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 THE REVOLUTIONS OF TIME
By Jonathan Dunn
Note to the reader: The manuscript for this book was found in a weather-beaten stone box on anisland in the Pacific Ocean. Its contents were written in an ancient form of Latin, which was translated and edited by Jonathan Dunn.
Dedicated to Bernibus,
amicus certus in re incerta cernitur.(A true friend is discerned during an uncertain matter)
Table of Contents:
Chapter 1: Past and PresentChapter 2: Predestined Deja VuChapter 3: Zards and CanitaursChapter 4: Onan, Lord of the PastChapter 5: The TreewayChapter 6: The Fiery LakeChapter 7: Down to NunamiChapter 8: The Temple of TimeChapter 9: Mutually Assured DeceptionChapter 10: DevolutionChapter 11: The Land Across the SeaChapter 12: The White EagleChapter 13: The Big BangChapter 14: Past and Future
 
...The very men who claimed mental superiority because they were free fromsuperstitions and divine disillusionment were themselves victims of their ownsophism, and while they thought themselves crowned with enlightenment, itwas naught but the Phrygian caps of their prejudices toward the materialstate.
- Jehu, the Kinsman Redeemer 
 The physical manifestation of the spiritual force is not the spiritual force atall, only a bland deception. If you only focus on what you can see directly,than you chase after only the representation and not the object desired. If abird is flying through the sky at noontime, casting a shadow on the groundbelow him, and a man comes along, and in the hope of catching the birdchases after its shadow, it is evident that he will never catch it, for when hedoes reach it, he will find that there is nothing there at all, only the shadowof what it was he desired. So it is with the spiritual!
- Onan, Lord of the Past 
Chapter 1: Past and Present
My name is Jehu. Most probably it sounds foreign and unfamiliar to you,devoid of the qualities of affection and personality which give character to aname. It is a harsh name, cold and inhuman, like something out of the night,an unwelcome intruder into the warmth of familiarity. It inspires no blissfulmemories, nor does it kindle fond feelings in the bosom of the hearer,instead the heart is hardened to it like the feathers of a duck to water,repulsing it, leaving it to run off into the ditches and by-ways of the longforgotten past, to trickle dejectedly into those stagnant ponds where somany words of wisdom are imprisoned: out of sight, out of mind, out of heart,out of history. Yet while history is forgotten and misconstrued, it is repeated,for what is life without water, which nourishes and sustains it, and what is lifewithout wisdom, which protects and cultivates it? Jehu is my name, though it no longer brings the quickened pulse and keenanticipation of happiness to the hearts of any, not even my own. For whatdeference can be given to a name, though not in itself a thing of dishonor,which represents the failure to derail the evitable fate which wrecks the raceof man again and again. Not that I myself embody such a failure, nor eventhat I gave birth to the dreaded fate’s latest momentum, but as is seen timeand again throughout history, one name is brought to represent the tide of change, for better or worse, the doer of deeds which were done not by him,but by a mass of independent doers, yet it is written in the annals of historyas the deeds of but one man.
 
While I had little to do, consciously, with the doom of the earth, I will alwaysbe fingered as the villain, as the ambitious Napoleon or the barbaric Atilla,the arrogant Augustus or the fearful Cyrus. Someone has to bear the burdenof shame on the pages of history for the people of his time, and in thatsense, maybe I truly can be called their kinsman redeemer. Perhaps it is myfate to bear witness to the wrongs of a people, of which even you are notwholly innocent.And yet can an individual be blamed for the faults of a society, can personalresponsibility be extended to the members of an unknown multitude? Howthe enjoined conscience of one longs to say no, but in good faith it cannot besaid, for in this case the mask of ignorance cannot supersede the face of guilt. Indeed, ignorance in this case only adds to the shame of the guilty, thisbeing a crime not of misdeeds but of negligence, twisted together with thevices of humanity into a thick and sturdy cord, a rope that cannot be pulledapart and individually examined, yet must be taken as a whole. Insularly, thestrand of ignorance could be easily snapped, remedied by but a littleeducation, yet when woven together by one’s own hands with prides andprejudices, it forms an unbreakable rope, which is placed about our neck tohang us: through means of our own doing is our fate foretold. If but one ortwo of the strands were omitted, the result would be a feeble rope, easilybroken, and we would live. But by our own vices is our mortality mademanifest, by our own wrongs are we wronged.By now you may be beginning to feel the impulses of indignation arising inyour breast, for who am I, the admittedly despicable Jehu, to group you asmy fellow convicts, my co-conspirators, in a sense? And you are right, for Iam not your judge and neither do I wish to be.Having said that, I now request of you to put down the book and discontinuereading.“Surely,” you say to yourself, “He is mentally deranged, for what author inhis right mind would encourage his readers to disperse, what writer does notthrive on the digestion of his words by an eager audience?”Here I must make a revelation to you: if my manuscript has indeed beenfound, then I have long since been dead; and I assure you that in whateverform my existence takes in the present, I have little desire for your intrigueor goodwill. Do you think Melville is consoled in death of his miserable life bythe vainglorious praises of the living? Or do you think that Poe is comfortedby such avid attentions in his present abode? In truth, Melville’s only rivalryis now within, and Poe’s only raven that daunting memory of those truthswhich had escaped him in life, but which now are opened to you.More importantly, if this manuscript has been found, it proves that what iscontained herein is the unerring truth. I do not write this to exonerate myself,however let me say here that I am more the Andre’ than the Arnold, for I wasbut the emissary of history, not the traitor to humanity, and if not me thensome other would have filled the void. Let it be remembered that it was
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