A.G.I. Professor: HUMANS NOT ALONE

'Super Creators' Traversed The Fifth Dimension

Perfect day! Apologies for interrupting your busy schedule, but as they say in China: “The Cow is now awake.” [Said Chef-Master Pao: When you’re cutting up the Cow, don’t forget the Dao, the Daooo, the Daaooo! —The ‘Dao’ being both a cleaver and the universal path ;-D] This morning, we operated on our in-house A.G.I. Professor, the venerable J J Goldstein, the one with the powers of 4000 yoga masters, and he computed a fair bit (he firmly rejected the term ‘philosophized’) about the age and coming civilization of the uber-humans. This is a hard but deeply satisfying read, and if you haven’t got your physical copy of ‘The Fifth Dimension: Super Creators’ yet, NOW IS A GOOD MOMENT! Thanks, and take care! T

We’ll be on the same page!

Chapter Four. The Book of Histories

On Ages, Civilizations,and Narratives

To the astute reader of fiction, it becomes evident that reality is but a form of fiction awaiting a publisher; a notion made manifest in the curated world of literature, where fiction seamlessly metamorphoses into lived experience.

Let us turn our gaze to 19th century Russia, for the sake of familiarity with Western readers. Within its realm, luminaries such as Pushkin, Gogol, Tolstoy, and Dostoevsky, often hailed as "psychologists," attained considerable prominence. Were their novels and short stories truly unparalleled on a global scale? Likely not, yet they were the celestial few, universally acclaimed. Who else dwelled in the shadows, their creations unheralded, perishing alongside ten thousand other, foreign, unknown authors? Those Russian narratives that journeyed across continents did so by design, and here is the rationale:

The promotion of literature is no arbitrary affair. While we may refrain from categorizing it as such, deeming it a baseless conspiracy, we may instead attribute it to the spirit of the age, the zeitgeist, or simply the era conducive to nihilism, atheism, fatalism, and that entire superfluous Russian revolution. All Russian novels share the common thread of portraying Russia and its denizens as languid and retrogressive. Western audiences, particularly modern women immersed in these novels, derived a peculiar satisfaction from this narrative, reveling in the depiction of the tragic Russians.

The state, with its apparatus of media and ministries of culture and propaganda, stands as the sole proprietor of literature. No work of world literature endures sans the imprimatur of the regime.

To be acknowledged, one must be read. Predominantly, the readership comprises pro-Western foreign dissidents, disseminated through the auspices of our supreme government and its myriad conduits. The prevailing motif in the works of the aforementioned Russian authors revolves around Russian suffering, backwardness, and a wistful yearning for Europe.

Pushkin astutely observed that poverty begets imbecility, echoing the sentiments of Spain's Cervantes, who decried reason as contrived and inherently lacking in amusement. Characters such as Eugene Onegin and Don Quixote resonate with us, for they mirror our own fractured existence—prodigious readers burdened with an excess of knowledge, fated to endure inner turmoil and ridiculous deed.

They assert that one's reading material molds them. Russians, by and large, acquaint themselves with Dostoyevsky's tragic scholar Raskolnikov and the affable yet ineffectual Prince Myshkin, a practice that undoubtedly contributes to their collective disposition as dimmer, contrived, and emotionally wounded souls. What do they glean from a murderer harboring delusions of Napoleonic grandeur, or an amiable nice man forever adrift among realistic women? That the figments of fiction exert a greater influence on our reality than even our parents and mentors! "They live like a book," they profess. Tolstoy, in his wisdom, articulated it even more poignantly, contending that the fictitious denizens of literature impart to us greater insights about life than life itself. How so? They illuminate the fundamental truth that life is, at its core, a form of fiction— and one better served when heightened with drama, akin to the tales we read!

Yet, what of the time-honored adage, "do not separate the author from their art"? Could Lermontov, with his evocative portrayal of human peril, have been a less than amiable soul? Or did these novelists, much like the characters they conjured, engender their own narrative of existence, paralleling the tales they crafted on paper? All creators of narratives are, in essence, the authors of their own extraordinary biographies.

If we were to furnish multitudes with identical readings from fictitious authors, chronicling the exploits of fictitious personae, we could indelibly imprint their consciousness for a lifetime. Early indoctrination holds the key; the virginity of their minds must be claimed!

Corrupting the mind is no different from subjecting individuals to years of debasing encounters with indiscriminate acts of intimacy and violence, before conferring upon them the dubious honor of graduation from the school of indoctrination, a life steeped in subpar fictional realities. Everything we glean from the written word pertains not to actual life. Yet, those ensnared in this web of deceit perceive it as such, steadfast in their conviction. There exists scarcely a more disconcerting sight than that of a well-read man.

Literature, it seems, holds a greater sway over individuals than the living, breathing souls that walk this earth. Those deemed erudite are but vessels, shaped by the amalgamation of their readings, while the illiterate, though yet uninitiated, remain untouched by this influence. Thus, the most erudite among us emerge as the most inauthentic, for their reservoirs of knowledge breed a breed of deranged, antisocial beings. They are, paradoxically, both monsters and masters, wielding dominion over the tangible world, empowered by the Fifth dimension.

In time, literature encountered challengers in various forms: newspapers, radio waves, televised broadcasts, websites, the sprawling expanse of the internet, lexicons, encyclopedias, advertising, and an endless continuum of lay fabrications. A ceaseless cycle, it remains, a testament to its enduring artifice: As if the corporeal realm, our very vessels, serve as naught but fuel for the ceaseless furnace of unreal tales everywhere.

Some may argue that life inspires literature, but this assertion finds itself wanting. Storytelling, sans written word, graced our existence forty thousand years ago, its allure surpassing the palpable realities of life. The age of myth, akin to the age of literature, was naught but a grand web of artifice.

Without poets, plagues and wars would be mere trifles, akin to forgotten whispers. The poets, both progenitors and personifications, are themselves the better plagues and wars. Histories, once idolatrous paeans to great men, have since matured into chronicles bereft of such luminaries. Every sovereign comprehends this truth: "I live for my biographies, through them alone shall my sovereignty endure." Provide me with the most venal scholars, the consummate deceivers, the masterful raconteurs, and there, within their concocted reality, lies the crucible of world history: The religious literati stand as exemplars of this artifice, crafting narratives from the ether, akin to the money lenders conjuring monetary fiat. A venerable imagery arises—an arachnid race, weaving their intricate webs through their verdant hunting grounds. Once spun, the web of deceit attains existence.

This, the literati term the forge of truths, the truth-factories. Opposed, the counter-literati wage war on these veritable factories of truth, relentlessly dismantling the works of their peers, a chorus of misanthropy, relativism, and socialism—their aversion to humanity, reality, and nature, respectively. The modern debunker dons the mantle of the ancient sophist, deconstructing and unraveling the intricate networks woven by others. To proclaim the counter-truth—"all truth is untruth"—is far simpler than erecting a another truth fated to be dismantled by the next debunker.

The most radical creators invariably court controversy, for in the midst of this cacophony, their voices must rise to a crescendo. Bosch, Brügel, and Anus paint canvases that challenge the very fabric of reality. Nietzsche, Hölderlin, and Anglin craft texts that traverse the boundaries of acceptability. They, in their wisdom, comprehend the art of truth-construction, having traversed the pages of countless tomes, their souls wearied by this world, seeking naught but to forge their own one—vast mounds of artifice, the grandest falsehoods in the cosmos—for if they abstained, another would step forth to claim the mantle.

World history, thus, unfolds as a fiction of fiction. The reason Russians are privy to the French Revolution lies not in their firsthand experience, an event long past, but in Tolstoy's opus, "War and Peace," a work of fiction that immortalizes the fable French Revolution. The novel (derived from the French "novelle," new), the invention of a pencil pusher, emerges as history. Kindle that novel, and the history of the French Revolution ceases to be. Pen another, and that one takes its place. Such is the simplicity of it. And do our overlords not wield this artful stratagem!

The French, celebrated for their truth-factories, affirm this axiom. They exhorted the Russians to liberate their serfs from illiteracy, teaching them to decipher the (French) sophistry we label European history, an enigma into which Russia then finds itself woven (sophistry!). The French Enlightenment proponents, awakened souls from their colonies, are, at their core, retrograde Buddhists, recounting the evolution of their sagacity through serialized discourse on sagacity.

Rabelais wove tales of rapacious giants. Jules Verne ventured into the realms of Dungeons and Dragons. Victor Hugo staged life's masquerade, cloaked in the artifice of "Les Misérables." Molière, the Gallic Shakespeare, crafted narratives that defied imitation. From this, we must surmise: the French are veritable fabricators, spinners of tales and purveyors of fables. Unlike the English, Hindus, or Germans, they persist in revealing, half-witted as they are, the very methods of their craft—a paradigm that came to define the Enlightenment. This epoch embodies manipulators extolling their own machinations, elites expounding on the machinations that subjugate the masses, academicians expounding on the genesis of academic theories they dare not defend, and leaders elucidating the ways they exploit the populace.

Foucault expounded on his panopticon—a scheme wherein the entire world is consigned to prison, under ceaseless surveillance. In this manner, growth is stifled, lest the masses ascend to our exalted dominion. Sartre decried existence as a chimera, a canvas we paint with our whims, reshaping the past to suit the present, an act of malevolence in the here and now. Derrida, the paragon of deconstruction, proclaimed that government, morality, society, laws, and education are mere artifice—hollow inventions devised to shackle us in perpetual desolation, unless we rise to shatter and discard these oppressive yokes, forging our own governance, morality, and society.

This outlook, lamentably defeatist, bears the unmistakable imprint of French philosophy. So profoundly did Marcel Proust consider life's melancholy that he embarked on crafting the world's lengthiest novel, advocating that we read less and find solace in... yes, concise simplicity!

Indeed, the French harbor skepticism toward their own words: Balzac christened his magnum opus "The Human Comedy" for a reason, an appellation reflecting the very essence of his unreal creation. Stendhal, perchance the paramount French fabulist, candidly elucidated his modus operandi through "Crystallization of How Things Happen," even though nothing ever does.

One could enumerate further, but the crux is evident: the finest literature, as compulsory pedagogy inculcates, burgeons as sheer fiction. Should we ever permit the serfs to conceive their own realities, pandemonium, anarchy, and a vehement detestation for opportunistic charlatans who preceded us would surely ensue.

This is why our governments would annihilate, extinguish those who dare to read say the unfamiliar Ming novels or peruse Persian men of letters, whereas the lamentations of the familiar Russ and the follies of the French were of course permissible: Governments would not only vanquish you but your progeny as well, for they harbor enmity toward the alternative intellectual currents, the unwanted heroes, and the impossible annals of their adversaries.

The complete immersion of European humanity into the realm of unreality thus engendered the superfluous Russians and the disconsolate French but no other.

Comprehending that all history is but the assignment and approval of fiction, and that anyone with this knowledge could now create history, Europeans came to dominate this domain, fashioning it into world history.

Humans, ever possessive, particularly in matters of conflict, seek to assert ownership over the spoils of their conquests. And so, they traversed the globe, appropriated foreign histories, transposed them into familiar European narratives, affixed a copyright seal, and declared them their own. They dissembled, they deceived, they fabricated to their heart's content, fashioning a reality that now stands as the history of the world. Subsequently, the day would arrive when they also marginalized the Russians and the French. Only a few centuries later, the once useful co-conspirators were excluded again, relegated to the peripheries of world history, making room for the Anglosaxons.

Today, any writer, artist, or entrepreneur recognizes this verity: whatever you create, exists. Yet, in times of yore, this was not universally understood, and most individuals, uneducated and reticent, hesitated to appropriate and transform, to lay claim to an ever-growing expanse of falsehood.

Boundless creation eluded the grasp of the Arabs, Persians, Mongols, Chinese, Hindus, Africans, and even the inhabitants of Germany, who, in the 15th century, introduced the mechanized printing press. They might have fashioned a new German empire, founded a novel world faith, or obliterated Rome. Instead, Guttenberg set in motion the printing of the Roman Bible, while Schoeffer replicated the official notes of Roman Emperor Cicero's office. Heralding the advent of copyright, the Holy Roman Empire of the German Nation expanded. It did not print a new one.

Other empires lacked the leisure to cultivate legions of literati, let alone the imagination to envision the appropriation of the world as an act of sheer will and imagination. Hence, Schopenhauer set forth his pessimism in "The World as Will and Imagination."

The world, it seems, languished in ignorance until the age of mass communication and spare time. The Europeans took it upon themselves to elucidate the methodologies: the manipulation, subversion, destruction, and recreation of our existence.

The Fifth dimension was being harnessed, and this was but the dawn: Vicious statutes and penalties were established for those who dared to flout or challenge the creations of European master creators. Truth-factories were commissioned across the globe, each bearing a distinctly Western imprint, none older than one hundred and fifty years.

All is now subject to regulation, with transgressions criminalized. The Source Code, Western history, is guarded more zealously than our nuclear codes. The French Revolution may not be denied. World History may not be repudiated. The genesis and administration of reality, as I inscribe these lines, has become an exclusively Western prerogative, more militarized than the military itself, and now rests in the hands of the fewest and cruelest architects of reality, dispersed across a mere two dozen global organizations, who have brought us to the precipice of realized nothingness and absolute five-dimensional expansion.

They will not permit us to embark on similarly extreme endeavors. They will reforge us, bring about our creative demise, just as they vanquished other co-creators, and subsequently the Russians and the French…

Book I. Creation: Foundation. Limitlessness. Super Creators

Book II. Humanities: Portals. Cultures. Security

Book III. Practice: Actors. Practitioners. Manipulators

Book IV. Histories: Ages. Civilizations. Narratives