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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 Harold Covington

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.

Categories
Autobiography

The narrow door

Sometimes it is good to let a fundamentalist Christian’s comment pass to reply, as I did yesterday and today. However, I would like to clarify a few things that I haven’t made clear on this site.

I discovered the racial right forums very late in life, after my fiftieth birthday. Previously, my intellect was absorbed in trying to unravel the mystery of the psychic havoc that abusive parents wreak on their children, be it a child or a teenager. The result of that research, sometimes autobiographical and sometimes not, was these books written in my mother tongue (I plan to add a final chapter now that my mother has passed away).

Without understanding my first fifty years it is impossible to understand my point of view on this site, and why that point of view differs so much from the common white nationalist, even though we both profess devotion to the fourteen words. The crux of the situation I explain in this post.

It is true that 99.9 per cent of kids who were abused big time at home develop neurotic or even psychotic symptoms. What is not often discussed is that falling into a cult and believing its dogmas (which happened to me in 1978) is also a form of mental derangement. The way I define psychosis differs greatly from how it is defined by psychiatrists, whose profession I consider fraudulent (see pages 105-127 of Daybreak). The way I see psychosis has nothing to do with putative defective genes or putative chemical imbalances. That is bio-reductionist pseudo-science (see pages 21-30 of Day of Wrath).

Many forms of psychosis represent a strong cognitive distortion of the real world, the classic example being a subject who suffers from paranoid delusions of persecution. But if psychosis is a strong cognitive distortion, that means that people who believe in the Abrahamic religions are also in a state of psychosis. As Gaedhal told us in his communication today: ‘There is no empirical evidence that the Christian god exists. Thus, we ought not [speculate about the so-called Trinity] minus an empirical demonstration that God exists. As Rationalwiki points out: discussing the nature of an entity for which there is no empirical evidence is like discussing the colour of the tooth fairy’s dress’.

However, from this angle, all the New Age cults (including Scientology) that have flourished in North America also represent various psychoses, in that their adherents are heavily distorting reality. Ron Hubbard himself was a victim of his mother’s abuse, and instead of autobiographical self-inspection, he elaborated a doctrine inspired by his science-fiction tales that concealed his childhood (see the little book I wrote in Spanish about that cult).

Cognitively I was in very bad shape when I fell into a cult, Eschatology (see pages 11-26 of Daybreak). But thanks to the paranormal sceptics, among whom I include Martin Gardner, I was cured of those dogmas. Unfortunately, most are unable to be cured and remain indefinitely trapped either in the dogmas of a paranormalist cult or of a more conventional religion, among which I include Christianity.

Interestingly, among the racial right, the only one who talked about this subject before YouTube took down his channel was Stefan Molyneux, and remember his sharp analysis of how his mother’s terrible abuse of him as a child drove Charles Manson mad as an adult. In one of his programmes, now deleted, Molyneux said a great truth: that many adults who were abused found in the idea of a personal God a balm for their soul (a sort of substitute Father replacing the abusive father many of us had as children). This unconscious process is something real, but only those who follow the religion of the Delphic Oracle, know thyself, discover these traps of the mind.

Having cleared all this up, the crux of what I was talking about above is the following.

While 99.9 per cent of the reactions to abuse are psychologically dissociative (i.e., neuroses and psychoses), there is a narrow door, to paraphrase the New Testament (Lk 13:24), that leads to even greater mental health than the common man, despite the abuse.

To illustrate this, let us recall that, in evolutionary biology, 99.9 per cent of genetic mutations in a normal organism deteriorate the individual. But there is a fraction that, by pure chance, leads to a better adaptation to the environment: the mutant becomes superior to its peers (imagine, for example, the Australopithecus mutated by touching the monolith in Kubrick’s film).

That is the kind of mutation I talk about in my trilogy, and what I recommend to all those who were martyred at home. But it is the narrow door, very very difficult to find. Almost all the abused go to the wide door: the range of the most serious psychoses—e.g., serial killing and the schizophrenias—to neurotic depressions, addictions, falling into cults or repeating patterns of behaviour with the next generation of children (I even believe that a dude’s perennial homosexuality is a symptom of a strong neurosis).

So when someone points to my abusive past at home to dismiss my ideas he is not only committing an ad hominem fallacy: he is ignoring that a narrow door exists.

I could define this door as an immense development of empathy due to processing past pain (though I don’t mean the crazy empathy of liberals, which I have been calling ‘deranged altruism’). See pages 68-70 of Daybreak, ‘The Ascent of the Soul’, which hits the nail on the head of what I mean by healthy empathy. Interestingly, the following pages of the same book disprove that my worldview is at all pessimistic.

Those books from my Daybreak Press deserve to be edited once again after Lulu, Inc. cancelled my account for my English books. I am a golden ager who barely has time to learn how to design book covers at, say, IngramSpark. If any of my young visitors would like to contribute their work to make my English books available for sale again, please contact me (see the red letters at the top of this page, ‘Contact’).

Categories
Autobiography El Grial (book) Martin Kerr Real men

Comments

I would like to offer my comments on the Kerr article I reproduced this morning, ‘The National Socialist lifestyle’:

But to be a true National Socialist in a profound sense means living an NS lifestyle, not just to agree with NS ideas in an abstract manner, or to admire historical National Socialism from a distance. Hermann Göring once noted that one does not become a National Socialist simply as a matter of intellectual endorsement, but rather that one is born a National Socialist.

This is so true that I cannot resist the temptation to translate some passages of El Grial into English. The words in square brackets mean words that replace the original text to avoid explanatory notes (as these decontextualised passages already appear on pages 99-100 of my third autobiographical book). I will use blue to distinguish it from the indented quotes in Kerr’s article:

It should not be speculated that my mistreatment at home is the primary cause of my now wanting to wipe Neanderthals off the face of the earth. Many years ago [my sister] told us the anecdote of something that I don’t remember well but which, I am sure, her memory is genuine. She said that, when I was eleven years old, I had made [exterminationist pronouncements from the racial POV].

Although I barely remember it, I do remember that as a child the spectacle of visiting the centre of the metropolis caused me such horror that I wanted to sweep it all away. And even younger, perhaps nine or ten years old when Japanese Godzilla films became fashionable, I imagined, lying in bed at bedtime, my favourite monster destroying the street billboards because they degraded my sense of aesthetics. Once I told cousin Julio about this fantasy, which was more ethical than anything else, in the sense of destructive justice, with ‘Godzilla’ being the judge of the degraded society.

Later, in my puberty, I wondered why there were still other races if it was so obvious that the white race was so superior. It was an inner feeling that told me something like: why are they still here? I didn’t understand why the non-white lands hadn’t already been conquered.

One of the most beautiful memories I have, because it dates back to the time when my life was still innocent, [already in my teens], was when I once went to get my hair cut at the hairdresser’s closest to my house, on Doctor Vértiz Avenue, with one of my younger brothers. It was a very serene afternoon while I was waiting my turn when I saw, in the illustrated stories on the hairdresser’s table, one that presented in pictures the goals of Germany a few decades ago. What stuck very clearly in my mind was the information that it was about producing a line of beautiful blond Aryans with blue eyes. It felt very good to me because those were things I wanted, even though I had never seen them enacted in the written word, even if it was in the drawings of a comic book. In retrospect, I suppose that story had not been illustrated or written by a fan of National Socialism, but to my adolescent mind, what mattered was that someone expressed an ideal that seemed to me so lofty and noble: something I hadn’t heard articulated as openly as on that gentle afternoon, which I still recall with nostalgia today.

The above happened in Mexico City, which is hardly an Aryan town! Kerr’s text continues:

As Adolf Hitler wrote, “Obstacles exist to be broken, not to be surrendered to.” Lincoln Rockwell said that “Life is struggle,” and that the secret to having a happy and successful life was, “to enjoy the struggle.” This is the fundamental NS attitude towards life in general.We welcome struggle, not as a necessary evil, but as a great gift and opportunity that allows us to strengthen ourselves mentally, physically and spiritually. Again quoting Hitler: “Mankind has grown great in eternal struggle, and only in eternal peace will it perish.”

This is what the defeatists and pessimists don’t understand and why I no longer take nationalist forums seriously. It is about fighting morning, noon and evening for the sacred words (as far as I am concerned, to change the paradigm from JQ to CQ, because if the problem lies with us, that would empower us immensely). Kerr continues:

[A] National Socialist gets out and engages in the real world. This may take the form of participating in a public activity to build the Movement, or it may simply be going for a hike in the forest. Citing an old Aryan adage, the Führer noted that, “he who rests—rusts” (Wer raset, der rostet). Do you take the escalator or the stairs? Said Mussolini, “The fascist distains the easy life.” The Duce was not a National Socialist, but in this instance his words are consistent with an NS lifestyle.

Without dropping names, reading this passage brought to mind one of the main promoters of white nationalism in the neighbouring country to the north, who has chosen the bourgeois life.

Every National Socialist accepts the SS saying, “Know the laws of life and live accordingly,” as his or her personal motto.

As a teenager I was enchanted by Seneca’s words, ‘Live according to Nature’!

Consequently, exercise, healthy eating, and nourishing the spirit are key features of an NS lifestyle. Just as laziness is un-National Socialist, so is a diet that consists of processed food, nutritionless (or even harmful) snacks, all washed down with some form of alcohol or a sugar-laden soft drink. Instead, a National Socialist lifestyle includes plenty of fresh fruits and vegetables, with as little meat as possible, along with plenty of water and sunshine. He nourishes his soul with Aryan music and art.

For some time now I have chosen the whole food plant based diet as my diet, and I refine it more every day.

Likewise, the National Socialist shuns polluting himself with the degenerate byproducts of an un-Aryan popular culture. These include films that insult the history of the White race, that promote race-mixing, that degrade women or that glorify crime, as well as so-called “music” that offends the Aryan spirit. Likewise, the National Socialist does not contaminate his body and weaken his spirit with drugs and intoxicants.

Again, without dropping names, this reminds me of the huge number of non-NS racialists who talk about movies, pop music, who recommend eating meat or who don’t love Nature to the extent of deifying it, as I have felt since I was a child to the extent that, when I discovered the painter Maxfield Parrish, I knew that this was exactly what I had had inside me for a long time!

The National Socialist lifestyle includes the love of animals, and kindness towards them. Nothing is so foreign to the Aryan spirit than the sadistic slaughter of animals for food practiced by the Semitic peoples.

This is one of the reasons why those who endorse cruelty to animals (or children) are no longer allowed to comment on this forum.

So even when it is difficult—indeed, even dangerous—he lives his outer life in accordance with his inner being. Yet whatever the cost, he has the great recompense of living his on his own terms. Even in the midst of racial decay and social decline, he lives in the New Order.

And this is exactly what Savitri, my ‘river nymph’ called the Religion of the Strong in the first chapter of her memoirs.

Categories
Autobiography Racial right

Grandma’s proverb

The documents my mother left in her study have been a veritable cornucopia of information for understanding not only her but the family. For example, among them I found a list of sayings that my maternal grandmother, my dear Yoya, used to say. I quote one of them: “Ves la tempestad y no te hincas” (‘You see the storm and you don’t kneel’).

It reminds me that, on both sides of the Atlantic, members of the racial right can see the storm currently ravaging the West. But they never kneel before their true Gods, the Aryan Gods, in repentance and asking mercy and forgiveness. On the contrary: they continue to fellate the god of the Jews, or rather, the Jews who wrote the New Testament insofar they obey its precepts for gentile consumption.

What prevents these so-called defenders of their race from thinking like the lad Magnus?

Categories
Autobiography Degenerate art

Degenerate Xtian art

Now that I have been tidying up the study left by my late mother, I have found a wealth of documents of great interest to the autobiographer. She used to collect postcards and photographs of the countries she had visited and had some splendid postcards of Florentine art, including the famous sculpture sculpted by Michelangelo (which I also saw in Florence, though when I was travelling alone). You can’t contrast that Aryan art more with the degenerate Christian art that we also see in the photographs that my mother collected in other of her travels, in Spanish-speaking countries. For example, compare the grotesquely dressed ‘virgins’ with the nudist statuary of the Greco-Roman world!

There are things I have already said but they are so important that I never tire of repeating them. In his famous Civilisation series of 1969, Lord Clark put the image of the Greek Apollo and then contrasted it with an African mask and another image from an early medieval Irish religious book, and said that the most conspicuous thing was that, in the latter, the classical glory of the human figure disappeared. What we are left with, I would add, is an irrelevant little man full of self-destructive guilt because white people abandoned their beautiful Aryan Gods to worship a god that hated them: the god of the Jews.

I was about to throw away the photographs of this entry—degenerate art—when it occurred to me that I’d better upload them to a new blog post, and explain why I wanted to throw them away.

Since Julian the Apostate in the 4th century c.e., among European rulers only Adolf Hitler tried to transvalue Judeo-Christian values to our true values, already intuited by Renaissance artists. It is known that the Hitler of his famous speeches couldn’t speak so openly about these issues, but with his close friends he opened his heart. What I would give to listen to his after-dinner talks!

At least in this recording we can hear Uncle Adolf when he spoke in his normal voice instead of the pompous videotaped declamations that made him famous, when he couldn’t criticise Judeo-Christianity as fiercely as he did in private.

Categories
Autobiography Child abuse New Testament Summer, 1945 (book)

The will not to know


Mexican José Barba Martín, born in 1937, spent two decades studying philology in the United States. He earned a master’s degree in Romance languages at Tufts University, a doctorate in Romance languages at Boston College and, finally, a doctorate at Harvard University in Hispanic literature. Barba was one of the victims of the powerful Catholic paedophile Marcial Maciel. Decades after Maciel abused him, Barba, along with other victims, began a campaign to expose the abuses. Because of his persistent activism, he has been called ‘José Barba: the man who defied two popes’.

Yesterday I saw a video interviewing Barba where he said, at this point in the interview (my translation), that the abuses committed by Maciel were not only sexual, ‘that he did not abuse only through the body, but through the soul: through a system that will take over the psyche; from children, adolescents, young people until the moment when one is no longer master of one’s own words, and then not even of one’s thoughts’.

Barba is not an apostate from Christianity; just a critic of the Catholic Church, even critical of two popes—John Paul II and Benedict XVI—who protected paedophiles in the Church. But what strikes me about Barba is his almost complete lack of insight into his words I have just translated. Barba has failed to realise that the very teaching of the doctrine of eternal damnation, which comes right from the Gospels, is abusive to the souls of children. (Those who have seen the film Angela’s Ashes, or read the autobiographical memoir of the same title, remember that class in which a priest terrorises Irish children with horrific hellish imagery.)

Since I have spoken to Barba several times in Mexico City, I would like to add something to what I wrote about him in my January 2022 article, ‘On Alberto Athié’. As an autobiographer, I keep records of a few encounters with acquaintances. Little of my many diaries appear in my eleven autobiographical books. But from time to time I can exhume, from those diaries, some anecdotes for publication on this site.

On 30 March 2018 Barba came to my house and what I told about him in the article ‘About Alberto Athié’ happened. The following year, on 2 November 2019 to be exact, I met Barba in the café of the old Librería Gandhi that the intellectuals of the Mexican capital used to frequent (now the old bookstore is closed). Barba was talking, in Latin, to one of my chess-playing friends but when I sat down at their table they switched languages and spoke to me in Spanish. As the Gandhi Café closed relatively early, we then moved on to a restaurant.

Barba mentioned the book I had lent him the previous year when he visited my house, Summer 1945 by Tom Goodrich, but didn’t say a peep about its contents. Apparently, the erudite man didn’t experience the slightest cognitive dissonance with the holocaust perpetrated by the Allies, as narrated by Goodrich. Although he mentioned nothing of the book’s content, he commented, as a good thing, the impeachment of Donald Trump planned by the Democrats.

The Catholic Barba is a liberal philo-Semite even though he has no Jewish background, and that night he called Dutch politician Geert Wilders an ‘extremist’. When I pointed out that, according to the Jew Ron Unz, a whole constellation of conservative authors on the Second World War had been cancelled, Barba said that perhaps these authors had been victims of McCarthyism! (and recommended me a book on McCarthyism). I was flabbergasted. Unlike the chess-playing friend who accompanied us, Barba couldn’t even conceive that he had in front of him an Other ideologically speaking: someone who was reasoning from a completely different POV.

In the Gandhi Café, before going to the restaurant, I told Barba about Solzhenitsyn’s 200 Years Together; then, at the restaurant, I told him about the contents of the book. When I got home, I sent him an email with the link to 200 Years Together, as well as a link to Unz’s article.

On June 4, 2022, I saw my chess friend and Barba again, this time near the park where, as a young man, I used to play chess. I talked to him for a long time but I was shocked that, once again, Barba couldn’t conceive of the existence of a creature ideologically different from him. Barba is one of those old-fashioned men who believe that we younger people see them as repositories of ancestral wisdom. But I don’t see him that way. The religious manner in which he spoke to those present, without first inquiring whether they were atheists or not, could only mean that he was treating us as if we were his pupils. There was a moment when Barba mentioned the alleged deeds of Jesus’ apostles, and I replied that to me that was literary fiction.

Barba reacted by saying that this was extreme scepticism, and I was perplexed because Barba had read Misquoting Jesus: The Story Behind Who Changed the Bible and Why by Bart Ehrman. How could Barba have been unaware that the fundamentalist Christian Ehrman became an atheist after his New Testament research? The fact that Barba gave four copies of Ehrman’s book to his Catholic friends, in another occasion, gave the impression that he wanted to convince them of a more sceptical approach to the historical Jesus. But Barba not only swallowed the aforementioned story from Luke’s book as real history, he did something that puzzled me even more.

When I asked him if he was familiar with the field of critical NT studies that started in the Enlightenment, he said he was (Ehrman himself is part of that field). But Barba didn’t seem to realise that New Testament studies had moved several exegetes to lose faith since the seminal works of Reimarus, who flourished in the 18th century, and David Friedrich Strauss, who flourished in the 19th century. I could not believe that the very learned Barba, who reads the NT in the original Greek, would ignore facts relating to authors whose books he has given as presents!

And it is not a case of senility, for when I last saw him near the park of old chess friends, Barba was perfectly lucid. It is a matter of being locked in a theological bubble to the extent of being unable to hold a friendly discussion with the unbeliever in front of him. In ‘On Alberto Athié’ I omitted that Barba ignored my argument that women have less cranial mass than men—and that’s why, in chess, they compete against each other, parallel to the men’s tournaments so that men don’t massacre them in the science-game. Similarly, Barba ignored or didn’t know, that there are scholars who believe that the Acts of the Apostles is a religious novel rather than real history.

I could write pages and pages about my latest disagreement with Barba. But I don’t think I need to. Perhaps I will do so in the comments section if someone asks me for more detailed information about those disappointing meetings. What I am getting at is that scholarship is not wisdom and that someone can be highly respected in the media—like Barba—and yet be enclosed in such a bubble that he dissociates the existence of the dissenter in front of him. It is not that I want to convince Christians like Barba that the NT is fiction. It is simply the inability to communicate the fact that there are scholars who believe it is fiction that alarms me!

All this sheds light on what I was saying about the holocaust perpetrated by the Allies: something that normies, even when confronted, are unwilling to know as Barba did when I lent him, for a year, Goodrich’s book.

Alberto Athié, Barba and Fernando González wrote the book La voluntad de no saber: Lo que sí se conocía sobre Maciel en los archivos secretos del Vaticano desde 1944 (The Will Not to Know: What was Known about Maciel in the Vatican’s Secret Archives since 1944). Published in the context of Benedict XVI’s visit to Mexico, this book reveals the Vatican’s documents on the Maciel case demonstrating that, for more than sixty years, the highest authorities of the Catholic Church knew about the criminal conduct of the founder of the Legionaries of Christ.

But these guys have another kind of will not to know. They lack the will to know that several New Testament scholars say that the NT accounts are pure fiction, including the Acts of the Apostles, or that what the Establishment would have us believe about WW2 is rubbish. Likewise, millions of Westerners don’t want to know that the fact that we have different brains from women refutes feminism and the dogma of equality.

The way Barba treated me the few times I saw him is the way the normie treats the dissident: simply ignoring everything he says.

Categories
Autobiography Christendom Evil Racial right

Editor’s preface

(pages 9-10 of the forthcoming Savitri’s book)

When Savitri Devi wrote the foreword that follows, I was seventeen and at the nadir of my life: mental hells into which my very Catholic father and his damned society had put me, as I confess in Letter to mom Medusa (see the book list on page 3). Curiously, a couple of years before that family tragedy I went to ask, in a bookshop, if they had any pro-Nazi books. An employee of the Librería de Cristal in the Cine Manacar in Mexico City, a fair-haired white man, hesitated a few seconds and informed me: ‘No’. True, that bookstore had the old Spanish translation of Mein Kampf, but what I was looking for was more recent literature.

If the worst country in all of Western history had never existed, the United States, Hitler might have won the war and, as I recount in The Grail, the last book in my autobiographical trilogy, the teenager I was would have been spared from the psychosis that two years after my visit to the bookstore would be brewing in my parents’ minds.

The book I was looking for at the age of fifteen was precisely this one that the reader now holds in his hands. I do not presume that this French-English translation is perfect. Far from it! But it seems to me that, of all the books by Savitri Devi (1905-1982), this is the one that best introduces us to the thought of this impressive woman.

If the American racial right is at a dead end, it is precisely because Americans have not had the nobility to see that only by making National Socialism their new religion can they save their race. Furthermore, unlike Hitler’s anti-Christian pantheism (cf. Richard Weikart’s Hitler’s Religion), the great failure of the pundits of the American racial right consists in not repudiating the Semitic religion of our abusive fathers. And abusive by necessity must be all those who traumatise their children with the idea of eternal torture, as I was traumatised as a teenager.

Although the hellish nature of Christianity reveals the twisted psychology of the Semitic mind, the typical anti-Semite ignores that the Jews created the New Testament for gentile consumption (cf. David Skrbina’s The Jesus Hoax). Anyone who invents a superheated torture chamber and then threatens billions of gentiles with it has a sick soul. Right after white traitor Constantine handed over the Roman Empire to his Semitic bishops (cf. Karlheinz Deschner’s Christianity’s Criminal History, also listed on page 3), the doctrine of hell became the greatest weapon of psychological terror used by Jews against whites. Ben Klassen was right on this point! And this is the kind of anti-Christian worldview I badly needed as a teenager to save me from the doctrines my father had put in my little head. Even now, so long after I abandoned Christianity, I am haunted by the idea of eternal damnation. As Gaedhal, a commenter on my website, The West’s Darkest Hour, told us by email:

If you fear a Jewish Hell, then you are controlled by Jews. I speak by experience. I know, rationally, that Hell doesn’t exist… However, more than thirty years of Catholicism means that I still believe in Hell emotionally. I still believe in Hell in my bones’ marrow. And this residual belief in Hell still has negative effects upon my psychology and behaviour. I probably have religious trauma syndrome…

Alas, the American racial right has been, since its origins, extremely addicted to Judeo-Christianity. I would even claim that white nationalism is an ideology that, at its core, functions as a gatekeeper preventing the transvaluation of our darkest values to Greco-Roman values: that is, the luminous values of Antiquity before the Semitic infection. Thus, white nationalists are actively preventing the Aryan man from freeing himself from the yoke that the Jews have created. How could we shake such a yoke from our necks?

Only Hitler saves. Savitri Devi, Hitler’s Priestess, saw this with extraordinary clarity! And the white man who does not want to recognise this is doomed to extinction.

César Tort
8 December 2022

Categories
Autobiography Child abuse Laurent Guyénot

Don’t transfer your wrath onto Steve!

I have been reproducing most of the text of the article ‘The Holy Hook’.

‘Christianity without the Old Testament?’ is the last section of that essay by Laurent Guyénot. It consists of 900 words. I don’t want to reproduce it here but you can read it in The Unz Review.

In that last section, Guyénot falls into the same errors we have seen time and again in the racial right that desperately wants to save the religion of our parents despite its roots. Since, as we saw in David Skrbina’s book, the New Testament was written by Jews for Gentile consumption, it cannot be sanitised from the point of view of the fourteen words. However, what we have read in the previous instalments of ‘The Holy Hook’ is important to better understand the psyop represented by the forced conversion of the white race to the god of the Jews. But what Guyénot lacked, which Skrbina didn’t lack, was to assimilate the legacy of Nietzsche.

For the rest of this article I would like to talk about issues that I have touched on in recent posts. In the video Gonzalo uploaded today we no longer see him mocking with his typical black humour, because things are getting very ugly in Ukraine, where he is trapped, and perhaps we will see an October surprise before the US mid-term elections next month.
 

The Dahmer case—again!

Another issue I recently touched on and have given some more thought to is the Dahmer case. As you may recall, at the end of last month I confessed that I had watched the miniseries by pressing the forward button to avoid watching the morbid stuff Netflix shows us. But yesterday I saw, without pressing that button, a couple of scenes based on the real-life Dahmer family that caught my attention.

Jeffrey’s father, once with his new wife and the other time right after Jeff was sentenced, blames both his first wife—Jeff’s mother—and himself, for creating a monster because of how Jeff was mistreated as a child. And after the sentence, the mother writes a confession in which she feels guilty about the way she treated her son before turning on the gas tap in an attempt to kill herself. Having pressed the forward button so many times in the past month, I hadn’t thought about this pair of revealing scenes which, as I said, are apparently based on real-life anecdotes.

As a teenager I had, to some extent, a mother like Jeffrey’s, so I know how one internalises the verbal abuse of what Jung called ‘a dragon mother’. What hurt Jeff the most as a child is that his dad, who should’ve been the countervailing force, left him alone with the dragon and literally walked out of the home. It was in that house that Jeff committed his first murder and precisely when his young victim, Steven Mark Hicks (pictured below) wanted to leave the house.

After several hours of talking, drinking and listening to music, Steve ‘wanted to leave and I didn’t want him to leave’. Dahmer struck Steve from behind with the dumbbell while Steve was sitting in a chair. When he fell unconscious, Dahmer choked him to death with the barbell bar.

It seems obvious to me that the eighteen-year-old Jeff displaced pent-up anger towards the father in a sort of ‘Now you’re not leaving!’ From my own experience I know that resentment towards the passive father who didn’t stop the abuse is far more serious than resentment towards the dragon mother, insofar as he could have saved us and did nothing.

Of course, regarding his psychic wounds Jeff’s twist was very different from mine. He began to recreate his impotent rage with scapegoats, starting with Steve, and the betrayal he had been subjected to at home never crossed his conscience (transferred, unconscious hatred is infinite, since it’s not directed toward the real perp). I preferred to leave a legacy to humanity with my autobiographical confessions—see the only comment in the featured post.

Having been watching so many YouTube interviews with the real Jeff Dahmer, I realised that what trauma researchers say is true. To the extent that the subject doesn’t know himself—Jeff didn’t know himself—he will displace his unconscious rage on others. Bringing to consciousness the horrors of our childhoods (or adolescence in my case) prevents mental disorders, or our taking it out on innocent Steves.