The Best of Edward Abbey

by Edward Abbey

  I stumble over a rock in the trail. Sun down and gone, not a star in the clouded sky. The woods are deep, and very dark, and not lovely. I stop and stare at the dim silhouettes of the trees against the fainter dark of the sky. Sound of crickets down below; it must be August one more time. An autumnal month here in the mountains. And I’m alone again. Once more I ask myself the simple, obvious question: Why not die? Why keep hanging around, stumbling over rocks, bending beer cans, hurting people with your stupidity, losing your children here and there? What are you waiting for, you drunken clown?

  But I’m grinning in the dark, not about to give up yet. I find it comfortable here in the cool damp womb of the forest, alone in the velvet night. I think I could stand here all night long and if it doesn’t rain too hard, be content. Even happy. Me and the crickets and the oafish bears (they’ll never make it as gentlemen), snuffling about through the brush, grubbing for something good to eat. At this moment I think: If he’d let me I’d get down on all-fours and shuffle along side by side with Cousin Bear, rooting for slugs, smearing my hairy face with crushed black-erries, tearing at roots.

  Aliens on this planet? Us? Who said so? Not me. And if I did, that was yesterday. Tonight I know better. We are not foreigners; we were born and we belong here. We are not aliens but rather like children, barely beginning here and now in the childhood of the race to discover the marvel, the magic, the mystery of this sweet planet that is our inheritance.

  Fools talk of leaving the earth, launching themselves by space shuttle and revolving cannisters of aluminum into permanent orbit somewhere between here and the moon. God speed them. While others plan the transformation of the earth through technology into a global food factory, fusion-powered, computer-controlled, supporting a close-packed semihuman population of 10 billion—twice the number already stifling themselves in the mushroom cities of today. R. Buckminster Fuller thinks it can be done. Herman Kahn thinks it can be done. The Pope thinks it can be done. All good Marxists think it can be done. Their counterparts in Europe, Brazil, China, Japan, Uganda, Mexico, everywhere, think it can be done. And if it can be done, therefore, by their logic it must be done. But Kahn and Fuller and their look-alikes are in for many a surprise before that Golden Age of Technocracy encloses us. (It never will.) As with all fools, their lives shall consist of a constant succession of surprises, mostly unpleasant, as surprises tend to be.

  The Devil take them.

  The Devil take them!

  Brimming with malice and glee, I trudge up the trail, up the ridge, back to the tower. Only one thing is lacking to complete my happiness. I want to wake at dawn with a woman in my arms. I want to share the day’s beginning with her, while woodpeckers drum on hollow snags of yellow pine and the sun rises into the crimson clouds of morning. I want to share an orange, a pot of black cowboy coffee, the calm and commonsense of breakfast talk, the smiles, the touch of fingertips, the yearning of the flesh, the comradeship of man and woman, of one uncertain human for another.

  No need for doubt. She will appear. She has always come before and she will come again. At least once more.

  FROM

  Good News

  (1980)

  On the roof of the Tower, on the terrace of his penthouse suite, the Chief stands alone, looking up at the stars. The great constellation Scorpio sprawls across the southern sky; far in the north, over the mountains, a scribble of lightning races among banked clouds.

  The Chief is dressed in his slate-blue uniform, trim and immaculate; his black riding boots, adorned with the brass spurs, without rowels, of a cavalry soldier, shine like mirrors. As usual he wears no insignia of rank and no decorations but the simple ribbon of the Medal of Honor. Hands clasped behind his back, he gazes up at the crown of Heaven—Corona Borealis—directly overhead. Those inaccessible realms. Inaccessible? he thinks. We shall see.

  He paces to the parapet and looks down into the dark streets, the whispering city, fifteen stories below. A few lights move about down there, not many—vehicular lights, electric torches, a few small campfires on the sidewalks. Three blocks south a building burns, unattended; the glow illuminates a vacant street, a glass wall opposite, the metal shells, like dead insects, of a mass of abandoned automobiles. One company of soldiers, commanded by an officer on horseback, approaches the broad esplanade of the headquarters building, marching through the floodlit emptiness of Unity Square. Three dark bodies dangle on the gallows. From the bowels of the Tower, discernible from this height only as a steady, comforting, feline purr, rises the sound of the diesel generators.

  The Chief returns to a small table on the terrace. He pours himself a dash of cognac (Three Stars), tastes it. Clasping his hands again behind his back, boots set well apart at parade rest, he opens his mouth and speaks, his firm, resonant tenor pitched toward the stars:

  “Gentlemen: The Army is ready. Are you ready?” He pauses, hearing from the sky a chorus of manly cheers. “Good. Tomorrow we march. Motorized column in the lead, cavalry following, labor battalion marching in the rear—under escort. We shall keep parade formation until we reach the outskirts of the city, at which time motorized units will proceed at optimum speed to first designated base camp, there to await arrival of cavalry. Eventually, of course, we hope to find motor vehicles and fuel sufficient to motorize the entire Army. Until that time we shall advance in leapfrog fashion, with first the motorized column and then the cavalry taking the lead. Radio communication will be maintained at all times. The logistics of the entire operation, which as you know we have designated Coronado, will be under the immediate command of Colonel Barnes, until and unless we encounter organized opposition, at which time I will assume personal command of military and political operations. Are there any questions?”

  The Chief pauses, tilting his head. “No, Captain Fannin, we are not going to abandon this city. We are leaving it under the able command of my trusted friend, adviser, and aide, Major Roland, assisted by Captain Myers and his military police company, and by you, Captain Fannin, with your detachment of R&R specialists.” Pause; the Chief smiles. “Don’t laugh, gentlemen, don’t laugh.”

  “No, no, no, that won’t do,” the Chief goes on, pacing forward and looking down. “Delete that passage.” He looks up again at the stars, seeking nobler inspiration. “Ad astra, ad astra … Yes, indeed. Gentlemen, the first objective is a modest one: the city of Santa Fe. From there, augmenting our forces, we continue eastward to Amarillo, Oklahoma City, and St. Louis, overcoming whatever obstacles may appear. Since we have had no communications with any of those cities, we assume that conditions there are similar to conditions prevailing in this city—before I relinquished my studies, to establish order.”

  Pause. The Chief waits, smiling at the applause, then raises a hand. Instant silence. “At St. Louis we shall consolidate our position, multiply our forces many times over (I have no doubt), and prepare for the final push eastward. The goal, of course, is Washington, D.C., which we shall re-establish as the nation’s capital. The overall plan, gentlemen, quite simply, is to rebuild America, to make her once again the world’s foremost industrial, military, and—if I may say so—spiritual power, an example to mankind of what human beings, properly organized and disciplined, can accomplish.”

  Another pause, for applause. “As for New York City”—the Chief’s thin lips form a condescending smile—”as for New York, if that wretched hive of moral degeneracy and ethnic pollution still exists, we shall erect around it a radioactive wall a mile high!”

  Silent applause. “Thank you. Thank you, gentlemen. Now as to the grand design of our new American society, let me say this. This is not the time or place for a blueprint but let me say this: The new America will be organized along sound military lines. Not an oligarchy as before, hiding behind a façade of democracy, but a hierarchy of power based on merit and ability. Meritocracy. Government of the people, yes. Government for the people, yes. But government by the people? Never again. We want a strong, centralized State, capable of dealing q
uickly and mercilessly with enemies, whether foreign or domestic. It will also be, out of necessity, a thoroughly technological State. The conquest of Nature, once far advanced, now temporarily interrupted, will be resumed and completed. Not a single square foot of soil, nor a single living creature, will ever again be allowed to escape the service of humankind, society, and the State.”

  The Chief clears his throat, pacing back and forth more rapidly as he becomes excited by his own oration. “A harsh doctrine, you say. Indeed, gentlemen, it is a harsh doctrine—but a necessary one. What is the function of Nature? The function of Nature is to serve the needs of humanity. And what is the purpose of humanity? The purpose of humanity is to serve the aims of society as a whole. As a whole, gentlemen, as a unified, living organism. You say that humanity as presently constituted is anything but a unified, organic whole. Quite so. It is our purpose, our duty, as leading and organizing element, to bestow that unity upon mankind. To impose it, if necessary.”

  The Chief strays near the table for another sip of cognac. He sighs thoughtfully, staring up at the stars. “The people, gentlemen, the people are like children. We must guide them. Lead them. Use them. Help them fulfill their inner purpose, whether or not they are aware of that purpose. It is not in fact necessary that they be aware of purpose. Even better if they are not—such awareness might stimulate the tiresome conflict of opinions familiar to us from our recent past. No, they—the people—must be instructed only in their duty, each individual assigned his proper place. Thus the need for hierarchy, central authority, unified command. Consider, gentlemen, the most enduring architectural structure that human ingenuity has so far devised. What is the oldest and best-preserved type of manmade building on earth, gentlemen?” Pause. “The pyramid. Yes, the power of the pyramid. Think about it, gentlemen….”

  They think about it. Allowing time for reflection, the Chief continues. “And what, you may ask, can be the purpose of this great social pyramid, this living, pulsating, integrated pyramid of human flesh, animal flesh, plant flesh? What is the point of a pyramid? The apex, the summit, of course. And to what does the great summit direct our attention? Think, gentlemen. Think carefully….”

  Again the Chief looks up at the sky, giving his invisible audience a broad hint. He waits for a few more seconds, accumulating intellectual suspense, then smiles richly—that fair, fine-featured face, those intense and interesting eyes transformed, transfigured by the radiance of his soul—and reveals the secret.

  “To the stars, gentlemen. Ad astra. Ad astra per aspera. This earth, this gross material planet, this so-called Nature, this animal and human populace, these squirming masses of sweating, striving, copulating, ignorant, and self-obsessed bodies, all will be welded into one great pyramidal footstool—for our leap to the stars. The greatest adventure. The adventure for which all history to date has been merely a preamble, a groping, fumbling, confused, and semiconscious search. And when I say that our purpose is to sail among the stars I do not mean to limit our adventure at that point. No, gentlemen, not at all, not at all.”

  The Chief’s voice rises to a new level of inspiration. “To the stars, gentlemen—and beyond. Beyond! For I speak no longer of the merely physical journey, the technological voyage—glorious as that will be—but of a spiritual voyage. I speak of transcendence. The transcendence of the physical. The transcendence of the flesh. I speak of the disembodied spirit of humankind, united in one indivisible and ultradimensional entity, rising like a wave to converge upon—the Absolute. Upon—Godhead Itself. That is what I am speaking of now, gentlemen: union with God. Think about it. Think about it….”

  The Chief smiles, pacing about, hands clasped behind his back. “Oh I’ve lost them now,” he mutters, shaking his head with pity, “I’ve lost them now. Too far. No matter—they’ll believe whether they understand or not. The less they understand the more eagerly they will believe.” He chuckles. “As always. God, I love them.” He returns to the table for one more sip of cognac.

  Young Corporal Buckley appears and raps gently, timidly, on the penthouse door. The Chief ignores him. A pause. Corporal Buckley raps again, more gently, more timidly. The Chief ignores him. Corporal Buckley waits for the prescribed thirty seconds and raps once more, even more timidly, even more gently.

  “Buckley!” the Chief snaps.

  “Yes sir!” Buckley snaps to attention.

  “Come here, Buckley.” Buckley advances toward the Chief in a semi-goosestep. “Halt.” Buckley halts. “Buckley, do you consider yourself a loyal follower of your Chief?”

  Buckley blinks. “Beg pardon, sir?”

  The Chief repeats his question.

  “Yes sir. Absolutely sir, begging the Chief’s pardon.”

  “Will you obey any order I give you, Buckley?”

  “Absolutely, sir.”

  “Good.” The Chief swirls the cognac in his glass. He points to the waist-high parapet along the edge of the roof. “Buckley—I want you to go and stand on that wall.”

  Corporal Buckley turns pale. “Oh sir … sir, begging the Chief’s pardon, but I can’t, sir, I can’t.”

  The Chief looks stern. “That’s an order, Corporal Buckley.”

  “But sir … I have this awful fear. I can’t bear heights, sir.”

  The Chief looks very stern. “I know that, Corporal Buckley.” He places a hand on the sheathed dagger at his waist. “But I gave you an order.”

  “Yes sir.” Buckley walks slowly to the parapet. He puts one hand and one foot upon it, looking over and down into the streets, the beguiling yawn of the awful fall. The parapet, built of brick, is one foot wide on top. Buckley begins to tremble.

  “Mount the parapet, Buckley.”

  “Sir, I can’t.”

  “You’re a soldier, Buckley. Mount the parapet.”

  Buckley whimpers, a doglike mewling of fear. He makes blind, pawing gestures at the wall, brings down the first foot and tries the other, then goes back to the first.

  “Buckley!”

  Buckley crouches, one foot on the wall. “Yes sir?”

  “Come here, Buckley.”

  “Yes sir.” Still shaking and pale, but immensely relieved, Corporal Buckley approaches his Chief.

  “Do you love me, Corporal Buckley?”

  “Oh yes sir. Very much sir.”

  “Come closer, Buckley.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Kneel down, Buckley.”

  “Yes sir.” The corporal kneels, his eyes on the Chief’s boots.

  The Chief strokes the corporal’s pale, thin hair. “Good boy.” The Chief smiles sweetly, thoughtfully, at the corporal’s lowered and waiting head. “Are you a homosexual, Corporal Buckley?”

  “No sir.”

  “That’s good. Homosexuals produce no soldiers. Are you a heterosexual, Corporal Buckley?”

  “No sir.”

  “What is a heterosexual, Buckley?”

  The young man hesitates. “I don’t know, sir. Begging the Chief’s pardon, sir.”

  “That’s all right, Buckley. Innocence is a virtue. Chastity is an admirable virtue.” The Chief pauses. “Kiss my boot.”

  “Sir?”

  “Kiss my boot.”

  Again the corporal hesitates. “Which one, sir?”

  The Chief considers. “You choose, Buckley.”

  The corporal bends low and, after a moment of indecision, kisses the Chief’s right boot.

  “Thank you, Corporal Buckley. I commend your sense of fitness. Your initiative. Someday you’ll be a sergeant, Corporal Buckley.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  The dull glaze of boredom appears on the Chief’s eyes. “You may go now, Buckley.” The corporal shuffles backward on his knees, rises, turns to leave. “By the way, Buckley—”

  “Yes sir?”

  “What did you have to tell me?”

  The corporal has forgotten, but immediately remembers. “The woman is ready, sir.”

  “Which one?”

  “Her
name is Valerie, sir.”

  “Has she been up here before?”

  “Ah—yes sir, I believe so.”

  “Haven’t we got any new ones?”

  “Not tonight, sir. Begging the Chief’s pardon, sir.”

  “Very well. Now go, Buckley. Quickly.”

  “Yes sir.” The corporal vanishes.

  The Chief retires to his dressing room and removes his boots and uniform. Completely nude, he contemplates with justified pride the image of himself in the floor-length mirror on the wall. Though over fifty, the Chief has the figure of an athlete. His white body is shapely, well-muscled, sparsely haired, the shoulders wide, the hips narrow, the buttocks firm and small as a boy’s; there is only the faintest classical roll of excess flesh around his waist. Although short, he looks (he thinks) like a god. (A short god.) (Greek.)

  The Chief opens a wardrobe, puts on a blue woolen robe that sets off nicely the marble tone of his skin. He opens another door and enters the next room, the transcendence chapel.

  The Muzak system, forever operational in the Tower, is playing, at the moment, a melody from an ancient musical—”Some Enchanted Evening.” Dim rose-colored lights, recessed in the walls, cast an erotic ambience upon the furniture of the room: a straight-backed chair, a fireplace, the Chief-size bed draped in black velvet, and the woman.

  She smiles but does not speak as the Chief enters and takes his place on the chair, facing the bed. Letting his robe fall open, saying nothing, he looks at her.

  She is young, beautiful, as required, fulfilling the simple needs of male fantasy: She looks like a virgin and moves like a dancer. Reclining on the bed, wearing a translucent gown that reveals the glow but not the details of her pink body, she smiles and makes a few subtle movements. The Chief watches and says nothing. She lifts one leg toward the ceiling, letting the gold-trimmed hem of her gown slip to the knee. The Chief watches but does not stir. The girl performs a simple dance, not rising from the bed.

  When she stops for a moment the Chief says, “Come here, my child.”