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Autobiography Kali Yuga Kalki

A confession

Yesterday, on the day of the attempt on Donald Trump, I went to talk to the woman to whom I referred in my article a week ago about my desire to adopt a child.

I don’t write about news like the attempt because I don’t consider it important. To use my favourite metaphor, the one in the featured post, by looking at human reality from a retrocognitive meta-perspective I only value relevant events.

From this angle, I would like to confess that I have long since been able to fall asleep only by imagining nuclear mushroom clouds over the major capitals of the West due to a strategic war with Russia. Mixing the symbols of Martin’s novels with Tolkien, if Washington is Mordor, the capitals of the major Western countries are like various Isengards. What nobler thing could there be than to wish that these centres of ethnocidal power against the Aryan, along with Mordor, be incinerated?

A skirmish like yesterday’s means nothing from the point of view of the old man holed up in a cave far from the Wall contemplating the historical past. True, in reconciling sleep I am thinking with my emotions. Someone might tell me that in a nuclear conflagration, the Aryan baby could thus be thrown out with the dirty water and that although it is healthy to want eight billion Untermenschen to die in the nuclear winter, perhaps the same number should die better gradually, through energy devolution, so that the surviving Aryan has the chance, through our forums, to realise that only the religion that Uncle Adolf bequeathed us saves.

But that is not what emotions tell me, especially when trying to sleep or waking up in the night. In those moments only wishing that those mushroom clouds were already over the enemy cities calms me down. Following Jung’s vocabulary, what the Self already wants is an immediate cataclysm: an apocalypse that wipes out those billions of Orcs and the traitor kings turned into Sauron’s nine horsemen. In other words, let those on the American and European right discuss events like yesterday’s among themselves. Those of us who have been touched by the Self and have a blue mark on our arm see things differently.

The only thing that calms me, and I speak of that César now fully awake, clear-headed and out of bed, is that thanks to a slow apocalypse (due to peak oil) billions of obsolete versions of humans will be wiped out in the next hundred years. It reminds me of what Eduardo Velasco wrote from page 162 to the end of On Exterminationism when we read about an Aryan couple who, after the end of the world, will thirst to live to repopulate the Earth.

Autobiography Kali Yuga

Dark Era!

Not long ago I noticed that there are YouTube channels showing videos of criminal investigations into serial killers of children (!) in the United States. Below we see two of the victims of one of these killers, image taken from this video.

Two months ago I posted an entry about a comic book I read as a child, Little Lulu. It was the age of innocence when I imagined that childhood in the neighbouring country to the north was as wholesome as the children in my favourite comic: Lulu, Tubby, Annie, Iggy, Willie, Wilbur and the beautiful little girl Gloria (whom I compared to Lorena: the girl I had a crush on in primary school). We even shot a super-8 film at home about one of these stories—a magazine that I still own after so many decades! My cousin Octavio played the role of Tubby, who sneaked into the house to eat the lunch that Lulu and Annie (played by my sisters) had prepared for them…

It would take time for me to realise the dark side of the society I lived in. But I never imagined the horrendous levels of evil to which not only the US but the entire West has fallen. Cases like the child abductor whose victims are pictured above are legion if those YouTube channels are to be believed. Is it any wonder that in January I fantasised about the movie The Village, filmed in the US by an Indian from India, which opens with a group of Aryans creating a town far from the iniquitous ways of Kali Yuga?

Autobiography Pedagogy


I would like to add something to what I said last week about my nephew (see also this thread from earlier this year). In December 2022 I posted an entry containing this paragraph:

I wonder if there is anyone on the planet willing to raise, at least, one Aryan boy and one Aryan girl and educate them strictly in NS, with all that such an education would entail. If there is anyone who harbours this fantasy please contact me.

I received no email response, which can be interpreted in two ways. Either no one who visits this site was interested in raising a child, or some Europeans who visited it were interested but fearing the soft totalitarian state their country suffers from (no First Amendment) didn’t want to contact me. I conjecture it is the former, which brings back that we are in the darkest hour for the white race.

Years ago, in the comments section, I said that a woman proposed to me a quarter of a century ago and I had refused. She is not an Aryan but a mudblood like me, although by Mexican standards she is considered white (like me). Curiously I have continued dealings with her, though only as a friend. I mention her a lot in my trilogy of autobiographical books.

Since I learned a very hard lesson with my nephew, I now feel like proposing marriage to this woman, if only with the idea of adopting an Aryan child to raise him as the Gods command. Likely, she will now be the one to say no, but I have to at least give it a try.

What is not clear to me, even supposing she agrees, is the question of the children this child educated with the true Gods would meet. Preventing this home-schooled boy from watching television; from owning a mobile phone; from listening to degenerate music or going to degenerate parties is one thing. Preventing him from seeing children his age is another.

I am reminded of a curious anecdote from 1988 when children from my parents’ music school went to Cuba to give concerts (Cuban children also showed off). The Cuban authorities didn’t allow, even for a moment, the two groups to mix to avoid any psychological contamination of the little Cubans with rich but decadent bourgeois lifestyles. But of course: the little Cubans played among themselves. Even supposing my dream came true, and I could raise an Aryan child, with whom could he play?

There are pure Aryans in Mexico (left, a Mennonite girl in Chihuahua, Mexico). Will I have to move next door to a Mennonite community for my adopted child to play with uncorrupted Aryans? Buying a large mansion next to them could only be done if I do a business that has to do with the falling dollar (a big ‘if’ that is not certain to happen!). And even then there would be some tension as the Mennonites are like 19th-century Christians, and my female friend goes to mass every day (although she is so understanding that she doesn’t object to my anti-Christianity).

How difficult it is to have a normal life during what the Indo-Aryans called Kali Yuga! Before making a decision, what are the chances for someone who wants to educate his child properly? Is there a place in the entire world where it is even possible for a white child to live among uncontaminated white children?

Autobiography Pedagogy


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…


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.

Autobiography Friedrich Nietzsche Poetry


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.

Autobiography Sponsor


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…

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.

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).



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.