If there is an immanent Justice, it is to be wished that such people die of hunger and thirst, abandoned, disowned by all those in whose affection they believe, on some deserted island or at the bottom of a dungeon. They are sometimes punished in an unexpected way, such as the man and woman whose punishment was reported in the journal of the Société Protectrice des Animaux of Lyon, without publishing their names.
Parents of a six-year-old boy, they had, despite the child’s cries and pleas, pushed the dog out of the door of their car, which had devoted all its love to them, and then set off again at full speed, arrived at their holiday destination, settled into a hotel and fell asleep without remorse. But serene Justice was watching.
The next day, the two unworthy people found their only son dead, in a pool of blood he had cut his veins with his father’s Gillette. On the bedside table they found, written in his childish hand, a few words: his verdict against them and all those like them; something to remember day and night, for the rest of their lives: ‘Daddy and Mommy are monsters. I can’t live with monsters!’
This act of heroism by a very young child could not, alas, give the unfortunate beast back its lost home. But it has symbolic value. It proclaims, in its tragic simplicity, that in this world of the Dark Ages, almost at its end, where everything belongs to man, and where man belongs more and more to the Forces of the Abyss, it is better to die than to be born. It is similar, in its essence, to all the glorious suicides motivated by an intense disgust with the environment that was once respected if not admired, to the sudden revelation of one’s true vileness, for all vileness—especially all treason—is cowardice. It is similar to all similar acts of heroism—suicides or, sometimes, murders requiring even more despair than suicide—motivated by the awareness that the inevitable future, the consequence of the present, can only be hell.
I am thinking, in particular, of the words that the sublime Magda Goebbels addressed to the aviatrix Hanna Reitsch, a few days before giving her six children the poison that was to save them from the horror of the post-war period: ‘They believe in the Führer and the Reich’, she said. ‘When these are no more, they will have no place in the world. May Heaven give me the strength to kill them!’
In the world the Führer had dreamed of, cowardice—and especially cowardice on the part of people of the Aryan race—would have been unthinkable. The boy whose death I have recalled would have been at ease there, for he only wanted to live among people as noble as himself (and no doubt his ancestors). He would surely have felt, in the Defender of eternal values—like himself a friend of animals, and especially of dogs—a leader worthy of his total allegiance. But the last attempt at recovery had failed, fifteen years before his birth. The present world, the post-war world, was revealed to him in the person of his abominable parents.
Because it was not only those who believed and still believe in ‘the Führer and the Reich’ but all ‘good and brave’ characters, all Aryans worthy of the name, who had no place in it, and whom one meets there—as one might expect—less and less.
______ 卐 ______
‘In this world of the Dark Ages, almost at its end, where everything belongs to man, and where man belongs more and more to the Forces of the Abyss…’
I couldn’t have said it better! We live in the darkest hour of the West, and we must pray that Mordor will soon be covered in lava after the ring is cast into the place it should never have come from.