Whole Earth Review: Sailor Song.

Ken Kesey tells us how things went about thirty years from now, in a remote Alaskan fishing village under attack by worldwide environmental and social degradation, and invaded by a Hollywood film company. He unfolds his fabulous and arcane legend a little at a time, tantalizing and full of tricks. The individualistic, desperate and often hilariously rambunctious characters may seem a tad exaggerated to readers who have never lived in boondock Alaska, but I (who have) would not be surprised to find out that Mr. Kesey has hoisted a beer with most of them. It's a cautionary tale. It's a love story. It's good. And it's true.

"Thy voyage through folly and filth is almost finished. The harbor light beckons, the good light of the cleansing flame beckons, just over the bar, the good, sweet, promised light of the Fire Next Time - "

"Ice Next Time," interrupted the voice from the cot. "Ice Next Time, slimebrain. I can prove it mathematically!"

Still the man gave no indication that he had heard Billy's slurring contradictions. He remained motionless on his folding chair, coolly smiling into Greer's agitated face. Ike could feel the heat building despite that cool smile, like the orange sun on his cheek.

The soft voice continued. "But thou knowest, Brother Emil, how the sick dog is like to return to its vomit? How the bathed sow is like to go rolling in the mire? Thou knowest this to be so, ain't I correct?"

Greer nodded emphatic agreement; he'd seen his share of dogs and sows.

"Then I beg you, Blood, leave the company of them beasts. Rise up. Rise up with us here in Beulahland. Leave them. Come to us. We have been shown the way. The route to salvation is charted in simple tradition - sweat of the brow ... fruit of the fields. Doesn't thou believe in tradition, little brother?"

"You bet," said Greer.

"Look about you. We have raised ourselves a home above that filth down there. Join us. The choice is yours. You can till this clean land here in the sanctuary of the clouds or you can perish below in the flaming filth, in the final terrible, horrible, inescapable fire fire fire!"

"Ice," said the voice from the cot. "Ice ice ice - !"

"FIRE!" Greener suddenly thundered, standing. "Fire, you blaspheming peace-o'-shit faggot! Fire and tribulation such as was not since the beginning of the motherfucking world! I know your kind - the Spirit of the Antichrist is the mystery of iniquity - all of you asshole faggots know the world is looking for a man! to show them the way out! of these difficulties of your own iniquitous brewing! And one day in the future it cannot be fucking much further off the diseased Spirit of the Antichrist shall fill the houses of God and make in them such dins of iniquity that every babe's heart shall be infected with the poisons of the Babylon!"

He began to stamp about the plank porch, pounding his fists together.

"Troubled water? Shit, man, you kidding? It's a sewer - a fucking flaming sewer! And for a bridge over it where shall you look? Into the churches? Nay, for they are filled with blasphemy and blackjack tables. Into the human heart? It has become a cesspool, a swamp, the mire that leadeth to madness. Into Heaven then? Through the almighty mystery of the gates into sweet Heaven above? Shit a mother brick no! We can't hardly get through the air plution let alone the mystery of the gates. Nay, there won't be no place to look! No place to turn. The seas'll be boiling, the rocks burning, the moon bleeding like a ho' ripped up by some cheap abortionist. The heat be on! Credit cards canceled, real estate deals going up in smoke. Bank accounts on fire! On fire fire fire!"

Carmody's girth was the result of a lifetime of hard labor and good appetite, laced liberally with drink and dance whenever possible. The belly he had produced was the accomplishment of nearly three-quarters of a century's dedicated effort; he was famous for it and proud of it. He used it like a sumo wrestler uses his kee, or center. It was his workbench, his fulcrum on the booms, his block and tackle on the ropes. Now, as they hummed along, he had it bellied up against the round cedar table that occupied the center of the galley, leaning on it while he chopped a ten-pound halibut into steaks.

"A fish don't really object to being caught and consumed," Carmody was explaining, "long as it happens fresh."

The fish was truly fresh; the glimmer of life had not yet completely left the animal's freakish eyes, and the body was still quivering there on the table, though big slabs of him were already hissing in butter and chopped parsley in the wavepan.

"Fish understand the fishy facks of life. They get et. It's their destiny from the get-go, from the least to the largest, to get et. What a fish objects to is being wasted. |if you need me, catch me; if you don't, let me be.' Back in the days we really needed whale oil you never heard any whales complaining, did ye? They knew they was greasing the wheels of progress. They didn't commence complaining about it until they found out their oil had become obsolete, progress-wise, and all we wanted them for was food for cats. That's when they organized Greenpeace. Because fish got pride. Oiling a gyroscope in a battleship is one thing, feeding the family kitty-cat is another."

About all he was able to conclude was that all the authors agreed the End of the World was just around the corner and that it was Somebody's fault. Somebody else's, of course. The Greens blamed the Burners and the Burners blamed the Breeders - "The bellies just kept doubling and doubling and so did the Protein Producing Acreage" - and the Breeders blamed the Pro-Choicers. "They interfered with God's Natural Law. |Go forth and multiply,' He commanded. Things would have evened out. The Great White Tooth of Famine would have eventually gnawed the problem clean. But the Choicers interfered. And now He's pissed, and everybody is condemned to reap the fiery whirlwind that those faithless freeloaders have sown."