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Category: Autobiography

Categories
Autobiography Pedagogy

Nephew

Egon Schiele’s Wife with Her Nephew.

Before commenting further on Simms’ book, I would like to say something about my trilogy, which I am re-reading as a preliminary to translating it.

Yesterday I looked through some trilogy pages about my nephew who disturbed me, with whom I share the property where I live with his mother, my sister.

It was he who, when he was a boy of six, invented the nickname ‘Chechar’ and, since he loved me so much, everything pointed to the fact that I could raise him as a son insofar as my sister was a single mother.

Now he is a man of twenty-two, and he has not a single atom of my ideals: nothing, absolutely nothing of the four words, let alone the fourteen. Moreover, like the rest of my nephews and the people of his generation, he is a degenerate as far as culture is concerned. To give just a few examples: being straight he has painted his nails, has always listened to degenerate music and hangs out with his degenerate friends everywhere, constantly coming home in the wee hours of the morning after attending degenerate parties. Unlike Hitler, the nephew eats the flesh of mammals that were tormented in slaughterhouses and, although I gave him my trilogy, he doesn’t read it and I doubt he ever will.

The reason for all this is simple. Unlike Jane Austen’s world, when the heir was the first-born male, in our world, upbringing is done by unwed mothers. And the first thing these little women do is to hand their child over to the clutches of the System so that the System ‘educates’ him.

I could do nothing for my nephew’s education because of the lack of financial means. And even if I had them, where could I take him to school in the West? Even if legally the patria potestas had belonged to me, in the country where we live I would have had to isolate him from children his age, schools, television and he would never have had a mobile phone.

The home library would have been his refuge, home-schooling would have been applied to him and films would have to be almost all in black and white, allowing him to watch only one of them on Sundays. But in that hypothetic castle of purity, which children would he get along with? I would have to be a millionaire to move to an Eastern European country where the Gomorrahite culture is still absent. In this scenario, my sister would have had no say because I, and only I, would have the financial means to make these decisions.

But even a wealthy priest of the holy words would have had difficulty educating him. Country children in the less polluted places of Eastern Europe could begin to be contaminated by possessing, for example, mobile phones: a small window that normalises the world of Gomorrah, and so on.

It has been painful to watch the process of how a pure mind, like the one my nephew had as a child, becomes debased and one can do nothing about it. Is it understandable why I fantasise about mushroom clouds above the major cities of the West? To return to Austen’s world Kalki must first come…

Categories
Autobiography

Little Lulu

Macron, ‘le petit roi’, has been making pronouncements that make one think, along with equally stupid pronouncements by Polish, English and even Swedish leaders, that Europe will soon go to war with Russia.

As Gonzalo Lira used to say before the Ukrainian government assassinated him, during its death throes the Beast is kicking left and right. It is hard to know whether these death throes will trigger a nuclear war or whether the Beast will simply drop dead after the fuss it is making. But since it’s not clear that we’ll see the end of the world as the mortally wounded Beast drops dead, why not revisit the photo albums of our childhoods, or what we read as children? In times of urgency, it is refreshing to look back on our golden years…

A week ago I discovered that an American uploaded lots and lots of Little Lulu stories on his website. I’ve set out to remember my golden years by re-reading them, but before doing so since last week I re-read the thirty or so surviving issues that I still have at home. I started collecting them in the late 1960s and had a large collection, most of which was lost due to family trouble.

The first thing that struck me now that I reread is that there is a big difference between the various illustrators of the stories (more than three or maybe four I guess). Although signed by ‘Marge’, the author was actually an Aryan male, John Stanley (pic left). True, Lulu is based on a character created by Marge Buell in 1935, a woman who finished writing her bichromatic newspaper comic strips in 1947. But the Lulu that would become famous was the one created in full colour by Stanley. Marge’s strips were metamorphosed into a magazine, with very funny drawings in the 1950s by Stanley.

One of my surviving issues even lost the cover and is in a deteriorated but readable state. If I had known how to preserve them as a child, I would have put each comic in plastic bags. In one of the leafed-out stories I read recently, I was struck by the fact that all of Lulu’s schoolmates—dozens of them in one of the stories apparently drawn by Stanley—were white, and in the supermarket in the same leafed-out issue all the ladies were white.

The stories were ideal for children of the time: when the West was much saner than it is today. There is an interview on YouTube with Frank M. Young who, on being diagnosed with cancer, wanted to reminisce about his old days through an anthology published in 2019 of the early issues of Little Lulu. It was thanks to Young that I learned that Stanley worked on Little Lulu until the late 1950s when he burned out. Stanley had written thousands pages of stories of which he himself had illustrated about 700: fourteen years of constant work.

The fact that Stanley signed as ‘Marge’ when he was the sole author is symptomatic of the incipient feminism that would grow like a cancer in his country. But the 1950s didn’t seem treacherous. Many years ago I told one of the few racist friends I had in Mexico that the United States seemed to me ‘a big Germany’ in a territorial sense. Those were times when I hadn’t heard that white Americans had betrayed each other. When I was reading Little Lulu in the late 1960s and early 1970s, I didn’t perceive the betrayal, even though in one of the stories, at a costume party, Lulu dressed up as Abraham Lincoln because she admired him. But with all the characters being white, how could the child that I was harbour suspicions?

It would be interesting if other boomers like me would read this post and tell me that they too had been fans, as children, of Little Lulu… For the moment I would just like to share my inner experiences about a couple stories now that I reread several stories out of the hundreds I read as a child.

The first is a story I read, or rather was told by my dad as I seem to barely remember, when I was about seven years old. I was with my parents in the port of Veracruz and I remember my dad buying the magazine that contained the story in which poor Lulu loses her shadow.

For connoisseurs of the magazine, one of the curiosities of the comic was ‘the story within the story’. When Lulu’s very small neighbour Alvin misbehaved, Lulu would tell him a story to calm him down: a story that always featured a poor girl, who Stanley drew as Lulu herself, albeit in raggedy clothes. My seven-year-old memory is that in the story Lulu told Alvin, a shadow seller passed by in a carriage of shadows lost by their owners. It was an incredible feeling to read the whole story so many decades after reading it for the first time.

But the biggest shock came with what I had a feeling was my favourite story. In the story ‘The Shadow of a Man-eater’ from a special issue devoted to Lulu’s best friend Tubby, the memory I was left with was something of a teenage story, not a children’s story like the typical Lulu tales (as the story is).

The only thing I remembered with any clarity was the image below. But my—now I see wrong—memory was that Tubby had a sleepless night at Wilbur van Snobbe’s house and there he had seen the shadow of the lion. I didn’t remember that it had happened in his own house (it had been in the house of the rich van Snobbe where there had been a jewel robbery).

I didn’t remember any of the plot until yesterday when I reread the story so many decades after I first read it. The only thing I remembered was that the lions weren’t real and that Tubby was trying to solve a case because he liked to play detective. Yesterday when I reread the story I remembered some details, but in my memory those details weren’t associated with the lion story. It seems that the only thing that stuck in my memory was the image above: the moment of suspense that I experienced more than half a century ago was what registered in my mind!

I find it healthy to recreate the distant past of our lives: especially to evoke the times when everything seemed to be going well for the white race, when children’s comics seemed to be written in an ethnostate where not a single character of colour appeared.

Categories
Autobiography Friedrich Nietzsche Poetry

Crusade

against the Cross, 16

Can a book like Thus Spake Zarathustra, which I have heard of being recommended to high school kids to read, be a good book for our sacred words? I would say that if the System recommends it, it cannot be a good book, even though it sometimes says things so beautiful and profound that it is possible to quote it tersely.

In general, I don’t like Zarathustra for the same reason that I don’t like Mein Kampf: it cannot be read with the intensity of a novel that itches you to know the ending. For a book to be truly a work of art it is vital not only for its content to be germane but how it has been put together. While the content of the three volumes of The Gulag Archipelago is important, very few will read the trilogy because it is boring. It needed an editor to condense it into one, with Solzhenitsyn’s approval (as happened in real life), to make it both vital and aesthetic. Only then could I read it as if it was a highly entertaining novel! But it is still worth saying something about the book that would make Nietzsche famous.

This soul in sorrow was pregnant with ideas, pregnant with the sun (his Zarathustra begins with a hymn to the sun) and he gave birth to what he himself called ‘my son Zarathustra’. The eruption of feelings that motivated him to write, at the time of Richard Wagner’s death (Nietzsche sent a letter of condolence to Cosima), must be understood as the resolution of an intellectual crisis.

I never tire of repeating that his father and both his grandfathers were Lutherans; that his paternal grandfather was a Superintendent, the equivalent of a bishop, and that as a child Nietzsche was intensely pious. As he grew up, the hermit of Sils-Maria burst out of this iron pietism: a supernova-like explosion of feelings repressed during his upbringing, releasing the vital energy once locked up.

His translator, Hollingdale, makes a sharp observation about Nietzsche’s previous books. From the one he wrote on Schopenhauer onwards, they all led him to scepticism, not unlike the nihilism in vogue in the 19th century. This is one of the problems that contemporary racialists have detected: the loss of Christian faith doesn’t translate into, say, a scientific vision like those texts of Charles Darwin where he said that blacks, now considered an obsolete race of Homo sapiens, were to be exterminated. Instead, apostasy leads either to atheistic hyper-Christianity—the opposite of Darwin: negrolatry!—or to the nihilistic liberalism we complain so much about in the West’s darkest hour. In Nietzsche’s spiritual odyssey all his books, Hollingdale said, from the second of his Untimely Meditations to The Gay Science, he reached the end of the road: not axiological hyper-Christianity but nihilism. If Nietzsche had stayed there, let’s say as the typical 19th-century freethinker who so angered Wagner, he wouldn’t have gone down in the history of the great philosophers.

But he didn’t stay there. The pietistic armour that had imprisoned his spirit in a torment like that of the iron maiden had to fly into a thousand pieces. And this intellectual crisis gave birth to the religious figure of Zarathustra: a process begun in August 1881 when Nietzsche was assailed by the thought of the eternal return. It was then that he began to devise his philosophy of Amor fati without realising that, rather than in an iron maiden, he was locked in a sort of Russian doll. He blew up the first iron shell, yes: but he didn’t realise that it, in turn, was wrapped in another shell, insofar as Amor fati was but the post-theistic phase of ‘Thy will be done’, i.e. the phase without a personal god. In other words, with what Nietzsche calls in Zarathustra his ‘abysmal thinking’ we see that he was still a victim of the ogre of the pietistic superego.

To his astonishment, after having deluded himself that he would go to Bayreuth to ingratiate himself with all his old friends (remember the letter to his sister: ‘I no longer want to be alone and wish to learn to be a man again’), with Lou’s refusal he suddenly found himself on square one: alone. It is not surprising that Zarathustra begins with a hermit who wants to return to his village only to be mocked by the people, and has to return to his cave. The worst thing is that Nietzsche was to stay that way, alone, from the end of 1882 to the beginning of 1883.

In January of the latter year came the furious eruption: something which in my soliloquies I call the vindication of Id. Nietzsche underwent an inner transformation similar to those who suffer from colour blindness and are given special glasses so that they can see colours for the first time in their lives: they burst into tears. The tremendous eruption of feelings, thanks to which he was able to write the first part of Zarathustra, feelings so suppressed not only in Schulpforta but in the dense intergenerational atmosphere of clerics, would continue, later on, with the second and third parts: the latter even in a state of greater euphoria—the culmination of the book!—written in January 1884. The overman, the death of God, the will to power, Amor fati, the eternal return, the great noon: these were the intense colours that Nietzsche could at last see, so vivid that he couldn’t interrupt the weeping (by way of anticlimax, he would write the fourth part of Zarathustra at the end of 1884).

But the unconscious eruption of the central ideas of the Zarathustra had already been coming, as Hollingdale detectively surmised, from the earliest years of his life, albeit distorted and unrecognisably. Can you see, as I said to Thankmar this morning, why I try to protect myself from religious aggression (even horribler than Nietzsche’s Lutheran home) in a healthy way, instead of wayward defence mechanisms?

One of the reasons I generally dislike the book is that it suffers from the poets’ secrets that require the most erudite exegesis to unravel. For example, Werner Ross claims that the passage in Zarathustra that begins with ‘I saw his woman’ and then speaks of a ‘doll up lie’ and that ‘every time a saint and a goose mate’, when checked against Nietzsche’s letters he deduces that Elisabeth was the goose and Lou the doll up lie! And the same can be said of an important figure in Zarathustra: Ariadne. It is only thanks, years later, to the letters of madness that we discover that Ariadne was none other than Cosima Wagner! Why not state things clearly from the beginning, with the real names, as I do in my autobiography, instead of such esoteric circumlocutions that only the author understands?

In Thus Spake Zarathustra we see that Nietzsche’s alter ego didn’t offer his philosophy indiscriminately. First, he spoke to all the people gathered in the marketplace. But the death of God—the central theme of the first part—and the will to power are ideas that Zarathustra announces only to his disciples. And of the eternal return Zarathustra speaks exclusively to himself. Similarly, some chapters are narrative, others have a doctrinal character, and others of a lyrical nature represent the pinnacle of the work: oratory turned into music (a dozen years earlier Baudelaire had already created a new genre: poetic prose). Although in the second part of the book the central theme is the will to power, the final chapter of that part already brings to the fore, in a sinister manner, the revelation of the eternal return.

When studying the Zarathustra the reader must always bear in mind that the book is intended to be a shadow of the Lutheran translation of the Bible, known to Nietzsche in detail from the early years of his life, including Luther’s syntactical construction.

Zarathustra speaks again and again of the tablets of the law to be broken—Nietzsche even asked his publisher to put a black bar on each page to represent his new tablets of the law! The mixture of the biographical account of Zarathustra with doctrinal sentences was copied by Nietzsche from the Christian gospels, and it is not surprising that he wanted to elevate his Zarathustra to the status of holy scripture. In my humble opinion, writing a parable of his spiritual odyssey rather than a vindictive autobiography, with all the repudiation of the family that in the next century I would begin to write, was a preamble to the breakdown that had already been foreshadowed. In fact, this whole period from August 1881 to December 1888 may be regarded as the genesis of the wayward defence mechanism which, in January 1889, would burn out the mind of the alienated philosopher.

Moreover, the light we occasionally see in Zarathustra is not a light of dawn. It is a mere lightning light at midnight. It illuminates everything but only for a fraction of a second. Then the thickest darkness returns. But I would like to mention a snapshot of what the lightning illuminated.

After Kalki, the surviving Aryan will realise that the immeasurable universe wasn’t designed to visit it as the mad earthling of the 20th and 21st century fantasised, but to know himself to the extent of knowing the universe and the Gods. In the trillions of galaxies each intelligent species stays at home, on its own planet, given the impossibility of crossing those billions of light-years of distance with manned devices—a pointless enterprise because the men we would leave behind would remain forever inaccessible. These are the words I like best from Zarathustra: I love those who do not first seek behind the stars for a reason to go under and be a sacrifice, but who sacrifice themselves for the earth, that the earth may some day become the overman’s.

Hitler also said that over-humanity could only be achieved by the Aryan on Earth…

In the 1880s only Peter Gast, the enemy of the Church, became a kneeling apostle, and about Zarathustra he wrote to his mentor something the latter loved: ‘Of this book one must wish to spread it like the Bible’. Gast was unaware that this was impossible insofar as Nietzsche’s was an artificial religion; a true religion, as Savitri Devi tells us, comes into being only when it arises spontaneously from the collective unconscious (like National Socialism).

Nietzsche’s Zarathustrian defence mechanism was very similar to my own. When in the 1980s, a century after Nietzsche’s mental agony, I tried to exorcise my parental introjects I fell into the greatest hells because I didn’t yet realise—as Nietzsche’s Amor fati—that the mechanism I elaborated was also a kind of neo-theology inspired by New Testament stories. I have spoken at length about this in the last chapter of my Hojas Susurrantes and need not summarise it here.

When Nietzsche was buried, his friends surrounded his grave and recited some of Zarathustra’s poems.

Categories
Autobiography Sponsor

Fantasy

Before I continue with the biography of the philosopher who ended his career spectacularly (by becoming mad!) with his magnum opus whose subtitle reads ‘Curse on Christianity’, I would like to make a few reflections.

First of all, for many of my visitors, Nietzsche seems distant in time. Not to me. I lived for several seasons with my paternal grandmother and, as I confess in a passage in one of the books of my trilogy, the biggest mistake of my entire life was to have left my sweet grandmother’s home to return to my parents (where the teenager I was would end up being destroyed by them). I’m not going to talk about the biographical details in this post, but among my relatives, my paternal grandmother represents what came closest to becoming my lifeline.

Now, my grandmother, who passed away in 1987, was born in 1888. That means that the span of her life coincides with almost a dozen years of Nietzsche’s life, who died in 1900. Since my memories of when I lived with her are very vivid, and no one else but the two of us lived in her house, from the point of view of my biography Nietzsche doesn’t seem so distant, especially since the first books I read by him, Twilight of the Idols and The Antichrist precisely, I bought precisely when I lived with my grandma in a bookshop very close to her house.

Nietzsche seems very distant to the new generations but much more distant to me are, say, sports and soap operas: my siblings and I never saw them on TV when we were kids because those were different times (now everyone watches them).

Another thing I wanted to talk about is that I’m putting together a new PDF of articles by various authors that I’ve been reproducing on this site over the last few years. I made an exception for an old 2011 article by Michael O’Meara: the most lucid white nationalist since William Pierce died. O’Meara, now retired (is he still alive?) wasn’t only a true intellectual, in the sense of being bilingual and highly cultured. He also had a deep penetration to grasp the whys and wherefores of white decline beyond the Judeo-reductionism in vogue in many quarters of today’s racial right. True, he had a flaw. As a good American of Irish descent, he was sympathetic to Christianity. Nevertheless, in the anthology I have begun to assemble, I feel compelled to include a couple of his essays.

It is unfortunate that Lulu Press, Inc. will only allow me to continue publishing my autobiographical trilogy but not my anthologies in English where I include authors like O’Meara and many others. PDFs like the one I now put together deserve to be on our bookshelves, not just on our hard drives. I didn’t want to spend a week of my life learning how to use the software of another platform similar to Lulu Press, like IngramSpark because a racialist book publisher warned me that any of those self-publishing book platforms can terminate your account for political incorrectness. The alternative, the publisher told me, is to find a printer in my town and sell those books directly to interested parties.

But that requires funds! The week before I fantasised about having a studio where we could dub the Führer’s spoken word into English. Something similar could be said for the parallel fantasy of having our own publishing house…

Categories
Ancient Greece Autobiography Bible Catholic Church

Mental regression!

In his most recent statement, Gaedhal says the following:

I mentioned Thucydides, because, as Otto English points out in Fake History a distinction is drawn—although largely artificially—between Herodotus and Thucydides.

In my view, the Old Testament takes a Herodotian method. In Genesis, there are three competing and contradictory accounts regarding who pimped his wife to whom. Did Abraham pimp his wife to Pharaoh, or Abimelech or was it his son, Isaac?

Two competing and contradictory accounts of the creation and the flood are given. Two contradictory versions of the binding of Isaac, the Flood, and the Joseph story are poorly woven together and given.

In the main, Herodotus would recount everything he heard, whereas, in the main, Thucydides would critique his sources, and only give the version of events that he found most probable. In the main, Thucydides was willing to throw unreliable stories into the waste-paper basket.

However, as English points out: Herodotus often acts in a Thucydidean way, and Thucydides often acts in a Herodotian way.

Thucydides was an excellent Ancient Historian… however, even the best ancient historian is woefully bad when compared to modern standards. One could not publish Thucydides’ History of the Peloponnesian War as a scholarly monograph and have it pass peer review.

I also agree with Pine Creek Doug that if God is the ultimate author of the Gospels, then we should hold him to the same standards that we would hold a modern PhD historian to. We should be able to publish the four gospels as scholarly monographs and have them pass peer review. We are not able to do this. Thus, God is a poorer historian than any modern human historian who can pass peer review. Do not lower your standards for God!

The first thing that is scraped away by Thucydides’ razor into the waste-paper can is accounts of miracles.

As I said before: Christianity was never in date. The Bible is Herodotian in what it relates, and not Thucydidean. Thucydides essentially discovered how to do modern history in the 400s BCE. One of the things that the Christian Dark Ages reversed was Thucydidean historiography. A continent that had known Thucydides, thanks to Christianity, was soon swamped with Herodotian martyr tales, i.e. unevidenced religious fantasies.

I was listening to Book 1 of History of the Peloponnesian War, last night, by Thucydides. Homer says that an impossible number of Achaeans—essentially the entire population of Ancient Achaia—went off to fight in Troy. Thucydides therefore rejects Homer’s legendary number of Achaean fighters. Similarly, in the Pentateuch, an impossible number of Israelites—essentially the entire population of Ancient Egypt—left Egypt during the Exodus.

If Europe had still been in a Thucydidean mindset, then the stupid Jewish fairytale that is the Exodus would never have been accepted by this continent’s people. Lamentably, it has really only been in relatively modern times that Thucydidean criticism has been applied to the Bible. Spinoza, Valla, Thomas Paine et al. got the ball rolling. However, the Thucydidean ball should never have been stopped. What stopped it? Christianity.

This is why I am of the opinion that the Conflict Thesis—‘systematised academic knowledge’ (i.e. ‘science’ sensu lato) and revealed religion are diametrically opposed to one another—is correct, and also that the Dark Ages were real.

In ancient times, Homer was no less divine than Moses. Indeed, like Jesus Christ, in some legends Homer was born of a virgin. And yet Thucydides contradicted this divine oracle. Lamentably, nobody contradicted Moses until the Renaissance.

The staggering regression that the white man suffered with the imposition of Christianity in the Middle Ages reminds me of what I was saying this year about the friend I knew when I was a teenager and, after decades of not treating him, found him in a state of psychosis: a regression like treating an eighteen-month-old infant! (cf. my series on malignant narcissism: #1, #2, #3, #4, #5 and #6).

A sage from ancient India might say something similar if he had been long enough to see Rome before and after the imposition of Christianity by Constantine. What Gaedhal says seems to me very true, and we could even illustrate it with the subject that is my forte: the analysis of my family.

Unlike Protestantism, in Catholicism the Church of Rome claims to have proof of divine intervention through miracles. Psychically, I grew up under my father’s sky where the miracles of the Virgin of Lourdes—the French virgin of the 19th-century Tort family—were taken as absolute fact. The same can be said of my late father’s claims about the 20th-century miracles attributed to the Virgin of Fatima in Portugal. Although after two years of my life studying the Shroud of Turin I ended up sceptical of the supernatural hypothesis, my father continued to believe up to the present century that this Catholic relic proved the resurrection of Jesus. (I studied the literature on the shroud from 1988 to 1990 because I was still struggling with parental introjects—cf. my autobiography.)

When at Easter some of the American white nationalist sites post entries commemorating the day, they have no idea that believing this Jewish fairytale is as dramatic a psychogenic regression as that of the friend whom I knew sane and, after a few decades, I found him with a psychic structure reminiscent of that of a small infant.

Categories
Autobiography Free speech / association Holocaust

The BBC brainwashed me

As we see in the highlighted posts ‘Myth’ and ‘Throne’ which appear in red letters at the top of this page, it is the story we have been telling ourselves for the last few decades that has produced the darkest hour for the white race. That is why it is so important to assimilate the meaning of the Shakespeare and Faulkner quotes in the post I uploaded a little after midnight today.

A pen pal overseas has informed me that someone, who surely hates me for what I write here, has been impersonating me in the comments section of Occidental Dissent (OD) writing nonsense and using my full name. I haven’t been able to locate the specific threads because the admin of that site has been unwilling to respond to my emails (I guess the admin also hates me for my criticism of his site!). Whoever the guy is who’s posting comments in my name without the OD admin banning him or her, the hatred and contempt that many feel for what I say here might be better understood if I confess that, before, I was exactly like them.

The books I devour, I underline copiously. If you visit my library, you will see that many of my books are marked not only with highlighter pens but with my hand-written footnotes. They are a real treat to open a window on the normie I was in the last century.

In 1999, when I was living in Manchester, I bought and devoured Laurence Rees’s The Nazis: A Warning from History, a BBC book. It is Allied propaganda at its worst, precisely the propaganda exposed in the aforementioned ‘Myth’ article. A couple of decades after I read the book I saw an internet image of Rees standing next to a Negress. Cuck Island Britons like him commit ethnosuicide precisely because they have been telling themselves stories like this one from BBC TV, and then passed on more formally to books.

When I lived on that island, propaganda had infected me about the Third Reich and the Second World War. The things I wrote in the blanks of that book represent a window into my biographical past that sheds light on those who now hate me because they still think as I did last century.

The climactic pages of The Nazis, obviously, are descriptions of the so-called Jewish holocaust. The César I was last century wrote, in the book, things like: ‘By now, there should have already been a plot to kill him [Hitler]’ (about a passage on page 107); ‘Here it is clear: even the British didn’t recognise the danger in Czechoslovakia after the atrocities in Kristallnacht and humiliation of the Austrian Jews’ (about a passage on page 116); ‘Wow: a decent German among monsters’ (about a passage on page 129); ‘This is why I bought the book: just as I think, let’s distribute guilt to all the German people’ (about the introductory passages on pages 10ff); ‘Clear-cut case of folie à nación, Austria’ (about a passage on page 110); ‘Close your heart to compassion. Act brutally, Hitler’ (about a passage on page 122), ‘Now I know why I unconsciously identified myself with Stauffenberg [the ringleader of the bombing of 20 July 1944]’ (about a passage on page 215); ‘One good thing really came out of this trip to England: discovering the BBC’ (when on 14 June 1999 I finished reading The Nazis).

Well, well… If I can have empathy, and even sympathy, for the brainwashed César of the last century, I must now have it for those who haven’t crossed the psychological Rubicon.

What would I say to the César of the last century if I could visit him through a time tunnel?

First of all, I hope that by now visitors have seen my post yesterday linking to a video by David Irving showing what I believe about the historical facts of the so-called holocaust from the viewpoint of what Irving calls ‘real history’. Let’s start from that, and also from what I responded to Jewish Enrique Krauze in The Occidental Observer on the subject. Krauze’s position is the same as the position of Rees in his BBC book, where on page 194 Rees picked up a quote: ‘Nobody can explain why the Germans did it’ when the explanation is so obvious that even the Jew Albert Lindemann laid it out in his scholarly Esau’s Tears.

But there is more to it than that.

The César of the last century had to cross the Rubicon. To move from identifying with Stauffenberg (!) to wanting history to be told before and after Hitler (!), which is what I want now, requires a great metamorphosis.

The first step, I have already confessed on this site, I owe to the fact that on 20 April 2010, Greg Johnson posted in the comments section of OD the full text of an article by Irmin Vinson, if I remember correctly this one, which Johnson then published in the webzine Counter-Currents and eventually in print along with other essays by Vinson.

That was the first stepping stone for me to start crossing the psychological Rubicon.

I don’t want to link here all the other stepping stones I had to step on before I reached the other side of the river because it would overwhelm the reader with countless links. But even the first stone gives an idea of the direction in which I was heading.

I want to say a final word about César in the last century.

There is something I underlined a quarter of a century ago in that book that I still believe, ‘Despite being widely bought [Mein Kampf] it was not widely read [in Germany]’ (page 90). That’s because, in my humble opinion, the Führer had to divide his message in twain: a message analogous to today’s American white nationalism for the masses, and a more anti-Christian one for his inner circle of friends. The problem wasn’t Hitler’s hypocrisy, but that the masses of Germans were unprepared to receive his full message (He didn’t say anything to them without using a parable; but when he was alone with his own disciples he explained everything…).

This bifurcation of the NS message is now unnecessary. Hitler’s after-dinner conversations, an anthology like The Fair Race or Savitri Devi’s memoirs linked in my featured post explain it so clearly that, unlike Mein Kampf in the 1930s, they would be devoured as highly entertaining novels once the American troops leave Europe and the Germans and Austrians reinstate the freedom of press eliminated since 1945 (again: see what Irving said in yesterday’s post).

Categories
Autobiography

Paronyms

One of the problems in communicating new ideas lies in what we might call paronyms. The word ‘Hitler’ for example is a paronym because when I use it I refer to, let’s say, what I have been quoting from Simms’ book and my views on it. If I use the word ‘Hitler’ with a normie, he automatically understands something very different: the Hitler of propaganda.

Another great example is the word ‘Jesus’. When I use the word ‘Jesus’ I mean the fictitious character from the devious pen of the Jew Saul (Paul), a character to whom, when the Romans destroyed the Temple in Jerusalem, another Jew, Mark, added anecdotes of his own invention. But for the normie, the word ‘Jesus’ means something quite different. Christians believe that ‘Jesus’ is the incarnation of the god of the Jews who came down to save us and, although atheists don’t believe that, many are under the impression that he existed as an ordinary man.

Something similar happens with the word ‘autobiography’. Yesterday’s trollish comment prompts me to clarify something.

The word ‘autobiography’ means, to me, something very different from what it means to ordinary people. Let’s suppose that a reader holds my book Hojas Sususrrantes in his hands and out of its five chapters decides to read the second and fourth chapters. He would be surprised to notice that almost the entire content of those chapters is a debunking of the mental health professions and a presentation of psychohistory, where my life is almost absent (see for example my translation of the fourth chapter in Day of Wrath).

What kind of ‘autobiography’ in the normal sense of the term is that? It’s like Solzhenitsyn’s The Gulag Archipelago where, while the Russian writer uses anecdotes from his life as a pivot, the point is not to talk about his life but about the Soviet Union’s forced labour camps, where tens of millions died (something Putin cunningly omitted from his historical review when interviewed by Tucker).

So beware of words that mean very different things to different people. Words like ‘Hitler’, ‘Jesus’ and ‘autobiography’, plain and simple, lend themselves to tremendous confusion. That’s why I almost always add the adjective ‘deep autobiography’ to the literary genre I would like to inaugurate, which, I believe, could cure people like Marco, about whom I have spoken in my series on narcissism (see my postscript on Monday).

But in real life not even admirers of the Führer who have suffered from mental disorders want to do this work, not even one of them whom I knew personally (see for example this comment from January). I think the late Alice Miller was right on this point. Trying to heal psychological trauma requires work. I would add that it is work similar to the time it would take us to write a doctoral thesis, with the difference that in this work we pass the microphone to the wounded child that still dwells deep in our psyche.

Categories
Autobiography Psychology

Narcissism, 5

The time has come to talk about what I said in the second instalment of this series: Marco’s offer of his second house and the funds from the phantom bank account he allegedly wanted to give me. What shocked me the first time I heard such a thing, during a phone call the day after our mall failed meeting, was that I hadn’t dealt with Marco for four decades and suddenly he came out with it!

Yesterday his cousin revealed to me the names of one of his brothers (i.e. another first cousin of Marco’s), a daughter of the cousin and a niece who had also been suggested by Marco to move into his second house. Yesterday the cousin also revealed to me something I was unaware of: that the house is at such an early stage of construction that the second floor doesn’t even have a roof! (Before, I was under the impression that it was just a hole in the ceiling.) I don’t want to mention the names of these other relatives of Marco because, as I said yesterday, I don’t want that family to know that I am writing about them. But the whole thing reminds me of what Harold Covington called GUBU freak: Grotesque, Unbelievable, Bizarre, Unprecedented. Last year I was shocked when I realised that the old friend of the park where we played chess had suffered a GUBU psychosis, and since I talk about mental disorders in my books, I couldn’t resist the temptation to psychoanalyse him in my diaries.

Cases of severe psychosis are all GUBUs to the layman. In a previous entry, I mentioned Silvano Arieti’s treatise on schizophrenia. The cases Arieti mentions, and especially the depth psychology he uses to unravel them, are fascinating even if the reader is unprepared to enter that conceptual world. What I do with Marco is also similar, in a way, to what Martin Gardner (1914-2010) did in his Skeptical Inquirer column: what I liked best about that journal. Gardner analysed cases of very crazy people in the paranormal world, and in such a jocular way that his column was a real treat. Thanks to him and other writers in the magazine, I realised that parapsychology was a pseudo-science, and I remember a line of Gardner’s that is worth picking up on: ‘Cranks are fascinating creatures’ in need of being analysed a bit!

What Marco does with these house offers is nothing more than what gurus do: they bombard you with love to lure you into their cult. This has been observed by those who study destructive cults. But what gave me the GUBU shock, to the extent that it motivated me to write so much in my diaries, is that Marco wasn’t like this in the past. It is a psychosis that the former friend has fallen into in recent years, although I can’t pinpoint an exact date as I stopped seeing him for a long time. Even his first cousin has limited information about his biography (yesterday I advised him to contact a woman I knew decades ago, Marco’s ex-partner, so that through her anecdotes he has more pieces of the puzzle we want to put together).

The GUBU character in Marco’s current psychosis, who I repeat wasn’t crazy when I met him, is seen with extreme clarity in his demand that we come and live in his second house when it still lacks a roof above the stairs. Unlike the gurus, who aren’t psychotic, such narcissists become increasingly isolated because those close to them begin to perceive that their demands are not only irrational and grotesque, but blatantly injurious to those close to the narcissist. Only a son of a street sweeper, and we can imagine the social stratum of that Mexican, consented to go to Marco’s second home for a while.

I spent hours talking to the cousin yesterday, but those who haven’t had a misadventure with a narcissist won’t understand why it becomes almost an obsession to psychoanalyse an acquaintance, friend, partner or relative who suffers from this condition. True, the already psychotic forms of narcissism are no more bizarre than the schizophrenias. But the difference is that, unlike schizophrenics, narcissists want to drag others into their maelstrom (‘If I live in a spider-webbed house, come on and live in a roofless one!’).

In giving my Hojas susurrantes to Marco, I had the faint hope that he would settle the score with his late mother, in the form of writing his memoirs, especially the painful ones. While it is true that Marco was full of praise when he read the voluminous book, it is very significant that he didn’t mention my mother at all when he phoned to eulogise my writing, even though the first of the book’s five chapters is almost exclusively about her. Nor did he say anything to me when he got my second book, in which I inscribed a few words on the first page on the day my mother died: a book whose central chapter is, once again, about my mother.

It doesn’t take much science to see that Marco is shying away from the subject not only of his mother but of mine and other similar mothers. The skeletons I have unburied through my autobiography, Marco has buried in his mind, so it should come as no surprise that he is as mad as he is. Marco’s repression is such that he couldn’t even say half a word to me about my mother after he had devoured the 700 pages of my Hojas susurrantes last year. What kind of reading was that?

I believe that severe cases of mental illness are directly proportional to the repression of what happened to us with our parents. In ¿Me ayudarás? for example, the second book I sent to Marco, I mention that, although she had delusions from time to time, my late sister didn’t become schizophrenic because, even when she had delusions, the image of the mother was faintly present. Once, for example, my sister told me that the manager of the building where she lived, a certain Sylvia (our mother’s name!), was plotting to make her life miserable. I knew this Sylvia, and I got to talk to her in her flat. She told me that at one point my sister’s paranoia had been such that she had called the police because of her conspiracy theories. But despite these occasional crises my sister didn’t deteriorate (true schizophrenics hear voices, speak in ‘words salad’ and, in the most severe cases, even suffer from catatonia). And if she didn’t deteriorate it was because, at least metaphorically, ‘Sylvia’, our mother, was faintly present even during her crises.

In cases of true schizophrenia, Arieti reports, the conspiring agents are no longer obvious symbols of the abusive parents. For example, the patient speaks of the FBI or CIA persecuting him or her. In a case of psychosis that happened to a white nationalist, Jonathan Bowden (1962-2012), he saw the Mossad as his persecutors. This, according to Arieti, is even more serious than cases of simple delusions where the parent is faintly present as the parental figure is, now, totally absent.

In other words, for those of us who had mothers with fluid ego contours, those immature women who treated us as egoic objects, incapable of a healthy ‘psychological childbirth’ with their offspring, the more the memories of their mistreatment are present in our minds, the greater our mental health will be. On the other hand, the more repressed they are, the more prone you are to neuroses and even psychoses. My sister talked a lot about our mother, even complaining to our relatives about what she did to her. So her disorder was comparatively mild and occasional. This wasn’t the case with Marco who represses, en bloc, every negative aspect related to his mother to the extent of never saying half a word to me about mine (my second book, which as I said he also owns, is more than 600 pages long and even contains photos of my mother)!

I spent hours talking to Marco’s cousin yesterday about him. But I think that what I have said on this blog is enough. If anyone would like to know the details of my interaction with Marco, whom I don’t think I will ever deal with again (his cousin will still see him), I will be happy to do so in the comments section.

Sometimes it is necessary to analyse a GUBU freak to understand a mad West…

Categories
Autobiography Psychology

Narcissism, 2

In this article I would only like to talk about the bare facts. The psychological interpretation will come in the next entry.

Almost half a century ago, in 1975, I met Marco on the chess benches in Mexico City’s Parque de las Arboledas, in Colonia Del Valle (cf. my little book on my chess misadventures). Those were times when the teenager I was didn’t want to be in an abusive home and school, but undisturbed by them in a park. The first game we played, by the way, was won by Marco with the black pieces, and I seem to remember that, against my chess habits, I opened the game with the queen pawn and if I remember correctly he replied 1…f5. Apart from the fact that I lost that first game (in subsequent days I would beat him), the only thing I remember is his rather surly face, and we hardly exchanged words before or after playing. In fact, in the 1970s I didn’t get on with him much more than I interacted with other players in the park, although I eventually discovered that Marco was a good reader of literature, especially the great Russian writers.

It was in the first half of the 1980s that I began to get along more with Marco; when, after playing chess or watching some of the other parkgoers play, he and I would walk around the perimeter of the park talking about philosophical issues. Sometimes, taking into account that he worked and I didn’t, he would invite me to lunchtime meals in the proletarian restaurants of Colonia Del Valle or Narvarte (Marco belonged to a different social class), and we would continue our conversations. Eventually I even asked my grandmother to rent him the maid room on the roof of her house, which was near the park.

In short, that was basically my dealings with Marco, whom I stopped seeing when I went to work for a few years in California in 1985. That image, of a friend with whom I could talk to about interesting topics, was the image I had kept of him from those years.

By the time I returned from the United States in 1988, I had lost track of Marco. Since I grew up in Colonia Narvarte, in 2003 I went to live in a guesthouse very close to my beloved childhood and early teenage home. I used to pass by Concepción Béistegui Street, when Marco no longer lived on that street. In late 2004 I saw his aunt coming out of the house where Marco had lived and I asked her about him. She gave me his mobile phone, and I spoke to him. Those were times when Marco worked in the neighbouring Mixcoac and we met only once in that zone on one of his lunch breaks. Since I kept many documents, diaries, and have classified some of my emails to write an autobiography over the decades, I am able to report that from his work office, Marco answered my email on January 7, 2005, and we didn’t see each other again for many years, although I already had his mobile phone in my phone book.

Remembering the old friend from the park, it wasn’t until 2019 that it occurred to me to talk to him again and we arranged to meet outside the Palace of Bellas Artes. We met there on the 27th of May and then went to one of those proletarian restaurants in the centre of the metropolis that Marco likes to eat at. Then we said goodbye. So far, nothing extraordinary had happened, and you can see that my diary entries about Marco were very laconic, in that there was nothing relevant to report. What began to obsess me about Marco’s mind was due to what happened next.

Two years after our relatively brief encounter in the city centre, I phoned him. I was interested in recovering two books of mine that I had given him decades before, including a splendid edition of poems of the Castilian language that my uncle Julio had given me, and a book of the chess champion Alekhine that my father had given me before the tragedy that struck my family.

So, without telling him that my real interest was in the books I wanted to get back, I told him on the phone that I wanted to see his house. With the help of a taxi driver we arrived on 30 May 2021 (remember I have diaries). On entering his house I was astonished at the level of Marco’s neglect by the dusty cobwebs and thick layers of dust throughout his house. I had only seen old cobwebs dusting the door frames in vampire castle movies!

I deduced that the old friend had been suffering from depression for years, if not decades. That had been the same day that Marco had given the taxi driver and me, as a reference point to locate his house, the electricity pylon without realising that there was a row of pylons; and that the real reference point to locate his house was a dumpster. The very rude manner in which he greeted us because we struggled to find his house without a street number was such that I promised myself that this would be the first, and last, time I visited him. Nevertheless, I repressed my anger and handed him the two illustrated books on the Aztecs and the Mayas that I had planned to give him before the trip.

That was the last time I saw Marco. I must say that, when I was dealing with him in the second half of the 1970s and the first half of the 1980s, Marco had never been so rude to me, but what happened afterwards was key to understanding him.

Although we didn’t quarrel (I repressed my anger), since I wasn’t going to visit him a second time at his house, Marco, who surely remembered our philosophical conversations of yesteryear, kept calling me on the phone to visit him again (he didn’t have my mobile number, that I almost never used anyway). My diary records phone calls to my mother’s house on 7 and 28 July, 11 August and 18 December 2021; although he may have spoken at other times. These were times when she would answer the phone and then pass the message on to me. By 2022 Marco gave up phoning to my mom’s place.

In 2023, on 22 May to be exact, remembering his love of literature, I thought of calling Marco to give him, outside his house to which I had promised not to return, a copy of my book Hojas susurrantes (Whispering Leaves). We made an appointment and Marco chose the large mall called Perinorte as the meeting point. It was a disappointment because we didn’t see each other at the Sanborn’s restaurant for reasons of his mental illness, which I will explain in the next entry. But the important thing was what happened next.

Until then I hadn’t had any real problems with Marco. The problems started the next day after our failed meeting. I phoned him to ask him to give me a postal address so that I could send him Whispering Leaves by post, since I was unable to deliver the book to him personally at the mall. With that seemingly innocent phone call on 29 May last year began my morbid curiosity to try to decipher a new Marco I hadn’t known before.

In the phone call to get his postal address, Marco suddenly told me something that stunned me: he wanted to give me his second house, and added that he had an account in the BBV Bank whose funds he wanted to give me as soon as he unfroze them! I was flabbergasted by this, as my friendship with Marco had been relatively superficial; we had never been really close friends. A few months later I learned that he had made the same offer to his first cousin, Marco’s only close human contact with the outside world since he secluded himself in his vampiric castle, so to speak. To offer me money when I knew that Marco, though he has two properties, didn’t have a penny was so grotesque that I wrote in my diary that it was pure blackmail to get his cousin, or me, to visit him. Those were times when I hadn’t yet met his cousin, although I had heard of him.

Then, in that same phone call on 29 May, after those bizarre offers to give me his second house and the funds in his bank, Marco spoke wonders of a train arriving near his house ‘with a broken voice, almost in tears’ says my diary, as if begging me to visit him. I told him that I didn’t want to suffer the hours-long bus odyssey to visit him (Marco and I live at opposite poles of the great metropolis), as I didn’t want to take my car to such a distant zone, and wasn’t going to pay taxis. So, during the same phone call whose only intention on my part was to get his mailing address, Marco had transformed the casual call into a discussion in which he had offered me his house and the phantom money in a bank account. Seeing that I would still not go to visit him by public transport, he scolded me that I was suffering from snobbishness, and that I should open up to a more proletarian lifestyle. Needless to say, I didn’t acquiesce to his demand to visit him despite his fantastic gambit.

The following month, on 9 June, the book I had written reached Marco through the mailman. By 18 July he had read it. He spoke to me and showered me with praise. It was the first time in my life that anyone had ever praised what I wrote in Hojas susurrantes so highly. Two days later, my mother died. On August 2, my second book analysing my family, ¿Me ayudarás?, which I had also mailed to him, reached Marco and he sent me his condolences, since I had inscribed a few words on the first page: that I was sending him the book on the very day of my mother’s passing. Then Marco’s cousin contacted me for the first time and we talked on the phone for a while.

By September, the surreal situation with Marco was back. Those were the days when I had arranged with his cousin that I would invite Marco to clear up the bizarre offer that no less than I, whom Marco hadn’t dealt with for four decades, would inherit his second house; and we wanted the three of us to be here. On the 3rd of that month I decided to speak to Marco on the phone to arrange the invitation but he was in a state of extreme paranoia against his cousin. He believed that he and his son, Marco’s nephew, wanted to steal his second house. He forbade me outright to speak to his cousin again, and started saying very nasty things about my siblings. But Marco doesn’t know a single one of them. In fact, he never entered my family’s house. My diary says that Marco spoke badly about my siblings in the context of his demand that I leave the house where I live to go to his second house which, according to his cousin, is unfinished (there’s even a big hole on the roof)!

That is to say, in that September call Marco was angrily demanding that I move out of my late mother’s mansion and into his uninhabited second property, in disrepair. (Just to give you an idea of my mother’s mansion, during yesterday’s move they took out a grand piano and an upright piano that were here as my siblings plan to sell the house, and there is still another piano in the other house, after the garden on the same family property.) Why did Marco surmise that I was getting on so badly with my siblings? To give me fatherly advice; to get me out of this mansion and to invite me to move to his second property in a poor neighbourhood. Marco’s tone was like he was advising me wisely…

I was so alarmed by that crazy phone call that I kept insisting to his cousin that he come to my house to meet me and in October, finally, his cousin and I met at my late mother’s mansion. Since the day Marco had exploded in paranoia that he and his nephew wanted to steal the house he wanted to give me as a gift, Marco and I hadn’t spoken on the phone. But on 8 December last year he phoned me. Unlike the furious paranoid of the September phone call, he began his remarks in a very cordial manner, albeit in an omniscient tone. Yours truly was the object of his ‘wisdom’ in the form of unsolicited advice. The paternal advice was so grotesque, so damaging to my self-esteem and self-image, that it explains why I became obsessed in my diaries with psychoanalysing him. Without arguing with him, because by then I saw him as a disturbed man, I wrote down his words as Marco said over the phone: ‘I want to advise you to stop writing. The house you are going to occupy…’

Marco still didn’t register the fact that I had told him several times that I wasn’t going there, and to boot I had to stop being a writer! He just continued to treat me as an extension of his mind. During that phone call, when I wanted to rebel against the change Marco was proposing (leaving my mother’s comfortable mansion for a house in a poor neighbourhood), at one point in the discussion he said emphatically ‘You’re giving me a lot of crap…!’ (my Spanish-English translation). It was so insulting that I was going to live in his second property, still in structural work, abandoning the mansion where I live, that I let him speak during that last phone call just to record verbatim what he said.

I won’t phone him again. When I met Marco so long ago, he had the same angry character, but he didn’t get out of touch with reality. Now, at his age of seventy-three, I see that he has stepped out of reality. Marco has also wanted his nephews, i.e. his cousin’s children, to live in his second house and set up the restaurant there that Marco couldn’t set up because he squandered all his pension money. But even when his cousin or nephews tell him that they don’t want to move to such a remote neighbourhood, Marco doesn’t come back to his senses. He is under the impression that, sooner or later, someone—for example me—will follow his wise advice.

It’s impossible to convey how perplexed I was when, decades after dealing with him, I came across a new person: a deluded Marco. It was only from the videos I saw on YouTube that I realised that it is fashionable to analyse his symptoms under the curious tag of ‘narcissism’. In this entry I can only add that, unlike those youtubers, who in most cases treated people with this condition because they were romantically involved with them, I cut Marco off from the beginning of his delusions. (Only to loved ones, such as my late sister, have I tolerated her delusions, sometimes directed against me, to the extent that I never broke up with her until she died.)

In the next entry I would like to talk about Sam Vaknin’s interpretation of this kind of psychopathology: not being able to conceive that a close friend, a relative or a partner has a will of his or her own.

Categories
Autobiography

Covington

Last Friday I said: ‘I discovered the racial right forums very late in life, after my fiftieth birthday.’ Then I added that the first decades of my intellectual life had been devoted to knowing myself, following the Delphic injunction. To understand The West’s Darkest Hour it is essential never to lose sight of where I come from.

An individual who comes from extreme self-knowledge looks at the structure of the inner self. When I finished studying the authors who helped me understand highly dysfunctional families, I realised that they only represented part of the psychological healing process of coming from one of these families.

In the post a week ago I also mentioned Stefan Molyneux, who was abused by his Jewish mother, something Molyneux confessed to in some of his videos. But what I liked is that in one of his videos Molyneux added that when he left home and saw the world, he realised that the Western world was as crazy as his mother. So true, although because of his Jewish ancestry, Molyneux never wanted to address the JQ in his videos. He was never a philosopher of integrity, nor did he ever know himself deeply.

When I discovered white nationalism I realised that my self-image and self-esteem hadn’t only been undermined by mistreatment at home but that contemporary Western society had made me, like the rest of Western men, lose my manhood. Compare the Germans of today, overwhelmed with feelings of false guilt, with the Prussian military of former times! And the same can be said of the rest of Westerners.

Well, when I imbibed white nationalism in 2010, the therapy that restored my once-lost manhood was William Pierce’s The Turner Diaries and the Harold Covington quartet (Covington hadn’t yet written the fifth novel in his saga). It was because of this that I was originally blind to Covington’s character flaws, which I would only learn about in later years. But while I share everything Hadding Scott has written about Covington’s shenanigans, that doesn’t detract from the fact that devouring his novels, thirteen years ago now, about the revolutionary creation of an Aryan Republic in America, restored my manhood in the sense that this is how we should act.

If we look at the reactions of Lebanese men this very day to the Hezbollah leader’s speech and compare them with Westerners today, we will understand what I mean by ‘regaining our manhood’ (YouTube has been deleting clips of Hezbollah leader’s speech earlier in the day so I am not linking any clips here).

Of course, an Aryan leader must be the antithesis of Covington, who spent his whole life slandering other racialist leaders in his country. Covington is only to be understood as a novelist, never as a leader of a cause. It reminds me that when I read Gore Vidal’s Julian thirty years ago, I was fascinated by his novel (a novel that every Aryan who wants to reclaim his land should read). But when I started browsing through Vidal’s autobiography in a bookstore, I was disgusted by the pictures of shirtless macho men that Vidal put in there boasting that he had slept with them!

On that level, Covington’s biography also disappoints. But I can’t deny that both his quartet and Vidal’s novel about Julian the Apostate gave me back a part of me that society had stolen from me.

Several white nationalist essayists have written about Covington in Counter-Currents and The Occidental Observer. The most recent essay was published this September and October and can be read in three parts here, here and here. In that essay, we can see that the proofreader of his novels wrote:

Harold grew up in Burlington, North Carolina in a semi-upper class family, at least by Tarheel standards, but his childhood was troubled. His father was abusive and unstable. Harold learned to maneuver around him, and his brother had his own emotional difficulties. He was stern about not wanting to dwell on his childhood, however, saying that he’d spent the previous three decades trying to forget it, so much so that he scorned the idea of writing memoirs: “I have no intention of going back there and wallowing in the mud for the titillation of Morris Dees, armchair Jewish psychologists, and other such slimy voyeurs. So there will be no My Life In A Looney Bin by Harold A. Covington.”

Therein lay the rub. If Covington, as I did, had dared to put down on paper the details of his hapless childhood, and the problems he had with his abusive father (instead of some vampire novels he wrote), he would have healed psychologically. He wouldn’t have become that mentally dissociated fellow who foolishly believed that, by defaming the leaders of white nationalism, he was going to come out the winner. We have said it before and it bears repeating: Know thyself and you will know the universe and the Gods.