When the world was young, the Sister Kings of El-Fahir decreed the construction of seven golden spires: seven sister, seven spires. The Jealous Man heard their command, and in his pale pride decided to build for himself an eight spire at the very center of the city El-Fahir. As he stroked his long mustaches, brushed his thight beard, sent his slaves to the Gold mines, he sang in a whisper:
This spire, my desire
Will shine so tall and true
This spire, built higher
Will shame the sisters seven
This spire, my fire
Will grant my crown at last
Now it is but distant memory, and there is not one, nor seven, nor eight towers, but none. El-Fahir, fair kingdom, oasis among endless sands, has also joined with its unrelenting environs, those cruel, slow waves of hot dust. Was it you, Jealous Man, who doomed fair ‘Fahir? Or was it, as the Gambler and the Angels murmur and whisper and sing through tales, the spring-born Sister Kings who quarreled and warred from towers seven? Only the Snake knows the truth, but all his words are slithering lies.
Ah, who am I to say, who I am to judge? Those towers, that far and frightening City and its cruel, cruel prisons. It is Jealousy, only Jealousy …
From humble birth, Georg soon found fascination in the world and its many people of oh-so-many letters. His father told him stories of distant lands and great men, and the local libraries overflowed with quality reading. But the stories closest to young Georg’s heart were those of obscurity, especially those that told of the great Krim Jacob. From young of age Georg knew his destiny was to travel the world, to follow that great Krim, and perhaps, like Krim, find a land of eternal bliss.
From Belgrad to Bruxelles, and onward still. Even in fertile Mures his feet landed once or twice (or thrice, or even seven times). Yet he did not seem to find a land, a town, a field or forest without the ever-present un-logik. Was his Evropa already damned? Had the keys to the Krimean creation been stolen out of its ancient cradle?
Roma old, Rusia vast, România relevant! Georg saw them all!
Yet, did you ever go to that Congolese Africii?
Did you ever see that great jungle flood?
Did you experience that most immense Energie
form that most terrific branching factor?
Did you, my old friend Georg?
And when did you grow those wings?
Georg believed he was traveling to the cursed city of El Fahir, that home to exiles and wayward Ladds, but his destination was Death. Only in spirit could he ever fly on to the dark stream of the Congo, and only in these words is his memory intact and true. Perhaps he soars still amongst clouds and mist, watching over Belgrad, Bruxelles and El Fahir, and all the Krimean creation …
Yet, did you ever go to that Congolese Africii?
Did you ever cross the black desert gates?
Did you ever experience that most immense Energie
and traverse the deathly mountain passes?
Did you, my old friend Georg?
And how you soar the sky!
Your past, you can never leave it, you can never leave your troubles behind!
To old Giyani town he went, seeking that magical mystery, hoping to touch it, so intimately. But who touched who? Yes, the mountain, that old magic, felt his beating heart and spoke (not words, but understood still): “Oh, child. What history beats in your veins! And what veins they are; what rivers, what streams – such current, such electricity!“
Manné was touched, and forever changed. He asked himself, queried the brain within. Such questions he posed: “I am Niels Frederique. But who are you? You stare with eyes unopened, stare from glass. Your eyes are like glass, in your eyes all is glass: the world entire. Who are you?”
He did not find answers in old Giyani town. But questions – oh – questions he found. Manné was but a mouse, ancient mysterie a great lion yet to pounce. Our philosopher, our thinker of the godly, was soon to fall. How heavy a load he now bore, how great a fall he approached …
In old Africii, Oh the tragedy! They are now less than a score, those who still talk the true Krimean letters; their tongue all but incomprehensible to foreign ears.
In old Africii, would you believe? A language without impurity, without those internal inconsistencies. Yet, now dying of old age or pure evil.
In old Africii, in hills of Lions and Men. An unjust murder takes place, the murder of knowledge, culture and fine art. Oh, those Krimean letters, who would destroy them, remove them from our world?
– Stanislav Peev
The Krim-language found in west-Africa (also called Low-Krimish or Krïmé Noir) is the very last remains of High-Krimish, a language used by wise men, scholars and heretics in vast areas of the huge landmass so aptly called Lumea Veche. It is said that the Krimish tongue is the last remains of the words of the Old Hindoo Gods, that speech of Viṣṇu Himself.
Kydje pentru aytona ceai sălbatice şi de dans plöppen
Varsta Ploppel é stenj o grădină!
Majahi Livare Ploppel!
Ploppel vechi austriac Kodna electronic simplu de.
Poem in West Neo-Krimish
In Rau Cartuar’s great work, Istoria Africii (1923, Ostuda Press), the migration of the Krim-letters are deeply discussed. He is especially focused on the use of Krimish in the culture of the Egyptian and the Moors. He argues that the Krim-spirit is the very foundation, the bedrock, of these great civilizations. The high culture then spreading to lowly lands of early Europa, making also these lands and cultures flourish.
Majahi, na Majahi! Majahi Ha-mare Livare Im Mu’n use; Livare kyrim Lynn-Majahi!
In modern times one must only pray for the last remains of the Krim language, for it is subject to hardship and violence. For many years it has dwindled and with it great cultures are shrinking away. The un-logic has infected its lands, murdering it slowly. Now only a few old men know the true Krim words, hidden in the mountains of lions, down there in old Africii. Celebrate the dead, but grieve for those who are unjustly murdered!
Franz Kafka’s Der Prozess might be more widely known, but for the topic of Jacobian research, one might argue that another student of Prague’s Charles University have created a more important work (even in terms of pure literary value). Niels Frederique Manné’s diary from his time in Leopold’s Congo, Der parallele Prozess, offers an insight in the process of Jacobian research that scholars see as unparalleled in the western canon.
Niels, a devout Christian, born as the only son in a Belgian-Danish family, studied theology in Prague in the 1880’s. However, he never finished his studies: when he met the post-Hegelian philosopher Jean DeWire, his interest in such affairs diminished. DeWire persuaded him to travel to the remote jungles of the Congo, to explore and research the culture of the natives. Upon his arrival, Manné soon discovered an interest for what he felt was clear signs of the Jacobian Algorithm in many aspects of the native culture. He stayed in the Congo until his death: he passed from sleeping sickness in Leopoldville in November 1912.
Ensuing his death, DeWire posited that the diary was named from the fact that he in parallel explored many themes and topics; the jungles of the Congo, the Jacobian myths and his own personal faith. From his diary, we here present some passages of special interest.
Jacobian and Hessian matrices are indeed needed in many algorithms in scientific research, including algorithms for nonlinear optimization, differential equations. Moreover, these are needed to achieve the goal of theological running time.
A missionary vertex is indeed needed for these heathens. No edge binds them to the knowledge of our modern world.
1906 – 7, unknown (Pygmy territory)
The river is like a vein, giving life to this green ocean. The branching factor is tremendous, no mortal could prune it. Both my faith in God and my belief that a Jacobian Algorithm was conceived here, are getting stronger – as in parallell.
1911, on a riverboat, heading towards Leopoldville
I am very ill. Death, that gold-draped, bearded creature, is coming for me. But I lived not in vain, for I have found proof of the Jacobian conjecture, that Krimean hypothesis. I have but one bottle of Josef’s spirit left, who should be empty first, it or me?
October 1912, Leopoldville, only weeks before his death.
Adryan Nerich – Historian – Targu Mures Historical Society