Author: C .T.

So what is left for those who now live, devoted body and soul, to our ideal of visible (and invisible) perfection on all levels? On a global scale, or even a national scale, absolutely nothing. It is too late. The twenty-fifth hour has come and gone, too long ago. On an individual scale, or at least on a restricted scale, we must preserve, insofar as it is still within our power, the beauty of the world: human, animal, vegetable, inanimate; all beauty. The elite minorities must be defended at all costs: all the noble minorities, whether they be the Aryans of Europe, Asia or America, conscious of the excellence of their common race, or the noble trees threatened with the atrocious uprooting by bulldozers for multitudes of two-legged mammals, less beautiful and less innocent than them.

It remains to watch and resist, and to help any beautiful minority attacked by the agents of chaos; to resist, even if it only delays by a few decades the disappearance of the last aristocrats. There is nothing else one can do, except, perhaps, to curse in one’s heart, day and night, today’s humanity (with very rare exceptions) and to work with all one’s might for their annihilation. There is nothing to do but to make oneself responsible for the end of this cycle, at least by wishing it ceaselessly, knowing that thought—and especially directed thought—is also a force, and that the invisible governs the visible.

[…] The passage of the poem quoted above reminds me of the title of a book published in France a few years ago: a cry of alarm at the idea that what will be, in a generation or two, the amplitude of human expansion on the surface of our unhappy planet: Six milliards d’insectes, i.e. six billion two-legged mammals with the habits and mentality of the termite mound.[1]

Forests are mercilessly uprooted by bulldozers so that a human settlement, certainly less beautiful than it, disappears to make way for ‘laughter, vile noises, cries of despair.’[2]

[…] The action which suppresses it for the benefit of man, that insatiable parasite, is a crime against the universal mother whose respect should be the first duty of a so-called thinking being. And it is almost consoling, for those who think and aren’t particularly enamoured of the two-legged mammal, to see that Mother Nature sometimes reacts to this outrage by manifesting herself in her terrible aspect.

___________________

[1] Editor’s note: At the time of editing this book the world population has exceeded 8 billion: double compared to the time when Savitri was writing her book.

[2] Leconte de Lisle, ‘Là Forêt Vierge’ (Poèmes Barbares).

There is no worse enemy of the beauty of the world than the unlimited proliferation of man. There is no worse enemy of the quality of man himself than this proliferation: it cannot be repeated too often that a choice must be made between ‘quantity’ and ‘quality.’

The history of our cycle is, like that of any cycle, the history of an indefinitely prolonged struggle between quality and quantity, until the victory of the latter: a complete victory, but a very short one since it necessarily coincides with the end of the cycle and the coming of the Avenger, whom I have called by his Sanskrit name: Kalki.

If I say that the heroic but practically useless attempt at recovery represented by Hitlerism is the last, it is because I know of no force in the present world able to stop universal decadence. Despite all the power and prestige at his disposal, Adolf Hitler was unable to create—recreate—the conditions that were and remain essential for the blossoming of a Golden Age. He could neither suppress technology nor reduce the number of people in the world to anything like one-thousandth of what it is today; that is, practically to what it was during the centuries before our Dark Age.

It is possible and even probable that, victorious, he would have tried to do so, gradually. But his victory would have had to be complete and not only on a European but on a world scale, and there would have been no power on earth to rival his and to thwart his work. But then he would have been Kalki Himself, and we would now be living at the dawn of a new cycle. He needed technology, and at least a growing German population, to carry out his fight against the tide of time under the present conditions.

The next time it won’t be giants or demigods but miserable dwarfs who will suffer the inevitable destruction: billions of dwarves, banal in their ugliness, without character, who will disappear before the Avenger: like an anthill destroyed by a lava flow.

In any case, whether or not we survive the painful childbirth of the new cycle, we won’t be among these dwarfs. The ordeal of 1945 and especially of the post-war years—seductive prosperity—will have made us, the few, what we are and what we remain. And in the roar of unleashed power that will mark the end of all that we so cordially despise, we shall greet with a shiver of ecstasy the Voice of divine revenge, whose triumph will be ours even if we must perish.