The Revolutions of Time | Page 2

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 history as the deeds of but one man.
While I had little to do, consciously, with the doom of the earth, I will always be fingered
as the villain, as the ambitious Napoleon or the barbaric Atilla, the arrogant Augustus or
the fearful Cyrus. Someone has to bear the burden of shame on the pages of history for
the people of his time, and in that sense, maybe I truly can be called their kinsman
redeemer. Perhaps it is my fate to bear witness to the wrongs of a people, of which even
you are not wholly innocent.
And yet can an individual be blamed for the faults of a society, can personal
responsibility be extended to the members of an unknown multitude? How the enjoined
conscience of one longs to say no, but in good faith it cannot be said, 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, this being a crime not of misdeeds but of negligence,
twisted together with the vices of humanity into a thick and sturdy cord, a rope that
cannot be pulled apart and individually examined, yet must be taken as a whole. Insularly,
the strand of ignorance could be easily snapped, remedied by but a little education, yet
when woven together by one's own hands with prides and prejudices, it forms an
unbreakable rope, which is placed about our neck to hang us: through means of our own
doing is our fate foretold. If but one or two of the strands were omitted, the result would
be a feeble rope, easily broken, and we would live. But by our own vices is our mortality
made manifest, by our own wrongs are we wronged.
By now you may be beginning to feel the impulses of indignation arising in your breast,
for who am I, the admittedly despicable Jehu, to group you as my fellow convicts, my
co-conspirators, in a sense? And you are right, for I am not your judge and neither do I
wish to be.
Having said that, I now request of you to put down the book and discontinue reading.

"Surely," you say to yourself, "He is mentally deranged, for what author in his right mind
would encourage his readers to disperse, what writer does not thrive on the digestion of
his words by an eager audience?"
Here I must make a revelation to you: if my manuscript has indeed been found, then I
have long since been dead; and I assure you that in whatever form my existence takes in
the present, I have little desire for your intrigue or goodwill. Do you think Melville is
consoled in death of his miserable life by the vainglorious praises of the living? Or do
you think that Poe is comforted by such avid attentions in his present abode? In truth,
Melville's only rivalry is now within, and Poe's only raven that daunting memory of those
truths which had escaped him in life, but which now are opened to you.
More importantly, if this manuscript has been found, it proves that what is contained
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 was but the emissary of history, not
the traitor to humanity, and if not me then some other would have filled the void. Let it be
remembered that it was Andre' who gave his life for his deeds, and yet it is Andre' who is
recollected with a sweet sorrow, and though Arnold lived, he had no peace. Yet while
history is vivid and encyclopedic, in itself a living organism, it can speak only through
the mouths of men, who often misrepresent it for their own partisan and prejudiced plans.
It is strong and steadfast, though, and in time is always victorious over its menial
opposition, for what is history but the past tense of truth, and it is justly said that veritas
numquam perit, truth never dies.
Going back to what I said before, namely that at my manuscript's discovery my demise
will itself be history: I am assured that such is true, for even now as I write this my death
is near at hand. How wide the abyss of time that separates us is I cannot tell, but I do
know that it is beyond the reckoning of men, such an unknown barrage of hollow,
formless years. Yet as you read this it is as if I were speaking directly to you, despite