Reflections of an Aryan woman, 103

When will the inevitable Avenger come? He who will restore order, and put ‘every being in its place’? Is it my devotion to him that makes me—and has always made me—so fond of all the Forces that dominate from on high and seem to want to crush this insolent worm that is man?

Is he, in particular, who, in April 1947, made me greet the sight (and the subterranean roar!) of the Hekla in full eruption as one greets the divinities in the temples in India, and, in an ecstasy of joy, intone in Bengali the hymn to Shiva: ‘Dancer of Destruction, O King of the Dance’?

Was it he who urged me to walk all night along one of the seven lava flows, under a pale violet sky, flooded with moonlight, streaked with green aurora borealis fringed with purple, barred by a long black cloud of volcanic smoke—a sky against which the craters (there were several) hurled their jets of flame and their incandescent quarters of rock?

Was it he who, in the uninterrupted roar, bursting from the bowels of the trembling earth and sometimes bursting into sudden mouths of fire, made me recognise the sacred Syllable Aum: the very one which I had heard, and was to hear ever since, with adoration, coming out of the mouths of lions?

Was it the more or less obscure consciousness that they were themselves of the race of the One who returns from age to age and, like Him, defenders of the beauty of the Earth—the Avengers of the Strong against all anthropocentric and therefore egalitarian superstitions, and in particular against Christianity, then newly imposed on the proud Germanic people?

Was it this conscience, I say, that prompted the Vikings of Jütland, my mother’s ancestors, to sing their hymns to Donner and Thor alone in the middle of the fog, on the raging North Sea, joyous to hear, in the rolls of thunder, the answer of the Gods?

Perhaps. What is certain is that I have always been for untamed Nature, against man: for the lion and the tiger, against the hunter, sometimes very ugly and, in any case, however beautiful he may be, less beautiful than them, who live on the fringes of world decadence. What is certain, too, is that I have always been for the superior man, the strong, the conqueror (unless, like the European invaders of the New World [1] he uses his strength to spread some levelling doctrine, justifying all miscegenation), against the pacifist, benumbed in his pleasures; against the haircutter in four; and against the ‘scientist’, working ‘for humanity’ at the expense of innocent beasts; always been for the SS, against the Jew, and his servants more contemptible than himself.

Almost forty years ago I came to the Indies, seeking (for want of a better word) the tropical equivalent of Aryan and pagan Europe—of that Ancient World, where enlightened tolerance reigned, and the cult of the Beautiful drawing its very essence from the True. I have come and remained there; I have left and returned, always as a disciple of Adolf Hitler, the modern Face of He Who Returns; always animated by the spirit of the ‘fight against Time’ which he embodies, with all his glorious predecessors, and with Kalki, the Victor who must one day succeed him, and succeed them.

Now that there’s nothing else to do, my comrades, live with me in ardent anticipation of the end of this humanity, which has rejected us and our Führer. Mankind isn’t worth saving. May it go to all the devils, buried under the ruins of its hospitals, its laboratories, its slaughterhouses and its ‘nightclubs’! I quote to you the verses that Leconte de Lisle addresses to the Virgin Forest, burned, uprooted, shredded by man:

Tears and blood will sprinkle your ashes,
And you will spring from ours, O Forest!

These are words of anticipated joy for me.

I also remind you of the words of Goebbels at the time of the collapse of this Reich, for which we lived: ‘After the deluge: us!’

All that remains is to wish, to call with all our might ‘the Deluge’—the End, to make ourselves personally responsible for its coming, wishing for it day and night.

I would desire it, I would call for it, even if I were persuaded that none of us—including myself, of course; including those whom I most admire and love—would survive it. The world is too ugly, without its true Gods—without the sense of the sacred in life—for the Strong not to yearn for its end.

My comrades: join me, and let us echo with Wotan the Song of the End:

Eins will ich: das Ende; das Ende!

The world without humans is far and away preferable to the world in which no human elite will rule anymore. The lion’s roar will again be heard everywhere, in the course of the nights, under the moonlit sky, or dark and full of stars. And again the living will tremble before a King worthy of them.

Savitri Devi Mukherji

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[1] With the spread of Christianity miscegenation took, in Latin America especially, an unprecedented extension.