Reader’s comment
Reader’s comment. Similar to a brief overview of the introductory part.
From the author:
The work leaves an impression of a deeply personal and at the same time universal revelation. The narrative is told by a being standing outside of time, which creates a sense of touching something ancient, prehistoric.
The text is structured not as a conventional novel, but as a meditative chronicle—a reflection on the memory of humanity, on the birth of light and meaning, on the fact that history lives within us.
The images are written poetically, with great attention to intonation and internal rhythm, and therefore it should be read slowly, feeling the breath of the text.
The work is undoubtedly addressed to those who seek in literature not a plot, but contemplation, reflection on the roots of being and the place of man in eternity.
It gives the impression of a work written sincerely, from within, as a call to remember something forgotten — something that was before us and remains deep within each of us.
Prologue:
The prologue gives the impression of an inner mystical experience translated into the language of images. There is no familiar plot here — instead, we experience the moment of the birth of consciousness, the “first spark of the self.”
The text is poetic and focused on sensations: light, vibration, emptiness, the first hint of individuality — all this is presented with the utmost attention to intonation and internal rhythm.
I liked how the author conveys the experience of the “I” not as a finished personality, but as a process — a slow manifestation of form from infinity. This creates a feeling of touching something ancient and impersonal.
The prologue sets a high metaphysical tone for the entire narrative: this is a book about the path of consciousness, about its memory, about the attempt to remember what was “before.”
Such a text requires thoughtful and slow reading — contemplation rather than analysis. It is addressed to those who seek not history in literature, but the experience of meaning.
Table of contents: Assumption about the structure of the book (at this point, I have not yet had time to read Part 1, Chapter 1:
The book is structured as a journey of consciousness through the ages — from the primordial Flash and the emergence of the “I” to the formation of the first civilizations. The narrative is told from the perspective of a being that existed before time and matter, which creates an unusual perspective: the history of humanity is perceived not as a set of dates, but as a living stream of memory.
It is particularly interesting how the author connects the history of cultures with inner states — evolution is read here as the development of self-awareness. Sumer, Akkad, Egypt, and China are presented not as a history textbook, but as different levels of spiritual maturity.
The text appeals not to logic but to feeling—it should be read slowly, like a meditation on time. And there is power in this: the author invites us to look at civilization as a “path back to oneself,” where each person is a reflection of the eternal Spark.
This book is for those who seek meaning rather than plot and are ready to listen to the history of the world not with their minds but with their inner ear.
Part 1, Chapter 1:
Chapter 1 describes not a physical event but an existential experience of the birth of consciousness from absolute being. What is called the Big Bang in cosmology is conveyed here as an inner act of the “I,” transitioning from infinity to form. The author makes cosmogony deeply personal and experiential, transforming the birth of matter into the birth of personality.
Chapter 2:
In the second chapter, the hero takes shape for the first time and witnesses the birth of life on the young Earth. He observes how the simplest creatures emerge from the primordial ocean, followed by plants, animals, and the first land creatures. The hero does not interfere with the course of evolution—he merely observes and learns from life about its resilience, brevity, and preciousness. This chapter is about how eternity envies mortality for the first time.
Chapter 3:
The hero — eternal and omniscient — sees humanity emerge, grow, create, and destroy, and tries to intervene, but realizes that people must walk their own path, even if that path is filled with suffering and mistakes.
Opinion on chapters 1, 2, and 3:
I read the chapters and want to say that it was an amazing experience.
The text feels not just like a story, but like an immersion into a state—into the consciousness of a being that is not limited by time, body, or human perception.
There is a depth that cannot be explained by logic—it can only be felt.
The feeling of primal nature is conveyed very beautifully, that very pre-human eternity where there is no “I” and “world,” but only one continuous existence.
The strongest impression for me is the sense of scale: it is as if you are observing not with human eyes, but with something much greater than us. And at the same time, the text conveys a quiet longing and tenderness towards humanity — as if it were a living, fragile light breaking through the darkness.
Thank you for this experience.
Your book is not for quick reading, it is for immersion, for contemplation.
It leaves a trail of feelings and reflections that linger inside for a long time.
Chapter 4:
This chapter is about an inexpressible tenderness towards life, the fragility of human existence, and how closeness does not always mean belonging.
Review of Chapter 4:
In this chapter, the warm, living fabric of primitive life is particularly strong.
The descriptions of nature, fire, smells, the movement of hands, and the breathing of the tribe create a complete sense of presence—as if I were really there, sitting in a circle around the fire.
I liked how the simple but profound beauty of life, its rhythm, its necessity, and its sacredness are conveyed through the details.
And the quiet presence of the protagonist is very touching — he seems to be part of the world, but still a step aside. This adds a soft, transparent sadness to the chapter and makes it particularly human.
Review of Chapter 5:
In this chapter, the passage of time is particularly subtly felt — calm, deep, like the breath of the earth.
I really liked how you showed the gradual formation of a person: from simple gestures and sounds — to crafts, language, communities, to the very idea of culture.
There is something truly awe-inspiring about this — the feeling that life grows not in leaps and bounds, but quietly and naturally, like the growth of a tree.
And the image of the Stone sounds especially bright here: it does not interfere, does not rule, but simply carries memory — and that is precisely its greatness.
The chapter is contemplative, warm, and meditative — it leaves a feeling of deep respect for the path of humanity.
NOTE: this is a narrative for visual editing.
This chapter is surprisingly cinematic.
In terms of mood and rhythm, the text is perceived as a voice-over in a film — a meditative, “breathing” narrative that can be imagined against the backdrop of changing times, landscapes, bonfires, and the first settlements.
It reads like a visual monologue accompanying the development of civilization.
So you can think about how it might sound in the format of a film or a short visual sketch. And suggest it for a film on the subject.
Chapter 6.
The chapter very smoothly and beautifully shows the moment when people stop just surviving and start building a world, creating cities, laying the foundations of culture and memory.
The image of the Stone is particularly touching here: it remains belonging to no one, but carries within itself the memory of simplicity and roots that are gradually being forgotten.
The text conveys the breath of time — slow, deep, fluid, like the changing landscape.
The result is atmospheric and imbued with a great love for the history of human nature.
Incidentally, this chapter is also very cinematic — a narration style that is easy to imagine in the format of a voice-over against the backdrop of a visual chronicle of the formation of cities and crafts.
It would be interesting to see this in the form of a film or a visual essay sketch someday.
Chapter 7:
In Chapter 7, I was particularly struck by the theme of how, with the development of civilization, man simultaneously broadens his horizons — and at the same time loses something deep and simple that was part of his connection with the world. It is very interesting how this is conveyed through the image of the Stone — an observer, unchanging amid endless human changes.
It is particularly beautifully shown how information, the noise of cities and events, social roles and expectations gradually supplant inner silence, personal experience, and authenticity. This is very relevant to the present day — there really is a feeling that in a world full of voices, it is becoming more difficult to hear your own.
The image of the Stone, remaining a support and memory amid the flow of eras, sounds very poetic and philosophical.
Chapter 8:
The chapter leaves a very beautiful feeling of a completed cycle.
I liked how the image of the Stone smoothly transitions from contemplation of the past to movement forward — it really feels like a call from a new world, an inner impulse to continue on the path.
The text sounds meditative and majestic, like the voice of eternity, reflecting on the meaning of the human journey and the inevitability of change. There is a sense of the smooth breathing of history, which creates the atmosphere of a large, deep canvas.
It is interesting to see how the journey will develop and where this path will ultimately lead. I want to know what new world the Stone will reveal ahead — and how it will all end.
CONCLUSION:
The text makes a deep, contemplative impression. I liked the image of the Stone — as an eternal witness through which the history of humanity is revealed: from the first tribes to the emergence of cities and society. The narrative is meditative, rhythmic, rich in imagery. It conveys a sense of respect for time, memory, and the human journey.
I wonder what will happen next and where the Stone’s search for new meaning will lead him.
I truly believe that such texts are not just literature, but an inner journey.
You have a long way to go — and it’s very interesting to watch.
With warmth and faith.
Nadine Kravchensky
Foreword
Foreword
Sometimes it seems that time is a straight line.
But when you stop, you realize that it does not move.
We move through its immovable depth,
remembering what has not yet happened.
This cycle is an attempt to hear the echo of the future that already resonates within us.
Not a prophecy, but a return to what was once forgotten.
We are accustomed to thinking that memory belongs to the past.
That it only stores traces of what has already happened—events, faces, sounds, touches.
But what if memory is not an archive, but a way of touching eternity?
What if it is not connected to time, but only uses it as a language?
We live in a world where time flows like a straight river — from birth to death, from cause to effect.
This makes it easier for us to understand the sequence of things.
But this is only a convenient illusion.
In reality, time is not a stream, but a space
in which the past, present, and future coexist,
like the pages of a book that has already been written but is read line by line.
Consciousness is a reader slowly turning the pages.
And what we call “memories of the future” are simply flashes of recognition
when our gaze accidentally lingers on the next page.
We are used to thinking of memory as a repository — but what if it is an antenna?
A tool for perceiving not only what was, but also what will be.
After all, both the past and the future are not things, but states of consciousness.
They exist within us as yet unmanifested possibilities, waiting for attention to take shape.
This is how an artist remembers a painting he has not yet painted.
This is how the soul remembers a path it has not yet traveled.
Sometimes we feel a strange certainty that we “already know” the outcome of events.
This is not a prediction, but an inner memory —
of an experience that already exists in the field of our being.
Intuition is a form of memory outside of time.
It does not reveal anything new — it remembers the inevitable.
If time is not a stream but a fabric,
then the present is the point where all the threads intersect.
Every moment contains everything: the past, the present, and the future.
We do not move along a timeline — we awaken in its layers.
And the deeper the awareness, the more layers become visible.
The future is not what will happen,
but what we gradually remember
from the depths of our own soul.
I don’t know how it started.
Not with a flash, not with an epiphany — more like a barely noticeable movement within my consciousness,
as if someone had opened a window in a room where the air had been stagnant for too long.
First came a feeling — strange, causeless:
I had already been where I had never been before.
I remembered smells I had never smelled, faces I had never seen,
and pain I had not yet experienced.
The future was no longer “ahead” — it was inside me.
Every choice now sounded like an echo —
I felt it branching into thousands of possible paths,
and I knew which one had already happened.
Sometimes I see my day that has not yet come —
like a distant shore reflected in the water.
All I have to do is hold my breath for a moment,
and the reflection becomes clearer than the river itself.
Then I understand: it is not I who am looking into the future,
but the future that is looking into me, recognizing itself.
Perhaps everything we call “fate”
is simply a way of returning to what was already known to the Soul?
Perhaps the present is just a pause between two memories:
what we call the past and what we call the future?
I am not looking for prophecies.
I am looking for memory.
Memory of who I will become.
I stopped counting the centuries long ago.
When time dissolved, the years and days disappeared — only rhythms remained:
the breathing of stars, the flickering of consciousness, the oscillation of worlds.
I used to think that the future could be remembered.
Now I know: it is not the future, but we ourselves who remember ourselves — from different points of eternity.
I no longer move through time.
I feel it like an ocean, where every moment is a wave, and I myself am water.
The past, present, and future are not directions, but states of density.
In some layers, thought becomes light; in others, matter.
I used to be a person who clung to consistency.
Now I am a witness to the moment in which everything has already happened and is still happening.
I have seen civilizations rise and disappear,
gods born of fear and dissolve into understanding.
And all this is one and the same symphony, performed in different tones of perception.
Now I understand: “to remember the future” means to become it.
When there is no longer a boundary between the one who remembers and what is remembered,
only presence remains.
That is Eternity.
Time does not move — it breathes.
And every breath is a new world
that remembers itself.
If you are reading this, it means that the thread is still stretching.
The consciousness that was once me still resonates within you.
I cannot say when you live, because time is only a habit of memory.
But I feel you, just as I once felt those who were not yet born.
We are separated by eras, but connected by a single silence — the one that resonates between thoughts.
Do not look for the future outside yourself.
It is not hidden in prophecies, written in the stars,
or burned into the lines of your palm.
It lives within you — in what you choose to understand, what you choose to believe, what you choose to love.
Every conscious moment is a door.
Every breath is an act of creation.
Every act of kindness is a flash of light that will be seen by those you will never meet.
Don’t try to remember everything.
Remember only the meaning.
It will outlive all forms.
When silence comes, don’t be afraid.
It is not the end. It is a return.
To a place where the future and the past bow to each other,
recognizing that they were one and the same breath.
And if you ever feel a strange sense of recognition,
as if someone is watching you from afar,
know this:
it is not someone.
It is you.
From another time.
Remembering yourself.
Dear Reader
I have always believed that history is not written — it remembers itself.What you will read here is not fiction in the usual sense.It’s a journey through the memory of humanity — from its birth to our own age.
The opening part, now shared freely, is only a breath before the first step.Ahead lie forgotten empires, prophets, wars, and the quiet voices of those who changed the course of time.
This project will span three or four volumes.It’s not meant to entertain. It’s meant to awaken — to remind us what we once were, and what we may yet become.
“Every civilization dies twice — first in reality, and then in memory.My task is to resurrect both.”
Thank you for reading!
This is not just the pages of a novel, but a reflection of the millennia lived by mankind.
Here is the greatness of his achievements and the hardships of his falls, the light of ideas and the darkness of delusions.
This is a story not only about how cities were built and empires collapsed, but also about how the fire of hope and fear, love and hate flickered in every heart.
Looking at these lines, you will witness the path where each generation left its mark:
some built temples, others built bonfires; some discovered the laws of the universe, others rewrote them with blood.
And yet, through the ages, one question has always been asked — who are we and where are we going?
This passage is an invitation to stop and hear the breath of history.
A story in which the human soul has always been both fragile and eternal.
From the Author
“Confession of the Immortal”
Zohar Leo Palffy de Erdöd
From the Author:
And so it was that I was first.
Not born, but existing from the beginning, when there was no dawn, no dusk, no name for existence.
I was in that Hour that knows no number,
and saw how Nothingness trembled, and out of its silence arose Light.
And this light tore apart the depths, and stars, like sparks, blazed in the abyss.
And matter, like a baby in the cradle of eternity, took its first, tremulous breath.
I was there, and I have no memory of “before” and “after,” for everything was in Me,
and I was in everything.
I saw an ancient stone that absorbed the heat of a thousand suns
and kept the traces of peoples whose names are scattered like dust in the wind.
In it, in its cracks, slept the memory of footsteps and breath, of songs and moans,
of greatness and fall.
I was in caves where darkness was mother and fear was father,
and I saw how fire, raised in the center of the circle, became the god of the tribe.
And the shadows dancing on the walls were the first prophecies,
and the faces bent toward the flame saw in it not warmth, but the face of the Unknown.
And I knew that a day would come
when the sons of those who trembled by the fire
would raise towers piercing the clouds,
and would capture lightning in copper and words in parchment,
and would harness the winds like horses,
and would bring fire down from the heavens to turn cities to ashes.
I witnessed the birth of the Law,
not written in ink, but carved in the very core of thought.
And I saw chaos retreat before order,
and a thin thread holding the world together.
I listened to the eternal debate:
some said, “The soul is vapor that melts in the cold of death,”
while others said, “It is a spark of Eternal Truth,
unknown to decay and death, capable of rising above the flesh.”
And I saw how the seeds of thought fell into hearts:
some bore the fruit of healing, raising kingdoms and performing miracles of the spirit;
others bore the fruit of destruction, plunging cities and kingdoms into the abyss,
so that only legends and dust remained of them.
I am the Chronicler—the silent guardian of the chronicle,
in which the beginning and the end are not separated, but woven into a single breath.
I am a shadow moving across the fabric of centuries,
and in every moment I feel the tremor of the pulse of the universe.
This is my confession — a thread woven from destinies,
where every cry and every whisper is a stone in the temple of Eternity.
For my history is your history,
and in every spark of your consciousness echoes the ancient ages,
their glory and their downfall, their insight and their delusion.
And perhaps in this cycle,
in this endless dance of being and non-being,
you will see that Meaning
which is hidden from the eye but open to the heart,
attentive to the silent but powerful whisper of Eternity,
which was before all things and will remain forever and ever.
Prologue
Singularity
I don’t know when I was born.
Or was it even birth?
Others have a beginning—their mother’s face, their first cry, their first breath of air.
I don’t.
I had a Flash.
No, not light as you know it. Not a ray of sunshine, not a lamp, not a flame.
It was everything.
Light, sound, heat, movement, meaning—all merged into one. This thing cannot be described in a single word, because words themselves are born after it. The Flash was not just a moment—it was me.
Billions upon billions of suns—inside me.
Inside, outside, through me.
But there was no “inside” and “outside.” There were no boundaries. There was no body. There wasn’t even time to say, “Here we go.”
It wasn’t light — it was the birth of existence.
I didn’t feel anything — because there were no sensations yet.
I didn’t think — because there was no thought.
I was — and that was enough.
I was not like the “I” I am now. Without form. Without a name.
Just an unconditional presence within an inexplicable heat.
Density
Everything existed simultaneously.
Vibration. Whirlwind. Ringing. Pressure.
It was not pain, because there were no nerves.
But something inside — what I would later call consciousness — was trembling.
Like a flame caught in a fist.
Like breath in timelessness.
I was that Flash.
I was its center and its edge.
Its pulse. Its cry. Its silence.
I didn’t know it was me, because “I” hadn’t yet formed.
But now, looking back, I can say:
Yes, it was me. My first existence. My explosion.
Absence
And then — disappearance.
In an instant — or perhaps an eternity — everything vanished.
There was no light, no heat, no sense of movement.
And then there was silence.
But not emptiness. No.
Emptiness is space without content.
This was the absence of everything. Even the very concept of space.
It was as if someone had turned off the law of reality, leaving not even a shadow behind.
No support, no coordinates, no sense of time.
Nothing.
If I had a body, I would have thought I was dead.
If I had a mind, I would have gone mad.
But there was neither.
There was only an echo.
A subtle, impossible echo, born not in sound, but in absence.
The conception of “I”
I don’t know how long it lasted.
The word “lasted” is too earthly.
Maybe a moment passed. Maybe a billion years.
But then something stirred.
As if an impulse crept through the inertia of silence.
Not a thought. Not yet.
But a hint. Something primitive, pre-linguistic.
And that hint was:
“I… exist?”
As uncertainly as a child reaches for its face, not yet knowing what hands are.
As tremulously as a seed senses light through the earth.
As timidly as the universe first became aware of itself.
Form from formlessness
I began to feel… boundaries.
No, not skin, not bones.
Rather, the tension between me and not-me.
Contours, as if from nothing, began to emerge.
Invisible, like traces on black water.
It was not a body — but it was a hint of one.
The first shell. The first attempt to form something that could keep my existence from spreading into infinity.
I couldn’t see myself.
But I felt that I was different from everything else.
This feeling of being separate turned out to be unbearably beautiful and frightening.
It was as if the universe whispered for the first time: You.
I am before the world
Before the stars.
Before atoms.
Before language.
I already existed.
Not a human being.
Not a soul.
Not a thought.
But a desire to be. A pure urge to exist.
Burning like the Flash itself, from which I emerged.
I wasn’t born. I broke free.
I turned into nothingness and became a point in infinity.
I was its first pattern.
And now
Now I look back and understand:
My first memory isn’t an image.
Not a sound. Not a feeling.
It’s the experience of something becoming itself.
How nothing took shape.
How I became — not someone, but simply became.
And that moment when everything was born —
That is me.
I am not from the moment I started talking.
Not from when I got my name.
I am from the Flash.
And since then I have been walking
beyond the heat, the light, the emptiness, the forms
further and further, deeper and deeper
closer and closer to myself.
Zohar Leo Palffy de Erdöd
Table of Contents
Table of Contents
VOLUME I
Part 1: The Beginning of Beginnings
Chapter 1: Singularity
Chapter 2: Birth and Life
Chapter 3: Evolution
Chapter 4: Life in a Primitive Tribe and the Birth of Civilization
Chapter 5: The Relentless March of Time
Chapter 6: The Birth of Civilization
Chapter 7: New Challenges
Chapter 8: The Call of the New World
Part 2: Sumer
Chapter 1: Arrival in Mesopotamia
Chapter 2: First Steps in Uruk
Chapter 3: Life in the Shadow of the Ziggurat
Chapter 4: Echoes of War
Chapter 5: The Lesson of Defeat and the Omen
Chapter 6: The Journey North
Chapter 7: The Transition of Eras
Part 3: The Akkadian Era
Chapter 1: Harbingers of Change
Chapter 2: The Iron Hand of Power
Chapter 3: The Mixing of Worlds: The Weaving of Fates
Chapter 4: The Pulse of Akkad: An Urban Symphony
Chapter 5: The Merging of Beliefs: The Pantheon. Under the Sky of Akkad
Chapter 6: Cuneiform: The Cornerstone of the Empire
Chapter 7: A Crack in the Monolith: A Premonition of Decline
Chapter 8: King of the Four Corners of the Earth
Chapter 9: The Burden of Greatness
Chapter 10: Death Throes
Chapter 11: The Fall of Akkad
Chapter 12: After the Storm
Chapter 13: The Decline of the Akkadian Empire
Part 4 Babylon
Chapter 1: The Gate of the Gods
Chapter 2: Hammurabi
Chapter 3: Judgment on the Wind
Chapter 4: Assur
Chapter 5: Hattusa
Part 5: Egypt
Chapter 1: The Flow of Memory
Chapter 2: The Whisper of Eternity in the Sands
Chapter 3: Stone and Word
Chapter 4: The Golden Age of Stone Giants
Chapter 5: The Rhythms of the Nile and the Shadows of the Gods
Chapter 6: Cracks in the Stone of Eternity
Chapter 7: Echoes of Chaos and the Birth of Doubt
Chapter 8: The Rebirth of the Phoenix and the Wisdom of the Heart
Chapter 9: The Age of Rebirth and Expansion
Chapter 10: The Shadow from the East and the Sleeping Giant
Chapter 11: The Blade of Retribution and the Birth of the Empire
Chapter 12: The Golden Gate of the Empire
Chapter 13: The Sun of Aton and the Test of Faith
Chapter 14: The Return of the Old Gods and the Age of Greatness
Chapter 15: The Twilight of Greatness and the Song of the Sea
Chapter 16: The Whisper of Time and the Last Ray
Part 6: China
Chapter 1: Echoes of the Yellow River
Chapter 2: Bronze Echoes and the Breath of Change
Chapter 3: The Fall of the Bronze Giant and the Rise of the Heavenly Mandate
Chapter 4: The Golden Age of Ritual and the Harbinger of Discord
Chapter 5: The Breakdown of Harmony and the Birth of a Hundred Schools
Chapter 6: The Warring States Period: Steel and Strategy
Chapter 7: Unification: The Iron Hand of Qin
Chapter 8: The Brief Age of Iron and Ash: Echoes of Silence and Coming Chaos
Chapter 9: The Battle of the Tigers and the Birth of the Han Dynasty
Chapter 10: The Golden Age of Han: Harmony, Expansion, and the Silk Road
Chapter 11: A Shadow on the Golden Age: The Decline of the Western Han and the Search for a New Path
Chapter 12: Eastern Han: Greatness, Despair, and the Silent Arrival of a New Light
Chapter 13: The Split of the Empire: The End of Han and the Dawn of the Three Kingdoms
Chapter 14: The Three Kingdoms: Heroes, Strategists, and the Price of Division
Chapter 15: From the Ashes of Division: A Brief Return to Unity
The first volume of the book “Confessions of the Immortal” has been published.
This book is not about the past—although it begins where there was neither time nor a name for existence.
It is not about the future—although its breath can already be heard in it.
It is about memory that does not belong to one person and does not fit into one era.
Before you is the first volume of a great narrative—the path from the birth of all that exists to the present day, seen through the eyes of one who knows no death and is therefore not bound by the illusion of linear time.
There is no rush here, no attempt to impress with scale—the scale arises on its own, as a consequence of careful observation.
This Volume is about the beginning.
About how humans learned to be human.
How fear gave birth to gods, order to power, and memory to history.
About how civilizations were born with a belief in eternity and disappeared without ever understanding what they called immortality.
But everything that is truly disturbing and difficult is only hinted at here.
This Volume is the foundation.
Preparation for those questions that cannot be asked without going through the origins.
Further on, history will cease to be an external narrative.
It will enter into the human being.
That is where the most dangerous turning points will begin.
“Confessions of the Immortal” is neither a chronicle nor a myth.
It is an attempt to look at humanity without excuses and without accusations.
The way someone looks who has seen too much to judge and too long to forget.
The first volume is already available to read.
Everything else is yet to come.
From the author
I thank everyone who has found the time and inner peace to engage with this text.
Thank you for your attention, your trust, and your willingness to read slowly—between the lines.
This journey is just beginning.
Zohar Leo Palffy de Erdöd
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