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Daybreak Publishing

Proof reading

These days I’m still busy reviewing the syntax of From Jesus to Hitler before I send the manuscript to the printers.

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Abraham Lincoln Transvaluation of all values

Robert Morgan’s comment

In order for white people to revolt as a race, they’d have to reject a century and a half of their own history. They’d have to abandon Christianity, and ruthlessly purge its cultural residue, since even atheists nowadays embrace its fantasy of a “brotherhood of man”.

People such as Lincoln, who is now a hero to most whites, would have to be seen as a villain. Likewise with MLK and FDR. They’d have to admit to themselves that they’ve been fools all along, and their ancestors crazy; that all the blood and sacrifice to stamp out white supremacy in the Civil War and in WWII was for nothing, or even less than nothing. The cognitive dissonance alone would probably kill them or drive them insane.

Frankly, I don’t see it happening.

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Game of Thrones

Game of Thrones reaches its nadir

With the fourth episode of the final season of Game of Thrones, the show has reached its absolute nadir: the worst crap I’ve seen of the entire series. From the previous episode, by killing the Night King the producers wanted a ‘game of thrones’ show (palatial intrigues), not a song of ice and fire (a show with a deeper meaning). But with the script of this fourth episode the writers made a cretinous anticlimax that will even bother the fans.

That happens when mean people, like Jewish writers, invent a script for lack of a book that George R.R. Martin has not written yet. But even the gentile Martin is a liberal who has advocated for allowing Syrian refugees into the US and supported Hillary Clinton.

If I had the freedom to come up with my own ending, away from the ethno-traitor Martin and the Jewish scriptwriters, the Night King would still live in this fourth episode. Following the philosophy of Martin that there are no ultimate bad and good guys in a dance between ice and fire, these last episodes would reveal the deep motivation of the Night King.

Remember that Martin was inspired by the medieval stories in which Christian fanatics destroyed the sacred trees of pagans. In the television series, the children of the forest defended themselves with rock magic creating the Night King with the purpose of fighting the invaders: human beings. Thus, the Night King of my script would want to exterminate humanity as a noble goal from the point of view of the forest’s children.

In an epic war of minds, and with the help of the greenseer Bran Stark who fights on behalf of the human side, the final plot would revolve around negotiating with the Night King the extermination not of the hundred percent of humanity, but of ninety-nine percent.(*) The reason for this would not only be to respect Martin’s central axiom, that there is no absolute villain, but to introduce the religion of the four words to eliminate all unnecessary suffering.

Thus, from the dialectical synthesis between the Night King and the Greenseer Bran there would remain, of the pure whites, only the most compassionate with Nature including trees and animals. The rest of mankind would be exterminated by the Night King’s White Walkers and their army of the death. That’s how my final episode would end.

Of course: that is my song of ice and fire, not Martin’s and much less that of the Jewish scriptwriters. But an eight-season saga that began in 2011 would have deserved a more profound message instead of the botched anticlimax we saw tonight.

Those who wish to familiarise themselves with my philosophy of marriage between the 4 and 14 words can read my books that appear almost to the bottom of this page, although I need to finish reviewing the syntax of the last one, De Jesús a Hitler (From Jesus to Hitler).


(*) In the Manichaean HBO show the Night King didn’t want to spare the life of a single human.

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Julian (novel)

Julian, 65

At dawn on the first of December I left Milan for Gaul. I said farewell to Helena, who was to join me later at Vienne. We both behaved according to the special protocol the eunuchs have devised governing a Caesar’s farewell to his new wife as he goes to a beleaguered province. Then, accompanied by the newly arrived Oribasius, I went down to the courtyard of the palace to place myself at the head of my army.

Outside in the frosty air, some three hundred foot soldiers and a score of cavalry were drawn up. I took this to be my personal bodyguard. I was about to ask the whereabouts of the army of Gaul when I was joined by Eutherius. He was frowning. “I’ve just spoken to the Grand Chamberlain. There has been a last-minute change in plans. Your legions have been assigned to the Danube.”

I indicated the men in the courtyard. “Is this my army?”

“I am afraid so, Caesar.”

I have never in my life been so angry. Only the arrival of Constantius prevented me from saying the unsayable. I saluted the Emperor; gravely, he returned the salute. Then he mounted a black horse and I mounted a white one. His personal guard (twice the size of my “army”) fell into place behind him. My troops and household brought up the rear. Thus the Augustus and his Caesar launched the power of Rome against the barbarians. It was ludicrous.

The few citizens who were up and around at this hour cheered us dutifully. We made a particularly fine impression at the vegetable market which is just inside the city gate. The farm women waved their carrots and turnips at us, and thought us a brave sight.

Neither Constantius nor I spoke until we were out on the main road, the high Alps visible to us across the Lombard Plain. He had agreed to escort me as far as the two columns which stand on either side of the road midway between Lumello and Pavia. He had obviously decided this would give us sufficient time for a good talk. It did.

Constantius began with, “We have great confidence in Florentius, our praetorian prefect at Gaul.” This was an announcement; there was no invitation for me to comment.

Of course he has confidence in Florentius, I thought savagely, otherwise he would have had him murdered by now. But I said, “Yes, Augustus.” And waited. We rode a few more yards. Occasionally, our armoured legs touched, metal striking metal, and each would shrink instinctively from the other. The touch of another man has always disturbed me; the touch of my father’s murderer alarmed me.

We passed a number of carts containing poultry; they had pulled off the road at our approach. When the peasants saw the Emperor, they fell fiat on their bellies, as though blinded by the sight of that sacred figure. Constantius ignored them.

“We are fond of our sister Helena.” This was also launched upon the dry cool air in an oracular tone.

“She is dear to me, too, Augustus,” I replied. I was afraid he was going to lecture me on my marital duties, but he made no further mention of Helena.

Constantius was constructing a case. His occasional fiat sentences, suitable for carving in marble, were all part of an edifice created to contain me. I was to obey the praetorian prefect of Gaul, even though as Caesar I was his superior. I was to remember that Helena’s first loyalty was to her brother and ruler, not to her husbafid. So far, I understood him clearly.

“We have heard from your military instructor that you show promise.”

“I shall not fail you, Augustus. But it was my understanding that I was to go to Gaul with an army, not an escort.”

Constantius ignored this. “You have come to soldiering late. I hope you are able to learn what you will need to know.”

This was not optimistic, but not unnatural. There was no reason for anyone to suspect that a philosophy student should show any talent for war. Curiously enough, I had every confidence in myself because I knew that the gods would not desert me now they had raised me up. But my cousin had no way of knowing my feelings, or judging my capacity. He merely saw a young untried soldier about to go into battle against the fiercest fighters in the world.

“At all times remember that we are divine in the eyes of the people and sacred to heaven.”

I took the “we” to mean Constantius and myself, though he may have been merely reminding me of his own rank. “I shall remember, Augustus.” I always called him by his proper title, though he much preferred Lord, a title I despise and do not use for it means that one is the master of other men, rather than simply first among them.

“Control your generals.” Though he still sounded as if he were repeating maxims, I could tell that now he was on the verge of actual advice, if not conversation. “No officer should be admitted to senatorial rank. All officers must be under strict civilian control. Any governor of any province outranks any general sent to him. No officer must be allowed to take part in civil affairs. Our praetorian prefects are set over all military and civil officials. That is why the administration of the empire runs as smoothly as it does.”

Needless to say, I did not remark that the collapse of Gaul was hardly a sign of smooth administration. But in principle Constantius’s advice was good and I tend still to follow it. There is no denying that he had a gift for administration.

“In matters of taxes, take whatever is owing us. Show no mercy to the cities and villages which are delinquent in meeting payments. It is their nature to complain. Assume that your tax gatherers are honest unless proved otherwise. They are never honest, but no one has yet found a way to correct their abuses. As long as they return to you the larger part of what they collect, be satisfied.”

I was later to revise the system of taxation in Gaul, disproving everything he said. But all that in its proper place.

“Control the generals.” He repeated this suddenly as if he’d forgotten he had already said it to me. Then he turned and looked at me for the first time that day. It was startling. No longer was he the sun god on his charger. This was my cousin, my enemy, my lord, source of my greatness and potential source of my death. “You must know what I mean,” he said, sounding like a man, not an oracle. “You have seen the state disrupted. Our high place threatened. Provinces wrecked. Cities destroyed. Armies wasted. The barbarians seizing our lands, because we were too busy fighting one another to protect ourselves from the true enemy. Well, Caesar, remember this: allow no general sufficient power to raise an army against you. You have seen what I have had to suffer. Usurper after usurper has wasted our power. Be on your guard.”

“I will, Augustus.”

Then he said, very slowly, his eyes on mine, “As I am on my guard.” He looked away when he saw that his meaning was quite clear. Then he added for good measure, “We have never yet lost so much as a foot of earth to any usurper, nor will we ever.”

“As long as I live, Augustus, you shall have at least one arm to fight for you.”

We rode until midday. Then at the two columns we stopped. It was a fine brisk noon and, despite the chill in the air, the sun was hot and we were all sweating under our armour. A halt was ordered.

Constantius and I dismounted and he motioned for me to accompany him into a hard stubbled field. Except for our troops, no one was in sight. In every country peasants vanish when they see armed men coming: all soldiers are the enemy. I wish one could change that.

Constantius walked ahead of me towards a small ruined shrine to Hermes which stood at the edge of the field (a favourable omen, Hermes has always watched over me). Behind us, our men watered horses, rearranged armour, swore and chattered, pleased by the good weather. Just as Constantius entered the shrine, I broke a dead flower off its stalk. Then I followed him inside the shrine, which smelled of human excrement. Constantius was urinating on the floor. Even in this, he was grave and majestic.

“It is a pity,” I heard myself saying, aware as I spoke that I was breaking protocol, “what has happened to these old temples.”

“A pity? They should all be torn down.” He rearranged his clothes. “I hate the sight of them.”

“Of course,” I muttered.

“I shall leave you here,” he said. We stood facing one another. Though I deliberately stooped, I could not help but look down on him. He edged away from me, instinctively searching for higher ground.

“Whatever you need, you shall have. Call on me. Also, depend on our praetorian prefect. He represents us. You will find the legions of Vienne alert, ready for a spring campaign. So prepare yourself.”

He handed me a thick document. “Instructions. To be read at your leisure.” He paused. Then he remembered something. “The Empress has made you a gift. It is with your baggage. A library, I believe.”

I was effusive in my gratitude. I said words but Constantius did not listen. He moved to the door. He paused; he turned; he tried to speak to me. I blushed. I wanted to reach out and take his hand and tell him not to fear me, but I did not dare. Neither of us was ever able to face the other.

When Constantius finally spoke, his voice broke with tension. “If this should come to you…” Awkwardly he gestured at himself to indicate the principate of the world. “Remember…” Then his voice stopped as if a strangler’s thumb had blocked the windpipe. He could not go on. Words had failed him again, and me.

I have often wondered what it was he meant to say; what it was I should remember. That life is short? Dominion bitter? No. Constantius was not a profound man. I doubt if he had been about to offer me any startling insight. But as I think back on that scene in the ruined shrine (and I think of it often, I even dream of it), I suspect that all he meant to say was, “Remember me.” If that is what you meant, cousin, then I have, in every sense, remembered you.

Constantius left the shrine. As soon as his back was to me, I placed the withered flower on the profaned floor and whispered a quick prayer to Hermes. Then I followed the Emperor across the field to the road.

Once mounted, we exchanged formal farewells, and Constantius rode back to Milan, the dragon banner streaming in the cool wind before him. We never saw one another again.

Categories
Kevin MacDonald

Second thoughts on SAID

In 2012 I wrote an article saying that the second book of Kevin MacDonald, Separation and its Discontents (SAID), was my favourite of his trilogy. I am afraid to say that, since then, I have changed my mind.

Definitely, the texts of the Spanish blogger Evropa Soberana changed my vision of the world. For example, in my 2012 review of SAID I quoted MacDonald: ‘Western societies, unlike prototypical Jewish cultures, do not have a primitive concern with racial purity’ (SAID, page 196).

As we can see in an essay by Soberana that I recently translated about Nordicism, racial pride dates from the Greeks. In The Fair Race’s Darkest Hour I translated other Soberana essays where it is noted that the Spartans, and Romans of the Old Republic, were as jealous of their race as the Jews: a story that MacDonald and others who publish in his webzine are unaware. We should also investigate more what William Pierce and Arthur Kemp wrote about the incredible zeal with which the Iberian Visigoths defended the purity of their blood (until the Christians convinced them to mix their blood with Mediterraneans in the 7th century).

Another pillar of MacDonald’s study that has now collapsed in my mind is his thesis expressed in a few words: ‘I propose that the Christian church in late antiquity was in its very essence the embodiment of a powerful anti-Semitic movement…’ (page 112). Here too the reading of Soberana’s essay on how the Judeo-Christians subverted Rome, especially in the 4th and 5th centuries—which I adapted as the masthead of this site—provides a perspective virtually opposite to what MacDonald says in this paragraph.

Although he is not a Christian, it is obvious that Professor MacDonald writes for a conservative audience with many Christians. The way Soberana and I see the world, on the other hand, is more in line with German National Socialism.

The link in my post on Wednesday about a discussion with Matt Heimbach is crucial to see why I believe that trying to mix American Christianity with the fourteen words produces a grotesque chimera. So grotesque, in fact, that I must link once again that discussion of the Orthodox Christian Heimbach with a commenter who believes in the religious movement known as Christian Identity (here).

For those who ignore what the acronyms of the subtitle of this site mean (‘WN is a farce, NS is the real thing’), let me say that I refer to Christian White Nationalism and non-Christian National Socialism.

Categories
Game of Thrones

Girl power

The ending [of Game of Thrones] was just a ‘girl power’ scene. That’s the direction this show took for a couple of seasons already, and now we see it some more.

Of course, they won’t let Jon Snow kill the Night King. Toxic masculinity is evil. We need a woman to take out the Night King and show some girl power.

Fuck the story, fuck everything, we need girl power all over this shit. All rulers are women, or the smartest, wise and best fighters are women. And if you don’t like it, you are a racist sexist bigot.

a commenter of this YouTube audio.

Categories
Racial right

Schizo American WN

This discussion between Tom Robb and Matt Heimbach illustrates the split personality of American racists who, at the same time, try to be good Christians.

Pay special attention to what Robb and Heimbach say in the highlighted red boxes.

Friday postscript: It seems that this exchange happened in ca. July 2017 (before the scandal with Matt Parrott’s wife).

Categories
Racial right

Greg Johnson’s plan

by Robert Morgan

Greg Johnson evidently wants to undo and reverse the trend toward globalization, since mixing and trans-locating populations is part of that. Like flying to the moon by flapping your arms, it’s deceptively simple in concept, yet equally impossible. All we need to do, he says, is provide each people with a homeland and then get them to voluntarily move there.

But the devil is in the details. What do you do if they refuse to go? Violence is off the table, according to Greg. So now what? Even if some agree, who pays for relocating them? What about foreign ownership of another nation’s real estate or corporations? The foreigners and racial aliens may not want to sell. Shall we then “make them an offer they can’t refuse”? That would be a good way to start a war, but Johnson says all of this must happen peacefully. How?

And what about white ownership of vital, scarce resources in foreign countries that are crucial to our own self interest? Shall we permit that only to ourselves? Somehow I doubt other countries or races would think that is fair. This list of questions could be extended indefinitely, because a global economy truly is a Gordian knot, with everything intricately tied together in such a way as to be impossible to unravel.

It would take, in essence, a cultural and financial revolution; something that would change human nature as it has been since civilization began. People would have to value preserving race over their own individual success and pleasure. Not just pay it lip service, but actually suffer a great deal to achieve it. Further, they’d have to admit that they’ve been fools all along to think that races could actually get along together.

Psychologically, it would be impossible. For whites, the Christian religion as it currently is interpreted by more than 99.9% of Christians would have to be tossed out along with its cultural residue, for Christianity has triumphed in the West to such an extent that even most atheists nowadays subscribe to Christian moral tenets such as the so-called brotherhood of man. Besides, if race is now the highest value, how could the worship of the racial Other proceed?

Call me a pessimist, but I don’t see any of this happening. It would be easier to crash technological civilization completely than to attempt to revise it along these lines. Johnson’s plan of peaceful separation just won’t work.

Categories
Game of Thrones

Ethnosuicidal GoT fans

Further to my Monday post ‘Feminism in Game of Thrones’.

For those who believe that Jewish subversion is the primary cause of white decline and poor little whites their blameless victims, see what one of the main webzines of white nationalism, Counter-Currents, just published: ‘Guide to Kulchur, Episode 17: Game of Thrones Seen from the Right [sic!]. The Return of Good & Evil to Westeros’.

From the right? Really?

I stopped listening to the first audio right after minute seven when Fróði Midjord and John Morgan agreed they weren’t bothered with the (Jewish script) placing the girl Arya as the New Frodo. This tolerance of feminism reminds me very strongly what I said about Harold Covington in my ‘Feminism in Game of Thrones’.

With these brilliant commentators from the right, who needs the Jews? Haven’t they heard that feminism has been a weapon of mass destruction directed against whites? Are we living in parallel universes?