The First Fifteen Lives of Harry August

“It is said that there are three stages of life for those of us who live our lives in circles. These are rejection, exploration and acceptance. […]

Rejection, for example, can be subdivided into various clichéd reactions, like so: suicide, despondency, madness, hysteria, isolation and self-destruction. I, like nearly all kalachakra, experienced most of these at some stage in my early lives, and their recollection lingers within me like a virus still twisted into my stomach wall.”

Here, Harry uses a detached, almost academic tone to classify the immense trauma of his early lives, a narrative choice that underscores his attempt to rationalize an unbearable reality: His classification structures the psychological journey of the kalachakra, transforming personal agony into a systematic process. The simile comparing these recollections to “a virus still twisted into [his] stomach wall” conveys the permanent, internal damage caused by memory, suggesting that identity is not just built but also scarred by past experiences.

“I said, ‘My name is Harry August. My father is Rory Edmond Hulne, my mother died before I was born. This is my fourth life. I have lived and I have died many times before now, but it is always the same life.’”

This quote marks a pivotal moment of vulnerability for Harry, where he attempts to bridge the experiential gulf between himself and a linear person he loves. He delivers his confession in a series of short, declarative sentences that present his extraordinary condition as a simple fact, a stark contrast to the profound implications of his words. This narrative choice highlights the unadorned truth of his existence from his perspective while simultaneously demonstrating the impossibility of it being accepted by others. The act of telling his secret directly leads to his confinement and sets in motion his later entanglements with those who would exploit his knowledge.

“‘Humanity is evolving, Harry!’ he exclaimed. ‘[…] The rate of evolution is accelerating, as a species and as a civilisation. It’s our job, the job of good men, good men and good women, to oversee this process, to guide it so that we don’t have any more fuck-ups and disasters! You want another Second World War? Another Holocaust? We can change things, make them better.’”

Franklin Phearson articulates a worldview that justifies large-scale intervention in the name of progress, foreshadowing Vincent’s later tampering with the timeline and hinting at its dire consequences (his reference to evolution “accelerating” recalls the warning that the apocalypse is “getting faster”). His impassioned, exclamatory rhetoric reveals a self-righteous certainty that directly informs the theme of The Corruption of Unchecked Ambition. By positioning himself as one of the “good men” fit to “oversee this process,” Phearson embodies the intersection of this dangerous hubris with the novel’s exploration of The Moral Calculus of Intervention in History.

“‘Would you shoot Hitler?’ I asked.

He scowled. ‘I thought we had just determined a likelihood of the universe being destroyed by such temporal tampering.’

[…]

‘You argue complexity as an excuse for inaction?’

‘I argue…I argue…’ He groaned, throwing his hands off the arms of his chair in frustration. ‘I argue that it is precisely these hypothetical dabblings with philosophy that undermined the otherwise sound integrity of your paper!’”

This exchange between Harry and a young Vincent Rankis establishes their fundamental ideological opposition through a classic ethical thought experiment. Harry’s question—“Would you shoot Hitler?”—is a direct test of moral reasoning, which Vincent deflects by reframing it as an illogical scientific problem. Vincent’s ultimate frustrated dismissal of “philosophy” reveals his core belief that scientific pursuit is separate from and superior to ethical considerations, a viewpoint that foreshadows his later willingness to sacrifice humanity for knowledge.

“We have seen things that men cannot name. […] Ours is the fellowship of strangers who know a secret that we cannot express.”

In response to letters from Harry (writing under a pseudonym), his biological father, Rory Hulne, unknowingly describes the isolating experience of being a kalachakra. The phrase “fellowship of strangers” captures the paradox of the kalachakra community, a group of individuals linked by a profound secret that also alienates them from the rest of humanity and, often, each other.

“‘There is no loss, if you cannot remember what you have lost,’ she explained at last. […] ‘the silence of my peers when I ask about the subject does not bode well for the things I cannot remember.’”

Virginia discusses the Forgetting, a process that erases a kalachakra’s memories. This quote directly addresses the theme of the relationship between memory and personal identity, positing that identity is extinguished without memory, even if the body continues. Her peers’ “silence” suggests a history so painful and guilt-ridden that it cannot be spoken, creating a haunting sense of a past that exists for others but is permanently absent for her. The statement highlights the procedure’s paradoxical nature as both a potential relief from trauma and a complete annihilation of the self.

“What is science for, if not omnipotence?”

During a debate with Harry at Cambridge, Vincent Rankis delivers this rhetorical question, which functions as a succinct thesis for his entire worldview. The line establishes Vincent as a foil to the passive Cronus Club and directly touches on the theme of the corruption of unchecked ambition. By equating the purpose of science with the acquisition of god-like power, Vincent’s dialogue foreshadows his goal of creating the quantum mirror and reveals the hubris that drives his destructive actions.

“But the simple, mathematical truth is that, between us and the events unfolding of the future, there is an almost infinite range of possibilities and permutations, and to think that we can, in any meaningful way, affect this, now, is not merely ludicrous, it’s really rather childish.”

Virginia attempts to dissuade Harry from investigating the world’s accelerating end. Her detached, clinical language—referencing a “simple, mathematical truth” and “permutations”—characterizes the Cronus Club’s depersonalized, long-term perspective, born from centuries of repetition. This speech articulates the Club’s central argument regarding intervention, framing inaction not as moral failure but as the only logical response to incomprehensible complexity.

“What is the point of me?

Either to change a world—many, many worlds, each touched by the choices I make in my life, for every deed a consequence, and in every love and every sorrow truth—or nothing at all.”

While traveling to Leningrad, Harry reflects on his existence and purpose. The author uses antithesis (“to change a world […] or nothing at all”) to structure Harry’s central existential conflict, starkly outlining the stakes as he sees them. It reframes his mnemonic condition not just as a burden but as a source of profound responsibility, suggesting that each of his lives could be a distinct reality where his choices have ultimate meaning. The syntactical ambiguity underscores his frustration with inaction: “Nothing” could be the object of “change” (meaning that Harry’s purpose is to “change nothing”), but it could also be an answer in its own right (meaning that his “point” would be “nothing”). This need for purpose lays the groundwork for his temporary collaboration with Vincent.

“In a little over twenty years man will walk on the moon. Hundreds of thousands will die in Vietnam for no apparently sensible reason, dissidents will be shot, men will be tortured, women will weep and children will die. We know all of this and we do…nothing. I’m not suggesting we change the world. I’m not suggesting we know how. What will the future be if these things do not come to pass? But we must do…something.”

In a flashback, Harry explains to his friend Akinleye why he must kill a man who has not yet committed murder. The quote establishes the central ethical dilemma facing the kalachakra, juxtaposing their inertia with the moral impulse to act. The ellipses create rhetorical pauses that emphasize the weight of their inaction, while the catalogue of historical tragedies underscores the high stakes of their non-interference policy. Harry’s final, desperate conclusion serves as a thesis for his personal struggle against passivity, directly engaging with the moral calculus of intervention in history.

“You must remember, because it is who you are, but as it is who you are, you must never, ever regret. To regret your past is to regret your soul.”

During Harry’s period of self-imposed exile on an Israeli settlement, the farmer’s wife offers him this advice. This dialogue presents a direct statement on the relationship between memory and personal identity, positing memory as the unchangeable core of the self. The parallel structure—“because it is who you are […] as it is who you are”—reinforces this connection between memory and identity. Though the speaker does not know it, the final clause functions as a philosophical prescription for an immortal, suggesting that to survive endless repetition, one must accept a complete personal history without being destroyed by remorse.

“[T]his…miraculous device, is nothing more and nothing less than a do-it-yourself deity. You want to build yourself a machine for omnipotence, Vincent? You want to make yourself God?”

In a flashback to their university days, Harry critiques his student Vincent’s ambition to build a quantum mirror. Harry’s dialogue defines the quantum mirror as a symbol of hubris and unchecked ambition. The phrase “do-it-yourself deity” reframes Vincent’s scientific endeavor as a blasphemous attempt to attain godhood, stripping it of intellectual purity and exposing its dangerous core. This characterization establishes the moral stakes of Vincent’s quest, defining it not as a search for knowledge but as a perilous pursuit of power.

“I could tell you that I share your ambition. That I want to see with the eyes of God. […] For all of humanity’s history, we’ve tried to find answers to what we are, and why. Why should the kalachakra be any different? I could give a lot to have that kind of knowledge, and no one else has given me even the slightest glimmering of an answer, of an approach to an answer. You offer a plan, if nothing else.”

In this dialogue with Vincent, Harry rationalizes his momentous decision to join the quantum mirror project. The line “I want to see with the eyes of God” reveals that Harry is susceptible to the same temptation as his antagonist, linking him thematically to Vincent’s ambition but also contextualizing it as a deeply human impulse. However, his framing of all this in hypothetical terms (“I could”) somewhat undercuts the effect, implying that something more selfish and banal lies at the heart of his agreement; as he acknowledges a moment later, he’s largely searching for something “something to do […] something which might actually change the way [he] live[s]” (219). This in turn suggests that a similar self-centeredness underpins Vincent’s grandiose claims about progress and knowledge.

“Men must be decent first and brilliant later, otherwise you’re not helping people, just servicing the machine.”

While on leave from Pietrok-112, Harry converses with a sex worker named Sophia, who offers this observation. Though delivered by a minor character, this piece of dialogue serves as a concise thematic statement of the novel’s central moral argument. Sophia’s aphorism pits fundamental human decency against abstract, world-changing brilliance, directly refuting Vincent’s philosophy that the ends justify the means. The metaphor of “servicing the machine” critiques the dehumanizing logic of unchecked progress, arguing that individual morality must precede grand intellectual achievement.

“‘I need to know your point of origin.’

[…]

‘Not to kill you,’ he blurted hastily, ‘Dear God, I would never do that, Harry, never, I swear. But I need you to know that I know it. I need you to realise that you could be aborted in the womb, not-born. I need you to know that, so that you will keep my secrets.’”

After capturing Harry, Vincent reveals the motivation for his impending torture. Vincent’s dialogue is contradictory, juxtaposing a denial of murderous intent with the explicit threat of pre-birth termination. This unwitting irony highlights Vincent’s self-deception and moral corruption, as he frames obtaining supreme leverage as something other than a threat to kill.

“The Forgetting. It merits, I believe, a definite article in front of the name, for it is a kind of death. […] A death of the mind, for us, exceeds a death of the body.”

In a flashback, Harry assists a fellow kalachakra, Akinleye, with a consensual memory wipe, elaborating on its significance. The capitalization of “Forgetting” and the narrator’s claim that it “merits a definite article” elevate the process from a medical procedure to a singular, momentous event. This authorial choice establishes the Forgetting as a key symbol for the loss of self, directly articulating the novel’s argument for the relationship between memory and personal identity by positing that for an immortal being, the erasure of memory is a more profound end than physical death.

“If you read this, know that I am dead, and that the Cronus Club in this life has been damaged beyond repair. Do not seek it, for it is a trap; do not enquire after others of your kin nor trust them. For so many to have forgotten so much, for some to have been destroyed absolutely before their birth, can only be treason.”

Harry discovers a message left by a long-dead kalachakra, Theodore Himmel, detailing the collapse of their society. The message uses a direct, urgent tone with imperative verbs (“Do not seek,” “do not enquire,” “nor trust”) to convey the total breakdown of the Cronus Club as a safe institution. The final word, “treason,” functions as a narrative reveal, hinting at an internal betrayal and setting up Harry’s subsequent hunt for a collaborator within the Club.

“‘We’re making something bigger. We’re making something better. We’re making…a kind of god, I suppose. Yes, I think that’s what we are doing, in fact. A kind of deity.’”

Vincent’s accomplice, Virginia, attempts to justify her role in the murder of other kalachakra. Her fragmented speech, marked by repetition and ellipses, portrays her grand ambition not as a confident declaration but as a hesitant, self-convincing rationale. By equating the quantum mirror project with the creation of “a kind of deity,” the dialogue directly illustrates the theme of the corruption of unchecked ambition, framing the pursuit of ultimate knowledge as a motive for catastrophic violence.

“Vincent Rankis, smiling at me like a stranger, inviting my friendship. He knew everything he had done to me, remembered it with the perfect detail of a mnemonic. What he did not know—could not know—was that I remembered it all as well.”

Upon meeting Vincent in a life following his escape, Harry maintains his disguise as a memory-wiped kalachakra, but his internal monologue contrasts Vincent’s outward affability with his past actions, underscoring the depth of Vincent’s own duplicity. The use of italics for emphasis on “could not know” highlights the complete reversal of power from their previous encounter and establishes deception, a key motif, as Harry’s primary weapon.

“I know now that there is something dead inside me though I cannot remember exactly when it died.”

Following the “ultimate test” of seeing his former wife Jenny with Vincent, Harry’s internal monologue reveals the psychological toll of his prolonged deception. That he cannot remember when the shift occurred illustrates how his mission has fractured his sense of self and emotional continuity. It is also deeply ironic, given Harry’s identity as a mnemonic, implying that there are aspects of human experience that escape even (if not especially) a mnemonic’s awareness.

“I know you are not my father, but you have been more a father to me than ever my biological father was. […] You could have destroyed me, the child of your master, and you must have been tempted so many times […] But you never did. And for that, more than the food on my plate or the warmth of your fire, you have been my father.”

In an imagined conversation, Harry articulates a core argument about identity, defining fatherhood by moral choice rather than genetics. This passage contrasts the integrity of his adoptive father, Patrick, with the callousness of both Harry’s biological father and his nemesis, Vincent, establishing a standard of decency that informs Harry’s ultimate decisions.

“A journalist standing in a field in Wisconsin where five dancing tornadoes spun beneath a lightning-edged sky declared to camera, ‘Mankind has learned to carve with the tools of nature, but can’t yet see the sculpture it will create,’ […] I began finally to see how Christa’s prophecy, delivered hundreds of years ago in a hospital room in Berlin, could come true.”

This quote uses vivid, apocalyptic imagery—“five dancing tornadoes spun beneath a lightning-edged sky”—to illustrate the chaotic consequences of Vincent’s accelerated technological progress. The journalist’s metaphor of a sculptor unable to see his creation directly addresses the corruption of unchecked ambition, portraying humanity as dangerously powerful yet ignorant of the outcome of its actions. The explicit connection to Christa’s opening message frames Vincent’s interference not as progress but as the catalyst for the world’s accelerated end.

“‘You will look, and it will be as if you see with the eye of the maker. […] You, yourself, are God.’”

Recalled from a past life, the words of a mystic serve as commentary on the hubris embodied by the quantum mirror, defining the mirror’s symbolic weight as a tool that tempts its creator to usurp the role of God, thereby losing their humanity. The text places this memory just before Harry sees the device, equating Vincent’s scientific ambition with a dangerous, blasphemous spiritual quest.