Have any visitors to this site heard of an autobiographer, of our times or times past, who has written a philosophical autobiography, in several books, about how his or her parents and other adults destroyed the life of the autobiographer in question?
What distinguishes The West’s Darkest Hour from other racialist sites is that here we preach an open and blatant exterminationist ideology (see, for example, ‘Dies Irae’, the first article in my Day of Wrath compilation). What is not clear to the ordinary visitor, unless someone has read my trilogy, is that such exterminationism originated precisely after what several crazed adults did to me in my adolescence.
The mind changes dramatically after experiences like the one I suffered. It usually changes producing, in the already adult victim, a mental disorder: either psychoses such as so-called schizophrenia or suicidal depression, or neuroses such as addictions (alcoholism, drug addictions—even legal psychotropics, etc.). In the most serious cases, the victim of maddening parents feels compelled to commit serial murder. This is not said by ordinary psychiatrists, who subscribe to the medical model of mental disorders (a bio-reductionist ideology), but by dissident psychiatrists: those who try to create a trauma model of mental disorders.
Some proponents of the trauma model know that those who had schizogenic (i.e., maddening) parents entered, to paraphrase the gospel, through the ‘wide door’. Sadly, 99.99 per cent of those with schizogenic parents enter through the wide door. What these professionals ignore is that there is another door, ‘the narrow door’, which circumvents psychosis. I am talking about spending decades of your life telling your story, at least to yourself, with an emphasis on the most painful episodes.
These days, for example, I have been reviewing my second volume. It has been so disturbing to relive my early experiences, and what my mother used to do to me, that I have had to make an enormous effort, plus countless pauses, to resume over and over again both rereading and revising (i.e. adding or rewriting many sentences and even paragraphs). To tell yourself your own story, through a good deal of re-reading of what has already been written, and to improve the text in further revisions to leave the original charcoal in diamond prose after so many decades, is what heals the mortally wounded soul.
Someone might reproach me that the mere fact of elaborating an exterminationist ideology after my experiences is, in itself, a psychopathological symptom. I believe that the opposite is true: those who don’t subscribe to such an ideology contribute to what we could call ‘Hell Planet’—our present Earth. This is because without the spirit of Kalki the evil of the earthlings will continue unchallenged, producing endless unnecessary suffering. (Those who want to delve deeper into the matter will have to familiarise themselves with the philosophy of Savitri Devi, who in the darkest hour of the West invokes the exterminationist archetype of the Hindu religion: Kalki.)
One of the things that so-called mental health professionals ignore is that they shouldn’t put the exterminationism of, say, a philosopher like Arthur Schopenhauer in the same basket as, say, a serial killer like Jeffrey Dahmer. They are not only different things, but Schopenhauer himself may have a moral code infinitely superior not only to that of Dahmer but also to that of the so-called mental health professional. This is something that the pseudo-scientists working in the mental health sector will never acknowledge: that philosophers like Schopenhauer could be… saner than them! Above I spoke of the first essay in my book Day of Wrath. To understand what I have in mind see now the third essay, ‘Unfalsifiability in Psychiatry’ (pages 21-30).
So for the next days and weeks, I will keep revising my second autobiographical book until I feel that the textual coal has turned into more lyrical prose. My thoughts must be hardened until they are as hard as diamonds. The saying ‘No pain, no gain!’ applies perfectly to the spiritual realm. Without the agony of constantly confronting my past, I would be as our friend Joseph Walsh is: in jail and before that, in a psychiatric ward (Walsh also had a schizogenic mother). Those who don’t process their pain through writing their very painful memoirs, and throughout the decades correcting the syntax of that original charcoal until the diamond prose is formed, will never heal.
No one among the racialist forums editors comes from where I come from: a sort of Bran the Broken seeing Westeros’ past because his dad (not Jaime) threw him off the tower, breaking his spine. As I was saying, the mind changes radically after decades of being in the cave retrocognitively seeing the past, what your dad did to you. Those broken lads who fail to reach Bran’s cave change for the worse (schizophrenia, etc.). But I changed for the better because I found it.
And it was precisely because of that change that I became interested in the real history of Europe in the century in which I was born; specifically, the real history of the Third Reich. By seeing my past as it happened, which has nothing to do with the distorted version my crazy mother told, I developed the knack of seeing, now, the historical past of the West as it happened, not as the Jewish media told it to us.
One way to begin to familiarise oneself with the most notable characters of the Third Reich is to read David Irving’s books. So, in parallel with my posts citing Brendan Simms’ and Savitri Devi’s books on Hitler, I think I will resume reading True Himmler which I had neglected since last year.
Anyone who wants to read my previous True Himmler entries can do so here, here, here and here.
3 replies on “No pain no gain!”
Thank you for this post Cesar. As you know, I know of you in this context to some degree, having read Letter to mom Medusa (although I await the translations of the other books eagerly). The anecdotes, and the long context contained in the first resonated with me though, given my own firm Catholic upbringing (which, as you know, I have tried my hardest these days to transvalue; the self-guilt brought on more by my aloof, pathologically critical schizogenic father than my ‘kindly’ narcissist mother’s nightly prayers and priest visits and confirmation parties and pilgrimages with me to Walsingham, and the sets of Rosary beads). I wish only that I could read them in Spanish. I have a copy of Whispering Leaves on my shelf. I was trying to, but, as you analogize so correctly in your first book l = w/s. It’s a shame I’ve fallen to episodic psychosis these latter years. You were the prime inspiration for me starting to write my own autobiography of a similar nature, and recently publishing the first 800-page print book (much as there are painful memories yet to expand upon, some only covered in moderate rudimentary fashion) and planning more. I am always sorry for what happened to you. My own poor-quality life has shaped me irrevocably (albeit one knows not in an illness sense). I’m glad I’m not a Dahmer, or a Walsh though. I know to see through psychiatry, having learnt that young enough. I look forward to more of your writing. Never really one to go to my mother, the socialite for her invisible lord’s movers and shakers and all the blind beasts of the desert, I share with you, knowing my father’s chiding words solidly for two decades hurt me more, even that all the terrors of the dark and wild and the schoolyard. We are apart these days. A detente of sorts. He’s friendlier when not talked to regularly on the phone. Given his progressive humanist dogma, nothing makes me out as his son, and I do not match the criteria of hurt provided for him with grace by his newspaper-derived opinions. He is an old, sick man now. I do not forgive him, but it’s hard not to pity him. I would say I hated the rest, a deep, caged, burning hate, much as it does not consume me. If only more could approach you, especially those of better bodies (and healthier minds). This issue is not discussed anywhere near how it should be, on this site alone. I could write to you, or we could write, as you said before, to ourselves. It angers me. Again, where is our Gemeinshaft now? Where is our folk’s brotherhood. I hope only that you are not dishonoured further, in this Nietzschean silence.
PS. my sentencing has been moving off *again*. I don’t know when it is now, but it’s not the 5th. My barrister has a copy of my autobiography in his possession, and has (he says) read it.
Hello Benjamin,
It’s good that you have your own literary project.
What I discovered by chance is that what heals is not coal (say, the free associations a survivor writes in his diary), but the ‘diamond’: a prose so finished and artistic that books with it could easily be sold in bookstores.
That was a discovery, as I said, that came to me by chance. Over the decades I persisted in polishing, polishing and further polishing the syntax of a work I began on February 11, 1988, even by correcting the errors of newspeak (for example, after discovering Tom Szasz in 1999 I repudiated the shrinks’ vocabulary). The finished product, the diamond, is so pristine that it saves you from, say, the suicidal depression that one of the best commenters on this site recently suffered (apparently, he didn’t make it).
As I said, mere coal doesn’t heal the wounded soul that suffers from betrayal trauma. Only the diamond does. But subjecting coal to enormous telluric pressures is a lifelong work!
As for the translation of my entire trilogy, only after I finish the diamond revision will I begin translating what I am missing into English (Letter to mom Medusa is only the first ‘book’ of the twelve ‘books’ contained in the trilogy).
Thank you for reiterating your advice. Yes, I shall do just that.
I admit, I turned a large portion of my book subsequent to the long opening essay into a carrier for my extensive, rambling, near-daily diary, surely coal more than anything (pedantic and informative at the exclusion of aesthetics, and notoriously overwrought syntax with too many parentheses, familiar strung adverbs, and hyphens for dashes).
What I would like also to do is refine the brute moaning of it all, as angry male complaints are still complaints, and stupid and undignified after a while, and pure exposition/refutation would be better. Inspired by I.N.’s words on grasping for futuristic technology, I would also like to expand my physics and biology stubs, and some of the brainstorming speculation and inventiveness. It would be nice to compile the narrative linearly also, as, past the broad overview of my schooldays, and the broad overview of my late teen years, there’s really limited frame of reference to keep pace, jolting back and forth between distant days and the present, and the narrative continuum is sacrificed. I wanted it to be a poet’s literate (if harrowing) crafting, a work alongside novelists and late-Romantic philosophers, not a tatty, very poor man’s political pamphlet writ large, a sub-par Mein Kampf, or something by a trending Counter-Currents hippie from their smoky leather upholstery. Most of all I’d like it to heal.
If the final sentencing goes well, I should take 5 or less months relief from words, to paint perhaps, and then return to the task, either in a new complimentary volume, or back into the massive book itself. I got so used to wearying myself to death with the endless edits – such a tiring process, terrible to express. But I didn’t do well enough, and it’s what I didn’t say more than what I tore and re-shaped. I hope it does reach you eventually. It’s a sophomore release, but it gives me relief, at least a first screwed in tent peg. I don’t imagine a crammed UK prison, rife with subhuman gangs, would be an environment I could easily continue writing in.
I’m very sorry he’s dead too. I had hoped he’d pull through and decide not to do that. I regret somehow not getting here sooner. I’d have liked to know him. I’ll go for the early morning. I only got up following one of my brutal REM night-terrors. Cheers.