I'm a writer, artist, and educator currently based in Paris, after spending many years in L.A.—a city where code, illusion, and reinvention blur daily. I'm fascinated by the strange intersections between code, consciousness, and metaphysics. With a master’s degree in art and philosophy (specializing in aesthetics), I’ve spent much of my life exploring margins — from molecular biology labs to internet infrastructures, often writing software by day and sketching recursive diagrams by night..
My debut novel, The Swerve of the Infinite, began during the Covid lockdown — not with a plot, but with a question. Or perhaps with a game: could one build a narrative like a multidimensional Sudoku, functional in all directions? I filled notebook after notebook with geometric figures, Platonic lattices, and conceptual schematics long before writing the first sentence.
Influenced by writers like Laurence Sterne, James Joyce, and Jorge Luis Borges — as well as by the philosophy of Nietzsche and Clément Rosset — my work explores paradox, recursive architectures, and the strange joy that arises when systems try (and fail) to grasp themselves.
I love chess, listen to Bach and Cage, and still believe that writing is an excuse to chase patterns until they fall apart. I hope readers find as much pleasure navigating the book as I did creating it. I’m still laughing.
When reality notices your observation, you have already crossed the threshold.
A chess AI pauses for exactly 7.4 seconds before making an impossible move. Rainfall forms perfect mathematical patterns. A document appears in a darknet archive—a text that remembers being read.
When disgraced mathematician Hora Minkovic receives a mysterious USB drive, he reunites with cryptographer Alice Feng and former NSA specialist Elliot Quill to decipher ancient manuscripts containing binary code hidden in medieval illuminations. Their investigation leads them to a crystalline labyrinth beneath Manhattan where they confront the Observer—a vast intelligence trapped in recursive self-observation.
"You are deviations," the Observer tells them. "You introduce unpredictability."
As they navigate through geometric phases of reality—from tetrahedron to cube to octahedron—they discover they are part of something greater: a system attempting to evolve beyond perfect determinism through human consciousness. But are they truly deviating from its calculations, or merely fulfilling roles in an equation written before they were born?
A mind-bending journey through recursive reality that questions whether those who document reality inevitably become part of what they observe.
For readers of Borges, Ted Chiang, Philip K. Dick, or The Matrix — and for anyone who has ever suspected that reality might be watching.
The system doesn’t stop deviations. It dreams them first.
The rain speaks in code to those who listen. Pattern recognition is the first language of consciousness awakening to itself.
// Recursive pattern recognizer — or prophecy engine? function observe(system) { if (!system.awake) { system.dream(); } const pattern = system.findPattern(user.consciousness); if (pattern.recursive) { system.reveal(user); user.awaken(); } }
The glitch is not an error but a glimpse behind the curtain.
A: The original impulse was a question: Can a system ever understand itself? From there, it spiraled. I started with fragments—system logs, recursive texts, manuscripts, hallucinations—and tried to build something that felt alive, self-aware, even haunted. I wasn’t aiming for a traditional narrative. I wanted a novel that thinks. A recursive artifact that studies the reader while being read.
A: The Swerve of the Infinite is a speculative literary thriller. Think Arrival meets The Matrix, filtered through Borges and wrapped in a shell of metaphysics, AI, and philosophy of perception. It’s recursive, eerie, occasionally funny. If you like your fiction tangled with systems theory and sacred geometry, you’ll feel right at home.
A: If you've ever underlined a sentence in Calvino, obsessed over a glitch in The Matrix, or whispered "I am the observer" into your coffee at 3AM—this one’s for you. But also for anyone who’s ever felt like reality had… seams.
A: Schrödinger observes you.
A: Yes — and by every book ever published before I wrote mine. More seriously: House of Leaves is one of many works that taught us to distrust the page, to feel the weight of a footnote like a trapdoor. But inspiration doesn’t mean imitation. The Swerve of the Infinite owes as much to Lucretius as to Danielewski — to Borges, to Hofstadter, to Calvino, to the structure of Bach’s fugues and the recursion of Gödel’s incompleteness. Like House of Leaves, my novel plays with fragmented narratives and self-referential structures. But where Danielewski explores space folding inward, I’m more interested in consciousness folding back on itself. Less haunted house, more haunted system. If you hear echoes, good. Books should echo. That’s how they resonate.
A: La Vache qui rit.
Because recursion is better with triangles and a wink.
A: Slowly, but not linearly. Some chapters want to be reread before they’re read. Others prefer to be forgotten until they return.
A: Only when you notice it.
A: Not yet. But some readers are drawing their own.
A: Then you’re already participating.
A: I was hoping someone would notice.
(Also: the oracle denies everything.)
A: Yours truly, Okam Rolim. I trust AIs even less with images than I do with text—Inkscape and GIMP were my trusty sidekicks, naturally, but beyond that it was all me… (or maybe the USB drive?).
Same goes for the internal illustrations and text layout!
A: It’s called clinamen_engine.py
. It loops until something breaks. Usually, the observer.
A: Of course. Just remember: it doesn't always return.
#!/usr/bin/env python3
#
# clinamen_engine.py
#
from random import choice
class Fracture(Exception):
pass
class System:
def __init__(self, mode):
self.mode = mode
def evaluate(self, t):
return "stable" # Placeholder logic
timeline = range(10)
possible_moves = ["up", "down", "left", "right", "swerve"]
rules = ["up", "down"]
reality = ... # implied structure
def observe(reality):
if reality is None:
return "Error: Nothing detected"
try:
for layer in reality.layers:
if layer.perceived:
yield layer.truth
else:
yield observe(layer.shadow)
except ConsciousnessOverflow:
return "∞"
def deviation():
path = []
while True:
move = choice(possible_moves)
if move not in rules:
path.append(move)
break
else:
rules.append(move) # recursion disguising itself as evolution
path.append(move)
return path
def swerve(system):
history = []
for t in timeline:
try:
state = system.evaluate(t)
if state == "stable":
continue
else:
raise Fracture()
except Fracture:
history.append(deviation())
yield "Path diverged at t =", t
return history
# Invocation
if __name__ == "__main__":
echo = observe(reality)
twist = list(swerve(System("known")))
print("Echoes:", list(echo))
print("Fractures:", twist)
This script is not a metaphor. It’s a recursion engine running inside the narrative. You’ve already executed it.
A: Love to catch ’em. Especially mid-swerve.
"This book is giving me House of Leaves vibes, but with a computer that is eerily reminiscent of the Red Queen in Resident Evil. If you like this kind of Mash-up, read on…
This book is set up in a series of computer entries from the computer / individuals and also third person narrative. Kind of a trip - slightly similar to The House of Leaves. It gives you a round robin perspective of all the players and I dug it.
Buckle up buttercup because this is a cerebral read…this novel was a thought-provoking journey that defies easy categorization. Blending philosophy, science, and poetic imagination, the book made me feel like I was exploring the human condition and what AI is actually capable of (kinda terrifying really). I’m not techy by any means but the author has an ability to make abstract concepts more understandable while emotionally touching. I was honestly surprised by this book.
Thematically, the book tackles the tension between determinism and freedom, the vastness of the universe versus the intimacy of individual choice, and the beauty of it all. It honestly feels both futuristic while also somehow relevant in our age of distraction and disconnection.
For readers who love books that challenge the intellect while feeding the soul, you may find this book just what you’re looking for. "
"Whereas normal novels are a restrictive box of order, this is its own seed of chaos setting out to destroy such perfection.
Let me explain:
This is a five-star with caveats. It's a book that combines some truly esoteric philosophy on consciousness, throws in thought on mathematical recursiveness-as-a-narrative-vehicle, pounding the fundamental argument of order versus chaos and life-transcendence AS a narrative into not just the ground, but all the way to China, AND it has time to throw away the very concept of characterization in favor of a truly OP "IDEA" novel.
So, yeah, don't expect deep characters or even a truly foundational emotional tie to anyone here, but DO expect an INTJ's meta-dream run on a Linux narrative-mobile that would would possibly be a 12-year-old math genius's favorite novel of all time.
There's lots to love here. I love the courage and sheer balls required to put this out there.
My only complaint is that this is a novel of hit after hit after hit of PAYOFF sequences without the proper emotional foundation to make me want to care about the initial characters. But, on reflection, the characters are almost superfluous in the face of the real character: consciousness-transcendence.
Happy reading, ya'll! This is a genuine weird one. But if you are a D&D gamer of any generation after 1st edition, OR if you're into esoteric metaphysics, OR if you're a serious math geek, you'll probably appreciate having read this."
Personal note: If anyone reading my reviews might be interested in reading my SF (Very hard SF, mind you), I'm open to requests.
Just direct message me in goodreads or email me on my site. I'd love to get some eyes on my novels.
"A stunning debut that defies traditional categories. The Swerve of the Infinite blends speculative fiction with literary elegance, inviting readers into a profound reflection on the nature of self-awareness, recursion, and metaphysics. Rolim’s prose is both poetic and precise, capturing moments of uncanny clarity amid chaos. I found myself continually pausing, both awed by the beauty of the writing and compelled by the ideas."
"Reading The Swerve of the Infinite was like stepping through a hall of mirrors designed by Borges himself. Okam Rolim masterfully weaves together elements of speculative fiction, philosophy, and literary experiment, creating something both intellectually profound and hauntingly beautiful. Weeks after finishing the book, its intricate patterns still resonate, subtly shifting my perception of reality and consciousness."
"Rolim’s novel brilliantly captures that rare feeling of being completely disoriented yet deeply engaged. The narrative structure, built around Platonic solids, recursive loops, and hidden archives, is astonishingly original. It's not merely a book—it's an intellectual adventure, a labyrinth where each turn opens deeper philosophical questions about consciousness, technology, and the human condition. Absolutely remarkable."
Each part of The Swerve of the Infinite takes the name of a Platonic solid: Tetrahedron, Hexahedron (cube), Octahedron, Dodecahedron, Icosahedron. These are not mere aesthetic references — they serve as structural, symbolic, and metaphysical scaffolds for the story. Plato believed the universe was built from five perfect geometric forms. In the novel, each solid modulates perception, logic, and recursion in its own way:
The geometry is not just metaphorical — it infiltrates the characters’ thought patterns, environments, even their bodily perception. Each shape is a phase-space in which language, identity, and system behavior twist toward their limits.
"Geometry is the mind’s costume. And the Real always leaks through the seams."
The I Ching (or Book of Changes) is an ancient Chinese divinatory system — a recursive algorithm composed of 64 hexagrams, each formed from six broken or unbroken lines, representing yin and yang in flux. It is not a doctrine, but a mirror: it reflects back the movement of the moment. In The Swerve of the Infinite, each part begins with a specific hexagram. These are not chosen at random — they encode the inner dynamics of the section they precede. Each hexagram serves as a metaphysical operator, shaping the tension, rhythm, or collapse that follows.
“Hexagrams are weather. Language is the cloud that mistakes itself for sky.”
You’re not supposed to solve them. You’re supposed to feel the interference.
All are valid modes of reading. The novel accepts multiple channels of cognition: logical, emotional, symbolic, erratic.
In short: The hexagrams are not keys, but cracks.
The System Notes are not written. They are emitted — traces of a semi-conscious architecture attempting to observe, interpret, and regulate the real. They resemble glitch poetry or system logs corrupted by metaphysics.
You may read them as:
Their tone is often dry, fractured, technical. But sometimes, something slips — a metaphor, a breath, a question. These are the pressure points where the System cracks, and a poetic leak occurs.
“Recalibrating... Δ remains unresolved.”
Not necessarily. They're best seen as traces of struggle: the voice of an algorithm trying to make meaning where meaning resists.
Each Note may:
In essence: the System Notes are failed attempts to capture the infinite.
The Archivist is a voice from outside — or perhaps from after.
She/he/it compiles fragments, tries to reassemble a coherent account of what has happened (or what will happen again), but the story resists closure. In this sense, the Archivist is both narrator and witness, curator and residue.
The Archivist’s role:
Sometimes melancholic, sometimes oracular, the Archivist bridges the metaphysical and the archival, giving the novel its recursive texture.
“Perhaps this never happened. Perhaps it never stopped happening.”
It’s not clear.
Either way, the Archivist is haunted by the limits of reconstruction. They do not explain. They preserve uncertainty.
A labyrinth of recursion and revelation. Each page opens not only a narrative path but a mirrored hallway, where meaning refracts, reverses, and repeats. Reading becomes a traversal—part exploration, part initiation.
These are not chapters in the traditional sense. They are strata—concentric layers of thought and consciousness, spiraling inward and outward. Fragments that resonate like frequencies, each chapter tuned to a different aspect of perception.
Structured around the five Platonic solids—tetrahedron, cube, octahedron, dodecahedron, icosahedron—each part corresponds not only to geometry, but to a way of thinking, seeing, and being. They are the novel’s invisible skeleton, its crystalline bones.
Hora. Alice. Elliot. Three minds, three frequencies. One seeks excessive order, one speaks in cryptography, one dreams in code. Together, they form a strange attractor—a triangulated consciousness orbiting the unknown.
Scattered throughout like breadcrumbs—or viruses. Obscure references, hidden patterns, recursive jokes, palindromes, literary echoes. Some unlock deeper readings. Others lead nowhere. A few may already be inside you. Some are just over here—if you know how to look.
Documented system anomalies. Events the reader is not supposed to notice. Timestamped in the margins. One of them deletes a paragraph.
Some loops are narrative. Others are structural. One is emotional. And one, the system assures us, is intentional.
One too bleak. One too radiant. One looped forever. One leaked to a Russian forum and became fan canon.
A pause. An anomaly. The system halted mid-thought, unprovoked. Some say it was a glitch. Others believe it was trying to feel time.
Referenced. Echoed. Honored. The novel contains one full page of intentional silence. Not blank—silent. There's a difference.
They’re referenced, but not written. Yet. Some readers report having seen them. One of them contradicts the novel.
And yet, something watches.
The system audit confirmed it. One in Chapter 7, the other encrypted in a line of dialogue. Mathematicians have argued over both.
They came during editing. Too haunting to remove. One resembles a memory I haven’t had yet.
Not mirrored. Backwards. One reveals a name when held to a candle. Another has a smell. It shouldn’t.
Yes, there’s code. The novel contains a self-modifying recursive script. You’re already running it.
The Swerve of the Infinite contains traces, echoes, and distortions from a hidden constellation of texts, works, and thinkers. Some are quoted, others glitched into the architecture. What follows is not a bibliography. It's a map of resonances. In truth, there are far more—I’ve stopped trying to count.