“In almost any war one side can be dishonestly demonized even by a truthful enumeration of its crimes, if the crimes of its adversaries are suppressed.”
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Author: C .T.
10
Thus Zarathustra had spoken to his heart when the sun stood at noon, then he gazed at the sky with a questioning look, for above him he heard the sharp cry of a bird. And behold! An eagle cut broad circles through the air, and upon it hung a snake, not as prey but as a friend, for the snake curled itself around the eagle’s neck.
“It is my animals!” said Zarathustra, and his heart was delighted.
“The proudest animal under the sun and the wisest animal under the sun – they have gone forth to scout.
They want to determine whether Zarathustra is still alive. Indeed, am I still alive?
I found it more dangerous among human beings than among animals; Zarathustra walks dangerous paths. May my animals guide me!”
When Zarathustra had said this he recalled the words of the saint in the woods, sighed and spoke thus to his heart:
“May I be wiser! May I be wise from the ground up like my snake!
But I ask the impossible, and so I ask instead of my pride that it always walk with my wisdom!
And if some day my wisdom abandons me – oh it loves to fly away! – may my pride then fly away with my folly!”
– Thus began Zarathustra’s going under.
______________________
The above German-English translation by Adrian del Caro is taken from Thus Spoke Zarathustra (Cambridge University Press, 2006).
“If a woman has only manly virtues, we run away…”
—Nietzsche
9
Long Zarathustra slept, and not only the dawn passed over his face but the morning as well. At last, however, he opened his eyes: amazed Zarathustra looked into the woods and the silence, amazed he looked into himself. Then he stood up quickly, like a seafarer who all at once sees land, and he rejoiced, for he saw a new truth.[1] And thus he spoke to his heart:
“It dawned on me: I need companions, and living ones – not dead companions and corpses that I carry with me wherever I want.
Instead I need living companions who follow me because they want to follow themselves – wherever I want.
It dawned on me: let Zarathustra speak not to the people, but instead to companions! Zarathustra should not become the shepherd and dog of a herd!
To lure many away from the herd – for that I came. The people and herd shall be angry with me: Zarathustra wants to be called a robber by shepherds.
Shepherds I say, but they call themselves the good and the just. Shepherds I say: but they call themselves the faithful of the true faith.
Look at the good and the just! Whom do they hate most? The one who breaks their tablets of values, the breaker, the lawbreaker[2] – but he is the creative one.
Look at the faithful of all faiths! Whom do they hate most? The one who breaks their tablets of values, the breaker, the lawbreaker – but he is the creative one.
Companions the creative one seeks and not corpses, nor herds and believers. Fellow creators the creative one seeks, who will write new values on new tablets.
Companions the creative one seeks, and fellow harvesters; for to him everything stands ready for harvest.[3] But he lacks the hundred scythes, and so he plucks out spikes and is angry.
Companions the creative one seeks, and those who know how to whet their scythes. They shall be called annihilators and despisers of good and evil. But they are the harvesters and the celebrators. Fellow creators seeks Zarathustra, fellow harvesters and fellow celebrators Zarathustra seeks: what need does he have of herds and shepherds and corpses!
And you, my first companion, take care! I buried you well in your tree, I concealed you well from the wolves.
But I am leaving you, the time is up. Between dawn and dawn a new truth came to me.
I shall not be a shepherd, nor a gravedigger. I do not want to even speak again with the people – for the last time have I spoken to a dead person.
I shall join the creators, the harvesters, the celebrators: I shall show them the rainbow and all the steps to the Overman.
I shall sing my song to lonesome and twosome hermits[4], and for him who still has ears for the unheard of, I shall make his heart heavy with my happiness.
I want to go to my goal, and I go my own way; over the hesitating and dawdling I shall leap. Thus let my going be their going under!”
______________________
The above German-English translation by Adrian del Caro is taken from Thus Spoke Zarathustra (Cambridge University Press, 2006). This Cambridge edition lacks the more detailed notes by Andrés Sánchez-Pascual in Así Habló Zaratustra (Madrid: Alianza Editorial, 2014), translated below.
Notes:
[1] In the fourth part, §1, “On the Higher Man,” Zarathustra would remember this “new truth.”
[2] Pun of the German words Brecher (destroyer, breaker) and Verbrecher (offender, criminal). Moses also breaks the tablets; see Exodus 32,19: “And it came to pass, as soon as he came nigh unto the camp, that he saw the calf, and the dancing: and Moses’ anger waxed hot, and he cast the tables out of his hands, and brake them beneath the mount.” In this work Zarathustra uses numerous times this opposition.
[3] A reminiscence of the Gospel of Matthew 9:37: “The harvest truly is plenteous, but the labourers are few.”
[4] Play of German words Einsiedler (hermits) and Zweisiedler (the latter term created by Nietzsche refers to marriage, that is, the “solitude of two in company”).
A disgruntled negro shoots and kills two co-workers on live television over racial slights. See e.g., today’s article at Occidental Dissent.
Postscript:
Originally I embedded a clip. The black man, who used to work on TV, filmed his killing! YouTube deleted it after the first incarnation of this entry. (The video that’s circulating now was filmed by one of the victims.) On the pic I’ve just added instead, the two journalists that would be murdered this morning.
by Jack Frost
Alex Jones is an anti-racist Christian (a redundancy, of course) whose marketing genius has allowed him to devise a means to take the vague patriotic sentiments and disquiet at a changing country that most white Americans feel and turn those feelings into money. He’s turned their resentment into a multi-million dollar enterprise. His on-air persona is part televangelist and part WWE wrestler, and he’s going for the same credulous, poorly-educated, almost all white demographic. He seems sincere in his anti-racism though and probably is, but deep down I’m sure he realizes that if he were racist he wouldn’t have a show, so it’s a shrewd business move as well.
The long interview with Duke was surprising then, especially because Duke, an anti-racist Christian just like Jones [Editor’s italics], got to get his message out to millions of listeners and viewers, for the most part free from interruption. He clearly won the “debate”, such as it was.
I contend that a race of people even slightly interested in their own survival would respond to Duke’s revelations with an outpouring of outrage at Jews and support for white nationalism, but of course, that in all likelihood hasn’t happened. If it did, I haven’t heard anything about it.
To understand why nothing much ever comes of such performances, you have to realize that the role people like Alex Jones and David Duke serve in the political ecology of America is to take dangerous energy that conceivably could build to become a violent explosion that would damage the system, and dissipate it into harmless channels.
Alex’s pitch is simple. Feeling patriotic? Cultural change got you down and the spirit of 1776 stirring you up? Then buy something from Alex Jones and you’ve done your part to fight those dastardly “globalists” that are the one and only cause of your troubles. Alex has got a complete line of nostrums designed to deal with everything from your falling IQ (the globalists are poisoning the water and slowly killing your brain with fluoride) to constipation. He’s even got a product called “Super Male Vitality” if you’ve been feeling impotent lately.
Duke is similar, although his demeanor is more low key and he’s not as good of a showman or businessman as Jones. It must be appreciated that both of these men are in the consciousness raising business. Endless consciousness raising is their bread and butter.
The last thing either one of them want is for their listeners to take action. Once the masses awaken and revolt there would be no further need for their product! By listening to Duke, people sympathetic to his message feel they’re part of the resistance to the changes enveloping them on every side. People who aren’t sympathetic to Duke, which, unless I miss my guess, includes most of Jones’ audience, get to be entertained for a bit and get to indulge themselves in a feeling of moral superiority to the supposedly racist, anti-semitic David Duke.
So there’s something in it for everyone, all around. A good time was had by all. Everyone gets to oppose “globalists”, or Jews, if that’s your cup of tea, or racism (always an easy sell in a Christian nation), and no blood gets shed at all.
Nobody gets hurt, the system remains safe, and nothing ever changes.
27th March 1942, midday
Jewish influence on German art
—Painting in Germany.
It’s striking to observe that in 1910 our artistic level was still extraordinarily high. Since that time, alas! our decadence has merely become accentuated. In the field of painting, for example, it’s enough to recall the lamentable daubs that people have tried to foist, in the name of art, on the German people.
This was quite especially the case during the Weimar Republic, and that clearly demonstrated the disastrous influence of the Jews in matters of art. The cream of the jest was the incredible impudence with which the Jew set about it! With the help of phony art critics, and with one Jew bidding against another, they finally suggested to the people—which naturally believes everything that’s printed—a conception of art according to which the worst rubbish in painting became the expression of the height of artistic accomplishment. The ten thousand of the élite themselves, despite their pretensions on the intellectual level, let themselves be diddled, and swallowed all the humbug. The culminating hoax—and we now have proof of it, thanks to the seizure of Jewish property—is that, with the money they fraudulently acquired by selling trash, the Jews were able to buy, at wretched prices, the works of value they had so cleverly depreciated. Every time an inventory catches my eye of a requisition carried out on an important Jew, I see that genuine artistic treasures are listed there. It’s a blessing of Providence that National Socialism, by seizing power in 1933, was able to put an end to this imposture.
Genuine artists develop only by contact with other artists. Like the Old Masters, they began by working in a studio. Let’s remember that men like Rembrandt, Rubens and others hired assistants to help them to complete all their commissions.
Amongst these assistants, only those reached the rank of apprentice who displayed the necessary gifts as regards technique and adroitness—and of whom it could be supposed that they would in their turn be capable of producing works of value. It’s ridiculous to claim, as it’s claimed in the academies, that right from the start the artist of genius can do what he likes. Such a man must begin, like everyone else, by learning, and it’s only by working without relaxation that he succeeds in achieving what he wants. If he doesn’t know the art of mixing colours to perfection—if he cannot set a background—if anatomy still has secrets for him—it’s certain he won’t go very far! I can imagine the number of sketches it took an artist as gifted as Menzel before he set himself to paint the Flute Concert at Sans-Souci.
It would be good if artists to-day, like those of olden days, had the training afforded by the Masters’ studios and could thus steep themselves in the great pictorial traditions. If, when we look at the pictures of Rembrandt and Rubens, for example, it is often difficult to make out what the Master has painted himself and what is his pupils’ share, that’s due to the fact that gradually the disciples themselves became masters.
What a disaster it was, the day when the State began to interfere with the training of painters! As far as Germany is concerned, I believe that two academies would suffice: in Düsseldorf and Munich. Or perhaps three in all, if we add Vienna to the list. Obviously there’s no question, for the moment, of abolishing any of our academies. But that doesn’t prevent one from regretting that the tradition of the studios has been lost.
If, after the war, I can realise my great building programme—and I intend to devote thousands of millions to it—only genuine artists will be called on to collaborate.
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The Fame, 7
From The Fame of a Dead Man’s Deeds:
An Up-Close Portrait of William Pierce
by Robert Griffin
“I’m William Pierce. I’ve been waiting for you.”
Pierce looked to me to be around sixty years old. He is a couple inches taller than I am, which would make him about 6’3” or so. He has a large head and graying and thinning conventionally cut hair parted on the left side. His hair was long enough so that it curled up in the back. He is a bit hunched, and his head nestles down into his shoulders and thrusts forward. What stood out to me about his face were his large forehead and mouth. His face is unlined, his nose is straight and unremarkable, and his small ears protrude some. His eyes were blue behind the thick lenses of the conservative plastic-framed glasses he had on.
That day, Pierce had on a jeans jacket over a dark blue T-shirt with a pocket in which he had what appeared to be a white index card. His faded blue jeans hung straight down in the back in the way they do with older men. He had on brown workboots. Around his waist was a pistol belt. A holstered weapon was on his right and more to the back than to the side. The weapon wasn’t visible because he had pulled his T-shirt over it.
Pierce’ s basic appearance is long and lean, but when I shook hands with him I was taken by the size and strength of his hands and forearms which showed beneath his rolled-up jacket sleeves. His handshake was firm and confident. I had read that Pierce, as it was phrased, “doesn’t have a very dynamic presence.” That certainly wasn’t the impression I was getting. He had the air of somebody important and as being the kind of person who very much fills up the space they are in.
“Come on in,” Pierce said, motioning with his left hand toward the building to my right. I turned and for the first time got a good look at the National Alliance headquarters building. It is two stories tall and perhaps sixty feet wide.
The most prominent feature of the building is a ten-foot-high dark brown symbol attached to the building above the door. I couldn’t tell whether it was made of metal or wood. It looks something like a Christian cross except that the crossbar is longer and instead of going straight across from nine o’clock to three o’clock, it is as if it were cut at the mid-point and the two pieces, still attached to the vertical bar, are pointed upward toward ten-thirty and one-thirty. I later learned that this is called a Life Rune and that it is the symbol for the National Alliance. I remember having an emotional charge that first time I took in this Life Rune image, so large and dominating. Especially in this setting, so removed from everywhere, it seemed alien, something out of Brave New World or 1984…
Pierce has a Ph.D in physics, and this room is where he goes to get away from it all. One other thing on the second floor: a television set next to the back wall amid boxes of books. I believe it is the only one on the property. It turns out that Pierce and those around him are down on television, seeing it as a reality-distorting and mind-warping force in the hands of their adversaries. Pierce isn’t about to get the cable, and the only station that reaches this remote area is an NBC affiliate—barely reaches, the picture is snowy and doesn’t qualify as being in color. Pierce is a faithful watcher of the NBC evening news. As far as I know, that is the extent of his television viewing other than tapes friends and followers send him, and I don’t believe anyone around him watches television at all.
8
When Zarathustra had said this to his heart, he hoisted the corpse onto his back and started on his way. And he had not yet gone a hundred paces when someone sneaked up on him and whispered in his ear – and behold! The one who spoke was the jester from the tower.
“Go away from this town, oh Zarathustra,” he said. “Too many here hate you. The good and the just[1] hate you and they call you their enemy and despiser; the believers of the true faith hate you and they call you the danger of the multitude. It was your good fortune that they laughed at you: and really, you spoke like a jester. It was your good fortune that you took up with the dead dog; when you lowered yourself like that, you rescued yourself for today. But go away from this town – or tomorrow I shall leap over you, a living man over a dead one.”
And when he had said this, the man disappeared, but Zarathustra continued his walk through dark lanes.
At the town gate he met the gravediggers. They shone their torches in his face, recognized Zarathustra and sorely ridiculed him. “Zarathustra is lugging away the dead dog: how nice that he’s become a gravedigger! For our hands are too pure for this roast. Would Zarathustra steal this morsel from the devil? So be it then! And good luck with your meal! If only the devil were not a better thief than Zarathustra! – he’ll steal them both, he’ll devour them both!” And they laughed and huddled together.
Zarathustra did not say a word and went on his way. By the time he had walked for two hours past woods and swamps, he had heard too much of the hungry howling of wolves and he grew hungry himself. And so he stopped at a lonely house in which a light was burning.
“Hunger falls upon me like a robber,” said Zarathustra. “In woods and swamps my hunger falls upon me and in the deep night. My hunger has odd moods. Often it comes to me only after a meal, and today it did not come the whole day: just where was it?”
And so Zarathustra pounded on the door to the house. An old man appeared, bearing a light, and he asked: “Who comes to me and to my bad sleep?”
“A living man and a dead one,” replied Zarathustra. “Give me food and drink, I forgot it during the day. Whoever feeds the hungry quickens his own soul – thus speaks wisdom.”[2]
The old man went away but returned promptly and offered Zarathustra bread and wine. “This is a bad region for those who hunger,” he said. “That is why I live here. Beast and human being come to me, the hermit. But bid your companion eat and drink, he is wearier than you.” Zarathustra replied: “My companion is dead, I would have a hard time persuading him.” “That does not concern me,” snapped the old man. “Whoever knocks at my house must also take what I offer him. Eat and take care!” –
Thereupon Zarathustra walked again for two hours, trusting the path and the light of the stars, for he was a practiced night-walker and loved to look in the face of all sleepers.[3] But as dawn greyed Zarathustra found himself in a deep wood and no more path was visible to him. Then he laid the dead man into a hollow tree – for he wanted to protect him from the wolves – and he laid himself down head first at the tree, upon the earth and the moss. And soon he fell asleep, weary in body but with a calm soul.
______________________
The above German-English translation by Adrian del Caro is taken from Thus Spoke Zarathustra (Cambridge University Press, 2006). This Cambridge edition lacks the more detailed notes by Andrés Sánchez-Pascual in Así Habló Zaratustra (Madrid: Alianza Editorial, 2014), translated below.
Notes:
[1] The verbal couple “the good and the just” will be repeated very many times throughout this work. Probably it is an imitation of another verbal couple “hypocrites and Pharisees,” which also appears frequently in the Gospels, and has the same meaning. See, for example, in the third part, “On Old and New Tablets” § 26: “My brothers! In whom does the greatest danger lie for all of future humanity? Is it not in the good and the just? – is it not in those who speak and feel in their hearts: ‘We already know what is good and just, and we have it too’.”
[2] A Psalm quote, 146: 5-7: “Blessed is he who feeds the hungry.”
[3] On this habit of Zarathustra “to look in the face of all sleepers” see also, in this same part, “On the Friend” and in the fourth part, “The Shadow.”
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This Time, 6
A passage from This Time the World
by George Lincoln Rockwell
But Allen’s wife, Portland, gave me the shock of my fourteen or fifteen years when she was the first woman I ever heard say a filthy word—and in our living room, at that. She used the Anglo-Saxon word for body waste to express her distaste for some idea or other—and I will never forget the experience. Never, in all those young years, had I heard a female say such a word and I thought of her immediately as an object of unbelievable disgust. In discussing the matter later, with my father, I learned that she was Jewish. I asked him if Jewishness had anything to do with it and he said they were very “sophisticated people” who meant no harm by it. But he also told me of Henry Ford’s accusations against the Jews and how they forced him to apologize, and said there was no getting away from the power of the Jews, “They’re too smart.”
Except for the permanent memory of my shock at hearing that awful word from a lady in our family drawing room, I thought no more of it and don’t even remember thinking of Portland as anything but a woman who said a horrible, vulgar word for the first time in my presence.
I know the Jews and ‘liberals’ and Freudians will once again leap like trout to the fly here, and be sure this is the source of my ‘hatred’ of Jews. But it is simply not true. I assimilated this experience with millions of others and did not even notice whether the hundreds of Jews in Atlantic City High School, where I went for four years and many of whom were my best friends, were Jews or Hottentots. That may be an unfortunate choice of words, because hundreds of my school comrades in Atlantic City were Hottentots! And I didn’t particularly notice or care about this either.
The Jews simply cannot accept it, of course and the brainwashed will not accept it, but my hatred of organized Jewry stems directly and only from the discovery of what most—but not all—Jews are doing to the Nation and the People I love. There may have been some slight vestiges of prejudice in my upbringing, but no more than in the upbringing of millions of other American boys who are not leading Hitler movements.