by L. Ron Hubbard
Although Excalibur was never published, much of the basic knowledge contained in it was later released by Ron in other works.
Sections of the original manuscript were lost more than four decades ago, but the text of the Preface to Excalibur still exists and is published here, for the first time.
f there was ever any truth in predestination, then the foregone course of this book was damnation the day it was conceived.
In the first place it cannot possibly have any readers. That has been proven by the lengthy logic of professors and editors who all agree quite solemnly that this book is entirely too abstract for consumption by the general public, entirely too clear for gestation by the academics -- which dooms Excalibur to a perusal by a few scattered men of intelligence. Thus, if one belongs to the "general public" he might as well stop here since he does not possess adequate mental-gastric equipment to handle such a work.
In the second place, Excalibur was not originally intended for publication at all, a fact which must be enlarged because it seems incomprehensible that a postman should ever go for his walk.
Thirdly, no work which is not partisan ever finds group support; indicating the evident advantage of choosing sides even if one is forced into Methodism or Taoism.
Fourthly, it could be of no possible interest to anyone that all wisdom might be reducible to a single word.
Hence, the only decision to be reached is utter damnation. But matters have progressed too great a distance now for retraction and so we must proceed, if not to victory, at least to a decent defeat.
The very circumstances which caused this fabric to be woven were not auspicious. "During the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day in the autumn of the year, when the clouds hung oppressively low in the heavens, I had been passing alone..." [from Edgar Allan Poe’s Fall of the House of Usher] too much time in the Pacific Northwest. Further, I was suffering unduly from two very serious illnesses -- one, the recovery from operation shock and two, a peculiar 20th Century malady caused by the bacillus Hollywoodus which breeds best in the vicinity of long noses, bad English and celluloid. In addition a copy of Jack London’s Martin Eden had wandered into the workshop and I had used it as an excuse to forego the arduous labor of constructing airy fancies for magazine readers. The combination proved too much for my momentarily reduced resistance and yet another animalcule, the bacillus philosophus, entered, multiplied and presently ravaged my soul.
