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The Book of the Damned
·
Charles Fort
1
THE
BOOK
OF
THE
DAMNED
1
A
procession
of
the
damned.
By
the
damned,
I
mean
the
excluded.
We
shall
have
a
procession
of
data
that
Science
has
excluded.
Battalions
of
the
accursed,
captained
by
pallid
data
that
I
have
exhumed,
will
march.
You'll
read
them--or
they'll
march.
Some
of
them
livid
and
some
of
them
fiery
and
some
of
them
rotten.
Some
of
them
are
corpses,
skeletons,
mummies,
twitching,
tottering,
animated
by
companions
that
have
been
damned
alive.
There
are
giants
that
will
walk
by,
though
sound
asleep.
There
are
things
that
are
theorems
and
things
that
are
rags:
they'll
go
by
like
Euclid
arm
in
arm
with
the
spirit
of
anarchy.
Here
and
there
will
flit
little
harlots.
Many
are
clowns.
But
many
are
of
the
highest
respectability.
Some
are
assassins.
There
are
pale
stenches
and
gaunt
superstitions
and
mere
shadows
and
lively
malices:
whims
and
amiabilities.
The
naive
and
the
pedantic
and
the
bizarre
and
the
grotesque
and
the
sincere
and
the
insincere,
the
profound
and
the
puerile.
A
stab
and
a
laugh
and
the
patiently
folded
hands
of
hopeless
propriety.
The
ultra-respectable,
but
the
condemned,
anyway.
The
aggregate
appearance
is
of
dignity
and
dissoluteness:
the
aggregate
voice
is
a
defiant
prayer:
but
the
spirit
of
the
whole
is
processional.
The
power
that
has
said
to
all
these
things
that
they
are
damned,
is
Dogmatic
Science.
But
they'll
march.
The
little
harlots
will
caper,
and
freaks
will
distract
attention,
and
the
clowns
will
break
the
rhythm
of
the
whole
with
their
buffooneries--but
the
solidity
of
the
procession
as
a
whole:
the
impressiveness
of
things
that
pass
and
pass
and
pass,
and
keep
on
and
keep
on
and
keep
on
coming.
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