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Category: Hojas Susurrantes (book)

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Autobiography Hojas Susurrantes (book)

‘Whispering Leaves’

(first pages)

 
I opened the eyes in the morning and to my surprise I was on Korinna’s bed in the bedroom of my sisters. I felt uncomfortable to know I was there, but on turning over and see that Kori had slept with Genevieve I felt relieved.

Both were sleeping, but looked younger: Genevieve looked like a thirteen year old. How I remember the incredibly pure face of Genevieve!, like a little slept virgin. The beautiful matutinal light and the silence of the morning gave the bedroom a unique smoothness.

With a child’s spirit, in a leap I raised up to look at the street, I opened the window and…

What I saw produced indescribable amazement and rapture.

Everything was changed.

There was nothing of the street of Palenque, the Narvarte neighbourhood or even Mexico City, but a Cathedral of such beauty that I stayed ecstatic and dumb at contemplating it. It was of such beauty that the volatilisation of the known world absolutely made no dent on me: my rapture upon seeing the rosy Cathedral eradicated all negative feeling, it was like being in a pristine state of mind.

The Cathedral was in a Mexico certainly, but like a Mexico of another dimension, like a future, or as if history had taken another course, or like if we were in another age.

The landscape was so tranquil, so smooth, there were so few people in that settled and balmy city that my sensation to contemplate it was that of the purest halcyonism.

The landscape I had before my eyes was huge: I could see miles away. Barely there were houses. Just the Cathedral hypnotized me with its unknown majesty in this dimension.

Far away, very far away, I seemed to see a humble woman with a shawl, one of those who get up very early in the morning. She walked by an empty plaza or main square much more extended than the Zócalo of our city or any other.

Then I saw below the changed street of Palenque. By our garage, or a little to the left, in its place there was a grocery store and a few men that looked like villagers; one of them even had a peasant hat. They looked as tranquil as the landscape.

Then I saw a friend from the park that came in direction to the store and I shouted to him:

‘Rodolfo!’

I wanted that he explained to me what had happened with the world, what might have caused such incredible changes. He saw me and raising the hand he greeted me but he continued ahead to the store and I felt disappointed because I expected an explanation on the state of affairs.

But the setback disappeared when I fixed my eyes again on the imposing Cathedral: I didn’t want to miss a second that image that had me bewitched, in an ecstatic state.

It was paradise and without a thought I went out of the bedroom in order to run down home’s stairs and get outside. But when I came out of the bedroom…

Everything grew dark.

Among the blackness, I found myself in the hall. I wanted to go down the stairs but…

There you were.

I wanted to get outside but your presence seemed to impede my way.

You had the typical face of upset mother segregating bile. I was under the impression you scolded at me, but since my visual rapture had been so, so high nothing of your scolding did I hear, I only saw your vertiginous lip moving. Aunt Blanquita was behind you, also irritated, she seemed a confidante that backed up your scolding. (Very nebulously I remember my little brother near the darkened stairs, but I’m not sure.)

Despite the tenebrous place and the gloomy and jabbering consorts—that I didn’t hear at all—:

From the hall, level with your bedroom there was a window, from which enthralled I continued to observe my Cathedral, this time from a side…

I stayed speechless before its magnificence… marvelled at such a beauty.

But you continued with your deaf scolding, choleric and making faces.

For an instant, your grimacing distracted me from my ecstatic vision.

For an instant I felt pinked by your senseless scolding.

And in that instant I turned over to talk you back.

 

Then I waked up.

It was night. About three in the morning, the most profound and silent hour of the night.

The ecstasy of my dream’s psychic dimension had been such that once immediately awoke, realising all was but a dream, I craved with all my might to go back to that parallel world and stay there.

It was a sharp drop, the drop from a very high universe to a degraded one. Once you reach the Himalayas of spirit, you don’t want to let them go.

Never my unconscious had reproduced with such an unlikely exactitude the world: it was indistinguishable from the real one. Impossible to believe all was a dream. The bedroom for instance was a trustworthy replica of the white bedroom of my sisters.

It should’ve been about March 1977 when I had the dream of the Cathedral, the moment I reached the peak ecstasy in life. The impression produced in my mind, and the consequences for my real life, are let felt even now.

It’s the most important dream of my entire life: and not even this long epistle will be enough to explain it to you.

_________

Above, the first pages of Whispering Leaves’ first book. Hard copies of this first book in English are now available here (to contextualise it among the other ten books see here). Let me know if, due to the Chinese virus, you have problems with the delivery service.

Categories
Child abuse Hojas Susurrantes (book) Psychiatry Science

How to murder your child’s soul *

* with the help of a psychiatrist

 
In first place, marry a man who super-loves children, someone who’s got grace and charisma with them.

In the second place, you must understand that your child is part of your mind. His thoughts and desires are your private property, part of your heritage. His emergent mentality is a computer and you have the right and duty to program it as you please.

All initiative, natural spontaneity or free will of the child that doesn’t reflect your programming is a symptom of a mental illness, so you must harass him inexorably.

If by reaching puberty your son rebels before your engulfing behaviour, ask help from your husband. Correct him between the two of you. Your husband still has much more physical strength than your son, and if you use your feminine arts to humiliate your son and tease him and your husband giving him tremendous slaps on his little face, much the better. The stronger the super-loving dad hits on his tender heart, the gravest trauma he’ll cause.

The objective is to provoke a bestial confusion of feelings: that the one who showed your son the greatest love as a child is the one who shows him the greatest hate as a teen.

This is the key to murder your child’s soul, and if your husband fails to develop the Jekyll-Hyde syndrome you may not achieve your goals. Remember that nothing undermines more the fragile and developing mind of a teenager who adores his loving dad than these inexplicable changes.

If even with these measures you haven’t reached the inner self of your son to injure it, hire the services of a specialist! A psychiatrist, psychoanalyst or clinical psychologist will do the job.

Your son will go to forced sessions in the Ministry of Love.

Since he’s already mortally wounded by the transformation of his loving dad, you’ll have a golden opportunity precisely in this instant of maxim vulnerability to victimise him again to produce, at last, irreversible psychic injury. If in addition to this you chose a gentleman O’Brien with fame in the media, no one will suspect anything of the drastic step you have taken.

If under treatment in the Ministry of Love your son suffers from panic attacks and develops paranoid delusions (“my mother wants to posses my thoughts”, “my father turns into Mr. Hyde”, “the shrink’s drugs cause akathisia in me”), don’t dare to believe they’re resonances of your splendid education or the medical attack. The therapist will inform you that in no way should parents be blamed for your child’s disorder. On the contrary: the evidence of a biological anomaly in your child is overwhelming. This wise man in doctor’s gown has a Malleus Maleficarum DSM manual where he can easily find the name of his ailment. Once diagnosed, his prescription will be to bombard the brain of the hallucinated bub with the most incisive neuroleptic.

Please make sure he doesn’t get his own way to avoid the chemical lobotomy, lest already grown up he decides to write an autobiography! On the other hand, if your son takes his pills he’ll be left meek as a lamb and he will never be able to say what you, your husband and the therapist did to him.

Then you’ll have once more the adored little child of your dreams, albeit a mentally handicapped one. And remember: you have the Medical Institution, the State and Society itself on your side…
 

______ 卐 ______

 
The parody above is taken from the second chapter of my book. My late sister suffered something similar but she was not the only victim of the family. As I said recently in ‘The eternal feminine’, the details are not to be discussed in this blog. Here I prefer to discuss understandable issues for ‘the eternal masculine’.

It’s a pity that YouTube has deleted a recent video of Richard Spencer that I mentioned in my yesterday comment. Spencer said there that the psychiatrists are over-medicating without being aware, as most of the nationalists do not realise either, that all psychiatric practice is pseudo-scientific.

Although the passage translated above is a dramatisation, when I investigated specific cases of mental disorders I could see that each disturbed individual told stories as horrific as my dramatisation. The model I rely on in my books is simple: major trauma families naturally cause symptoms in children. From the point of view of parsimony, my trauma model contains the least amount of speculative elements.

Psychiatry does exactly the opposite. Unlike neurology that does have biomarkers, psychiatry blames genes or aberrant metabolisms without any proof, as Loren Mosher acknowledged in the bold-typed letters of my yesterday post.

Occam’s razor is the ultimate word in scientific decision-making. It is a rule that has been the cornerstone of the scientific method since it was expressed by William of Occam in the 14th century. It establishes that when we face two or more scientific hypotheses for the same fact, we must adopt the one that contains the least amount of speculative elements. ‘Assumptions should not be multiplied beyond what is necessary’, says Occam’s rule in its current formulation.

Psychiatry violates Occam’s razor. By blaming the body without medical proof, it simply ignores the heartrending testimonies of the victims of enormous abuse at home, as the psychiatrists make their living from what the abusive parents pay them, not their victims.

The English speaker who wants to research mental disorders from the point of view of the trauma model should read John Modrow’s How to Become a Schizophrenic: The Case Against Biological Psychiatry, which contains a long autobiographical section. Incidentally, I used to correspond with Modrow and still have his letters, written in pencil.

Categories
Alice Miller Hojas Susurrantes (book) Psychiatry

Queer generation

Racist folks who have passed away—Robert Mathews, David Lane, Dr. Pierce, Revilo Oliver, Ben Klassen, George Lincoln Rockwell—were tougher than the younger white nationalists of today. They were also far less compromising with the System’s lies than what we see nowadays in the Alt-Right scene. This reminds me an obituary that I wrote on October 16, 2012 and I translate now into English:

Tom Szasz (1920-2012)

I heard that Thomas Szasz died last month, who had a great influence on my thinking while writing the second book of Hojas Susurrantes twelve years ago. After learning about his death I visited YouTube and watched a long lecture by Szasz at his ninetieth birthday.

Although my critical study of psychiatry is now a thing of the past in my life—the race replacement that occurs throughout the West is infinitely more alarming—I had not seen critical material about psychiatry since then. But I used the news about Szasz’s death to watch other anti-psychiatric videos.

I was surprised to discover that Robert Whitaker [not to be confused with the one who coined the mantra], another of the authors mentioned in Hojas Susurrantes, has published a book critical of the profession that became a bestseller. Anatomy of an Epidemic is even influencing the fraudulent profession that we call psychiatry (this is just one of the several didactic videos of Whitaker that I watched following the death of Szasz).

Finally, remembering the trauma model of mental disorders, so central to my Hojas Susurrantes, yesterday, as I continued to refresh myself on the latest news in psychiatry criticism, I saw several interviews with Colin Ross including this one about trauma. (I quote Ross at length in a pivotal chapter in Hojas Susurrantes.)

How interesting was it to learn that it was the elder Szasz the only one in these videos who, at the beginning of the Q&A session, spoke with the right emotional tone—an open and emotional condemnation—that if a child is sent to a psychiatrist, it is because ‘the parents had done something wrong’, not the child!

Ross, on the other hand, the very psychiatrist who coined the term ‘trauma model’ when referring to parents who drive their children mad, spoke sparingly about the parents in the above-linked interview: as if he wanted to soft-pedal his main message, or convey a politically-correct image to a wider audience.

Whitaker, the psychiatry critic with the most momentum because of his bestseller, doesn’t even know that abusive parents are the cause of mental disorders. He even thinks—as orthodox psychiatrists do—that the aetiology of mental distress and disorders ‘could be biological’!

I’ve already said it elsewhere and I’m not afraid to say it again: Psychiatry critics of the first generation of critics, now all dead—Szasz, Lidz, Laing, Miller—were much braver than critics who are still with us—Whitaker, Ross and those scholars who publish in the journal that Breggin founded.

I am writing this post to reassess the critics of the old guard, and especially Szasz, who has left us.

Categories
Autobiography Child abuse Evil Hojas Susurrantes (book) Psychology

Absolute imbecility

I had said in my last post that I would not add new posts this weekend. However, the drama in the neighbouring country of the north for the confirmation of Kavanaugh moves me to say a few words.

My life was destroyed (I was shipwrecked for decades) since my father began to believe from my mother a torrent of lies that she said about me throughout my adolescence. I try to explain why my mother did that in some pages of my two thick autobiographical books. Here I will not go into details, except saying that some parents, who were mistreated as children, become volcanoes of contained rage due to the commandment to honour our parents. Psychic volcanoes explode once these adult children get married, but they explode transferentially: with their own children.

But it was not my mother’s psychosis—a focalised psychosis, like a laser, on her first child—what destroyed me. What destroyed me was the folie à deux of my father with her: who subscribed her delusional system. In his marriage, my father was always a codependent child. When I began to grow up, instead of confronting his wife he found it more comfortable to share her psychosis. And since it was a focalised psychosis of his wife over her eldest son, my father joined her resulting in an amplifying spiral of abuse toward his son who most loved him: a spiral from my fifteenth to my nineteen.

But the story does not end there. My mother requested the services of a witchdoctor to finish destroying me. And when I wanted to ask for help with relatives and friends, nobody wanted to hear my story. ‘If it takes a village to raise a child, it takes a village to abuse one’, is how one character summarises the issues in the film Spotlight, best picture at the 2015 Oscars. But the type of abuse in that film was incomparably less soul-murdering than what my sister and I suffered.

The rage I feel for the treacherous humanity that is so evident in my exterminationist faith is due to such a betrayal that society inflicted on me, but especially my father, because before he let himself be engulfed by his wife’s psychosis, I had been his favourite son. He lambasted, over the years, the son who loved him most simply because, in his codependent fusion, he could not but follow and follow his wife to the end of the world.

When, decades later, I managed to confront him in writing (the first part of Hojas Susurrantes) and especially orally, my father seemed to concede some of his guilt. But the codependent dynamic of a defamatory mother and a gullible father continued to the extent of driving my sister mad, who finally died in 2016. (Whoever wants to get an idea of how my sister was driven mad by parental abuse, read John Modrow’s book that I quoted in this post.)

So when I see the male protesters outside the Supreme Court with placards that you got to believe the women ‘victims’, the absolute imbecility of my codependent father cannot but come to mind for having always believed the paranoia of his crazed woman.

He who does not have the remotest idea of how a family dynamic goes from being dysfunctional to abusive, and from abusive to a spiral of amplifying abuse to the point of murdering a child’s soul, should read Modrow’s book. I think my autobiographical books are better but they have not been translated into English. If you do not have the motivation to even read Modrow’s book, at least take this class from Colin Ross…

Categories
¿Me Ayudarás? (book) Hojas Susurrantes (book) Psychology

Why my books in Spanish are important

Below, my reply to a Gedankenexperiment in a recent thread:

 
No: I think that without Jews it would be far easier to recover sanity. What the Iberians did in the Americas was not due to self-hatred but to greed (Aztec and Inca gold and silver). Nowadays, if all Jews dropped dead things would calm down and, after a while, the most radical voices on our side would start to be heard.
What in my family happened a long time ago, the axis of my two books in Spanish is eerily similar to the whole Jew-white dynamics that happened since remote times: the thesis of Soberana’s essay on Judea versus Rome. Eve provides the poisoned apple and a naïve male swallows it all! The tragedy of my family occurred after my father swallowed my mother’s claims: malicious slander about her children, believing every hysteric word and tantrum that came out from her viper tongue. Instead of putting her a screeching halt, he found more convenient to start sharing her psychosis, becoming the worse offender, and soul-murderer, among the two…
Believe it or not but my autobiography, the analysis of this folie à deux, sheds a good light on the folie that whites suffer today by believing everything that the Jews said in the New Testament or its secular incarnation, cultural Marxism. Without the influence of my mother, my father became miraculously sane: something that my brother observed—a really weird phenomenon to watch! I am sure that without Jews we would witness the same psychological phenomenon: white sanity.
Of course, of my parents, I despise more my late father, as his focalised psychosis on me was not something inherent in his mind: it was imported from my mother’s deranged mind. He could have chosen to listen to me (‘hojas susurrantes’ is a dream I had decades ago while sleeping about dad listening to me). But he chose Evil instead. In the same way, Louis Beam is right by blaming whites for their passivity, and I would say even behaving like Dobermans of their Semite owners, barking and biting poor whites. The eerie phenomenon of such folie à deux persists today and is something that its whys must be investigated.
The question of white vulnerability before Jewish psyops is something rarely studied in white nationalism. I do believe that Soberana’s essay provides a clue; he’s a sort of Sherlock Holmes in historical matters. Some years ago Hunter Wallace changed his penname to ‘Detective Hunter Wallace’ but as a Lutheran he’s no Holmes at all. Nor is MacDonald a good detective, as he has to appease his Christian audience.
In a sense, I disagree with Louis Beam (was he a Xtian preacher?) and Joseph Walsh regarding white passivity. It is my hunch that a white awakening can only happen if the diagnosis of white decline is complete. We only have half of the diagnosis, what I call the purple-pill. If I could convince nationalists that Christian ethics is the poisoned apple, real progress to a general awakening would start to be made. White nationalists are not making a difference in the real world because they still have to complete the analysis of the poison in the apple.

Categories
Alice Miller Child abuse Hojas Susurrantes (book) Literature

Wirsén on Miller’s fans

That the author is secretly smuggling out and reworking, often lying about and numbing, their abusive emotional childhood is something Alice Miller tends to imply when dealing with works of art: a mode of thinking we as her readers easily slip into, isn’t it? That Kafka’s work is basically explainable as an artistic dramatization of a child’s insecurity about his parents’ true agenda, that the vampiric women of Baudelaire’s poems are in fact his emotionally unavailable and seductive mother… —this is still the only opening to Baudelaire’s work I can stand, the only way in which I can read his work with interest.

In this way, artistic work after Alice Miller demands a new openness and consciousness in the producer. We can’t only chew and chew the unworked-through emotions from our childhood and find creative ways of repackaging them, then call it Art. It’s a new game now. All bets are off… Which brings us to the subject of this post: C.T.’s criticism of Dennis Rodie’s novel The Curse of the Third Rate Artist. Discussing this opens the larger subject of the differences in worldview and even temperament between the two writers.

First I must clarify that I think César is a very promising and interesting writer who in his work is attempting to take on very large themes, which are important to me also. As mentioned briefly above, I believe artists working after Alice Miller have a new responsibility to be conscious. To this, I will add the meta-perspective on history developed by Lloyd deMause, which says that the whole of human history, in particular its destructive aspects, is based on childhood abuse.

“The history of childhood is a nightmare from which we have only recently begun to awaken…” begins his most important work. Miller says as much, but not as systematically and not as clearly as to the development that has, despite everything, taken place. Put in this perspective, the emotional abuses and the stressful life situation that Martin Maag, the narrator of Dennis’ novel, was put through was just as destructive as it was, but less destructive and less producing of the kind of howling-at-the-moon stressful psychosis and magical thinking that the childrearing of the European Middle Ages produced.

The criticism of your novel which César wrote in the context of polemics around the subject of Satanic Ritual Abuse elsewhere in this forum must be read in this context. Dennis Rodie’s novel does not have the same meta-perspective as C.T.’s has, something which Mr. Tort from his perspective must see as weaknesses. Since I, myself, am interested in the approach to writing and the expansion of consciousness of which his writing is the physical trace, created for communication that C.T. is developing, I share in part his criticism. Let me, to make writing this post quicker and easier, quote the relevant part from a review-letter I wrote recently to Dennis Rodie after having read his novel The Curse of the Third Rate Artist.

 

______ 卐 ______

 

Editor’s Note: Wirsén’s review of Dennis’ unpublished novel, a novel that by the way I printed and leather-bounded for my personal library, can be read in Dennis’ own forum. Daniel Mackler✡ on the other hand never shared his huge autobiography with anyone.

 

______ 卐 ______

 

Allow me to get personal for a while. For what I intend, and for the kind of writing I myself aim to produce, a perspective the world needs, I think César is a pioneer developing a new sport. His successes are mine, and even his failures will be valuable lessons. The way he dares to be expressively angry is inspiring to me, though for my own part I am unsure of the outcome. Perhaps by temperament (which can’t be helped), perhaps by lack of courage (which, if true, must be conquered) I cannot be that clear about my anger. On the other hand not anger, but sensitivity, seems to be the guiding star of Dennis Rodie’s novel. For me, the jury is still out and César’s, as well as Dennis’ future developments as a human being and an artist will give me the information I need as to whether this is the road I want to pursue.

César’s five-book work Hojas Susurrantes expands from angry letter to mother, through anti-psychiatric tractate to brutally honest (so I’m told, have not taken it on yet) autobiography, over to family history, to the chronicle of the bloody past of his nation into an assessment of the human race and where we are now, which is an expansion in a new direction of deMausian thought: the quick eradication of those who abuse and hurt children, thus stopping humanity from evolving into the best we can be. How César brings this off in his last book will be very exciting indeed to take part off. That much I know. Whether or not and to what degree I will agree is another of those questions where the jury is still out. On the negative part, he might be steering dangerously close to a new motivation for genocide, a new ideological twist on the old Nazi game.

Daniel Mackler, in his writing, seems to imply that there is a lack of what he calls “enlightenment” in C.T.’s exposing of his emotional life and his family’s. That this is unhealthy exhibitionism, and an unfortunate development of a tortured soul, rather than the pearl the clam produces because a grain of sand is torturing, cutting and carving at, its vulnerable pink flesh. To stop the hurt.

I lean toward César’s side in this conflict. I, myself, have ambitions as a major writer and find that, after assimilating the thinking of Alice Miller, works of art that are not intensely personal and honest to be unrewarding. Is Mackler suggesting that we keep our stories to ourselves and sit around healed in a lonely buddhistic state, when instead we could let our stories go out and make changes in the consciousnesses of the real world? As I said, I lean toward Tort’s interpretation, but as always the jury is still out. And I believe even Mackler can’t avoid looking at Tort’s work, like he has before with the psychological case studies or autobiographies—the motivation for writing which he finds emotionally doubtful—; can’t avoid looking at them as at a beautiful car crash, provided as entertainment for the Buddha from others’ flesh and blood. The Buddha floats around in the suffering of the world with a distanced face.

Everything I have written above must be read in the perspective that I found reading the writings of Daniel Mackler, C.T. and Dennis Rodie as a revelation and breathing with the life of a new integrated consciousness, pulsating with a true emotionality, which I have before found in the work of Alice Miller and Lloyd deMause and to which, once I’d tasted it, nothing else compares. This is the reason I care strongly enough about them to read and reflect on them, as well as writing this text.

Andreas

Categories
¿Me Ayudarás? (book) Autobiography Child abuse Eduardo Velasco Friedrich Nietzsche Hojas Susurrantes (book)

Very busy

Christians can think of themselves as anti-Jewish without understanding that they are the ultimate conclusion of Judaism. —Nietzsche

Further to what I said in my February entries ‘La Santa Furia’ and ‘Working’. I am now reviewing the 730 pages of my second and last book, in which I analyse my father as the central figure among those who destroyed my life; besides analysing my mother and other victims of them, like my sister and a cousin. My philosophy of the four words appears in the final section.
What I write in my mother tongue is as important, or more important, than what I write in English. But except for a Swede who became disenchanted with me when he learned about my political ideas, nobody in the world has fully appreciated the work in my native language. And it’s striking that someone who processes, over the decades, the pain of the crime that he was the object as a minor is able to see the world so differently that it would seem the mind of an extraterrestrial.
For example, in recent times a certain Ciaran, the same Irishman who complained about destroying the churches (quoted in an entry linked above), has been sending me copies of his correspondence with Alex Linder and others. Although Ciaran confesses to me that he has suffered a mental disorder, he has not paid attention to me in that the only way to heal is to process the pain. (Something I compare with an oil refinery in the sense that crude oil is the unprocessed early traumas that got to be processed.)
Instead, in his letter to Linder today (electronic copy to me), this traditionalist Christian starts talking about the ‘fact’ that the condemned are burning in hell without even knowing who he’s is sending a copy. (At the end of my first book, Hojas Susurrantes, I recount the unspeakable experiences I suffered in San Rafael, California, for having introjected the doctrine of the eternal damnation of my abusive father.) And today, in my previous entry of the Kriminalgeschichte series, another idiot posts again a comment mentioning such doctrine. (Take into account that of this Dutchman I have been deleting several other comments over the years in which he had written stupid things like, ‘hell is eternal’, ‘my religion’, etc.).
Christians or neo-Christians who believe they are helping their race with their twisted minds are, in fact, contributing to the white race dying. The reason for this is not only guessed in the essay ‘Rome vs. Judea’, but in the Kriminalgeschichte series that I translate little by little.
Little by little I say because, although now I am so busy that I will reduce my work on this site to the minimum until I finish the review of my second book, even after I finish I don’t think I’ll continue to translate the Kriminalgeschichte articles daily, as I did in the past. I will translate them, yes, but in a more spaced way. It is not an issue that attracts much attention because white nationalists believe that Jews, not Christians, are the primary cause of Aryan decline.
For an autobiographer who has processed his traumas inflicted at home, it is incredible the level of dissociation and madness that the movement suffers: a movement that presumes to defend the Aryan race and remains addicted to the millennial Jewish drug. And with this I also mean those English Christians who spoke in a podcast about the article by Hunter Wallace that I mentioned at an entry a couple of days ago. Manu Rodríguez wrote:

We are not ourselves; we cannot speak out as long as we try to speak from that space: the Jewish-Christian-Muslim milieu. Within these traditions we are not ourselves, we disappear.

Like Evropa Soberana, Rodríguez is Spanish. I translated the above quote from the language of Cervantes. Isn’t it funny that this pair of Spanish speakers have a better grasp of how to defend their race than the English speakers of the Alt-Right?

Categories
Autobiography Hojas Susurrantes (book)

HS

After being deplatformed from another press last year, at last my Hojas Susurrantes is back, this time through Amazon Books.
The goal of my autobiographical books: Know thyself! He who knows himself will abandon Judeo-Christianity and may finally remove the virulence of the Semitic malware that destroys the white race.
This photo of me, dated September 1973, appears on page 12 in this 672-page book. Although I opened an Amazon account for this book last year, in fact, the published prologue is from this very month.
HS consists of five sections. Only the fourth section has been translated for Day of Wrath.

Categories
¿Me Ayudarás? (book) Autobiography Hojas Susurrantes (book)

Restructuring my being

Restructuring my life

Restructuring my
literary plans

 
Three weeks ago my only friend was probably killed by another animal. A month ago I had no idea that his death would break my life in two.

Although I have not written anything on the forums of those who have suffered the loss of a pet, I am greatly impressed that some of them confessed, in those forums, identical feelings to mine. I could not believe reading some testimonies: they seemed perfect clones of the agonies of my being…!

The death of Conejito affected me so much that I have abandoned the writing of De san Francisco a Himmler, of which I only wrote half a hundred pages. That was going to be a huge book that would cover, among other subjects, a more detailed denunciation of the family system from my adolescence to my fifties.

By definitively abandoning De san Francisco I find myself writing only a slim book, the tenth of an autobiographical series, which will culminate the other nine that I had written:

Carta a mamá Medusa
Cómo asesinar el alma de tu hijo
Mi infancia
El retorno de Quetzalcóatl
Hojas susurrantes
La muerte de papá
Corina
Madre
Leonora
Mi conejito

Instead of the work of years that was going to represent the very ambitious De san Francisco, once I finish the last one from the above list I could begin to translate them, starting with the first. But as the regulars of this blog know, a selection of chapters of those books has already been translated into English: Day of Wrath.

Categories
Carl Gustav Jung God Hojas Susurrantes (book)

My tree

my_tree

Excerpted from Man and His Symbols,
an introductory book about the Carl Jung theory:



The psyche can be compared to a sphere [see illustration: here] with a bright field (A) on its surface, representing consciousness. The ego is the field’s center (only if “I” know a thing is it conscious). The Self is at once the nucleus and the whole sphere (B); its internal regulating processes produce dreams.

Since this psychic growth cannot be brought about by a conscious effort of will power, but happen involuntarily and naturally, it is in dreams frequently symbolized by the tree, whose slow, powerful, involuntary growth fulfills a definite pattern.

The organizing center from which the regulatory effect stems seems to be a sort of “nuclear atom” in our psychic system. One could also call it the inventor, organizer, and source of dream images. Jung called this center the “Self” and described it as the totality of the whole psyche, in order to distinguish it from the “ego,” which constitutes only a small part of the total psyche.

Throughout the ages men have been intuitively aware of the existence of such an inner center. The Greeks called it man’s inner daimon; in Egypt it was expressed by the concept of the Ba-soul; and the Romans worshiped it as the “genius” native to each individual.

The Self can be defined as an inner guiding factor that is different from the conscious personality and that can be grasped only through the investigation of one’s own dreams. These show it to be the regulating center that brings about a constant extension and maturing of the personality. But this larger, more nearly total aspect of the psyche appears first as merely an inborn personality. It may emerge very slightly, or it may develop relatively complete during one’s lifetime. How far it develops depends on whether or not the ego is willing to listen to the messages of the Self.

The individuation process is more than a coming to terms between the inborn germ of wholeness and the outer acts of fate. Its subjective experience conveys the feeling that some supra-personal force is actively interfering in a creative way. One sometimes feels that the unconscious is leading the way in accordance with a secret design. (pp. 161-162).

This relation of the Self to all surrounding nature and even the cosmos probably comes from the fact that the “nuclear atom” of our psyche is somehow woven into the whole world, both outer and inner. In ways that are still completely beyond our comprehension, our unconscious is similarly attuned to our surroundings—to our group, to society in general, and, beyond these, to the space-time continuum and the whole of nature. Indeed, many of our dreams are concerned with details of our outer life and our surroundings. Such things as the tree in front of the window… (pp. 207-208)

 
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Editor’s note:

My home garden’s tree I used to watch from my bedroom’s window as a child and teenager gave the title to my Hojas Susurrantes.