I read your Salvador Borrego excepts shared yesterday on Allied criminality and thought sadly of Hitler’s magnanimous optimism and grace towards his reluctantly engaged enemies, more a beautiful, radiant Sun personality than quite enough of a Lightening one, as Savitri describes it. Certainly there should be no tolerance of historical national pride for modern Anglo European countries. By coincidence this week I had been reading a copy of F.J.P. Veale’s Advance to Barbarism in the background having just finished Ulrich Merten’s The Gulag in East Germany: Soviet Special Camps 1945-1950. I have a copy of Savitri’s Hitler-dedicated devotional poems and laments arriving shortly.
As I am accustomed to a few times a week, I checked in at the Unz Review. I rarely find anything of interest that I want to read there, always put off by the Christianity and the standard conservatism, and with little to no interest in internal American politics and current affairs.
Andrew Anglin’s titles and crass, irreverent writing style jar with me, as does any support of Third Worldism or complimentary affection for non-Aryans. I saw there was a fairly recent article discussing ‘Anglophobia’ with a photo reference to the BLM vandalism and removal of British statues, such as a figure of Winston Churchill, and the American confederacy and founding fathers monuments. I had no interest in reading that as I imagined it would be full of self-pitying excuse-making and a defensiveness regarding neochristian miscegenators and classical liberal friends of Judaism, small-town rural Trump supporters and Bible belt conservatives nostalgic for the 1950s, and all our unpunished war criminals.
I hate their ignorance and their smugness, yet more confident boors convinced that they are good people, acting steadfast as their own defence lawyers, just like all the terrible, cruel, lazy acquaintances and cowardly, dispassionate friends across my own life who have always been convinced instinctively that they are good people, and will not hear otherwise or accept fault for anything.
All these ideologues of the right-wing have beyond anyone else is a superficial awareness of race at all. [Editor’s emphasis] If appalling action can’t be denied altogether then we are told only that it doesn’t matter, and that whites—always in a big equivocated line—have nothing to be ashamed of. So very much of society is lost to me, so dispassionate and feral and moronic; all these proud good people and their pathological face-saving.
It’s the same with Patriotic Alternative, who occasionally send a newsletter to my email box. They have a recent campaign browbeating their audience with moralist propaganda.
Today’s letter informed me that a 98-year-old Second World War veteran has been forced out of his home into a temporary shelter at the same time as the debilitating long-term government immigration policy increases exponentially, all hostile aliens granted preferential accommodation and fast-tracking into the benefits system. Much is made of his war veteran status. I don’t deny that the government’s cruelty towards any very elderly man would be completely unacceptable, just as everything else they do to us is completely unacceptable, but I wish there was no patriotism and respect for these veterans among nationalists, and indeed no support of the modern British Army either, given its sole operation in unnecessary anti-white puppet wars, and its subversive presentation, and the readiness with which it could be turned on the citizens.
I found myself wondering what this old veteran had done in the war, what crimes he may have committed or covered for, and what he may have turned a blind eye to, or just gone along with and never reflected on at all, and been praised for then, and been praised for now, and at all times in between, having served a murderous traitor alliance above the wellbeing of his own European folk, utterly devastating a far superior society with infinite cruelty, and damning the future, razing European hope. What he did do (or didn’t do), for Jews, capitalist Christians and the competitive warmongers of greedy Anglo-Saxon empires.
I don’t see any hope for these people. Their hideous pride cannot be knocked from them. [Editor’s emphasis] When the global economic system does fall apart, in the true onset of an openly collapsing environment, I dread what they will do, as inimical to the health of their own people as any immature leftist movement, or any activism on any matter, another subset of normal people filled with that vast unemotional ignorance and all the brute carelessness of the orthodoxy. I forever hope that they remain disorganised, and most certainly never bring themselves to a position of power. I know they will make it dangerously worse as everything becomes unmanageable.
Having bought some 2×4 gravel-board planks, I’m dedicating the next few days to designing and building a couple of garden chairs from scratch. Something long-lasting as plastic chairs are flimsy and unattractive. I went for a long walk into the Mistley woods today with Abby. A large, beautiful, hilly woodland.
The centuries-old trees were awe-inspiring, stretching numerous and tall into a thick leafy canopy, natural collonades of elms and hazels and ash trees and the giant desiccated trunks of ancient English oaks, and I appreciated that opaque softness to the misty air, and the brilliant white sun in a pale off—white sky falling into the pastel clearings in straw—hued beams, from between dark rainclouds in pleasing chiaroscuro, an abundance of subtle green shades to the deeper foliage and a coldness and freshness to the forest air, up and down hills and beside little freshwater trickles, away from people and everything urban and modern, the only sound being the creaking of branches, the chirps and calls of birds high above, and occasional rustling in the leaves; and that intangible natural sound beyond placement that one only experiences in the very depths of woods when anything of human imposition is no longer present.
Perhaps the private sound of the woods themselves, essentialized. There were black and white cows sheltering in the gloom among the chestnut trees at the edge of the lower meadow. Some young rabbits grazed near the blackberry brambles. A cricket hopped across our path and into the ferns. I relish time in the woods as a somehow sacred feeling. Relaxing as much as the only experience that brings me genuine psychological healing, rarely present in my life…
I’ve gone on for far too long. I’m not sure if you’ll ever have the time to read this. I’m very bad at laconic thought, getting worse the more isolated I feel—and I acknowledge that I am in true physical actuality in total alienated isolation and under thick environmental pressure—knowing that I am always on my own with my thoughts and yearning to get them all out of the way in one go each time. Aside from Abby, who doesn’t really get me, much as she’s also increasingly hostile and frustrated, you’re the only person I’m in conversation with at all, and I’m sure I offload far too much. The silence seems to kill me, and then I just type too much. I’ll leave this here.
I despise the society, and the huge, sprawling mobs of cold, desensitized, destructive people, the multitudinous rabble of subhuman slave beasts with European skins, none of whom give a shit about each other. I wish I was strong enough even to hate them more effectively.
In all my life in this country I have met no more than two single solitary people genuinely worthy of brotherly love, honour, and respect, both unconnected men, both long dead at their own hands, and with long tearing grief on my part, realising over cruel spans of pain that I can no longer find human racial compassion here, in a nation of some money and no love.
I have never met a family in this country worth saving, though so much I had used to wish I could, that wracked hope gone only these last five months. Maybe they still exist. If not by now, it seems I will never get to know if they are there. You are literally the only friend who does not wound me and turn me away. A distant warmth. The only friend at all, and I know no one else but family torturers, and my only circle of unrelated acquaintances a fierce string of condemnatory professional adults, paid well for their work. I am scared to push my luck with you.