Praise for
The Story of B
“The author writes a facile, clear prose, and the ideas he wants to discuss are admittedly important. Quinn is a provocative thinker.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Continuing the thought-provoking philosophical construct that he set up in Ishmael, Quinn provides an even deeper and more wide-ranging story. The Story of B is enormously readable, with several shocking plot twists that help mold what could have been just a treatise into a good story. A must for fans of Ishmael, this disturbing, intelligent book will also attract new readers.”
—Booklist
“One of the most important storytellers of our age, Daniel Quinn, in The Story of B, continues the journey begun so beautifully with Ishmael. Whether or not you agree with every word, there is no doubt that ‘B’ offers us a unique opportunity—to think together about the unquestioned beliefs and assumptions that have shaped our culture over the past 10,000 years and that will, if they remain unquestioned, keep us on a path that seems increasingly unsustainable.”
—Peter Senge, author of The Fifth Discipline
Praise for
Ishmael
“From now on I will divide the books I have read into two categories—the ones I read before Ishmael and those read after.”
—Jim Britell,Whole Earth Review
“A thoughtful, fearlessly low-key novel about the role of our species on the planet … laid out for us with an originality and a clarity few would deny.”
—The New York Times Book Review
What Readers Are Saying About The Story of B
All of Daniel Quinn’s books are life-changing experiences.”
—Amy Beerup, Champaign, IL
“As a student of philosophy and religion, I must say that The Story of B is the most influential and thoughtful book I have ever read.”
—Jay Hochberg, Medford, MA
“Compulsive reading. Step outside the melting pot and see a different reality.”
—Gary Solomons, Annapolis, MD
“What frightens me is not ‘How can I apply the concepts brought forth by Quinn in the two best books I’ve ever read (Ishmael and The Story of B),’ but ‘What if I had never read them?’”
—Lori Rossen, Vestal, NY
“Daniel Quinn is a pathfinder who has already made the crossing to the community of life.”
—James Van Dyk, Norwich, VT
“Forced to flee from a book-burning society like that in Ray Bradbury’s Farenheit 451, I would find the dangerous ideas in Ishmael and The Story of B more worth risking my life to preserve than anything else on my shelves.”
—Randy Newcomer, Akron, PA
“I expected to be disturbed and am not disappointed.”
—Barbara Starr-Langhus, Oklahoma City, OK
“It’s been twenty years since I let this kind of illumination into my life.”
—Mike Wachocki, Russell, KS
“It’s more than just a journey of the mind. It’s a turnaround.”
—Steve DeBlieck, Cottage Grove, MN
“This will be the most revealing book since Rachel Carson’s Silent Spring.”
—Jim Baker, Lincoln, NE
“To read Daniel Quinn is to be changed forever.”
—Karen Suzanne Kincaid, Jackson, TN
“Your book is as important if not more so than the Bible. If what you propose becomes a mass movement it will change the world.”
—Robert Nicholas, Boise, ID
“I read The Story of B yesterday knowing full well it would shake the foundation of my world, the same way Ishmael did.”
—Grant Nolin, Calgary, Alberta, Canada
“Never have I felt so at a loss for words and action after reading a book as I did after both Ishmael and The Story of B. But thank you to Daniel Quinn for opening yet another pair of eyes.”
—Dina Trageser, Medford, OR
“Man living as just another species—what a concept! Thank you, Mr. Quinn, the clouds have parted.”
—Craig Susser, Beverly Hills, CA
“Wow! Heavy duty! Daniel Quinn better hang out with Salman Rushdie after The Story of B.”
—John S. Detrick, Delaware, OH
“The Story of B is a brilliant tool, a gift from a wise man.”
—Robert T. Nanninga, Leucadia, CA
“I finished the book tonight and I can honestly say that my belief structure has never been so challenged.”
—Rick Green, Sterrett, AL
“Now that I’ve finished The Story of B, I go about my life in a completely different way.”
—Becky Pylypink, Orono, ME
For Goody Cable
and of course Rennie, always
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Part One
Chapter 1 - Friday, May 10
Chapter 2 - Tuesday, May 14
Chapter 3 - Thursday, May 16
Chapter 4 - Friday, May 17
Chapter 5 - Saturday, May 18
Chapter 6 - Saturday, May 18 (cont.)
Chapter 7 - Saturday, May 18 (cont.)
Chapter 8 - Sunday, May 19
Chapter 9 - Sunday, May 19 (cont.)
Chapter 10 - Sunday, May 19 (cont.)
Chapter 11 - Monday, May 20
Chapter 12 - Monday, May 20 (cont.)
Chapter 13 - Tuesday, May 21
Chapter 14 - Wednesday, May 22
Chapter 15 - Thursday, May 23
Part Two
Chapter 16 - Friday, May 24 (two A.M.)
Chapter 17 - Friday, May 24 (ten P.M.)
Part Three
Chapter 18 - Date unknown
Chapter 19 - Saturday, June 1
Chapter 20 - Monday, June 3
Chapter 21 - Tuesday, June 4
Chapter 22 - Wednesday, June 5
Chapter 23 - Saturday, June 8
Part Four - Epilogue
Chapter 24 - Undated
Part Five - The Public Teachings
Chapter 25 - The Great Forgetting
Chapter 26 - The Boiling Frog
Chapter 27 - The Collapse of Values
Chapter 28 - Population: A Systems Approach
Chapter 29 - The Great Remembering
About the Author
Copyright
When one does not see what one does not see, one does not even see that one is blind.
—Paul Veyne
Friday, May 10
A Diary
Today I ducked into a drugstore and bought a notebook—this notebook right here that I’m writing in. Clearly a momentous event.
I’ve never kept (or been tempted to keep) a diary of any kind, and I’m not even sure I’m going to keep this one, but I thought I’d better try. I find it’s a peculiar business, because, though I’m supposedly only writing for myself, I feel impelled to explain who I am and what I’m doing here. It makes me suspect that all diarists are in fact writing not for themselves but for posterity.
I wonder if there’s a child anywhere who hasn’t, at some stage of awakening consciousness, incorporated into his/her address “The World” and “The Universe.” Having already done that (almost three decades ago), I begin this diary by writing:
I am Jared Osborne, a priest, assistant pastor, parish of St. Edward’s, professed of the Order of St. Lawrence, Roman Catholic Church. And having written that, I feel obliged to add: not a very good priest. (Wow, this diary business is hot stuff! These are words I’ve never dared to whisper, even to myself!) Without examining the logic of this too closely, I can say it’s precisely because I’m “not a very good priest” that I feel the need to start this diary at this point in my life.
This is excellent. This is exac
tly where I have to begin. Before I go on to anything else, I have to put it down right here in black-and-white who I am and how I got here, though thank God I don’t have to go back as far as my childhood or anything like that. I just have to go back far enough to figure out how I came to be involved in one of the strangest quests of modern times.
Recruiting Poster: Why I’m a Laurentian
By long tradition, we Laurentians have been defined in terms of our difference from the Jesuits. Some historians say we’re not as bad, some say we’re worse, and some say the only difference between us is that they have a better instinct for public relations. Both were founded at roughly the same time to combat the Reformation, and when that battle was lost (or at least over), both redefined themselves as elitist educators. And where do little Jesuits and Laurentians come from? Jesuit recruits come from Jesuit schools, and Laurentian recruits come from Laurentian schools.
I came to the Laurentians from St. Jerome’s University, the intellectual hearth of the order in the United States. This may explain why I became a Laurentian, but of course it doesn’t explain why I became a priest. All I can say on that point right now is that the reasons I gave when I was in my early twenties no longer seem very persuasive to me.
The important thing to note here is that I was considered a real comer when I was an undergraduate. I was expected to be another jewel in the crown—but by the time postdoctoral studies rolled around, I’d been spotted as a rhinestone—plenty of flash but pure paste. I was a big disappointment to everybody, most of all to me, of course. My superiors were as nice about it as they could be. I was never going to be invited to join the faculty at St. Jerome’s or any other of the order’s universities, but they did offer to find a place for me at one of their prep schools. Or if I didn’t care to be humiliated quite that much, I could be loaned out to the diocese for work in the parochial trenches. I chose the latter, which is how I ended up at St. Ed’s.
I say I’m not a very good priest. I suppose this is a bit like a cart horse saying it’s not a very good horse, because it expected to be raced but couldn’t make the grade. The blunt truth is that you don’t have to be a very good priest to make the grade at the parish level. This observation is not as cynical as it sounds—the priest is only a mediator of grace, not a source of grace, after all. Sure, you’ve got to be even-tempered and patient and tolerant of human shortcomings (which says a lot), but nobody expects to you be a St. Paul or a St. Francis, and a sacrament that comes to you from the hands of an utter swine is every bit as efficacious as one that comes to you from the hands of a paragon. The way things are going nowadays, you’ll be considered a bloody treasure if you don’t turn out to be a child molester or a public drunk.
Enter Fr. Lulfre
Six days ago I got a nice little note from the dean’s secretary asking if I would be so kind as to present myself next Wednesday (day before yesterday) at the office of Fr. Bernard Lulfre at three o’clock in the afternoon. Well, now, that was interesting.
Dear Diary, I can tell right off the bat that you don’t know who this Bernard Lulfre is, so I’ll have to enlighten you. In a word, Pierre Teilhard de Chardin was the Jesuits’ superstar, and Bernard Lulfre is ours. Teilhard de Chardin was a geologist and a paleontologist, and Bernard Lulfre is an archaeologist and a psychiatrist. The difference, typically, is that Teilhard de Chardin is world famous, while Bernard Lulfre is known to about ten people (with names like Karl Popper, Marshall McLuhan, Roland Barthes, Noam Chomsky, and Jacques Derrida). Never mind. To those who breathe the rarefied air of the scholarly Alps, Bernard Lulfre is a heavyweight.
While an undergraduate at St. Jerome’s, I wrote a paper proposing that, although belief in an afterlife may have given rise to the practice of burying the dead with their possessions, it’s just as plausible to suppose that the practice of burying the dead with their possessions gave rise to a belief in an afterlife. The course instructor passed it on to Bernard Lulfre, thinking it might be publishable in one of the journals he was associated with. Of course it wasn’t, but it brought me to the great man’s attention, and for a season I was shown round as a promising youngster at faculty teas. When I entered the novitiate a year later, it was imagined by some that I was a sort of protégé, a misconception I foolishly did not discourage. Fr. Lulfre may have followed my progress in the years that followed, but if so, he did it at a very great distance, and when my academic career began to falter, his remoteness began to be interpreted (with equal imaginativeness) as a withdrawal.
In the five years since my ordination, until that nice invitation arrived from the dean’s office, I hadn’t heard from him once (and hadn’t expected to). Naturally I was curious, but I wasn’t exactly holding my breath. He wasn’t going to offer to send me to the ball in a coach-and-four. Probably he was going to ask for a small favor of some kind. Maybe some folks at St. Jerome’s wanted to know something about somebody at St. Ed’s, and they said, “Why don’t we have Fr. Lulfre contact that young Fr. Osborne who works there?” No one would hesitate to ask me to do a bit of spying for the order if spying was needed. We’ve had our own private espionage network for centuries and think of it as being not one whit less honorable than that of MI 16 or the CIA. (We’re quite proud of our intrigues—in a quiet way, of course. During the last decades of Elizabeth’s reign, for example, our “English College” at Rheims infiltrated scores of priest spies into Britain to keep the spirit of insurrection alive among English Catholics. Our greatest coup was achieved in 1773, when Pope Clement XIV was feeling some scruples about destroying his old friends the Jesuits; it was one of our own who showed him how to reason with his tender conscience and get the job done.) The order is our homeland, after all, and it would be taken for granted that, even in exile, I would never allow some paltry diocesan or parochial concern to supersede my loyalty to it. On the other hand, if it was something as simple as this, then a phone call would have been sufficient. The more I pondered the problem, the more intrigued I became.
At Fr. Lulfre’s office
Nothing had changed at Fr. Lulfre’s office since I’d last visited it some ten years before: It was in the same corner of the same floor of the same building. Fr. Lulfre hadn’t changed either: Still six and a half feet tall, as broad as a door, with a massive, rough-hewn head that might belong to a stevedore or a trucker. Men like him somehow don’t change much till they reach an age like seventy or eighty, when they fall apart overnight and are whisked away.
I’ve been around enough brilliant men to know that they’re seldom brilliant in real time, and Fr. Lulfre is no exception. He greeted me with unconvincing heartiness, made some awkward small talk, and seemed ready to beat around the bush for hours. Unfortunately, I wasn’t in the mood to collaborate with him on that, and after five minutes a dreadful silence overtook us.
With the distinct air of someone biting the bullet, he said: “I want you to know, Jared, that there are many men in the order who know you’re capable of doing more than you’ve been asked to do.”
Well, shucks, I wanted to say, but didn’t. I murmured something or other to the effect that I was gratified to hear this, but I doubt if I managed to keep every trace of irony out of my voice.
Fr. Lulfre sighed, evidently realizing that he still had some biting to do on this bullet. Deciding to give him a break, I told him, “If you’ve got a different assignment for me, Father, you certainly don’t have to be shy about proposing it. You have a ready listener here.”
“Thank you, Jared, I appreciate that,” he said—but still seemed reluctant to go on. At last he said, rather stiffly, as if he didn’t expect to be believed, “You will remember the special mandate of our order.”
For a moment I just stared at him blankly. Then of course I did remember it.
The mandate about the Antichrist.
The “Special Mandate”
In studying the history of the Laurentians, every novice learns that the original charter of our order includes a special mandate regarding
the Antichrist, enjoining us to be in the vanguard in our vigilance. We’re to know before all others that the Antichrist is among us—and we’re to suppress or destroy him, if that should prove to be possible.
At the time the mandate was written, of course, it was taken for granted that the identity of the Antichrist was a settled matter: It was Luther and his hellish company. As this confident understanding gradually became unfocused, the Laurentians began to argue among themselves about the means by which the mandate was to be fulfilled. If we were to be vigilant, what were we supposed to be vigilant for? By the middle of the seventeenth century, everyone in Europe had heard so many people accused of being the Antichrist that they were heartily sick of the whole subject, and speculation along those lines became more or less what it is today, the domain of religious cranks—except among the Laurentians, who quietly developed their own distinctive (and unsanctioned) Antichrist theology.
The Antichrist comes to us from a prophecy of John, who wrote in his first letter, “Children, it is the final hour. You’ve been told that the Antichrist is coming, and now not one but a multitude of Antichrists have appeared, so there can be no doubt whatever that the final hour is upon us.” When this “final hour” failed to arrive during the lifetime of John’s contemporaries, Christians of each succeeding generation looked for signs of the Antichrist in their own era. At first they looked for persecutors of the Church, preeminently Nero, who was expected to return from the dead to continue his war against Christ. When Roman persecution became a thing of the past, the Antichrist degenerated into a sort of folktale monster, a huge, bloody-eyed, donkey-eared, iron-toothed bogeyman. As the Middle Ages wore on and more and more people became disgusted with ecclesiastical corruption, the papacy itself began to be identified as the Antichrist. Finally popes and reformers spent a century belaboring each other with the bad name. When the Laurentians, with their special mandate, began to rethink the matter in the centuries that followed, they went all the way back to fundamentals and took note of the fact that prophecies are seldom literal predictions of future events. Often they’re not even recognized as prophecies until they’re fulfilled. Numerous examples of this occur in the New Testament, where events in the life of Jesus are described as fulfilling ancient prophecies that were not necessarily understood as prophecies by those who enunciated them. Laurentian theologians reasoned this way: If prophecies about Christ must wait upon their fulfillment to be understood, why shouldn’t the same be true of prophecies about Antichrist? In other words, we can’t really know what John was talking about until it actually happens, so the Antichrist is almost certain to be different from whatever we imagine him to be.