused. If trees could read they might eschew rainfall and minerals, apologize for their leaves, suspect their roots, and fear to grow.
The problem is not to deny nature but to attend to her.
But enough of such considerations.
One digresses.
It sometimes seems to me unlikely that the Priest-Kings of Gor, if they exist, and I fear they might, would place such troubling, surprising documents, the originals, in so limited a venue, that of a given editor and a small number of other individuals who are aware of their existence, this seemingly subjecting the documents to a precarious jeopardy, particularly if they, the Priest-Kings, supposing them to exist, were concerned that their contents should become broadcast, but perhaps that was not their intention; that they should become broadcast, but why, if so, if it were indeed their intention that these matters should become a matter of public record, would they limit the very knowledge of their existence, that of the original materials, that is, to no more than a handful of organisms, and those of a sort which, as we are given to understand, would be alien to themselves. I wonder if friendship can exist amongst diverse species. To be sure, are not our dogs our friends? And I wonder, sometimes, how the Priest-Kings view us. As we view our dogs? No, I think not. They are too ready to kill. Perhaps the better analogy would be between ourselves and insects, which we prefer to leave alone unless annoyed, or menaced. But I think, too, sometimes, in some places, there might be a commonality amongst species, a moment of respect, or affection, founded on the frail reed of rationality, so easily bent, so easily broken, so easily uprooted. The hands of genes, those of consciousness and consistency, might touch occasionally, if only briefly, perhaps at the fingertips. In any event, it seems unlikely that these mss., if they are genuinely what they purport to be, could have reached this world without the indulgence, if nothing else, of Priest-Kings. Is there one, or more, amongst them who know, even respect or care for, an unusual individual whom I, personally, have never met, though whose existence I have ascertained, from various records, and reports, is established beyond all doubt, a Mr. Tarl Cabot? Too, it seems there are others, as well. Certainly not all the mss are in the same hand. But enough of that. It seems to me also possible that friendship, or such, may not enter into these matters, but rather that the mss are permitted to filter into our world in accord with well-conceived but covert designs. Perhaps they are a way in which these Priest-Kings, as they are called in the mss, wish, for some reason, to let us know that we are not alone, that there is life not only elsewhere in the broad universe, but closer to us, more locally, than we suppose. Certainly there is evidence that some of those in high places, in one country or another, have taken note of the mss.
Perhaps that is the point of their transmission to us.
But these matters seem to me very mysterious.
I suppose, when all is done, we do not really know why the Priest-Kings, assuming such to exist, would permit these manuscripts to be known.
Is it an act of friendship, for a given individual, one once accorded, as it is said, Nest Trust?
Is it a caprice, or a scientific kindness, a boon granted charitably to our earnest astronomers and physicists; an insulting announcement of a superior life form to a lesser one, a lesser one perhaps too overweening and vain, one insufficiently humble in the face of mysteries which must trouble even intellects as profound and vast as those reputed to dignify and glorify Priest-Kings themselves?
Or do they see in us possible allies?
I might note in passing that only a relatively small amount of the Gorean materials has appeared in print. Indeed, Cabot, and apparently some others, have supplied us with a rich miscellany of materials, much of which is not narrative in nature, but rather of a sort which seems, for one reason or another, to have interested the various transcribers, materials such as anecdotes, sayings, codes, legends, social practices, societal arrangements, festivals, shiplore, zoological and botanical treatises, games, sports, and such. Such material, of course, is presumably of more interest to naturalists, military and naval historians, political scientists, sociologists, anthropologists, and such, not to mention collectors of the obscure and arcane, than it would be to the general reader.
But one does not question the materials, nor the interests, and motivations, of the transcribers.
Some individuals are interested in how Goreans lock their doors, strike coins, manufacture spoons and saddles, conduct commerce, and so on. Let that be as it may. I, for one, effect nothing critical here.
One might also mention, in passing, that one should understand things for what they are, and not necessarily for what one feels they should be, or, better, are told they should be, particularly by self-proclaimed authorities whose credentials are nonexistent, obscure, or, at best, pompously self-certified, indeed, individuals whose lack of perception is seemingly exceeded only by their
a priori
hostility to the new or different. Many of the Gorean narratives, insofar as I may form a just opinion on the matter, do not strive to accommodate themselves to alien criteria. As in nature, they wander, prowl, and sniff about where they will. It may be that the authors of these books are simply unaware of the requirements of critics who would impose upon them, and, indeed, on all authors, their own values, restrictions, preferences, limitations, and prejudices; such supposed critics are the watchmen of stultification and mediocrity. In any event, the Gorean authors are obviously not interested in the currently approved formulas, which will eventually mark out this period of literature as of generally antiquarian interest. Surely a Chaucer, a Shakespeare, a Dostoevsky, a Rabelais, and just about anyone of curiosity and passion, however large or small, different or similar, skilled or unskilled, would fare poorly in the dainty land of the rarified, delicate, and proper. Literature goes its own way, however distressing as this may be to those who would guide her to personally favored precincts. Let them, in pursuit of this aim, invent and distribute assorted dignities and emoluments which, to a true author, at least on the whole, it would be an embarrassment to accept, an acknowledgement that he had literally prostituted his honor and his profession. In any event, if a Gorean author is unaware of the current formulas for the well-made story or the correctly turned phrase, and the proper denizens of a politically correct lexicon, and turns aside to describe a sandal or a musical instrument, let us remain calm. And, indeed, otherwise, how would we know about that sandal, or musical instrument?
It might also be noted that whereas it seems to be expected in certain
genres
of literature that a different or alien culture is to be described from the outside and then carefully, and sometimes laboriously, even if subtly, criticized from the outside, from the viewpoint of a quite different culture, one's own, this supposedly pleasing the reader, who is thereby reassured that he and his culture were right all along, that expectation need not be fulfilled. In the Gorean case, for better or for worse, it does not seem to be fulfilled. The Gorean culture is normally described, you see, from the
inside
, as it is seen from the
inside
, which is a very different matter, and it is usually presented, and revealed, from the
inside
, as it seems to be to those who find themselves within it, and who live and often, it seems, thrive within it. The Gorean culture is usually presented objectively, and usually without comment. One is free then to think what one will. What a dreadful thought, to those who would control the thoughts of others! That one should make up one's own mind, that one should be actually free to do so! How frightful, to those who would be the tyrants of the mind! In any event, it seems a case might be made, should one wish to do so, that the Gorean culture is closer to the biotruths of the human species than at least some other cultures. I can think of at least one. Can't you? It seems so, at any rate. Need one comment further? One may, of course, if one feels impelled to do so, object to this aspect of the Gorean world. Goreans, for better or for worse, feel civilization should enhance and celebrate nature, rather than contradict, fight, and poison her. That is their view. It seems each should be entitled to make up his own mind on such matters, despite the convictions of those who feel they are entitled to make up the minds of others.
I leave this, of course, to the judgment of the reader.
Is that not the Gorean way?
I am, of course, not the only individual aware of these documents in their original form. For example, my friend, “Harrison Smith,” as he chooses to be known, is aware of several of them, and, indeed, it is
via
his kind offices that I began the editorial work to which I have hitherto referred. But there would seem clearly to be other individuals involved in these matters, as well. Some mss. arrived, interestingly, in the mail, in nondescript packaging, without return addresses; some I found, to my astonishment, in my apartment, which had apparently been easily but unobtrusively entered. Twice such mss. were pressed into my hands in the tumult of crowds, by utter strangers, elusive men never before seen, who slipped away before I could question them. Perhaps, as was once suggested, the agents of the Priest-Kings are amongst us. One manuscript was delivered more surprisingly. I shall recount the incident, as I suppose it might prove to be of interest to some. I have certainly never forgotten it. The delivery occurred late in a recent year, on a dusky evening in the city. A light snow lay fresh on the streets, and wisps of it, as I recall, were still about, still falling softly, catching and reflecting the light of the street lamps. The traffic, some floors below, was moving normally, with its customary sounds. A radio was indistinctly playing in a nearby apartment. I heard a light knock at my door, the character of which somehow suggested, if not timidity, or fear, at least, surely, a modest deference, and, say, an unwillingness to be thought to be forward, or a desire not to risk being taken to be obtrusive. To this signal, putting aside my book, I responded. To my amazement, opening the door, I found myself facing a remarkable young woman. It would be difficult to describe the slight but maddening sweetness of her figure, and the exquisite loveliness and delicacy of her features. She was surely one of the most incredibly beautiful, and feminine, young women I had even seen. Too, I had the immediate sense in her of a quite high intelligence, but this intelligence, and its associated sensitivity, impressed me not as abstract and angular, or hard, or indifferent, or callous, or stern, as one expects in a man, but rather as being in its way a special sort of intelligence or awareness, one of a sort which one can discover only in a woman, and only in a special sort of woman, an intelligence soft, vulnerable, and exquisitely and uniquely feminine. This individual before me then impressed me as being not only one of great beauty, and of youth and health, but as constituting a gift, so to speak, in her way, to the species, a gift not only of beauty, but one of intelligence, sensitivity, awareness, and, above all, of femininity. Clearly she was one of the most feminine women, and assuredly, and contentedly, and unapologetically so, that I had ever met. I had a sense then of what a woman could be, and, as it occurred to me then, though surely the thought must be deplored, of what a woman should be. Clearly she could not be a “normal woman” in any of our usual ugly senses of such a term, senses boringly descriptive of miserable, culturally botched artifacts or senses sanctimoniously prescriptive of unquestioning, docile cogs in a mindless social mechanism, one essentially sexless and antithetical to health and biology. Where had she come from, I wondered. Who was she? How could it be that she,
here
, was as she was? Had she not been twisted and hardened? Why not? Is it not done to all? Should it not be done to all? Or had she been changed, unwound, untwisted, sorted out, remedied, opened, softened, returned somehow to wind and rainfall, to meadows, to body heat, and excitement, and love? Could this be a creature of our culture? Surely not! But could it be? What had been done to her? What right had she to be so radically female, so fundamentally female, so helplessly, vulnerably, genuinely, beautifully female? Oddly, too, in that instant when first our eyes met, before hers fell, she seemed to see me quite naturally as something very different from herself, something that she was not, and could never be, and could only be miserable trying to be, but, too, something she did not, honestly, desire to be. I had the sense that she wanted to be only herself, and would be herself, only herself, and would thus put aside, as though by a change of mind, a turning about, an acceptance, an acclaiming, a thousand sorrows, falsities, and confusions.