Nephew

Before commenting further on Simms’ book, I would like to say something about my trilogy, which I am re-reading as a preliminary to translating it.

Yesterday I looked through some trilogy pages about my nephew who disturbed me, with whom I share the property where I live with his mother, my sister.

It was he who, when he was a boy of six, invented the nickname ‘Chechar’ and, since he loved me so much, everything pointed to the fact that I could raise him as a son insofar as my sister was a single mother.

Now he is a man of twenty-two, and he has not a single atom of my ideals: nothing, absolutely nothing of the four words, let alone the fourteen. Moreover, like the rest of my nephews and the people of his generation, he is a degenerate as far as culture is concerned. To give just a few examples: being straight he has painted his nails, has always listened to degenerate music and hangs out with his degenerate friends everywhere, constantly coming home in the wee hours of the morning after attending degenerate parties. Unlike Hitler, the nephew eats the flesh of mammals that were tormented in slaughterhouses and, although I gave him my trilogy, he doesn’t read it and I doubt he ever will.

The reason for all this is simple. Unlike Jane Austen’s world, when the heir was the first-born male, in our world, upbringing is done by unwed mothers. And the first thing these little women do is to hand their child over to the clutches of the System so that the System ‘educates’ him.

I could do nothing for my nephew’s education because of the lack of financial means. And even if I had them, where could I take him to school in the West? Even if legally the patria potestas had belonged to me, in the country where we live I would have had to isolate him from children his age, schools, television and he would never have had a mobile phone.

The home library would have been his refuge, home-schooling would have been applied to him and films would have to be almost all in black and white, allowing him to watch only one of them on Sundays. But in that hypothetic castle of purity, which children would he get along with? I would have to be a millionaire to move to an Eastern European country where the Gomorrahite culture is still absent. In this scenario, my sister would have had no say because I, and only I, would have the financial means to make these decisions.

But even a wealthy priest of the holy words would have had difficulty educating him. Country children in the less polluted places of Eastern Europe could begin to be contaminated by possessing, for example, mobile phones: a small window that normalises the world of Gomorrah, and so on.

It has been painful to watch the process of how a pure mind, like the one my nephew had as a child, becomes debased and one can do nothing about it. Is it understandable why I fantasise about mushroom clouds above the major cities of the West? To return to Austen’s world Kalki must first come…