Vol. 3 Chap. 41 Rememberence of Things Past

Vol. 3 Chap. 41 Rememberence of Things Past

Remembering... what? Can the soul have memories? I thought that was the mind’s job.

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Truth was stumped by that one for a moment. Alright, but... What exactly is my soul remembering? My life is no mystery. No big gaps, other than the Well.

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What?!

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Truth just blinked blankly at the wall when he heard that one.

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Not that well confirmed. The frigging fragment of divinity living in the Bronze Sea thought it was my soul going off on vision quests, not memories from previous lives.

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No, but that doesn’t mean the incredibly rare, questionably confirmed phenomenon of reincarnation isthe answer. It seems like kind of a leap from “You remember something I don’t” to “I am reincarnated.”

The system made a frustrated noise. everything you pick up, and I don’t forget anything.

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A semi-separate bit of my soul, but not completely detached, is what you are. The Rough Patron showed us that, and the Bronze Sea said as much too. So if my soul remembered something, even if it didn’t reach my mind, it could have reached you. Truth slowly nodded. It was a genuine wonder. How could it be possible? Oh wait, he was forgetting the obvious.

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Occam’s razor, and all that.

There was another pause. >

Occam’s razor- oh shit.

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Truth just sat there, rapidly going from bewildered to alarmed. What the hell else do I not know I know?! And why is this all coming up now? My soul has been going through these corrections for at least as long as you have been there.

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Truth gave the writer a grim smile. “I brought a present. An extremely rare collection from my library. I dare say you have never seen its like and never will again.” Truth hauled out a small cardboard box and handed it to the author. “Sorry, no time to get it wrapped.”

“That’s extremely kind of you-”

“Open it. It’s relevant to the conversation.”

“Eh?” The author looked at Truth oddly and shrugged. He opened the box, revealing five magazines inside. On the cover was a headless man. Muscular, the author noted approvingly, holding various occult symbols and with a skull over his groin. Which he also approved of. His eye caught a certain name on the cover, making him smile.

“Something by Bataille? I think I heard something about this.”

“Bataille and a few others. A sort of philosophical review with a big focus on Nietzsche. Other things too, but he pops up the most. The whole last issue is almost entirely on him.”

“Ah? I thought you weren’t very fond of Bataille?”

“I’m not, but too many others are incomprehensible without some understanding of that old monster. Besides, he meets the requirements for my library.”

“Oh? I know you have a lot of books, but I think you mean something different here.”

“Yes. My philosophical library consists entirely of philosophers who went to war, with a specific preference for those who fought in resistance movements.”

“Bataille was in the French resistance? He was too old for the army.”

“Yes. Acephale was more than just the name of the Review, it was a secret society. They carried out armed resistance activities to the Vichie and the Germans, going so far as to conduct a human sacrifice to harden their hearts.” Truth nodded.

The author looked a lot more impressed as he flipped through the magazines. “I had no idea.”

“It’s not widely discussed, for obvious reasons. Still a lot of hard feelings.” Truth felt the little ball of lead shift around under his rib. “A lot.”

“A precious gift. Thank you. But really, it’s too much.”

“You can give me a return gift. Sign this.”

Truth pulled out a heavily read pamphlet. The author noticed with a combination of irritation and appreciation that it had been subjected to extensive underlining and notes in the margins.

“I will sign a clean copy for you. I have plenty around the house. But why this in particular? I can’t imagine it was enough to get you to fly halfway around the world.”

“You would be wrong. It is.”

“I don’t qualify for your library. I wasn’t even allowed to serve in the army.”

“Irrelevant. You are officially going into a collection of one. Bataille is relevant to our conversation because he is the closest I could find to your essay.” Gimlet eyes bored into the author. “Congratulations. You have written perhaps the only unique bit of philosophy in the Twentieth Century. And nobody knows you did it.” They looked down at the bland, battered volume. “As someone with a lot of exposure to both sun and steel, I had to get on the plane at once. I have a lot of questions for you.”