by John Norman
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.
I should mention that she was well dressed, richly so, I suppose, but with a simplicity that achieved an elegance. She was the sort of young woman whom one might expect to see stepping from a limousine, but she lacked the rigidity or hauteur, the disdain, that one might have expected of such.
I had the sense that she had undergone unusual experiences, which had freed and shaped her.
I did not know if she were a creature of this world and culture or not. I had the brief, disconcerting impression that she was the sort of woman who might be literally sold to men.
And that that might be good for her.
She carried a package. It was wrapped in leather, and tied closely, with several flat leather bands.
More than once I had seen such an unusually wrapped article.
I hesitate to convey what then occurred, lest it be found offensive by some, but I feel it best to do so, at least in the interest of the completeness of this recollection.
She then, with a lovely naturalness and grace, as of one long habituated to such practices, and one who found such ceremonies and deferences lovely, appropriate, and fulfilling, knelt before me, yes, knelt before me, and put her head down to my feet.
I wonder if you can understand what it is to have such a woman kneel before you, how it fills you with glory and power, this submission and prostration, and seems somehow fitting, and a perfection of nature. And, too, I sensed that she, too, in her way, found this fulfilling, and profoundly, keenly emotionally reassuring, fitting, that it was what she wanted to do, and that for her, too, in its way, it was a perfection of nature. I recalled, inadvertently, a saying from the Gorean miscellany: “Let she who should submit, submit; let he who is master master.”
Perhaps, I thought, could it be, the sexes are not, when all is said and done, the same.
She then pressed her lips to my shoes, and then knelt up, and, her head down between her extended arms, humbly and delicately proffered to me the package she bore.
I doubtless should have admonished her for this astonishing and unexpected gesture, the kneeling, and such, should doubtless have denied to her this lovely, so naturally, so willingly granted token of respect, should doubtless have tried sharply, cruelly, to reprimand and shame her, or at least, surely, I should have hurried her to her feet in embarrassment, but, for whatever reason, I did not do so.
Rather I understood then, I think for the first time, how it could be that a man could kill for a woman.
“Wait!” I called after her, but she had then sprung up and darted away. She was responsive, it seemed, to imperatives other than mine. As she sprang to her feet and turned, I caught a glimpse, ever so briefly, beneath her long, dark, glossy, swirling hair, of her one piece of jewelry, a lovely, flat, narrow band which closely encircled her lovely throat.
This all occurred very quickly, and she had not spoken to me one word.
I watched her disappear down the corridor, and then, the package in hand, returned within.
The following account is extracted from the Gorean miscellany. Unlike many of the other items in the miscellany, which tend to be meditative or expositional, and are sometimes little more than lists, it has a narrative flow, at least somewhat, and deals with an interaction between two individuals. Given these considerations I thought it might then not inaptly be brought to public attention, in a context such as that of the present, in the event that perhaps some might find it of interest.
I do not think the author is Tarl Cabot, as the style, and handscript, do not suggest those of Cabot, with whose style and script I am familiar. An additional inducement to this reservation is that what is apparently the original seems to be in Gorean, or, at any rate, in a language with which I and my immediate associates are unfamiliar. It is clear that the letters in the original proceed from left to right, and then right to left, in alternate lines, which is, as I understand it, “as the bosk plows.” Cabot writes in English, and seems to be uncomfortable, as I understand it, with literary Gorean. This is apparently not that unusual for it seems that many Gorean warriors, though surely not all, are actually illiterate, and deliberately so, and this in accord with a certain martial vanity, regarding letters as being an occupation and concern more suitable to scribes than to those of the “scarlet caste.” The original is clearly in a bold, masculine hand, but the translation into English, or what I take to be the translation, is, interestingly, in a feminine hand. I take it then the original was presumably written by a male who may or may not have known English and that the translation may have been made by a female who was fluent in both languages, or, at least, copied by such a female. There are other possibilities, but those seem to me the most plausible.
I present it now without further introduction.
I trust it will not be found offensive.
“Do not use me!” she begged.
Her Gorean was imperfect.
She moved, frightened, to the back of the alcove. Her small hands went to the chain that attached to the collar on her throat. How small and lovely are the hands of women! She held it tightly, helplessly, protestingly. It was about five feet long, and fastened her to a ring, set to the side. She was naked, as is common with her sort, in alcoves, slaves. She was half sunk in the deep furs. The alcove was a common one, small, with incurving walls, now closed with leather curtains which he had drawn shut behind him.
I do not mention the tavern, nor its city, other than to place it in the middle latitudes of the world, east of Brundisium, north of our mother, the great Vosk; there are those, enemies, you see, who might use such knowledge. They do not understand us, and are prompt to kill.
He had tied the curtains shut on the inside. It is commonly done. One is less likely then to be disturbed. There were some smaller chains about, cuffs, and such. He carried a switch, brought in from the outside. The light was furnished by a small tharlarion oil lamp set in a niche to the left, as one faces the back of the alcove. The flame was straight, responding to the subtle draft above and behind the lamp. He found her very beautiful in the alcove, but that is common with tavern slaves. They are purchased with such things in mind.
“You should beg use,” he informed her.
It is pleasant for a man, as is well known, for a beautiful woman to beg use.
“No, no!” she wept.
He regarded her, sadly.
“You may speak in your native tongue,” he said.
“I do not wish to be beaten,” she said.
“I will not beat you for that—now,” he said.
He thought it best for her, given what he wished to do, to speak in her own language. He did not wish her to misunderstand anything which might transpire between them, in the least.
Indeed, her life, as he had reason to believe, might depend on such things.
“I do not wish to be tricked, and then struck!’ she wept.
He frowned. Did she think him such, one who would so behave, a boor, one without honor? Such would dishonor his caste.
He fingered the switch.
All females understand such things, and certainly slaves. A great deal of good is often accomplished with as little as a single, sudden, swift, impatient stroke.
“Thank you,” she said, in English, quickly, uncertainly. She was obviously intelligent. He had had fears on that score. “But you will not understand me.”
“I think I am likely to understand you,” he said, “and well,” he added.
“You speak English,” she said.
“I speak three of the languages of your world,” he said. “How many do you speak?”
“—One,” she said. “You have an accent.”
“So, too, do you, in your Gorean,” he said.
“Of course,” she said.
“Many women of your world learn Gorean swiftly, and well, and, in time, are so fluent that it is difficult, if at all possible, to distinguish them from native speakers, save for an occasional phonemic indiscretion or lapse. I do not know, however, if you will be one of them. Perhaps your diction will retain a piquant touch of the exotic. Some men like that.”
“Doubtless” she said, bitterly.
