“The Weakling”
Robert E. Howard
1906-1936 American

I died in sin and forthwith went to Hell;
I made myself at home upon the coals
Where seas of flame break on the cinder shoals.
Till Satan came and said with angry yell,
“You there – divulge what route by which you fell.”
“I spent my youth among the flowing bowls,
Wasted my life with women of dark souls,
Died brothel-fighting – drunk on muscatel.”

Said he, “My friend, you’ve been directed wrong:
You’ve naught to recommend you for our feasts –
Like factory owners, brokers, elders, priests;
The air for you! This place is for the strong!”
Then as I pondered, minded to rebel,
He laughed and forthwith kicked me out of Hell.

Winning Entries of the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest

The countdown had stalled at T minus 69 seconds when Desiree, the first female ape to go up in space, winked at me slyly and pouted her thick, rubbery lips unmistakably--the first of many such advances during what would prove to be the longest, and most memorable, space voyage of my career.
—Martha Simpson, 1985 Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest

Professor Frobisher couldn't believe he had missed seeing it for so long--it was, after all, right there under his nose--but in all his years of research into the intricate and mysterious ways of the universe, he had never noticed that the freckles on his upper lip, just below and to the left of the nostril, partially hidden until now by a hairy mole he had just removed a week before, exactly matched the pattern of the stars in the Pleides, down to the angry red zit that had just popped up where he and his colleagues had only today discovered an exploding nova.
—Ray C. Gainey, 1989 Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest

Sultry it was and humid, but no whisper of air caused the plump, laden spears of golden grain to nod their burdened heads as they unheedingly awaited the cyclic rape of their gleaming treasure, while overhead the burning orb of luminescence ascended its ever-upward path toward a sweltering celestial apex, for although it is not in Kansas that our story takes place, it looks godawful like it.
—Judy Frazier, 1991 Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest

The moment he laid eyes on the lifeless body of the nude socialite sprawled across the bathroom floor, Detective Leary knew she had committed suicide by grasping the cap on the tamper-proof bottle, pushing down and twisting while she kept her thumb firmly pressed against the spot the arrow pointed to, until she hit the exact spot where the tab clicks into place, allowing her to remove the cap and swallow the entire contents of the bottle, thus ending her life.
—Artie Kalemeris, 1997 Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest

As he stared at her ample bosom, he daydreamed of the dual Stromberg carburetors in his vintage Triumph Spitfire, highly functional yet pleasingly formed, perched prominently on top of the intake manifold, aching for experienced hands, the small knurled caps of the oil dampeners begging to be inspected and adjusted as described in chapter seven of the shop manual.
—Dan McKay, 2005 Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest

Detective Bart Lasiter was in his office studying the light from his one small window falling on his super burrito when the door swung open to reveal a woman whose body said you've had your last burrito for a while, whose face said angels did exist, and whose eyes said she could make you dig your own grave and lick the shovel clean.
—Jim Guigli, 2006 Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest

Gerald began--but was interrupted by a piercing whistle which cost him ten percent of his hearing permanently, as it did everyone else in a ten-mile radius of the eruption, not that it mattered much because for them "permanently" meant the next ten minutes or so until buried by searing lava or suffocated by choking ash--to pee.
—Jim Gleeson, 2007 Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest

“Sarcastic Socialization Tips(tm)”
Michael McGeachie (Mike McGeachie)
1976- American

1. The Tag-Along

Everyone knows that one-on-one dates are stressful, awkward, and socially difficult situations. Don't let your friends fall prey to these maladies! Save them the embarrassment! Sometimes, your friend won't realize that he or she is in for trouble, so you'll have to slyly invite yourself:

You: "I got nothing. What are you doing tonight?"
Friend: "I'm going out with Mr./Miss X."
You: "Really?! You two were getting along well at the party last week. Where are you going?"
Friend: "Oleana. For dinner."
You: "Really? That's such a coincidence! I've always wanted to try that place. I'll meet you there."

2. Polite Queuing

If you're arriving late on the scene, chances are your brethren-in-arms have already figured out who are the nicest people to talk to. So they'll probably all be forming a half circle around him or her. But one person can only reasonably entertain four or five people at a time, so what are you, the sixth or seventh suitor, supposed to do? Luckily, it's ok to wait in line in these situations, and you'll get your turn eventually.

You: "Pardon me, are you in line?"
Speaker #6: "Yeah, I might be next, someone just excused himself/herself to get another drink."
You: "Excellent! Fast turn-over tonight. I think I'll mentally prepare a Fictitious Ex story for when my turn arrives!"

3. Fictitious Ex

If you find yourself talking with someone who doesn't seem very interested, it's probably because they're misvaluing you along the conventional lines of money/status/looks/wit. A clever way to hint at your relationship potential is to mention your Ex, and how much cooler/richer/smarter/hotter they are than normal people. This implies that if someone as elegant/studly/dangerous/brilliant as your Ex dated you, the person you're talking with now should be thankful you deign to give them the time of day.

Speaker #1: "Yeah. I need to get up early. I have to go."
You: "You know, that's really funny cause my Ex the [Calvin Klein underwear model / heroic fireman / Harvard neuroscience post-doc] was also an early riser."
Speaker #1: "Oh really? Tell me more!"

This kind of lie is much easier to get away with than lies about your own wealth/job/knowledge/physique.

4. Overhear Maneuver

Any conversation can be about you, even if you're not taking part until the end. Suppose you walk past people talking, and you hear this:

Speaker #1, to Speaker #2: "My sister is ill. The doctors say they don't know what she has. My family is distraught."
You: "Did I just hear you say 'My Sister'? Cause, that's such a coincidence! I think chicks are _hot_!"

Make sure to allude to "hot chicks" rather than the more subtle "attractive women" here. Remember: Subtlety is for the French; Audacity is for the American!

5. The Dumb-Down

This trick can be used when the conversation turns toward something you don't understand. Use the Dumb-Down to bring it back to where everyone can participate. Nobody likes exclusive conversations, and recognizing this will demonstrate that you have _everyone's_ interest in mind.

Speaker #1: "The whole Derridean enterprise is esoteric rhetoric for the ivory-tower demagogue."
You: "Enterprise? What does that mean? Is that even a word? Oh, wait, are you talking about Star Trek? Cause that show was neat! Now I remember, the Enterprise was the ship. Were the Derrideans the fish-looking people?"

Combine this tactic with the Overhear Maneuver for extra style points.

“Mother-in-Law”
Adrienne Rich
1929- American

Tell me something
you say
Not: What are you working on now, is there anyone special,
how is the job
do you mind coming back to an empty house
what do you do on Sundays
Tell me something...
Some secret
we both know and have never spoken?
Some sentence that could flood with light
your life, mine?
Tell me what daughters tell their mothers
everywhere in the world, and I and only I
even have to ask....
Tell me something.
Lately, I hear it: Tell me something true,
daughter-in-law before we part,
tell me something true before I die

And time was when I tried.
You married my son, and so
strange as you are, you are my daughter
Tell me....
I’ve been trying to tell you, mother-in-law
that I think I’m breaking in two
and half of me doesn’t even want to love
I can polish this table to satin because I don’t care
I am trying to tell you, I envy
the people in mental hospitals their freedom
and I can’t live on placebos
or Valium, like you

A cut lemon scours the smell of fish away
You’ll feel better when the children are in school
I would try to tell you, mother-in-law
but my anger takes fire from yours and in the oven
the meal bursts into flames
Daughter-in-law, before we part
tell me something true
I polished the table, mother-in-law
and scrubbed the knives with half a lemon
the way you showed me to do
I wish I could tell you--
Tell me!
They think I’m weak and hold
things back from me. I agreed to this years ago.
Daughter-in-law, strange as you are,
tell me something true

tell me something
Your son is dead
ten years, I am a lesbian,
my children are themselves.
Mother-in-law, before we part
shall we try again? Strange as I am,
strange as you are? What do mothers
ask their own daughters, everywhere in the world?
Is there a question?
Ask me something.

Quotations
Abraham Lincoln
1809-1865 American

Always bear in mind that your own resolution to succeed is more important than any one thing.
—Abraham Lincoln

Quarrel not at all. No man resolved to make the most of himself can spare time for personal contention.
—Abraham Lincoln, correspondence

Character is like a tree and reputation like its shadow. The shadow is what we think of it; the tree is the real thing.
—Abraham Lincoln

When I do good, I feel good. When I do bad, I feel bad. That is my religion.
—Abraham Lincoln (attributed)

Whenever I hear anyone arguing for slavery, I feel a strong impulse to see it tried on him personally.
—Abraham Lincoln

The probability that we may fail in the struggle ought not to deter us from the support of a cause we believe to be just.
—Abraham Lincoln

“Suicide’s Note”
Langston Hughes
1902-1967 American

The calm,
Cool face of the river
Asked me for a kiss.

Quotations from *Cup of Gold*, 1 of 11
John Steinbeck
1902-1968 American

Often he wearily considered his existence, ringed around with little defeats which mocked it as street children torment a cripple. It was strange to Old Robert that he, who knew so much more than his neighbors, who had pondered so endlessly, should be not even a good farmer. Sometimes he imagined he understood too many things ever to do anything well.
—John Steinbeck, Cup of Gold

He lay propped on one elbow and stared past the fire into his thoughts. The long gray afternoon, piercing to this mysterious night, had called up strong yearnings in him, the seeds of which were planted months before. It was a desire for a thing he could not name.
—John Steinbeck, Cup of Gold

Young Henry was conscious, this night, that he had lived on for fifteen tedious years without accomplishing any single thing of importance.
—John Steinbeck, Cup of Gold

“But, Robert, there’s something gone out of me like a little winking light. I used to lie on the decks of ships at night and think and think how I’d talk and boast when only I came home again—but it’s more like a child, I am, come home to cry. Can you understand that, Robert? Can you understand that at all?”
—John Steinbeck, Cup of Gold

Six-Word Story
Edward Albee
1928- American

Poison; meditation; skiing; ants—nothing worked.

“Vietnam”
Wislawa Szymborska
1923- Polish
translated by Magnus J. Krynski and Robert A. Maguire

Woman, what's your name? -- I don't know.
When were you born, where do you come from? -- I don't know.
Why did you dig a hole in the ground? -- I don't know.
How long have you been hiding here? -- I don't know.
Why did you bite the hand of friendship? -- I don't know.
Don't you know we will do you no harm? -- I don't know.
Whose side are you on? -- I don't know.
There's a war on, you must choose. -- I don't know.
Does your village still exist? -- I don't know.
Are these your children? -- Yes.

Quotations from *Cup of Gold*, 2 of 11
John Steinbeck
1902-1968 American

But Robert answered her impatiently.

“To you he is only a little boy who must be made to say his prayers of nights and to wear a coat into the fields. You have not felt the polished steel of him as I have. Yes, to you that quick, hard set of his chin is only the passing stubbornness of a headstrong child. But I do know; and I say to you, without pleasure, that this son of ours will be a great man, because—well—because he is not very intelligent. He can see only one desire at a time. I said he tested his dreams; he will murder every dream with the implacable arrows of his will. This boy will win to every goal of his aiming; for he can realize no thought, no reason, but his own. And I am sorry for his coming greatness because of a thing Merlin once spoke of. You must look at the granite jaws of him, Mother, and the trick he has of making his cheek muscles stand out with clenching them.”
—John Steinbeck, Cup of Gold

There were outland forces, nameless foreign ghosts, calling to him and beckoning from across the mysterious sea.

There was no desire in him for a state or condition, no picture in his mind of the thing to be when he had followed his longing; but only a burning and a will overpowering to journey outward and outward after the earliest risen star.
—John Steinbeck, Cup of Gold

Henry said, “I have lost no love, sir, but my dream is over the sea that I do not know. I know Cambria.”
—John Steinbeck, Cup of Gold

Merlin searched the boy’s face closely. Sadly he looked up at his harps. “I think I understand,” he said softly. “You are a little boy. You want the moon to drink from as a golden cup; and so, it is very likely that you will become a great man—if only you remain a little child. All the world’s great have been little boys who wanted the moon; running and climbing, they sometimes caught a firefly. But if one grow to a man’s mind, that mind must see that it cannot have the moon and would not want it if it could—and so, it catches no fireflies.”

“But did you never want the moon?” asked Henry in a voice hushed with the room’s quiet.

“I wanted it. Above all desires I wanted it. I reached for it and then—then I grew to be a man, and a failure. But there is this gift for the failure; folk know he has failed, and they are sorry and kindly and gentle. He has the whole world with him; a bridge of contact with his own people; the cloth of mediocrity. But he who shields a firefly in his hands, caught in reaching for the moon, is doubly alone; he only can realize his true failure, can realize his meanness and fears and evasions.

“You will come to your greatness, and it may be in time you will be alone in your greatness and no friend anywhere; only those who hold you in respect or fear or awe. I am sorry for you, boy with the straight, clear eyes which look upward longingly. I am sorry for you, and—Mother Heaven! how I envy you.”
—John Steinbeck, Cup of Gold

Six-Word Story
Shamash A.

This is all there is. Enjoy.

“Elderly Woman Behind the Counter in a Small Town”
Eddie Vedder
1964- American

I seem to recognize your face
Haunting, familiar yet
I can’t seem to place it
Cannot find the candle of thought
To light your name
Lifetimes are catching up with me
All these changes taking place
I wish I’d seen the place
But no one’s ever taken me there

Hearts and thoughts, they fade
Fade away

I swear I recognize your breath
Memories, like fingerprints
Are slowly raising
Me you wouldn’t recall
For I’m not my former
It’s hard when you’re stuck up on a shelf
I change by not changing at all
Small town predicts my fate
Perhaps that what no one wants to see
I just want to scream, “Hello”
My god, it’s been so long
Never dreamed you'd return
But now here you are
And here I am
Hearts and thoughts, they fade away

Hearts and thoughts, they fade
Fade away

Quotations from *Cup of Gold*, 3 of 11
John Steinbeck
1902-1968 American

He had crept from the house in the false dawn, and started briskly walking on the road to Cardiff. There was a frozen, frightened thing in his heart, and a wondering whether he wanted to go at all. To his mind the fear had argued that if he waited to say good-by he would not be able to leave the stone house, not even for the Indies.
—John Steinbeck, Cup of Gold

He passed through villages whose names were unknown to him; friendly little clusters of rude huts, and the people staring at him as at a stranger. It was a joyous thing to young Henry. Always he had stared at others who were strangers, dreaming their destinations and the delicious mystery that sent them forth. The name of Stranger made them grand beings with mighty purposes. And now he was a stranger to be thought about and stared at with a certain reverence. He wanted to shout, “I’m on my way to the Indies,” to widen their dull eyes for them and raise their respect. Silly, spineless creatures, he thought them, with no dream and no will to leave their sodden, dumpy huts.
—John Steinbeck, Cup of Gold

They kneaded the soil in the fields with their fingers, and as their years of servitude crawled on their eyes deadened, their shoulders slumped, and a tired, dull imbecility stretched cloying webs in their brain.
—John Steinbeck, Cup of Gold

When these men were loosed from their slavery, they wandered listlessly about for a time, and watched the others go to work with something of longing. Then, after a little, they either signed new papers of indenture, or went marauding like tigers from a broken cage.
—John Steinbeck, Cup of Gold

Six-Word Story
Ginger Hamilton Caudill

Frigid, cold, cool, tepid, warm, hot.

“I Ain't Ever Satisfied”
Steve Earle
1955- American

I was born by the railroad track
The train whistle wailed and I wailed right back
Papa left mama when I was quite young
He said, "Now one of these days, you're gonna follow me, son"

I ain't ever satisfied

Now I had me a woman, she was my world
But I ran off with a back street girl
Now my back street woman could not be true
She left me standing on the boulevard, thinking about you

I ain't ever satisfied

I got an empty feeling deep inside
I'm going over to the other side

Last night I dreamed I made it to the promised land
I was standing at the gate and I had the key in my hand
Saint Peter said, "Come in, boy, you're finally home"
I said, "No thank you, Pete, I'll just be moving along"

I ain't ever satisfied

Quotations from *Cup of Gold*, 4 of 11
John Steinbeck
1902-1968 American

Henry had learned many things in dealing with the slaves. He knew that he must never let them see what he was thinking, for then, in some ineffable way, they had a hold on him which would be difficult to shake off. He must be cold and distant and insulting to those below him. With few exceptions, they would take insult as the sign of his superiority. Men always believed him what he seemed to be, and he could seem to be almost anything.

If one were brilliantly dressed, all men presumed him rich and powerful, and treated him accordingly. When he said things as though he meant them, nearly all acted as though he meant them. And, most important of his lessons—if he were perfectly honest and gave a strict accounting in nine consecutive dealings, then the tenth time he might steal as much as he wished, and no one would dream of suspecting him, so only he had brought the nine times forcibly enough to the attention of all men.

A growing pile of golden coins in a box under his bed gave ample proof of the validity of this last lesson. And he followed all his teachings. He never gave any man the least hold on him, nor insight into his motives and means and abilities and shortcomings. Since most men did not believe in themselves, they could not believe in one they understood to be like themselves.
—John Steinbeck, Cup of Gold

He gazed about him and knew that he should be satisfied, but his eyes had never lost the trick of looking out beyond distance and over the edge of the present. A little hectoring wish ran through his waking and dreaming like a thin red line. He must get back to the sea and ships. The sea was his mother and his mistress, and the goddess who might command and find him ready and alert for service.
—John Steinbeck, Cup of Gold

“I loved her with that love a man may exercise but once.”
—John Steinbeck, Cup of Gold

“But—do you love Paulette?”

He leaped up and glared at her.

“You? Love you? Why, you are just a little animal! a pretty little golden animal, for sure, but a form of flesh—no more. May one worship a god merely because he is big, or cherish a land which has no virtue save its breadth, or love a woman whose whole realm is her flesh? Ah, Paulette! you have no soul at all! Elizabeth had a white winged soul. I love you—yes—with what you have to be loved—the body. But Elizabeth—I loved Elizabeth with my soul.”

Paulette was puzzled.

“What is this soul?” she asked. “And how may I get one if I have not one already? And where is this soul of yours that I have never seen it or heard it at all? And if they cannot be seen, or heard, or touched, how do you know she had this soul?”

“Hush!” he cried furiously. “Hush! or I box your mouth and have you whipped on the cross. You speak of things beyond you. What can you know of love that lies without your fleshly juggling?”
—John Steinbeck, Cup of Gold

Six-Word Story
anonymous
2005

Pound dog. Home dog. Pound dog.

“This Is A Photograph Of Me”
Margaret Atwood
1939- Canadian

It was taken some time ago.
At first it seems to be
a smeared
print: blurred lines and grey flecks
blended with the paper;

then, as you scan
it, you see in the left-hand corner
a thing that is like a branch: part of a tree
(balsam or spruce) emerging
and, to the right, halfway up
what ought to be a gentle
slope, a small frame house.

In the background there is a lake,
and beyond that, some low hills.

(The photograph was taken
the day after I drowned.

I am in the lake, in the center
of the picture, just under the surface.

It is difficult to say where
precisely, or to say
how large or small I am:
the effect of water
on light is a distortion

but if you look long enough,
eventually
you will be able to see me.)

Quotations from *Cup of Gold*, 5 of 11
John Steinbeck
1902-1968 American

There was respect in his eyes, surely, but no fear, no jealousy, and no suspicion.
—John Steinbeck, Cup of Gold

“Heard of her!” he said softly. “Sir, I have dreamed of her and called to her in my sleep. Who has not? Who in all this quarter of the world has not heard of her, and yet who knows any single thing about her? It is a strange thing, the magic of this woman’s name. La Santa Rosa! La Santa Rosa! It conjures up desire in the heart of every man—not active, possible desire, but the ‘if I were handsome, if I were a prince’ kind of desire. The young men make wild plans; some to go disguised to Panama, others to blow it up with quantities of powder. They daydream of carrying the Red Saint off with them. Sir, I have heard a seaman all rotten with disease whispering to himself in the night, ‘If this thing were not on me, I would go adventuring for La Santa Rosa.’”
—John Steinbeck, Cup of Gold

And again they sat silently, drinking the rich wine.

“But there is much suffering bound up in women,” Henry Morgan began, as though he had just finished speaking. “They seem to carry pain about with them in a leaking package. You have loved often, they say, Coeur de Gris. Have you not felt the pain they carry?”

“No, sir, I do not think I have. Surely I have been assailed by regrets and little sorrows—everyone has; but mostly I have found only pleasure among women.”

“Ah, you are lucky,” the captain said. “You are filled with luck not to have known the pain. My own life was poisoned by love. This life I lead was forced on me by lost love.”
—John Steinbeck, Cup of Gold

“Here is an old man, sir. We are sure he has riches, but he has hidden them away and we can never find any.”

“Then put his feet in the fire!—why, he is a brazen fool! Break his arms!— He will not tell? Put the whip-cord about his temples!— Oh, kill him! kill him and stop his screaming— Perhaps he had no money—”

(There is a woman in Panama—)

“Have you scratched out every grain of gold? Place the city at ransom! We must have riches after pain.”

A fleet of Spanish ships came sailing to the rescue.

“A Spanish squadron coming? We will fight them! No, no; we shall run from them if we can get away. Our hulls lag in the water with their weight of gold. Kill the prisoners!”

(—she is lovely as the sun.)
—John Steinbeck, Cup of Gold

“The Jean-Paul Sartre Cookbook”
Marty Smith
American

We have recently been lucky enough to discover several previously lost diaries of French philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre stuck in between the cushions of our office sofa. These diaries reveal a young Sartre obsessed not with the void, but with food. Aparently Sartre, before discovering philosophy, had hoped to write "a cookbook that will put to rest all notions of flavor forever." The diaries are excerpted here for your perusal.

October 3

Spoke with Camus today about my cookbook. Though he has never actually eaten, he gave me much encouragement. I rushed home immediately to begin work. How excited I am! I have begun my formula for a Denver omelet.

October 4

Still working on the omelet. There have been stumbling blocks. I keep creating omelets one after another, like soldiers marching into the sea, but each one seems empty, hollow, like stone. I want to create an omelet that expresses the meaninglessness of existence, and instead they taste like cheese. I look at them on the plate, but they do not look back. Tried eating them with the lights off. It did not help. Malraux suggested paprika.

October 6

I have realized that the traditional omelet form (eggs and cheese) is bourgeois. Today I tried making one out of a cigarette, some coffee, and four tiny stones. I fed it to Malraux, who puked. I am encouraged, but my journey is still long.

October 7

Today I again modified my omelet recipe. While my previous attempts had expressed my own bitterness, they communicated only illness to the eater. In an attempt to reach the bourgeoisie, I taped two fried eggs over my eyes and walked the streets of Paris for an hour. I ran into Camus at the Select. He called me a "pathetic dork" and told me to "go home and wash my face." Angered, I poured a bowl of bouillabaisse into his lap. He became enraged, and, seizing a straw wrapped in paper, tore off one end of the wrapper and blew through the straw, propelleing the wrapper into my eye. "Ow! You dick!" I cried. I leaped up, cursing and holding my eye, and fled.

October 10

I find myself trying ever more radical interpretations of traditional dishes, in an effort to somehow express the void I feel so acutely. Today I tried this recipe:

Tuna Casserole

Ingredients: 1 large casserole dish

Place the casserole dish in a cold oven. Place a chair facing the oven and sit in it forever. Think about how hungry you are. When night falls, do not turn on the light.

While a void is expressed in this recipe, I am struck by its inapplicability to the bourgeois lifestyle. How can the eater recognize that the food denied him is a tuna casserole and not some other dish? I am becoming more and more frustated.

October 12

My eye has become inflamed. I hate Camus.

October 25

I have been forced to abandon the project of producing an entire cookbook. Rather, I now seek a single recipe which will, by itself, embody the plight of man in a world ruled by an unfeeling God, as well as providing the eater with at least one ingredient from each of the four basic food groups. To this end, I purchased six hundred pounds of foodstuffs from the corner grocery and locked myself in the kitchen, refusing to admit anyone. After several weeks of work, I produced a recipe calling for two eggs, half a cup of flour, four tons of beef, and a leek. While this is a start, I am afraid I still have much work ahead.

November 15

I feel that I may be very close to a great breakthrough. I had been creating meal after meal, but none seemed to express the futility of existence any better than would ordering a pizza. I left the house this morning in a most depressed state, and wandered aimlessly through the streets. Suddenly, it was as if the heavens had opened. My brain was electrified with an influx of new ideas. "Juice, toast, milk..." I muttered aloud. I realized with a start that I was one ingredient away from creating the nutritious breakfast. Loathsome, true, but filled with existential authenticity. I rushed home to begin work anew.

November 18

Today I tried yet another variation: Juice, toast, milk and Chee-tos. Again, a dismal failure. I have tried everything. Juice, toast, milk and whiskey, juice, toast, milk and chicken fat, juice, toast, milk and someone else's spit. Nothing helps. I am in agony. Juice, toast, milk, they race about my fevered brain like fire, like an unholy trinity of cruel denial. And the fourth ingredient! What could it be? It eludes me like the lost chord, the Holy Grail. I must see the completion of my task, but I have no more money to spend on food. Perhaps man is not meant to know.

November 21

Camus came into the restaurant today. He did not know I was in the kitchen, and before I sent out his meal I loogied in his soup. Sic semper tyrannis.

November 23

Ran into some opposition at the restaurant. Some of the patrons complained that my breakfast special (a page out of Remembrance of Things Past and a blowtorch with which to set it on fire) did not satisfy their hunger. As if their hunger was of any consequence! "But we're starving," they say. So what? They're going to die eventually anyway. They make me want to puke. I have quit the job. It is stupid for Jean-Paul Sartre to sling hash. I have enough money to continue my work for a little while.

November 24

Last night I had a dream. In it, I am standing, alone, on a beach. A great storm is raging all about me. It begins to rain. Night falls. I am struck by how small and insignificant I am, how the entire race of Man is but a speck in the eye of God, and I am but a speck of humanity. Suddenly, a red Cadillac convertible pulls up beside me. In it are these two beautiful girls named Jojo and Wendy. I get in and the take me to their mansion in Hollywood and give me a pound of cocaine and make mad, passionate love to me for the rest of my life.

November 26

Today I made a Black Forest cake out of five pounds of cherries and a live beaver, challenging the very definition of the word "cake." I was very pleased. Malraux said he admired it greatly, but could not stay for dessert. Still, I feel that this may be my most profound achievement yet, and have resolved to enter it in the Betty Crocker Bake-Off.

November 30

Today was the day of the Bake-Off. Alas, things did not go as I had hoped. During the judging, the beaver became agitated and bit Betty Crocker on the wrist. The beaver's powerful jaws are capable of felling blue spruce in less than ten minutes and proved, needless to say, more than a match for the tender limbs of America's favorite homemaker. I only got third place. Moreover, I am now the subject of a rather nasty lawsuit.

December 1

I have been gaining twenty-five pounds a week for two months, and I am now experiencing light tides. It is stupid to be so fat. My pain and ultimate solitude are still as authentic as they were when I was thin, but seem to impress girls far less. From now on, I will live on cigarettes and black coffee.

Quotations from *Cup of Gold*, 6 of 11
John Steinbeck
1902-1968 American

“Now the men are straining to get back that they may spend their money. If it were possible they would be pushing the ships to hurry them. What will you do with your money, Coeur de Gris?”

“Why, I shall send half to my mother. The remaining sum I shall divide in two. Part I shall put away, and on the other I expect to be drunk for a few days, or perhaps a week. It is good to be drunk after fighting.”

“Drunkenness has never been a pleasure to me,” the captain said. “It makes me very sad. But I have a new venture turning in my brain. Coeur de Gris, what is the richest city of the western world? What place has been immune from the slightest gesture of the Brotherhood? Where might we all make millions?”

“But, sir, you do not think— Surely you cannot consider it possible to take—”

“I will take Panama—even the Cup of Gold.”

“How may you do this thing? The city is strongly guarded with walls and troops, and the way across the isthmus is nigh impossible but for the burro trail. How will you do this thing?”

“I must take Panama. I must capture the Cup of Gold.” The captain’s jaw set fiercely.

Now Coeur de Gris was smiling quietly.
—John Steinbeck, Cup of Gold

“I must have an army this time, my friend, and even then we may all die. Perhaps that is the chief joy of life—to risk it.”
—John Steinbeck, Cup of Gold

Young Coeur de Gris stood musing by the mast.

“Our captain, our cold captain, has been bitten by this great, nebulous rumoring. How strange this pattern is! It is as though the Red Saint had been stolen from my arms. My dream is violated. I wonder, when they know, if every man will carry this feeling of a bitter loss—will hate the captain for stealing his desire.”
—John Steinbeck, Cup of Gold