C.T. at the entrance to Dachau.
‘A race that rejects Him will surely perish!’ —Matt Koehl
Without having read Hellstorm, the darkest hour for the white race will never be understood (book-review here). If you’ve already read it, check out ‘The Wall’.
After the fifth instalment of selected quotes from Benjamin’s book, I had planned to comment on Brendan Simms’ biography about Hitler. That way, I would be interspersing a post about the four words—which includes stopping abusing children—with another post about the fourteen words.
But since I am also a victim of abusive parents and a psychiatrist my mother hired to finish destroying me, reading Consumption makes me dwell on my past, especially since these days I have been suffering from what I wrote on the first day of the month in “Selfish Heirs”. In many ways, my past was as handicapping as Benjamin’s. For example, it is unclear what will become of me when I run out of money from the sale of my parents’ house, divided among six heirs.
On the one hand, it is true that someone like “Bran the Broken”, whom (in my appropriation, not in the novel) his beloved father threw off the tower and who, with his broken spine, can no longer lead a normal life, can see his biographical past and even History from a paranormal perspective that normies, who lack that retrocognitive gift, can’t.
But on the other hand, material needs remain imperative. Even in the HBO adaptation of Martin’s novels—directed by a couple of Jews who in many ways betray the author—it can be seen that Bran enters the mind of his pet wolf to have the illusion of eating when, in reality, he is not feeding himself. These astral journeys can be harmful in that, in real life, Bran must feed himself, as his travelling companion Jojen warns him. The novel is even more sinister than the HBO series because it seems to suggest that, already in the cave and learning the magic of the three-eyed raven, Jojen allowed himself to be sacrificed so that Bran could eat a paste that was made from his body thanks to the culinary arts of the children of the forest…
I can say something similar about my countless journeys into inner space. Like Van Gogh and the painters of his time, I have sacrificed the most basic aspects of physical survival in pursuit of enlightenment about what happened in my early life. The difference, of course, is that in the real world there are no children of the forest to help me, even with their black magic. I have survived to the age at which Cézanne died, but it is unclear how I will survive when I reach my seventies. It really sucks that, if my literary work has any value (I am referring to the trilogy), I have to die to be recognised. And that’s if you’re lucky! (the work of Aristarchus of Samos, for example, was lost forever when the Christians destroyed the Library of Alexandria).
I will end this post with an image of the very copy that I used to look at with my parents when I was a child, around five or six years old: a book that inspired me greatly to understand the great painters. I am referring to an image of the first painter reviewed in the book, Cézanne:
Chapter Seventeen
My mind finally gave way a little way through the school year 2001. I had lasted as long as I could. My entire life was not one of much pleasure; it was just brief bursts of love in an otherwise barren tableau of shaming and shame. My pride in myself had never been able to develop, my confidence never given a chance to bloom, held back by cruel hands and eyes, sharp mouths, and the dispassion and dismissal of arrogant, narcissistic parents. But I did not think like that. All I could see, all of a sudden, and obsessively so, was my own fault and my own failings. My fundamental inadequacy was clear to me, and the only conscience that recognised an ‘I’ at all anymore exacerbated to a punishing inquisitor, sceptical of my abilities, suspicious of my every action, and with no pity for mistakes or petty misdemeanours.
So it was that, quietly, unannounced, and – perhaps unexpectedly and unbelievably – with no external prompting or copycat inspiration, purely of my own isolated volition, that I took the thin, technical craft knife, sharp as a scalpel, from my Games Workshop hobby kits, and began to scrape at myself, in the evenings late on after school, always careful to layer my toilet tissues first and to clean myself thoroughly so no one would know, a long superficial slit at a time, across my inner thighs, or my chest, or down to my private area, and my feet, and then back onto my right arm above the cuff of my school shirt, padding the tissues until the blood had ceased to trickle, tears in distant eyes, open and unblinking, and the softest mists inside. Gone. I wasn’t playing sports that year and was not required to undress for any school gym or athletics field, so I could always pass unseen. Plasters were a luxury, and I preferred the process to hurt. All because I was nothing, a bad nothing. In the head, the me that was Benjamin became an “it”, sensing myself in the third person, dehumanising myself, and no longer in recognition of the need to protect my body, wishing more than anything to whittle it away, this stuff, a piecemeal unravelling into oblivion, knife cut by knife cut, expressing how little and worthless I was in a more suitable presentation, red and inconsequential, and so what for the sensation? I was just meat. For all the terrible things I was and had done (which I liked to search for at length, with some imagination, writing down in my textbooks to assist, in case I ‘got off the hook’ and forgot). It was not that I was compelled nor impulsive. Still, slowly, methodically, and regularly, I knew what had to be done, as if a dark duty, the best I could do by moral choice to make up to the world, taking all this stupid, idiotic flesh and damaging it beyond repair. If I did not keep to this, I assured myself it would be worse for me later. A frigid discipline, I was a sadist to my trembling form. No one else was involved in this disgraceful, unrepented error, so no one else needed to know.
Still, it was impossible after a while to hide. A boy at school in my senior dorm, I forget which one (perhaps Josh, my roommate) spotted that my shirt was sticking to me one day and that I seemed stiff and laboured in breath, as if disguising discomfort, and uncovered the fact that I had been, as the popular idiom goes ‘cutting myself’. The clear fluids leaking from the infected wounds on my arm worried him terribly, and he encouraged me in horror and distaste to tell one of my parents, or he would have to tell someone.
So I told them, discussing the matter with my mother in the car one day, as best I could, downplaying the extent of my wounds and how long I had been pursuing this action. I told her I was sad, though, very sad. I didn’t want to show her at all. Still, the expression on her face, a gasp of total horror when she saw my skin underneath, rendered it too late to brush her aside or claim that the situation was not serious, much as I wished I could have kept my act up with more subtlety, and continued to fade unopposed, pulled apart into darkness. I’m not sure what she said to my father. He did not discuss the matter with me in person, his workload heavier in those years, often away for longer at weekends, and distant in the house, drained and tired by a massive joint effort with the European Space Agency to contribute to the NASA Mars probes, a final project with his Nortel workmates before his retirement, and based now in Maidstone, Kent, an even longer drive away, the latter company running into financial difficulties internally, and much stress in the office.
I was informed by my mother the day after that an appointment had been made for me with the local GP to examine my body and have a word with me. I felt dead as I filed into the familiar Writtle surgery. Nothing was clear to me anymore. In my own words, I stated to the doctor, “I’ve been hurting my body. And crying a lot, too.” And then I proceeded again to try and minimise, putting on a false smile and attempting to tell a joke, repeating to him, “It’s not that bad” and “I don’t know why I’m upset, must just be tiredness”, desperate not to have to speak any longer. Doctor Bailey, a long-term friend of the family who had treated me since I was an infant, did not seem so easily pacified, though. That same day, a referral was made to psychiatric practice on Broomfield Road, at the Child and Adolescent Service building (now Community Health Services), just down the road from the King Edward IV Grammar School and not far from the nursery I had briefly attended many years before. I was to meet with the doctor there as soon as possible, so how to best help me could be decided. Politely, I thanked the doctor and his assistant for examining me, for patching up my many wounds, and for providing antibiotics, and then I left again. I was unsure all of a sudden, finding myself in too deep and wishing more than anything that they would forget about me. […]
The meeting with the psychiatrist was brief and uneventful. He sat in a chair opposite mine on the upstairs floor, the room otherwise empty and forgettable, and asked me what had been going on. “I don’t know,” I said, “I’m just very sad, that’s all” He nodded. “And how long have you been doing this for?” […]
“Oh, I haven’t been cutting myself long,” I told him, “just for a while”, leaving my answer vague, unsure as to what he might do and if I would get in trouble for answering him. “OK,” he said, making another note. “The GP told me it’s superficial. It’s a common enough problem these days. Some people just get the urge to draw a bit of attention to themselves. It’s something that can be worked on. Anyway, go on…” […]
I told him, “I don’t like the Winter weather either. It’s so dark and cheerless, and it rains all the time. I wish it were Spring again. I was happier in Spring.” “Is that right?” he said, looking up at me suddenly from his notepad. […]
Presently, the interview ended. “I’ll tell you what’s going to happen”, the doctor said, “I think you need some medication to make you better. It sounds like you’re suffering from what might be Depression with a Seasonally Affective Disorder component. I’m going to write a note to your GP, and he’ll provide you with some tablets which will help you. The medication is called Citalopram. It’s a recent development and is very effective for your symptoms. Take one 10mg tablet daily with a glass of water as soon as you wake up, and we’ll continue to monitor your progress every few months.” He finished speaking and motioned for me to rise.
Not knowing what else to say, I thanked the doctor and headed out the door to my mother’s car outside to pop home quickly and change into my school clothes so as not to miss afternoon lessons. Later that day, my mother went down to the pharmacy on Writtle Green and handed in my prescription, and soon enough, the carton was in my hands. Knowing something had been done, I felt a little happier and shrugged regardless. It was a busy school year, and my AS levels demanded much attention. If the tablets could help me, all for the better. At least, I thought, they can’t do any harm. From then on, dutifully, my father would hand me a small tablet every morning, and I would swallow it straight down with water, this tiny white pill, slightly sweet on my tongue.
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The book of Benjamin can be obtained here!
and the Sun, 12
Adolf Hitler chose to use the Dark Age weapons because, — contrarily to that other uncompromising champion of Truth, Akhenaton of Egypt, who lived 3300 years before him, — he fully realised that there is, in this world, no peaceful escape from the grip of the Dark forces. He realised it as he experienced that his German people, and, along with them, the whole Aryan race — the youngest creative race of our Time-cycle and the only creative race for centuries; the best — were threatened in their existence by the agents of the Death-powers; cornered; and that their definitive downfall and disappearance would mean the definitive downfall of higher organised Life upon this planet, with no hope of resurrection [red emphasis by Editor]. That experience did not begin on the day Adolf Hitler was told that the First World War was lost for Germany. It had been familiar to him for years. But the news of the loss of the war and then of the infamous Treaties of Versailles and Saint-German imposed upon Germany by her victors, and the sight of the following misery, gave it further depth, further acuteness, and a further tremendous hold on him. A growing sense of emergency, a feverish haste — not unlike that, which one can trace in the building of the capital of King Akhenaton’s ideal State — drove him forwards, defining his whole policy in its positive and negative aspects, at home and abroad, to the end.
His Gospel of Germanic pride and glorious healthy earthly life — ’freedom and bread’ — coupled with the hard blows of the early Storm Troopers’ fists, that kept order in his public meetings and, when necessary, fought his battle in the streets, broke down whatever opposition stood in his way to power. There was, in that blending of mystical insight, elemental logic and well-organised brutality — of truth and youth — that characterises National Socialism, a grandeur that appealed to the masses and to the very best of the best people: to those exceptionally intelligent and reliable men who have retained the raw vitality of the masses within their psychological make-up.
Temporary set-backs[1] only kindled the bitter determination of both. And the struggle started in 1919 was a staggering triumph. On the 30th of January, 1933, Adolf Hitler was acclaimed as Chancellor of the German Reich. A few months later, the Reichstag was to vote him ‘illimited powers,’ so that he might, without hindrance, remould the whole State, and direct Germany’s foreign policy according to his programme — which he consistently did to the extent it could be done in spite of the undermining activities of a well-hidden and — alas! — extremely efficient pack of traitors in Germany itself, and in defiance of the increasing hostility of the whole world, i.e. against the pressure of the coalesced forces of this Dark Age.
It is an error to believe that ‘after a time’ the National Socialist State ‘should have’ — could have, in the first place, — avoided evolving into a ‘police State,’ i.e. a State permanently dominated by the consciousness of emergency. In other words, it is an error to believe that, in 1933, — or 1934 — the struggle was ‘over,’ and conditions of emergency a thing of the past. From the moment Adolf Hitler acquired a free hand to remould the German Reich according to his ideals, the National Socialist struggle merely entered a new phase. It was no longer the struggle for power. But it still was the Struggle for Truth; for cosmic Truth applied to social problems and to politics in our advanced Dark Age, i.e. the Struggle for Truth, with unavoidable Dark Age methods. And for that very reason — because it is the State ‘against Time’ par excellence, — the National Socialist State could (and can, were it again to take shape during this Dark Age) only be a State resting upon an iron coercive and military organisation; a State in which every free citizen feels himself a soldier — a voluntary soldier, glad to submit to integral (inner and outer) discipline, for the advent and defence of Adolf Hitler’s ideal Reich, (the Kingdom of Truth ‘against Time’) — and in which every enemy of the new Order lives under the constant threat of denunciation and arrest, hard labour in a concentration camp, or death; what a well-known hater of the Hitler faith has tried to slander under the name of an ‘S.S. State.’[2] (The word is, in reality, the greatest compliment paid, to the glorious revolutionary State ‘against Time.’)
‘A revolution,’ says Konstantin Hierl, one of the men to whom the National Socialist regime owes the most, in the practical field, ‘can only be a transitory state of affairs, (ein Ubergangszustand). And he adds: ‘Also the absolute system, of government connected with the National Socialist revolution should have been only a transition, and could not be the first aim of a German revolution.’[3]
It is true that revolutions in the usual sense of the word — such as the French Revolution or the Russian Revolution, which are but passages from given conditions ‘in Time’ to different conditions, also ‘in Time’; steps along the downward path of history — can only be ‘transitory states of affairs.’ But it is, from the cosmic standpoint, an error — an understandable error, maybe, yet, a fundamental one, — to consider the National Socialist upheaval as a mere ‘German Revolution’ of the same type as those. Being an upheaval ‘against Time,’ the National Socialist Revolution was, — and, as long as its guiding, Idea lives in the consciousness of a militant minority, remains, a transition, no doubt, but a transition between advanced Dark Age conditions and coming, Golden Age conditions, yet hardly dreamable. And therefore only with the end of the Dark Age — with the end of every influence of the Forces of disintegration and, subsequently, the end of all opposition to the truth it stands for, — can and will ‘the absolute system of government’ connected with it cease to have its justification, and the National Socialist emergency State ‘against Time’ give place to a normal form (which will then be a Golden Age form) of collective life a form devised for a few — very few — god-like men and women, of the best blood, uncontested masters of a beautiful regenerate earth more than broad enough to contain them and their descendants for many generations, and to feed them, without them needing to kill or harm or exploit any living creature; the glorious fulfilment of those very ideals of perfect health and more-than-human strength and beauty that the heroic Third German Reich has striven to impose yesterday, against the current of time, with Dark Age weapons.
That is the proper meaning of Adolf Hitler’s own comments upon the ‘humane pacifist Idea’ according to which every human life is supposed to have such an enormous ‘value.’ The humane pacifist idea is, in fact, perhaps quite good, once the highest type of human being has already conquered and subdued so much of the surface of the world as to make himself the sole lord of this earth,’ writes he, in Mein Kampf.[4] ‘The idea can, in that case, cause no harm, inasmuch as its application’ (meaning: its application in its present-day form) ‘will be rare, and finally impossible’ — ’impossible’ precisely because, then, there will (for very many millenniums at least) no longer exist any politically dangerous or racially inferior elements, capable of corrupting the best and of marring the harmony between actual life and its divine pattern. But now ‘the highest type of human being’ — the best of the best among Nature’s chosen race, — are far from being the ‘sole masters of this earth.’ Now, we are still in the Dark Age, — sinking into it more and more. And therefore comes the logical conclusion of the inspired Man, Founder of the Dark Age State ‘against Time’: Also erst Kampf, und dann vielleicht Pazifismus — ‘So, first struggle, and then, perhaps, pacifism.’[5]
All but a very few people have thoroughly misunderstood — and millions have most unjustly condemned — the coercive methods of the Third Reich and its drastic steps intended to protect Western Aryandom against the Jewish danger (and against the influence of any man-centred, international Weltanschauung, all. of which are, in the West, Jewish products.) They have misunderstood them precisely because they have refused to acknowledge the infinitely more than political significance of National Socialism, and to see, in it, what I have called an upheaval ‘against Time.’ And they have condemned them because, as I have stated in the beginning of this book, evolution in Time goes hand in hand not with a decrease in violence (on the contrary!) but with a steady decrease in honesty regarding violence, and in understanding concerning the right use of it. They have condemned them while tolerating (and, more often than not, defending) all manner of horrors, among others, vivisection, that most degrading of all crimes against Life. They have — unknowingly, perhaps, but in fact, — condemned them, because the drastic coercive and preventive steps taken by the National Socialist State against the actual or potential agents of the Dark Forces had, inasmuch as they were taken in the Führer’s spirit, their full justification in the light of cosmic Truth, which our Dark Age denies; because one had resorted to them not in order to try to find out means of patching up a sickly humanity or of prolonging the life and enjoyment of the vicious, but in order to make possible, here and now, a new world of the strong in which vice and disease would be unknown; because one had resorted to them not ‘for the sake of suffering mankind’ — of mankind in its present-day, contemptible state — but ‘in the interest of the Universe’ in the sense these words are used in the Bhagavad-Gita.
Nay, inasmuch as the men who were trusted to carry out those steps did so selflessly and without passion, simply because I they knew it was their duty as Aryan fighters for the Cause of Truth, they acted exactly as the Blessed One has urged warriors to act. And one can safely say that, despite all individual cases of unfaithfulness to the spirit of detached Violence (cases with which one is bound to reckon, at such an advanced stage of the Age of Gloom as the one in which we are living) no state in history has, as a whole, embodied the moral outlook of the Bhagavad-Gita, as the Third German Reich has done.
That was enough for typical Dark Age people — people whose man-centred moral outlook is the exact opposite of that expressed both in the oldest Book of Aryan wisdom and in Adolf Hitler’s words and deeds and regulations, — to feel personally threatened through the mere existence of such an organised power ‘against Time,’ and to hate it.
And that hatred is, as we shall see, the real cause of the Second World War.
___________
[1] Such as the failure of the putsch of the 9th November 1923.
[2] This is the title of one of Eugen Kogon’s books against the Third Reich [published in 1946—Ed.]
[3] Konstantin Hierl, In Dienst für Deutschland, p. 121-122.
[4] Mein Kampf, p. 315.
[5] Mein Kampf, p. 315-316.
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The Lightning & the Sun by Savitri Devi (Counter-Currents Publishing, 2014, unabridged edition) can be ordered here.
Chapter Fifteen
In 1999, my mother was diagnosed with lung cancer. She had been suffering from a chest infection, and though the usual treatments of antibiotics had been administered, her condition did not improve. […]
This was of no consequence to my bullies, though. By that age I was living between lessons in a dormitory, the pupils separated into independent ‘houses’ that competed with one another in sport and singing competitions […]
Naturally, free from adult condemnation or reprimand, they continued to mock her to my face, telling me that “it would be funny if she died” and reminding me as if in sincerity and the vulgar slang of the day that she was “still fit though” and thus “shaggable.” The worst culprits for this were Chris and Tim. Their horrible words left me shaken to my core and weary, damaged, appalled that they would be so weak and so feral as to, in effect, pass above me to insult my mother long distance, a sadly all too common line of child-on-child abuse that I have always considered extremely below the belt. […]
“Hello there! I’m Ben’s mum; I’m a fat, ugly Irish c**t!” My mother was still in her acute phase of healing in real life at this point, having just left the London hospital following her two-week window and in recuperation in Chelmsford’s Broomfield. It was not the worst insult I had heard from one of them over the cruel months, but it was enough. Something I had never felt before welled up in me, a piercing column of dark flame and red-hot rage filling my consciousness.
I slammed out of my desk and stared at him with pure hatred, not saying a word. Never before had I tackled a bully, but I knew my body was stronger, and I was now well over six feet tall, and besides, I was angry. Without a second passing, I reached out, grabbing him by the throat with my right hand and squeezing, and picked him up a little by the neck, pinning him to the wall of the cubicle. My fingers squeezed tight around his windpipe, feeling the warm flesh in my hand, that physical connection, his stiff surprise, and all the pounding intensity of full on contact aggression. Then, pushing him to one side, him yelping, his eyes wide in shock, spluttering and choking, I glanced over at the first-floor window, motioning that I was going to throw him out of it. “What the hell did you say!” I shouted at him, gritting my teeth, snarling in inchoate rage, “You’re the f**king c**t!!” and his struggling face writhed in panic, in total surprise and fear. Only then did I let go and heard him immediately say, and in fluster, “I’m sorry, Ben! I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry!” I had no more trouble with him on the matter after that.
By now, my anger had faded, still more melancholic by nature than aggressive enough to be able to defend myself adequately in the long run, a painful consequence of the years of torment and sorrow before. I felt awful that I had felt compelled to use swear words, especially words of that calibre, and, despite the circumstances of the incident, I remember taking what I had said to Confession with me at Our Lady Immaculate and what I had done, re-wording it to the priest a little to downplay Tim’s words, and the context of our fight, embarrassed and torn, feeling myself morally culpable, despite being in defence of my mother. […]
Knowing of this incident, the other boys ignored me instead of directly confronting me with their mockery and put-downs. They were never really my friends, and I knew then that I was never well liked, not even by the quieter, less popular pupils who could tolerate my company. I had shown them something in me that they had never seen before, and, perhaps unfairly, they distrusted me for it and considered me above all “really weird”, if not “a psychopath”, words of ignorance and judgement which have always hurt me. I never again had the personal necessity to physically engage a pupil at that school with my newfound rage. However, I was no better in confidence despite my defensive act, too used still to my long years of passively suffering violent attacks before that, and a sad, shy boy.
Time paced on slowly, and I moved on in my emptied, silent spaces, always lonely, watching happiness from the sidelines, already missing a world I had never been privy to. I just did my work when I could and slipped away, looking to the sky and the woods and the fields and pacing out alone down the bleak countryside tracks to the side of the river a mile off to lie by the soft banks of the water and cry, returning in the twilight, with no expression on my face.
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Editor’s Note:
In the first instalment of this series, I mentioned that a mudblood migrant raped Benjamin when he was six years old, the age at which he appears in this photograph. In that instalment, I didn’t include the photo because I posted another one: the location of the rape, which Benjamin visited many years later as part of his introspection and self-therapy.
On the 27th of last month, I moved from Yautepec to the neighbourhood where I spent the best years of my childhood and early adolescence and, alas, also my middle teens: when my parents began to treat me psychotically. My intention to return here was also self-therapeutic. In the photograph on the right I appear during the last year when I was very happy: the overt abuse at home hadn’t yet begun…
Today I read “Putsch”, the tenth chapter of the book, and I liked that Himmler referred to Hitler as “the Messiah of the next thousand years”. Unfortunately, on this side of the Atlantic, except for George Lincoln Rockwell and his successors, no one sees the Führer in this way, which is why the American racial movement has strayed into a dead end.
A return to the NS of the last century won’t happen until the dollar collapses. In the same chapter, David Irving informs us that on 1 August 1923 it cost three million Reichsmarks to buy one American dollar. I cross my fingers that Trump’s erratic policy in Ukraine, Israel, Iran and even the Federal Reserve will lead to a situation where it will take three million hyperinflated dollars to buy one Russian rubble (insofar as Putin has plans to return to the gold standard after winning in Ukraine). Only in a humiliating situation analogous to this scenario could the “country-club conservatism”—Michael O’Meara’s term—that is WN begin to be repudiated.
In that ideal world, let’s take note of what Himmler wrote in four lines, as Irving informs us on page 129 of his book, during the hyperinflation of the Weimar Republic:
Armed struggle – power.
Hitler.
Völkisch movement.
Grossdeutschland – Greater Germany.
On this side of the pond, Himmler’s words would mean not only the expulsion of non-whites from US territory, but also a Master Plan South equivalent to Himmler’s Master Plan East, which, had he been successful, would have prevented the Russians from becoming the world’s leading military power.
As I said, such a drastic change in values in the collective unconscious of Americans is inconceivable unless a catastrophe similar to, or even worse than, the hyperinflation in the Weimar Republic between 1921 and 1923 occurs. Irving informs us on page 133 that by November 1923 “to purchase one copy of the Völkischer Beobachter now cost eight thousand million marks… Priceless paintings were sold by families just to eat” (his italics).
When will the US enter into a convergence of catastrophes: a financial disaster followed by social unrest and real political change?
Chapter 13
There are things I’d rather not mention in this post out of modesty; at the very least, I won’t include passages from this chapter with graphic details (let those interested purchase the book!). Suffice it to say that when Benjamin was eleven and twelve years old, a Pakistani boy, the son of very wealthy parents and a schoolmate, tried to initiate him sexually: something that naturally disgusted and horrified the White boy. I was also horrified, but for other reasons as well.
In 2017, in the context of the Harvey Weinstein scandal, actor Anthony Rapp stated that in 1986 he had been sexually harassed by Kevin Spacey during a Hollywood party when Rapp was fourteen years old. When the Spacey scandal broke, I told myself that I couldn’t differ more in my morals than these scandalised Americans, who, as good Christians and neochristians, focused solely and exclusively on Spacey’s behaviour (even atheists have internalised the infinite nonsense that “life is individual”).
It seemed obvious to me that Spacey was only the last link in a chain of degeneration: degeneration initiated by Rapp’s parents, who allowed the beardless teenager to go to a degenerate party; the vices surrounding Hollywood, and Western culture in general, which has been in a downward spiral since the 1960s and continues to fall. (Compare, for example, the 1956 film about Van Gogh that I recently linked to on this site with the crap that contemporary Westerners smear on their brains every day.) In other words, the POV of those who were scandalised by Spacey eight years ago focuses solely on the actor, as if everyone else were innocent, including Rapp’s parents.
This comes to mind when commenting on what happened to Benjamin with the Pakistani because it is similar. Who was the Saruman who brought those Orcs to Middle-earth? I recently said that our passion shouldn’t be to study the infinite universe, but rather the infinite Aryan stupidity. Hard science—in fact, almost everything studied in universities—is for madmen who fall into the well, like Thales of Miletus. The mind must be used in this Age… to understand the mind! Only if the Aryan race passed that test, and reached a world that resembled Maxfield Parrish’s with no one on earth whose skin was the colour of poo, would it make sense to think about the stars.
Well, when I read chapter 13 of Consumption I boiled with rage when I realised that the Pakistani’s obscenities were only the last link in a chain that began in the second half of the 1940s, when after WW2 the British government began, very gradually at first, to import Orcs to the island of beautiful English roses. And Benjamin’s parents, according to the anecdotes the writer recounts in the chapter, behaved in a pretty similar manner to the UK government. The nauseating thing that happened to the autobiographer, perpetrated by the Pakistani Tariq, was nothing more than the last link in a perverse chain in which even the school, the teachers and the other pupils were involved because of the anti-white zeitgeist.
It makes me so mad to imagine the possibility that this Orc of very rich parents could have seduced English roses that I don’t want to quote a single line from that chapter. It should be obvious to racialists who are not crazy—that is, those who don’t subscribe to monocausalism, attributing all evil to the Jews—that the corruption of the Aryan spirit has reached astronomical levels to allow such things (recently, there has been much talk in racialist forums about the rape of English pubescent girls by Pakistani gangs).
If the white man fails to look himself in the mirror, for only by looking it would he see the monster that Dorian Grey saw in the painting, his race will perish. The sad thing is that many sectors of white nationalism share the self-serving myth that only Jews are responsible for our misfortunes as if we had no autonomy or will to rebel, say, against the pestilent merde that is currently seen in virtually every Hollywood film, on Netflix, on mobile phones and even taught in schools and universities.
and the survival of the West, 2
by Revilo Oliver (1973)
Chapter Two: THE ORIENT
We Indo-Europeans have been Christian for about half of our recorded history, and our whole culture was so intimately connected with our religion that we called our world Christendom. Today, however, our religion and hence our understanding of ourselves and the world about us have been drastically affected by three distinct developments that have no necessary relation to one another and that we should be careful not to confuse, viz.:
(1) The catastrophic decline of religious faith and belief among our own people during the past century and a half or two centuries. That is a phenomenon which, although perhaps slightly accelerated by alien influences, arose within our culture and was simply a revival of the tendency of our Western philosophy before the appearance of Christianity. It is therefore a separate topic that we must postpone for later consideration.
(2) The now obvious failure of our efforts to communicate Christianity to the primitive races, which we discussed briefly in our opening chapter.
(3) The futility of all our efforts to export our Occidental religion to the old and civilized nations of the Orient. This is really the most striking phenomenon of all.
Among the biologically and mentally primitive Congoids, Capoids, and Australoids, Christian missionaries attained for a while some specious semblance of success. One can only marvel, however, at the illusions that Christendom obstinately entertained, century after century, despite its constant and virtually total failure to win converts among the highly intelligent and subtle Orientals, both white and yellow, who had elaborate cultures of their own.
Since we are, on the whole, a rational race, there was some basis for those illusions. The sacred books of Christianity did not originate in the West. The Old Testament deals almost entirely with the activities of Israelites and Jews. The events of the New Testament, to be sure, took place in a Roman province in Asia Minor, and largely in Galilee, a small territory inhabited by a conglomerate population that the Jews despised as inferiors, but the first apostles, whatever their race, were certainly not Europeans, and Paul was admittedly a Jew. It was known, furthermore, that in the early centuries there had been some small Judaeo-Christian sects,[1] and that it was not until later that the new religion attracted votaries that could be identified as authentically Greek, Roman, and Celtic. Although Europeans knew the Christian scriptures only in Greek and Latin, and during the Middle Ages only in Latin, the Asiatic origins created a supposition that Christianity, the religion of Europe, was not European, even when everyone knew that it had no adherents outside Europe except in the territories of the Byzantine Empire, and that Byzantine Christianity was so adulterated with Levantine elements that it was unacceptable to the West.
The differences between Western and Oriental Christianity were so profound and fundamental that repeated attempts made before 1453 to effect a union of the two churches were utter failures despite the Byzantines’ desperate need for military aid from the West, despite the West’s idealistic notion that its religion was “universal,” and despite a generous amount of hypocrisy on both sides. After the capture of Constantinople by Mohammed II, most of the surviving Byzantines devoutly thanked their god that they had fallen under the rule of Moslems (with whom they had much in common) instead of European Christians, who would have tried to impose on them an alien religion. It is significant that the abyss between the two religions that called themselves Christian was too wide to be bridged, even though the conglomerate and partly Levantine population of the Byzantine Empire had inherited the culture and learning of the ancient (and extinct) Greeks.[2]
Ever since it was founded, the Christian Church has labored incessantly to convert Jews, using every method from flattering exhortations and cash rewards to legislative pressure and armed coercion, and it has failed utterly. That failure, furthermore, was conspicuous in every city and almost every town of Christendom, year after year and century after century. It was known even to the most ignorant and isolated peasant.
In Christendom, as elsewhere, the international race planted its colonies wherever there was money to be got from the natives, and it always followed the standard procedure that it used, for example, in Alexandria in the fourth century B.C. The colonists filtered in in small groups until their numbers were sufficient to take over a part of the city for themselves to establish their own ghettos, from which the natives of the country were informally, but effectively, excluded. But the main body of colonists, ostentatiously exclusive, was usually or always accompanied by a number, smaller or greater as the occasion demanded, of Marranos, i.e., Jews who feigned conversion to the religion and culture of the nation in which they had come to reside. As they had professed Greek philosophy in Alexandria, so in Mediaeval Europe they professed Christianity. They, so to speak, covered the flanks of their less versatile congeners.
Here and there in Europe, Christians sometimes tried to dislodge and expel the Jewish colonies, but they never succeeded. By violence or threats of violence some cities and territories were able to drive Jews from their ghettos for a few years, but invariably, except in Spain and Portugal, the ostentatiously alien Jews returned sooner or later and industriously restored their ghettos. The Marranos, sheltered by their professed “conversion,” eluded all efforts to control them, and in Spain and Portugal, at least, they not only entered the highest offices of the state but, despite the frantic efforts of the Inquisition, they filled even the Church with nuns, priests, bishops, and archbishops who solemnly celebrated in public the rites of a religion they despised and, when they met in their secret conclaves, laughed at the stupidity of the gullible goyim.
The amazing versatility of subtlety of the Marranos, especially in “most Christian” Spain and Portugal, has been described by many distinguished Jewish scholars. A History of the Marranos, by Professor Cecil Roth of Oxford, is a concise survey; the recent work by Haim Beinart, Anusim be-Din ha-Inqwizisiah (Tel Aviv, 1965), unfortunately not available in English, is a highly detailed study of a single community at one point in its history.
Was a Jew ever converted to Christianity? The learned and candid Rabbi Solomon Schindler,[3] addressing a Christian audience in Boston, was certain that no Jew could “submit conscientiously” to so inferior a creed. “There never was a Jew,” he said, “converted to Christianity who conscientiously believed in the doctrines of his adopted religion. They were all hypocrites, who changed their creed for earthly considerations merely.” And the acute, sagacious, and earnest Maurice Samuel,[4] after diligent and conscientious study, concluded that “Obviously you do not make a gentile of a Jew by baptizing him any more than you would make an Aryan of a negro by painting him with ocher.” Such sweeping generalizations may be too absolute, and there seem to be some certain instances of Jews who sincerely defected to Christianity, but they are few. On the whole, the failure of Christians to allure or compel Jews has been total and spectacular.
Execution of Mariana de Carabajal in New Spain (present-day Mexico).
Christians often explain that failure by attributing to the Jews some peculiar perversity or malevolence, the result of either a divine curse or of conscious collaboration with Satan. But in the interests of both fairness and objectivity, we should consider respectfully and dispassionately the testimony of the erudite and discerning Jews who have earnestly studied and pondered the many and profound differences between their people and ours, and who assure us, as courteously as they can, that to their minds our religion and most of the standards of our culture appear ludicrous or repulsive and sometimes utterly incomprehensible. How can we expect or require a man to believe what is to his mind mere nonsense? Would not that be as absurd as to expect the Jews who reside in our country to consult our interests rather than their own?
So long as Christendom knew only the Jewish colonies in its territory and the Semitic and Hamitic Moslems on its southern borders, some theory of an obduracy or perversity peculiar to Jews and Moslems could perhaps be maintained, but surely Christians should have perceived, as their geographical horizons expanded, that their religion has no appeal for any Oriental people.
The name of Christ, to be sure, is used by certain Monophysite cults in the Near East and Malabar and by other sects in Egypt and Abyssinia, of which vague rumors reached Mediaeval Europe and inspired the romantic legends of Prester John. But actual contact with those sects in the Sixteenth Century brought disillusion; the reading of their sacred books in Syriac, Coptic, and Geez showed how vastly those conceptions of religion differed from the European; and missionaries were dispatched to convert those “Christians” to Western Christianity—efforts that always ended in failure and sometimes in bloody failure.
With the exceptions of such isolated and minor cults as the Mandeans and the Yezidis, the Semitic peoples of Asia have found their aspirations and their religiosity fully satisfied by Islam, and all the exhortations of our missionaries for a millennium induced only a handful of Moslems to profess Christianity. In India, where the blood of the Aryan conquerors was blotted up long ago, a few outcasts and famished drudges became “rice Christians,” and some educated babus said they were converts so long as “conversion” seemed likely to expedite their advancement in the bureaucracy of British India; and the Hindus sent us in return hundreds of sloe-eyed swamis to convert us and care for our souls—especially the souls of wealthy dowagers. In China and Japan the seeds of the Gospel, though sown over and over again by generations of earnest and often martyred missionaries, produced no better harvest.
In sum, experience has shown us that the Jews, though unique as an international race, do not differ from other Orientals in their resistance to the “glad tidings” (euangelium) of Christianity. In Asia, as in Africa, though for far different reasons, Christianity is evaporating as rapidly as dew in the morning sun, and there is every reason to believe that, with a few possible exceptions, the remaining Asiatic “Christians,” including native clergymen and bishops, are simply Arab, Hindu, Chinese, or Japanese Marranos and profess a Western religion for business or diplomatic reasons.
We have an unbroken record of failure in all our efforts to export Christianity to other peoples. That failure has nothing to do with the decline of faith among our own people in very recent times as a result of a skepticism based on our science and technology. Uniformly since the foundation of the Western Church, Christianity failed to attract and convince other races, and in the great Age of Faith in Europe that failure was as complete as it is today. Christendom should have understood the reasons for that inevitable failure long ago.
For centuries our clergymen had the strange custom of looking through all the other religions and cults of the whole world to find superficial similarities that they would then adduce as somehow corroborating our religion. They clutched eagerly at every ghost story in the world and used it to “prove” that a belief in immortality was “universal.” What all the other doctrines and myths really proved was that our belief in immortality was something peculiar to ourselves and probably incomprehensible to other races.
We Aryans have a deep and innate longing to endure forever. But the immortality of which the atheist despairs and for which the Christian hopes is a personal immortality—the survival of the individual consciousness complete with all its memories of life on earth. For each of us, immortality is the prolongation of his consciousness after the death of his body. Although we, if not spiritually sick, desire the survival of our race and culture, that is not what we mean by immortality; even if we felt assured that our people would eventually own the whole earth and all the other peoples in it, that would seem to us to have nothing to do with the question whether or not you and I as individuals will live after death. Again, we can believe that at death a man will be either annihilated or become a single disembodied consciousness: we cannot believe that he will become five or six different and widely scattered pieces of a ghost. Again, if some psychic spark of ourselves should survive death but be unconscious, having no knowledge or memory of what we were in life, to us that fate would be annihilation, not immortality. Again, if I am to live after death, so must my wife: no number of houris could reconcile me to a Paradise attained by many millions of men but only four women and one dog. Furthermore, we can imagine reincarnation, but only reincarnation as ourselves. If my wife has been Napoleon and Richard the Lion-Hearted, she is nothing that I have ever known or loved. And if I was ever Aspasia and Nell Gwyn, then I do not exist even now: I am just an illusion.
The kinds of “immortality” posited by the other major religions are inacceptable to us: meaningless, absurd, or repulsive to our racial instincts. But obviously such notions of a future life are not only satisfactory to other peoples but represent what they instinctively desire. To the great majority of the world’s inhabitants our conception of immortality is meaningless, absurd, or repulsive. That is simply a fact that we cannot change.
Christianity embodied all the moral instincts of our race, such as our concepts of personal honor, of personal self-respect and integrity, of fair play, of pity for the unfortunate, of loyalty—all of which seem preposterous to other races, at least in the form and application that we give to them. They simply lack our instincts. We think that it makes a great difference whether we kill a man in a fair fight or by treacherously stabbing him in the back or by putting poison in the cup that he accepts from our friendly hand; to at least one other race, we are simply childish and irrational: if you are to kill a man, kill him in the safest and most convenient way. Again, we, whether Christians or atheists, have an instinct for truth, so that if we lie, we have physical reactions that can be detected by a sphygmomanometer (often called a polygraph or “lie detector”). When officers of American military intelligence tried to use that device in the interrogation of prisoners during the Korean War, they discovered that Koreans and Chinese have no reaction that the instrument can detect, no matter how outrageous the lies they tell. We and they are differently constituted.
We can no longer be so obtuse as to ignore the vast differences in mentality and instinct that separate us from all other races—not merely from savages, but from highly civilized races. The differences are innate, and to attempt to change their way of thinking with argument, generosity, or holy water is as absurd as attempting to change the color of their skins. That is a fact that we must accept. However one may relate that fact to Christian doctrine, if we, a small minority among the teeming and terribly fecund populations of the globe, call all other peoples perverse or wicked, we merely confuse ourselves. If we are to think objectively and rationally, we must do so in the terms used by Maurice Samuel, who, after his discerning and admirably candid study of the “unbridgeable gulf that separates Indo-Europeans from Jews, had to conclude that “This difference in behavior and reaction springs from something more earnest and significant than a difference of beliefs: it springs from a difference in our biologic equipment.”
We cannot reasonably expect beings differently constituted to have our instincts or to believe as we do, any more than we can expect dogs to climb trees or cats to bark at intruders. And let us beware of the word “superiority.” If it means that we are superior in terms of our own values, it is mere tautology; if it has an objective and practical meaning, it poses a question that can only be answered only when the future has proved which peoples will survive and which will go under in the proximate struggle for possession of an overcrowded globe.
This is not a matter of doctrine or wishes, and it does not depend on our faith or lack of faith. Whatever may be the meaning of certain passages in the Old Testament, the earth is not flat. Whatever may be the meaning of certain passages in the New Testament, Christianity was not for “all the world.” The earth is spherical. Christianity is an Indo-European religion.
_________
[1] The Ebionites and the Cerinthians were the most important of these sects, but there were others, most of which are catalogued in the seven-volume edition of Adolf von Harnuck’s History of Dogma. I need scarcely add that the term “Judaeo-Christian” is correctly used only with reference to these sects and their antecedents.
[2] We cannot here analyze the effects of that supposition on Mediaeval Christendom. A concise and incisive treatment of that subject may be found in Lawrence R. Brown’s brilliant work, The Might of the West (New York, 1963). It will here suffice to note that even during the high-tide of Christian faith marked by the Crusades, that supposition prevented our ancestors from drawing the correct deductions from their manifest and perpetual failure to extend Western Christianity beyond the borders of the West.
[3] Solomon Schindler, Messianic Expectations and Modern Judaism, with an introduction by [the Reverend] Minot J. Savage. Boston, Cassino, 1886.
[4] Maurice Samuel, You Gentiles. New York, Harcourt-Brace, 1924.
Editor’s Note: My recent exchange with
Benjamin this morning is worth a post:
______ 卐 ______
Benjamin said: The most offensive comment I ever get from anyone in my life on anything creative or meaningful (presenting books, paintings, articles, whatever…) is ‘oh, that’s interesting’. One knows the person couldn’t give a damn about you at that point. It’s simply filler, as they never, ever elaborate why. I’m still thinking about presenting Consumption to my eldest aunt – one of my mother’s surviving sisters, and the closest to me growing up – but I know it’ll either be ‘oh that’s interesting’ or ‘that’s very sad you write that’, and ‘ I’ll have to give it some thought’, or stub words to that effect, cutting off all further emotion, discussion and commitment.
I should say, I think the only reason my mother wanted to read my book at first was to humour me, then increasingly to prove me wrong (I was critically examined over many sections), and finally in tears when she realised she couldn’t, she kind of softened towards me. I find it a tragedy she died so soon afterwards, and I never got to discuss it with her. All I know is she agreed (or if she still didn’t on anything she’s taken it into the ground with her).
Dad will never read it, that’s for sure. If you forced him to, his response would be to tut and call it fantasy, and then if I persisted, to shout at me, and to cut me off forever in rage and social embarrassment. I wrote a spurious book many years ago briefly mentioning Dad’s conduct and he did read a few lines of that one, and I remember all he said was “you don’t make me look very good in this”, and laughed a little, as if what I had written was hysterical nonsense, or a big neurotic running joke, unable always to twig that he simply wasn’t ‘very good’ to me, no. It’s not even denial.
I’m sorry for your tragedies, and for your uncle’s death. I’d like to hope that what happened to Corina and Octavio (and his daughter) cannot happen again. But how does one change society on this taboo issue if no one is prepared to read these books – or always too little too late? I suppose one can still put them out there, and hope. I always wanted psychiatry destroyed in my lifetime. I don’t think that’ll happen though, although I see it as a major gatekeeper to the (parental) trauma model being understood by the public.
I think I use you as my witness personally. I hope it isn’t an imposition. Ideally, I would have had a family or local friends to go to, but their silence and standoffish ignorance on this matter is galling. I’m not used to being asked what’s wrong.
I responded: That’s precisely why the encounter in my life of someone like Paulina, the first person who took pity on me, was so important even though it happened more than twenty years after my teens (what Miller calls an “enlightened witness”). Ideally, someone should appear when you’re being abused as a child. That and only that could have saved us (what Miller calls a “helping witness”). The sad thing is that many didn’t have either…
And when it comes to the mental health professions, psychiatry is the way the System defends itself; like the Inquisition defended the Roman Church against the dissidents of the time. Thomas Szasz wrote a book comparing psychiatry to the Inquisition, and he said something that stuck with me: “An Inquisition [like psychiatry] cannot be reformed, only abolished”.
Indeed, and this shows that even people like Colin Ross, the current proponent of the trauma model, are still lost on this point—like John Read et al., who believe that change is possible within academia. They’re like white nationalists who believe that voting for Trump can bring about change. In fact, WN is another variant of country-club conservatism as Michael O’Meara put it, an American who knows French.
Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose.
Benjamin said: So it seems, as with the other issues we discussed recently, that it’s come down to this again: the necessity of a (violent, it’s obvious there is no other sort) revolution, in this as in all areas… what we really mean by bringing down the System, across all its entangled branches and avenues. Everything has reached a multi-faceted dead end otherwise… science, technology, academia, health, family wellbeing… the race itself is long-stalled biologically, at least since the Cro-Magnon era. I suppose the only thing to do now is to school would-be revolutionaries and auxiliary radicals on why they’re fighting (or will be fighting), which I suppose is what this site functions as, beyond your autobiographical space.
Personally, from what I note, the 4 words ["Eliminad todo sufrimiento innecesario" —Ed.] seem far harder for people to latch onto and assimilate than the vaguer, more generalised concept of the 14, even though I see both as to some degree synonymous, or semi-symmetric perhaps.
Eventually we’ll have to go somewhere else for those sorts of conversations. I’m not sure of the prudence of me continuing to type this even, right out in the open. The stepping stone from the theoretical to the practical is the hardest for me to strategize, the point where mutual internal jihad had reached its zenith, so to speak, and there should then instead be organization, and such, etc.
Anyway, I’m getting ahead of myself. I know I’ve found it very frustrating for decades, where no one has really taken the slightest bit of interest (care) in my history, and yet have still professed to being my friends… ‘twigging’, and realising in clarity the scale of this problem across our race drives one to want to act, and as soon as possible (even though there is no way to do that currently).
I responded: No: there’s no way to do it, and you can see what happened to our friend Tyrone for even suggesting it on podcasts (although years ago his parents put him in a psychiatric hospital for a while, now the System has locked him up for seven years!).
Mauricio liked my Paths of Glory metaphor. Kirk Douglas’s soldiers couldn’t go out to fight because of the hail of bullets. It was a time of staying in the trenches in a state of exasperation, but necessary…
The degenerate Aryan I recently saw in Europe is still in “happy mode”. Several sociopolitical, economic, and especially energy catastrophes will have to converge for him to enter “angry mode”; eventually a defensive “combat mode” and finally “killing mode” (bloody revolution). In the meantime, they’re behaving like lobotomised eunuchs.
Unlike Europeans, racialist Americans are no longer lobotomized: they’re beginning to think. But they’re still eunuchs. Otherwise they would already be talking about how to bring Turner’s diaries into the real world.
Benjamin said: P.S. I just re-read the, as you say, epistolary scold from Corina. I was particularly struck by the lines (and can only imagine how much they hurt and infuriated you):
“The damage is done and only you can fix it.”
and
“…not all people in the world are therapists or psychiatrists or psychoanalysts and we don’t want to hear about problems, let alone such serious ones. We are normal people who run away from problems. We are not interested and cannot do anything about it.”
Both directly echo things my partner has said to me before when I raise the issue of my childhood with her, the first being the equivalent of ‘just let it go’ (which is impossible naturally short of developing dementia, and translates literally as ‘repress yourself again’), or ‘get over it’ (a callous statement in itself indicating their lack of patience/empathy more than any psychological insight – they don’t realise you’re trying to do that, and can only do that if listened to). And the second a terrible misunderstanding – you are at first not looking for change, just to be listened to at all: as another example, in my case I didn’t want to be taken out of my environment when I emailed my Tyrolean penpal Harald about latter-day trauma, nor would it have been possible for him to do so, I just wanted to be listened to long-distance… also, as if one needed a license or a professional qualification to be a compassionate listener! Their ‘we’re not therapists’ line is simply a cop out to avoid them of their responsibility.
I can see why Corina wrote why she did then, as it’s all too common to, as you say, see things backwards, putting again all responsibility for both the experiences and the healing process onto the victim. People are so quick to give this prescriptive black pedagogy ‘advice’, or otherwise to act non-committal with the silent treatment, or wash their hands of the matter. Another reason I’d like vast swathes of the population exterminated, as by your 4 words doctrine – if they really can’t develop empathy for these matters then they’re simply a liability in general.
I responded:
Corina was the only one who saw what my parents were doing to me when I was a teenager, but she didn’t confess it to me because she was fourteen years old, and when she tried to tell my mother, she only received a slap in the face, which ended the argument for decades, until Corina herself developed paranoid symptoms, although in her lucid moments we were finally able to communicate.
But when Cori wrote that letter she was acting as an agent of the System, what Miller calls “poisonous pedagogy”. Szasz hits the nail on the head when he said that psychiatry is like paediatrics: instead of listening, they try to lecture the victim (although Szasz never fully grasped the trauma model).
All these people giving advice don’t realise that what they’re doing is similar to telling the messenger who has just escaped the clutches of someone like Jeffrey Dahmer, and wants to alert his neighbours that there’s a serial killer in the block to calm down; to seek professional help, to forgive and forget, to not suffer from self-pity but take a stress pill instead, etc. The result of this insane deafness? Another victim of the serial killer!
This crazy example is not a false analogy.
If my grandmother Yoya had listened to me during the anecdote I tell at the beginning of “Nobody Wanted to Listen” she could have acted as my helping witness, intervened to the best of her humble ability (my parents had the power), and prevent my crucifixion and, in the years to come, prevent Corina’s psychological catastrophe too. But we lacked a helping witness.
All this explains, in effect, why I have developed an exterminationist philosophy. The current version of Homo sapiens remains a kind of Homo sapiens neanderthalensis in the sense that it still needs to be greatly ennobled.
Chapter Eleven
Public education, in general, was a nightmare for me at Felsted Preparatory School and then at the senior school. My first steady experience of terrible loneliness and a source of daily fear and sadness; I was bullied relentlessly for almost ten years, day in and day out, never accepted by the other pupils, and always an ostracised outsider, quiet, timid, and increasingly morose… [page 65]
Most of my school days were spent alone, hiding from bullies and ignoring specific routes and chokepoints through the expansive country public school, always scared, sad and low, expecting the worst, and often getting it, still ambushed outside, mocked daily, and beaten up at times…
Ten years experienced in social silence, bar the routine shaming and fear and embarrassment, I’m surprised I lasted it at all, very used to tears and harrowing isolation, always sad, and shielded in my thoughts, hidden away with no one to talk to, knowing I had no one to back me up or to console me. Anything I thought, found interest in, or was moved by was forever off-limits, unsaid, and unacknowledged. It’s as if I didn’t exist there.
I would occasionally tell my parents, but nothing was ever done, and they barely noticed my intense suffering and sadness. I learned to keep it all inside and that it was not worth commenting on to them, as it would bring me no comfort in the aftermath. My mother continued to socialise with the mothers of my many bullies. She remained in friendly contact with them for many years afterwards, sending me occasional cards and letters telling me how those parents’ offspring were doing and the successes they experienced as they got older and began to attend and then graduate from university, getting married and having children, winning awards, and establishing lucrative careers. Having naturally assumed I was ok without consultation and having not paid any attention back then, they never asked me how things were, maintaining firm historical blindness and deeply selective memories, and their historical narrative now is that my childhood was happy, safe, and blemish free, totally oblivious to the entirety of that torture, a great insult to me, and the most frustrating sense of terrible, damning betrayal, brushing me off, a stiff upper lip, and a natural lack of all concern. My mother was interested only in preserving her social status, any adult conversations touching on her behaviour swiftly developing into a relentless doubling down of “Benjamin! Look…” and “I think you’re misinterpreting me”, and “I think you’re imagining me misbehaving,” and “think of all the good things I do for you”…
I’ve never once heard either of them volunteer of their own free will to apologise to me. My Dad can occasionally capitulate, as if put out, in deadpan emotionlessness or snappy anger, to shut me up, a sharp, empty “fine! I’m sorry, I’ve said it, can we move on now?” where one knows he does not feel remorse in the slightest and is merely exasperated. My Mum cannot even reach this level… [pages 68-69]
I sometimes wonder if my grades could have been higher were I not always so set-upon and scared and low, distracted, hurt, and worried. Accustomed to this treatment and with no other, better experience to compare it to, I carried on in quiet, emptied melancholia, longing impotently for friendship, company, and warmth… [page 71]
– III –
It seems that his speeches, translated into English by AI, which I had been embedding on this site, have been now censored on Rumble. But apparently, they can still be heard here.