“A journey to the edges of the known world.
A story you once knew, and somehow forgot.”
THE NOVEL
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Julian lives in Manhattan and has everything the world calls success. Until his reality begins to crumble. Suddenly, he begins to have visions. Not dreams, but impossible memories: fragments of a primordial world that existed before our Earth, which only a few mysterious traditions still preserve in their ancient texts: the Bhu Mandala.
After initial confusion and thanks to an encounter with a mysterious traveler, Julian understands the true, shocking nature of those memories.
Thus begins an extraordinary journey across continents, in search of the answer to humanity’s oldest question: Where do we come from?
Guided by ancestral visions, Julian will join a group of researchers united by the same destiny. Together, they will delve into an age-old knowledge that still lives invisibly among us, to reveal an even more shocking secret.
And dramatically real.
about me
At fifty-three, I am publishing my first book.
Strange, then: I spent the first half of my life writing and drawing, yet only midway through did I finally remember that writing had been my dream since childhood.
The parallel to the Fluid Memories I write about in this book is unmistakable. Yet I had never realized it until this very moment, as I write this introduction.
I still do not know exactly who I am, because I have only just begun to remember. I wrote these words so that you, reading these pages now or someday, might know me a little better.
I have always written and drawn. At home, at school, in college.
Perhaps I had not yet understood that the pen, in all its forms, was an extension of myself.
I read constantly, too.
After reading deeply in twentieth-century Italian literature, I found my way into European literature. This was how I discovered Kafka. My first great literary touchstone.
I was fifteen years old. At the time, I wrote mystery stories, inspired by the work of Poe, Gogol, and Lovecraft. But when I discovered Kafka, my life changed. I identified so completely with his characters, his narrative voice, that I read his books dozens of times. Then, inexplicably, I abandoned writing and devoted myself to music, art, and eventually the ordinary existence of a sleeping humanoid.
Now I have returned, and I remember many things that need to be written, most of them drawn from a life split among the trenches of the business world, the stillness of my travels, and the pursuit of something deeper. That pursuit is not over yet. I do not think it ever will be.
It is not unlike that mingling of surrender and hope that Julian experiences in the opening pages of Bhu Mandala.
I am telling you all this so that you may know me. And perhaps you will sense a little more of what I am made of, though knowing another person remains, in the end, a mystery.
And living among others, even more so.
Vincent Corsini
