Cached from a Russian source on May 18, 2010--
From Robert Anton Wilson's Masks of the Illuminati--

The mummy Osiris rose from the grave.
I am a watchmaker in Amsterdam, he said. The nitrogen cycle.
Ulysses rose from the grave.
I am an advertising canvasser in Dublin, he said.
Stanislaus Joyce came out from under the carpet wearing the Mark of Cain.
Am I my brother's keeper, he asked. Besides, the woman did tempt me. . .
Oh rocks said the voice of Nora Barnacle.
But Joyce arose from the grave glorified infinitely subtle.
Bad luck to your souls, he laughed, did you think me dead?
Lots of fun at Finnegans Wake, sang the Master Masons.
Merde, said General Canbronne. Age of Reason. Always wear brown trousers in battle.
Dracula rose from the grave.
Don't forget to include me in the I.N.R.I, process, he said. Landlords never die. The other side of the Devil. I never drink wine.
Eduard Einstein and Lucia Joyce were led in, wearing straitjackets, moving with the mindless jerkiness of chronic schizophrenia.
You'll desert my mother, Eduard said accusingly to Albert. You never loved me. All you love is your goddam equations. You are a monster. You live in your head and don't love anyone. Oh I think I shall go mad.
Oh, no, Einstein said sobbing suddenly.
You see, Crowley said to Babcock. Now it's his turn for the Nun stage of I.N.R.I. Death on a White Horse.
Lucia Joyce lifted her skirt flirtatiously, showing a blue garter.
Go, damn you, she shouted at James. Hide under the ground. I know you're watching us. Watching, always watching. You know everything -- men women boys girls -- and you see through it all don't you? You live in your head and don't love anyone.
Shite, Joyce said, sobbing in his wine.
And there's another candidate, Crowley said airily.
You rotten bastard.
It's bloody beastly buggering bleeding hell to be the child of a genius, Eduard Einstein mourned.
Don't I know it, Lucia Joyce agreed.
I am HE, Crowley chanted suddenly drawing their attention again. The Bornless Spirit having sight in the feet Strong and immortal fire Who hate that evil should be wrought in the world He that lightning and thundereth He whose mouth ever flameth He from whom is the shower of life on Earth
A true initiation never ends.
Dare to struggle, dare to win, shouted Lenin.
Dare to guzzle Gordon's gin, Joyce added.
Je suis Bovary, Flaubert said looking embarrassed.
Je suis Molly Bloom, Joyce said unembarrassed.
The Master Masons chanted over the Neanderthal fire:

For of the Father and the Son
The Holy Spirit is the norm
Male-female, quintessential, one
Man-being veiled in womanform
Glory and worship be to Thee
Sap of the world-ash, wonder-tree!

[…..]

Glory to thee from gilded tomb, resounded the voice of Tim Finnegan.
Glory to thee from waiting womb, chanted Molly Bloom.
Glory to thee from earth unploughed, cried Osiris.
Glory to thee from virgin vowed, sang Isis.
The cross becomes a phallus.
The phallas becomes a cross.
The cross becomes a whirling sun.
Two owls and a hen, said King Lear, Three crows and a wren, have all built their nests in my beard.
They were moving toward Zero.
My God it's the Black Hole, Schwartzchild cried.
The entrance to Hell, Babcock said.
The Cup of Our Lady, Crowley corrected them.
It became an enormous pulsating doughnut. Joyce laughed.
Nine months to get out, he said, and the rest of our fool lives trying to get back in again. . .
The doughnut became the spinning galaxy.
[…..]

The earth shook. Cthulhu rose from the Depths waving white-stained garters and stocks bonds currencies of all nations boards and corporations. Governments fell like bowling pins. The stock market crashed. Nameless anarchist hordes stormed the streets, shouting Up Against The Wall Motherfuckers as they executed bankers corporation presidents lawyers politicians landlords priests rabbis ministers lady-golfers and anyone with a clean white shirt. Orgies broke out in parliaments, congresses, antique shops, boutiques, business offices, butcher shops, monasteries, trolleycars, hospitals, carousels, universities, academies, laboratories, nunneries, bakeries, cathedrals, law offices, factories; huge brutal cocks were thrust into cunts, assholes, mouths of voluptuous actresses, doddering dowagers, distinguished philosophers, kings, bishops, boys, girls, soldiers, Mother Superiors, bankers, whimpering poets; cunts were fucked, sucked, chewed, licked, kissed; Queen Victoria was gangbanged by 358 Watusi warriors. Madmen defecated in wells, fountains, punchbowls, on streets and in doorways. Drooling farmboys waving signs that said Bestiality Liberation charged into pet shops to sodomize dogs, cats, monkeys, birds, tarantulas. Andre Breton walked about Paris shooting pedestrians at random. The last lawyer was strangled with the guts of the last politician. The Pope appeared in delirium on the balcony facing Saint Peter's Square incoherently chanting Cthulhu fthagn while sodomizing himself with a twelve-inch dildo from the Yokohama Sex And Leather Corporation. Housewives murdered their husbands and rushed to the stockyards to fuck goats, howling Io Pan Io Pan Pan The Goat With a Thousand Young! Nihilists attacked insane asylums with automatic rifles, murdered the staffs and set the patients free to roam the streets and set fire to psychiatrists' offices. Avant-garde poets seized the newspapers and published strange, unsettling headlines: Is It a New Electromagnetic Phenomenon or The Heart and Mind of Europe Dying?; Only the Madman Is Absolutely Free; The Star People Are Returning But I Have Lost My One True Love; Where Is God Now That We Need Him? The next day the women got organized and completed the butchery. And the sky turned into the body of Nuit, black, beautiful, the starmother: and all was changed in a moment, in the flickering of an eye. It never happened. We were just four people sitting on the floor looking past time into eternity.