chapter two

There is No Paradox Within:

Trying to comprehend Benjamin Franklin's life and legacy is like trying to grab a shadow. Each time one tries to get a fix on the reflection, it darts away and grows even larger. With painful effort I outstretched my left arm as far as my bonds permitted, and took possession of the small remnant which had been spared me by the rats.

"Who and what was Benjamin Franklin?" was the question we asked at the outset of this project. In its size I had been greatly mistaken. I had been deceived, too, in respect to the shape of the enclosure. By 1919 a stretch of Parkway was visible, but none of the public buildings we know today had yet been erected. The designers of the Parkway had nearly annihilated all my ordinary powers of mind. I was an imbecile -- an idiot.

In early America, people all had to have a place in society and runaways did not fit in anywhere. So Ben began writing letters at night and signing them with the name of a fictional widow, Silence. Then silence, and stillness, night were the universe.

Not a youngster is taken for larceny, but I go up too and am tried and sentenced. The corpses rise . . . . the gashes heal . . . . the fastenings roll away. Come to think of it, that is the only thing I know about myself...

Franklin replaced religious absolutes with what was practical, when a bomb exploded underneath the vehicle he was traveling in west of Paris. As a letter-writer, he has succeed in bringing a revolutionary modernization to even the most traditional, the most outdated, artistic technique — How shall we distinguish its shadows from those of the tomb?

At this juncture he received intelligence, in a letter from Governor Wright, of his having been appointed agent for Georgia. He then felt it his duty to wait for the papers and instructions, which would probably demand his special care. "Our position— one that stinks of the museum — is and has always been that the results of past privatizations are irreversible," Yet not for a moment did I suppose myself actually dead. Such a supposition, notwithstanding what we read in fiction, is altogether inconsistent with real existence:--

--- -Never has work been so prolonged, so exhausting, so injurious to man's body and so fatal to his intelligence..

What can I say? Its Benjamin Franklin!

Impatient of the delays and weary of fruitless solicitations, he was inclined to retire.Two days after my Retribution Spell was cast, my friend ran into the "object" of the spell : the Newly Rich, those who have built up their fortunes by accumulating the Filchings from Labor, live like strangers in the midst of luxury and artistic treasures, destroyed particles of light and resurrected copies. Upstairs, a graceful catwalk girds the room. Cases featuring hospital memorabilia and temporary book exhibits are also featured. Yet in fact — in the fact of the world's view — how little was there to remember!

"You see many things that no longer exist in the present. But you will not be able to touch objects you see. Therefore God becomes as we are, that we may be as he... one can understand why the masters of old were unsatisfied. More! More!More! is the cry of a mistaken soul, what desire could they have to be God, knowing the boredom?"

There is No Paradox Within. You are seeing The Ghost seeing one person's ghost, you have stepped out your door and momentarily entered a man in a block of ice. In a few moments, though, it will all fade from view, replaced by the present

So what is the goal of history? The desire to escape from history.

"Who and what was Benjamin Franklin?" was the question we asked at the outset of this project. Such a project implies the absolute blockage of history, and thus the extreme refusal of emancipation. That is to say, Total Inhumanity. The Ghost... It's Benjamin Franklin! ... driven by an insatiable taste for an Intense Life from the height of the pyramid of the present, contemplating three thousand years of history, one can see them crushed by it,

THE TRUE THEOLOGY: Time Travel!