(This is a translation from pages 192 to 196 of my last book, From Jesus to Hitler. Some explanatory brackets between unclear passages are added.)
Although my dad and I had more or less the same intelligence, the difference of honour—valour and honesty between father and son—was sidereal. In my soliloquies many times I have called my level of honesty liquid oxygen, in the sense of pure element that does not even want to mix with nitrogen so that the combination is more breathable. I think the truth, only the truth and nothing but the truth without dilution or compromise. Perhaps my crude honesty is a flight to the antipodes of my father, so immersed in his placenta. He was the opposite: an extremely dishonest individual, and without any valour to face reality there when it denied his convictions in front of his nose.
Having analysed the family tragedy, with emphasis on my father, can provide the keys to understand the darkest hour of the West. If the white race perishes in the future, and if someone remains clever enough to speculate why it perished, he would get a clue in an unusual field: the first comprehensive analysis a son makes of his parents. My Leaves ended with the lapidary phrase ‘But my father chose evil’. My subsequent texts have been helping me to understand this evil: why dad never grew up.
In my soliloquies, I have sometimes imagined his attitude as having ‘mounted the horse of pride’, but in the end it was always a deep yearning not to grow. That is why he assembled his mind so well with my mother, who wanted to put ‘bricks on our heads’ so that we would not grow up either.
A paradigm of that pride one does not get off of would be, let’s say, what in the previous volume I called ‘the confrontation of drugs’ in which father simply inverted who was to blame [I refer to my mother, who wanted to control us by secretly pouring drugs in our meals]. Well, what Westerners do today is nothing but getting on the horse of pride, although, in their case, not for failing to recognise criminal behaviour in the family, but for refusing to question the narrative about the Second World War. In my blog in English I use a sticky post with links to the essay ‘Rome contra Judea; Judea contra Rome’ and a review of Hellstorm: the antithesis of the haughty horse. Why has the white man failed to see something so obvious?
The brutal response is that they are as childish as the father I referred to in the final words of my Leaves, or as proud as the father who inverted guilt when I confronted him with [my mother’s] drugs. My life was annihilated by my father’s childish pride. Unless they awaken, the white race will be annihilated by their own infantiloid pride. Just as my father must have come to talk with his son as in my dream of the leaves, whites must have approached those who told the truth about Christianity and the Second War. But they have chosen evil.
As we know, my father lived his whole life in self-deception. If there is a word that defines him, it is that: self-deception. Recall how he reversed reality through the aforementioned self-deceits. These were some of the most conspicuous:
• That Mexico had more cultural institutions than the United States.
• The inversion during ‘the confrontation of the crossed arms’ and that my sister, not mom, would cry tears of blood when thinking about her behaviour.
• The final chords of La Santa Furia that glorify miscegenation. Compare that with the Führer’s words in ‘Quoting the royal book’ of my previous volume. From the moral point of view, even more serious reversal of the facts in the plot of La Santa Furia was:
• To have inverted the faults on infanticide: something that the pre-Hispanic Amerindians did without any scruples as Sahagún saw. My father blamed the infanticide on the Spaniard with whom he started his last opus! Blaming the Spaniard for Amerind infanticide was the other side of the coin of blaming my sister and me instead of blaming himself and his wife, as my sister saw so well in ‘the confrontation of the crossed arms’. And finally:
• The cancerous tumour that he suffered, according to him, ‘already became small’ [with no medical proof whatsoever]. In other words, he claimed he was already healthy.
About my brother’s observation that our father was a small child there is something that I have been saying to myself that I had not captured: a postscript to my dream about ‘the little blue and white church’ that I had so much ago, recounted in my previous tome.
I do not want to project my current thoughts back to the times when I had the dream. But a delayed interpretation is that dad was becoming convinced to self-deceive himself in the dream. Convincing himself to do so was the Leitmotiv of his life; I suppose, from his youth. He gave reasons to himself to deceive himself, as what was most comfortable for him in such a modest little church (the placenta or ideological bubble he had gotten himself into).
Paradoxical as it may seem, the infantilism of the little blue church is the other side of the Horse of Pride. I think it’s worth saying that, of the movies I’ve seen, only in Spotlight I was able to see, in a very brief dialogue, a profile that portrays my father.
I refer to the words of the most learned scholar on the subject that the team interviewed, Richard Sipe, a former priest who worked to rehabilitate paedophile priests [incidentally, Sipe died last year]. When Sipe spoke by telephone of atrophy ‘at the level of a child of twelve or thirteen’, my mind immediately flew to my father’s character. It is true that, in the movie, Sipe spoke of such atrophy on a sexual level. But I only noticed it when, after buying the DVD, I saw the passage more calmly. My initial impression, when I saw the film for the first time, was that of a generic psychic atrophy: which is exactly what, less than a minute before the quote above, the reporter Sacha Pfeiffer discovers when interviewing Father Ronald Paquin, who had abused children [like Sipe, both are real persons]. Spotlight, winner of the Oscar for best film the same year my father died, hardly puts priests on the screen. One could imagine, from the journalistic notes, that they were monsters. But in Pfeiffer’s interview with Father Paquin, the exact opposite is seen: an extremely affable sixty-year-old man, with a benign face and gestures and very pleasant in personal dealings, but emotionally atrophied as a child or pubertal boy for the way he rationalised his paedophile behaviour before the reporter.
It has been the Roman Curia that climbs the Horse of Pride when they confront it: like promoting Cardinal Bernard Law after the Boston Globe scandal (who, both in real life and in the film, by orders of Rome had been protecting the priests who molested the children). But the candid infantilism of a Paquin is the other side of the coin of pride. Both facets of Jekyll and Hyde have the same purpose: to dissociate what happened.
I cannot say that my father was a victim of sexual abuse by priests in the institutions that my grand-parents put him into. But I guess he was because of the perversions recounted in my previous tome. If any of my readers keeps in mind the brief interview of the reporter with Father Paquin as dramatised by the film, he could look at my father’s affable character: atrophied at the level of a child of twelve or thirteen years of age.
______ 卐 ______
A comment for this site
As can be appreciated, this type of tough reflections can only be understood in the context of telling the whole family tragedy.
By the way, even though I use a movie to talk about my father’s character, I was never a victim of sexual abuse (but of something far more serious than sexual abuse!).
The reason why I translated the passage above is obvious to me, but not to my readers.
The white race is dying because the HIV mental virus with which it was infected two thousand years ago, only to this day metastasized into an AIDS that suppresses the racial defences in the psyche of the white man. This HIV, currently already in the phase of AIDS, is transmitted via parental introjects in each generation. That is, to re-develop defences in our immune system, we must break ‘the chain of the introject’ by killing the inner father.
I do not mean physical violence against our biological parents, but to unmask them before the public opinion through accusative writings.
In a previous thread I said that the task of doing this is long and painful, and I talked about the more than a thousand pages that it took me to write it over the decades. But since the ethics of Christian ethno-suicide is transmitted from father to son, a failure to kill the father internally results in a failure to kill the virus that is killing us.
I know that a short translation like the one above will hardly convey the message. To those who wish to read me but cannot do so in Spanish, I would suggest going to the nearest library to obtain a copy of Alice Miller’s Breaking Down the Wall of Silence or other of her books. The problem is that Miller, who was in the Warsaw Ghetto, had a Jewish mother. Alas, she is the only one that has profoundly dealt with the issue of debunking our parents to be able to heal.
For those unwilling to read Miller, they will have to wait for my daunting task of translating my twelve books so that the pro-white man who wishes to eliminate all HIV from his mind may approach the subject from the pen of a non-Jew…