For an easy reading,
you can read all of my excerpts
of Zweig’s essay on Nietzsche
at Ex libris (here).
Author: C .T.
“After the next European war, people will understand me.” Such is the prophetic utterance that shines conspicuously forth from among Nietzsche’s last writings. In very truth, the real significance, the historical necessity of this seer is made plain to us only in relation to the tensed, unstable, and dangerous condition of our world at the turn of the century.
In this sensitive, who transformed every atmospheric convulsion from nerve to spirit, from intimation into word, there occurred a foreboding discharge of all the tensions of the morally obtuse Europe. There was a cataclysm in Nietzsche’s mind as a presage of the most terrible cataclysm in human history. His “far-thinking” vision glimpsed the crisis while others were comfortably warming their heads before the agreeable fires of well-turned phrases. He discerned the causes of what was about to happen: “The national cardiac pruritus and the blood-poisoning thanks to which, throughout Europe, nation shuts itself off from nation as if they were quarantining against one another’s plagues.” He saw the “nationalism as of horned cattle.”
Wrathfully he predicts catastrophe in view of the convulsive endeavours “to eternalize particularism throughout Europe” and to defend a morality established upon egoistic interests and upon business. In letters of fire upon the wall he wrote: “This absurd state of affairs must speedily be brought to an end.” No one heard more plainly than did Nietzsche the ominous cracking in the edifice of European society; no one, in a time of unwarranted optimism and self-satisfaction, sounded so loudly as he the summons to fight. A new and mighty order was about to begin. Now at length we know it, as he knew it decades ago. Such agonizing foresight was his greatness and his heroism; and there is a spiritual truth underlying the belief of simple souls that before wars and crises comets pursue their erratic course athwart the sky. He alone recognized how frightful a hurricane was about to disturb our civilisation.
But it is the perennial tragedy of the spirit that what it perceives in its higher, more luminous spheres can never be communicated to those who dwell in the heavier atmosphere upon the lower levels; that the present never grasps what is impending, is never able to read the message of the skies. Even the most translucent genius of the nineteenth century could not speak plainly enough to enable his contemporaries to understand him. No more was vouchsafed to him than the cry of warning which was incompressible to his contemporaries. Then his mind gave way.
“There are no heroic ages, but solely heroic persons.” It is the individual who achieves independence within the world, and for himself alone. Nietzsche’s independence did not therefore transmit, as scholastics declare, a doctrine, but, rather, an atmosphere—the limpid and passionate atmosphere of a daimonic nature.
Just as, in the domain of natural forces, there is need at times for whirlwinds wherein the excess of energy rises in revolt against stability, so likewise, now and again, in the realm of mind there is need for a daimonic being whose transcendent powers shall make him the spearhead of a revolt against the triviality of habitual thought and the monotonousness of conventional morality. There is need of a man who will embody the forces of destruction and who will destroy himself likewise.
____________
After a few more words, Zweig’s essay on Nietzsche ends.
In all of these entries I only typed those paragraphs
which struck me the most.
Categories
Dance over the abyss
If you look into an abyss, the
abyss, likewise, looks into you.
This self-addressed pæan of intoxicated happiness is, I know, regarded by modern physicians as a morbid euphoria, as the last pleasure in a decaying brain, as the stigma of that megalomania which is characteristic of the early stage of paralytic dementia. But Nietzsche talks clearly and incisively amid the ardours of intoxication. No other mortal, perhaps, has ever in full awareness and without a trace of giddiness leaned so far and seen so clearly over the edge of the precipice of lunacy.
No doubt the light that sparkles here is a perilous one. It has the phantasmal and morbid luminosity of a midnight sun glowing red above icebergs; it is a northern light of the soul whose unique splendour makes us shudder. It does not warm us, it terrifies us. It does not dazzle, but it slays. He is not carried away as was Hölderlin by an obscure rhythm of feeling, is not overwhelmed by the onrush of melancholy. He is scorched by his own ardours, is sunstruck by his own rays, is affected by a white-hot and intolerable cheerfulness. Nietzsche’s collapse was a sort of carbonization in his own flames.
He commanded the German emperor to go to Rome in order to be shot; he summoned the European powers to take united military action against Germany, to encircle his fatherland in a ring of iron. Never did apocalyptic wrath shout more savagely into vacancy, never did so glorious presumption scourge a mind beyond earthly bounds. His words issued like hammer-blows striving to demolish the edifice of established civilisation. The Christian era was to cease with the publication of his Antichrist, and a new numbering of the years was to begin.
“No one has written, felt, suffered in such a manner before; the sufferings of a god, a Dionysius.” These words, penned when his mental disorder had already begun, are painfully true. The little room of the fourth floor, and the hermitage of Sils-Maria, not only sheltered the man Friedrich Nietzsche whose nerves were breaking under the strain, but also served as the places from which were issued a marvellous message to the dying century. The Creative Spirit had taken refuge beneath the attic roof heated by the southern sun, and was bestowing its entire wealth upon a timid, neglected, and lonely being, bestowing far more than any isolated person could sustain.
Within those narrow walls, wrestling with infinities, the poor mortal senses were stumbling and groping amid the lightening-flashes of revelation. Like Hölderlin, he felt that a god was revealing himself, a fiery god whose radiance the eyes could not bear and whose proximity was scorching. Again and again the cowering wrench raised his head and attempted to look upon the countenance of this deity, his thoughts running riot the while.
Was not he who felt and wrote and suffered such unthinkable things, was not he himself God? Had not a god reanimated the world after he, Nietzsche, had slain the old god? Who was he? Who was Nietzsche? Was Nietzsche the Crucified; the dead god or the living one; the god of his youth, Dionysius; or both Dionysus and the Crucified—the crucified Dionysius?
More and more confused grew his thoughts; the current roared too loud beneath the superfluity of light. Was it still light? Had it not become music? The narrow room on the fourth floor in the Via Carlo Alberto began to intone; the shining spheres made music; all heaven was aglow. What wonderful music! Tears tricked down his face, warm tears. What sublime tenderness, what auspicious happiness! And now, what lucidity! In the street, everyone smiled at him in friendly fashion; they stood up to greet him; they made obeisance to him, the slayer of gods; they were all so delighted to see him. Why? Why?
He knew. Antichrist had appeared upon earth, and men acclaimed him with hosannas. The world hummed with jubilation, was full of music. Then suddenly the tumult was stilled. Something, someone fell down. It is he, himself, in the street, in front of the house where he lodged. He was picked up. He found himself back in his room.
Had he been asleep for a long time? It seemed very dark. There was the piano. Music! Music! Then, unexpectedly, people appeared in the room. Surely one of them must be Overbeck. But Overbeck is in Basel; and where is he, Nietzsche? He no longer remembers. Why does the company look at him so strangely, so anxiously? He is in a train, rattling along the rails, and the wheels are singing; yes, they are singing the “Gondolier’s Chanty,” and he joins in, signs in an interminable darkness.
He is in a strange room, and always it is dark. No more sunshine, no light at all, either within or without. People talk in the room. A woman among them, surely it is his sister? He had thought she was travelling. She reads aloud to him, now from one book, now from another. Books? “Was not I once a writer of books?” Comes a gentle answer, but he cannot understand. One in whose soul such a hurricane has raged grows deaf to ordinary speech. One who has gazed so intently into the eyes of the daimon is henceforth blinded.
Categories
On the need of cultured thugs
Now that I reread William Ventvogel’s “On Cities, Women, and White Survival,” linked in my previous post, “Sanskrit saying,” it struck me to see the gulf between Ventvogel’s approach to white preservation and Greg Johnson’s latest article, “The Nigger Word,” where Johnson writes: “We do not use the nigger word and other crude racial slurs… We don’t have to be hateful. We don’t have to be strident. We don’t have to be crude.”
Compare this with the cited Ventvogel 2003 article, that incidentally mentioned the word nigger eighteen times, and especially with Ventvogel’s revolutionary sentiments:
There is too much enemy energy in the cities, too many Jews, too many questionable White women. And a healthy White man wants to clean it out, hunt them down and kill them, kill them all. And if he can’t or won’t, the stress eventually turns him passive—then apathetic—then cowardly—then materialistic. He is caught in the Jew vortex.
No need to be hateful? Really? Now that the dollar will crash and that the large American cities will become killing zones, you can guess who has better chances to survive, the Johnsons armed with “porcelain guns” (Greg’s own words—search for the word porcelain: here) or the Ventvogels…
Snake said (below, in the comment section):
The real problem has been combining righteous hatred with calm rationality. We’re effectively stuck with craven intellectuals and idiots whose sole contribution to our race is screaming “kike-nigger-spic!” As Jonathan Bowden would say, we need cultured thugs.
Categories
“Fate”
From Faith and Action (1938) by Helmut Stellrecht for the Hitler Youth:
We do not believe in a blind fate that leads people through their lives. We do not believe that god’s angels protect us in every step that we take and keep us from falling. But we do believe in a godly will that gives meaning to each life that is born. Not an arbitrary generally meaning, but rather each life has its own particular purpose and meaning.
§ In the depths of our souls we sense whether we act according to this meaning. One can call this conscience or something else. It is there. We probably know the right path. We need only ask. A voice within us gives the answer, and speaks of the godly will that shows us the path we should go.
§ This path is our fate. Each has but one proper path. To follow it makes one happy to the highest degree, even if it is a path that brings only poverty and toil.
§ Any path that leads away from the meaning and purpose of life is death and sin. And even if the path seems ever so pleasant, you will sin every day of your life.
§ But you have the freedom to decide which path you want to follow. No blind fate rules you. You go your own way.
§ If you follow the law in your own heart, it is the way to your god. It is the way that comes from eternity and goes to eternity; in all the world there is never an end, only transformation. There is no death that is not also a beginning. Everything is part of the enormous plan of the worlds, of which you are a part if you seek your path. Everything is in development. The joy of creation lives in each, for it belongs to the builders at work. There is no heaven of pleasure and blessedness. But work and life alternate in eternal form, whether in the realm of the body or the sphere of the spirit.
§ Those who fell for an idea of god — and people and fatherland are such — continue to work for it. They become a part of the soul and the strength of their people. They continue to work and grow. They are in reality in us as our better thoughts.
§ Thus each creature plays its part, both in body and soul, in the great plan of the worlds. It is god, the eternal wisdom and the exalted sense of that which is beyond comprehension. When you submit and follow the path, it is also in you. You understand your part and do what you can, and whatever happens to you, you will be happy. You carry god in your own heart. You have overcome death, and if you do die, you live on as a part of the eternal strength that works continually and creates.
§ Your fate is the path that is shown to you. Your free will decides if you follow it and if you fulfill your task.
Categories
Sanskrit saying
“From the corruption of women… all evils follow.”
Some time ago John Thames wrote, and quoted, the texts below:
Woman, to a very real extent, is the “natural born Jew” of the universe. She thinks that man exists to serve her the same way the Jew thinks that the gentile exists to serve him.
To my enlightened female critics: Since you do not like my opinions, let me infuriate you with some more clear thinking. Let me describe to you American society as it existed before “sex discrimination” became a problem.
In 1950’s America, women work to support men who stay home and raise the children. Women give men the house, the furniture, the car and all the money in divorce court. Women pay massive child support and alimony to automatic custody fathers. Women suffer 400,000 battlefield deaths in WW2 while Jimmie the Riveter works in the factories back home. Women go down with the Titanic so that men and children can climb on the life boats. Women work themselves into a seven year shorter life expectancy so that men can inherit 80 percent of all the personal wealth of the country, paid for by women’s effort. Now tell me why men should have all the high paying jobs too?
As for Dear Old Mommie and her burdensome diaper changing duties, preach it to me as you throw unwanted babies into the garbage can down at the abortion clinic. Your concern for your own child (the ones you decided to keep) is truly touching.
♣
Women are basically Jews. They think they can do no wrong. Far from being victims of sex discrimination, women are the most pampered, parasitical, good for nothing pieces of ass on planet earth. I enjoy The Spearhead, although it is completely gutless on the Jews. As to your idiotic female logic, it merely demonstrates a truth my mother once told me: “The worst mistake men ever made was giving women the vote. Women have no brains and by giving women the vote, men gave women the power to screw everything up.”
No truer words were ever spoken.
Feminism in ancient Sparta
Feminism is not a modern invention, as many suppose. It existed in the ancient world—and its consequences were largely the same as now. A classic example is the Greek city-state of Sparta.
It would shock most people to know that the famous warrior state was a paradise for women, relatively speaking but it was. The Spartans granted educational and economic equality to women—and it contributed greatly to their eventual downfall. Spartan girls were given the same curricula as the boys and encouraged to engage in sports. They were also granted the right to hold property in their own name and inherit property on an equal basis. The Spartan economy was largely agricultural. While Spartan men were away on war Spartan women ran the household and controlled the finances. As much as 35-40 percent of Spartan land was owned by women some of whom became quite wealthy.
Sparta suffered quite a decline in its birth rate during its decline. Some of this was caused by economic factors, such as limiting reproduction to avoid splitting up estates and inheritances. But much more, it was caused by the independence of women. Women were too busy being “liberated” to bother with the necessities of reproduction. In several centuries time, the total number of Spartiae (Spartan citizens as opposed to the helots and half-citizens) had declined from 7000 down to 700 (a 90 percent drop). Spartan sterility was remarked upon by many observers, particularly the Romans. The Spartans eventually reached the stage where they could no longer replace their losses in war. They were conquered by the Romans and ceased to exist. Spartan women were noted for their adulteries, particularly in their later stages of decline. There was no stigma attached to adultery and Spartan women could violate marital vows with relative impunity.
The similarity of all this to modern feminism is striking. The sterility, the free love, the equal educational and athletic opportunities, the female control of the economy are, in essence, the same trends observable today. And this brings up the key point: Totalitarian societies, past and present, do not enslave women, they liberate them. It was so in the ancient world; it was so in Jewish-Marxist Russia; it is true in the degenerating and decaying society of today.
Feminism and the fall of Rome
Feminism is not a new thing. Neither is it a sign of progress, as some imagine. It has flourished in the past with results as disastrous as presently. Many parallels exist between the feminist movement in the Roman Empire and the feminist movement of today. In the early days of the Republic, Rome was extremely patriarchal. The father, the Pater familias, held the power of life and death over his wife and children. This system lasted until roughly the end of the Second Punic war against Carthage. Then began a vast movement for the “liberation” of women. The war had, in a sense, been won by women. The Romans had lost the entirety of their manpower in three consecutive defeats at the hands of Hannibal Barcas. The final disaster came at Cannae where 60,000 Romans were surrounded and stabbed in the back.
When women had grown back the dead soldiers and the final defeat of Hannibal was achieved at Zama, Roman women demanded freedom. One of the first concessions granted to them was the repeal of the law against luxury. The repeal of this law allowed Roman women to flaunt their wealth in public. No longer did they have to practice frugality as matron of the household. Next they acquired the right to enter minor political office and the right to practice infanticide and abortion.
The Roman birth rate plummeted and vice and corruption spread among Roman men. A general strike against marriage ensued and the Emperor Augustus tried to revive reproduction with a bachelor tax. It was all to no avail. The situation became so outrageous that a famous Roman remarked that “We Romans, who rule the world, are ruled by our women.” The poet Juvenal remarked that the Roman aristocracy “divorced to marry and married to divorce”.
At the same time that this female liberation was taking place the Empire was overrun by swarms of slaves and racial aliens. Like many European cities today, it became difficult to find a genuinely Roman face in Rome. Diversity, like feminism, greatly contributed to the fall of the Empire. By the Empire’s end, the legions which had conquered the world were half Roman and half barbarian (rather like the American army today, where increasing numbers of Third Worlders proliferate). When Rome fell, the female irresponsibility which had so greatly contributed to the Empire’s downfall made a severe impression on the fathers of the Christian Church. They made a point to yoke females and to impose the virtue of chastity. Given what they had witnessed during the fall of Rome the misogynist viewpoint of the early Christian elders can hardly be criticized.
The parallels of all this to modern day America can hardly be disputed. Although America is not Rome the same trends, particularly that of the female unleashed, are evident. Women, throughout history, are either the bedrock of a social structure or the dissolvers of the social structure. In early America, as in early Rome, women were baby makers and home makers. In latter day America, as in latter day Rome, women are imitation men and unborn baby killers. The consequences are the same, then as now.
I could go on and on. It wouldn’t take a race-realist reactionary person but a few weeks of reading the “manosphere” to understand why white women will not join us [white nationalism] in large numbers. White men need to become “sex realists” too and understand that white women will not change until things are in a bad way.
A great man is pushed and hustled and
martyrized until he withdraws into solitude.
Nietzsche lived in many different towns; he travelled into countless realms of the mind; frequently he endeavoured to escape from solitude by crossing a frontier into a foreign land; but always his journeyings brought him back to solitude, heartsore, weary, disillusioned.
His solitude had become complete isolation, the final, the seventh, solitude, wherein one is not merely alone but also forsaken. A void surrounded him, an awe-inspiring silence; no hermit or anchorite in the desert was ever more abandoned. They, at least, still had their God whose shade dwelt in their huts. But he, “the murderer of God,” had neither God nor man to companion him. To the extent that he drew nearer to himself, he receded from the world; and, as his voyages extended, “the desert widened” around him.
Generally the works conceived and written in loneliness gain more and more ascendancy upon the minds of men; by a magnetic force they attract increasing numbers of admirers into the invisible circle of their influence. But Nietzsche’s books alienated even his friends. In Germany no publisher would any longer accept his manuscripts. During his twenty years of production, his manuscripts accumulated in a cellar and came to weigh many hundredweight. He had to draw upon his own slender resources in order to get his books printed. Not only did nobody buy the few volumes that were issued, but he found no readers when he gave them away. So vast was the chasm between this man’s genius and the pettiness of the time.
Practically no reviewer or critic took the slightest notice of Zarathustra, which the author described as “the greatest gift ever bestowed upon men.” One day he lamented: “After such an appeal as my Zarathustra, a cry that came from my heart, it is terrible not to hear a responsive word, to hear nothing, absolutely nothing, to be surrounded by silence, to be a thousand times more isolated than heretofore. This is a situation exceeding all others in horror; even the strongest might die under the strain… And I am far from being the strongest. Sometimes it seems to me as though I were indeed wounded unto death.” This gnawed at his vitals, undermining his proper pride, inflaming his self-assertive impulse, consuming his soul. Lack of recognition was the shaft which poisoned his isolation, and raised his temper to fever-heat.
“Prolonged silence has exasperated my pride.” At all costs he wanted response, sending letter upon letter, telegram upon telegram. Blindly and wildly he flung his missiles far and wide, never looking to see if they hit the mark. Since he had slain the gods, he set himself up as a divinity. “Must we not become gods if we are to be worthy of such deeds?” Having overthrown all the altars, he built an altar for himself in order to praise himself, seeing that no one else would acknowledge him. He chanted his own dirge with enthusiasm and exultation, mingling it with songs celebrating his deeds and his victories. To begin with, a twilight covered the landscape of his mind as when black clouds stalk up from the horizon and distant thunder growls; then a strident laugh rent the sultry air, a mad, violent, and wicked laugh full of despair, heartbreaking: this was the pæan of Ecce Homo.
As the book develops, its cadences become increasingly spasmodic, the yells of laughter are more shrill amid the glacial silence; he is, as it were, outside himself. His hands are raised, his feet stamp rhythmically; he breaks into a dance, a dance over the abyss, the abyss of his own annihilation.
Categories
JVLIAN excerpts – XIV
“Why were you so ungrateful to our gods
as to desert them for the Jews?”
—Julian, addressing the Christians
“Then the temple of Eleusis will be destroyed—all the temples in all of Greece will be destroyed. The barbarians will come. The Christians will prevail. Darkness will fall.”
____________________
This quote from page 146 of Vidal’s novel is rather epigrammatic because with all probability this will be my last quote of Julian unless I find myself safe in another country and can afford to bring my whole library, that presently is with me in Mexico City, to my new home overseas…
How would we have felt if, as children, our father returned home with a boy of an alien ethnic group and forced it into our bedroom as a new “brother”? How would we have felt if, after resenting this betrayal and picking on the unfortunate intruder—as children usually do—, our father sends us, not the intruder, to a boarding school?
Forget every film you have seen to date: because that’s how the real Wuthering Heights novel began.
In his travels Mr. Earnshaw finds a homeless boy. Once more, forget every Hollywood image because the skin of this boy was similar to that of “a little lascar.” Mr. Earnshaw decides to adopt him and name him “Heathcliff.” Brontë describes Heathcliff as “dark-skinned gypsy in aspect.” Naturally, Mr. Earnshaw’s legitimate son, Hindley, finds himself robbed of his father’s affections and becomes bitterly jealous of the little lascar. (The poor intruder was not even a half-bro or an illegitimate child of Mr. Earnshaw with a gypsy woman.)
Every single critic of the novel, even the most conservative, seems to have missed the racial aspect of this drama.
I would go so far as to suggest that, once the ethno-state is established Wuthering Heights will be picked as one of the classics to symbolically convey the tragedy of pushing, against the legitimate heir’s will, an illegal alien that after some time hostilely takes over the entire family estate and starts hunting down key Anglo-Saxon characters in a life dedicated to revenge (such is Wuthering Heights’ plot—gypsies are so good at that…).
Furthermore, the real Wuthering Heights is no love story at all. The 1939 adaptation with Lawrence Oliver is as detached from the original story as, say, Disney’s Pinocchio from the original, and far more sinister, Carlo Collodi tale. Catherine and the gypsy are the polar opposite of heroine and hero. The first Catherine is precisely an early embodiment of the contemporary out-group altruism that has been destroying the West since we committed the blunder of empowering women.
The drama of the novel only ends when—after the deaths of Mr. Earnshaw, Catherine Earnshaw, Isabella Linton, Edgar Linton, Hindley Earnshaw and Linton Heathcliff, the son of the gypsy who dies as a result of the abuse perpetrated by his father—Heathcliff finally dies and the second Catherine can, at last, reclaim a life together with her first cousin: the survivors.
Only pure whites survive at the end of the drama.
And how come no one has done such obvious reading of this classic of English literature, that the tragedy only ends when the gypsy dies?
Wuthering Heights ought to be presented to European-descended peoples as the perfect metaphor of what Europeans have been self-inflicting in the last decades: importing millions of hostile “gypsies” to displace the native “Hindleys.” In fact, in the novel Mr. Earnshaw, whose Christian, altruistic fondness for the gypsy boy would cause havoc, reminds me the proverb “a dog that wags its tail for strangers and barks at its own people.”
Mr. Earnshaw, whose altruistic fondness for the gypsy boy would cause havoc, reminds me what these Swedes are doing not with a single family, but with their entire nation: a deranged Christian sense of compassion à la St Francis transmuted into secular, runaway liberalism.
The drama of Wuthering Heights was located, of course, in the Yorkshire manor. But presently this is happening by means of non-white immigration into every white heartland; Sweden, just one of the most notorious examples.
Reread Brontë’s novel to understand the Swedes!