General Order Number Four:
“No Jew or other non-white person, no homosexual, and no white person engaged in interracial sexual activity shall reside within the boundaries of the Northwest American Republic, or within any area of NVA operations. NVA field commanders shall deal with violators of this General Order at their discretion…”
For the context of General Order #4 see here; for obtaining a copy of the book or joining the Northwest Front, visit the webpage (see first comment below).
“Sharkbait”
Kicky never knew ahead of time what she would be doing on a mission. The first few times out, there were no actual homicides committed. There were more punishment beatings of white liberals or people who had otherwise contrived to annoy the NVA [Northwest Volunteer Army], similar to the Lake Oswego job. Kicky marveled at the amount of time and effort put into the advance preparation of such relatively minor operations.
There were other missions besides punishment beatings. The actions of the rural NVA units such as Zack Hatfield’s D Company, whose flamboyant attacks had generated for them the media nickname “the Wild Bunch,” had successfully driven most of the Mexicans and the few blacks out of large portions of the Northwest hinterland in Washington, Oregon, Idaho, Montana and British Columbia. Many of the mestizos didn’t stop running until they got to California, but some only ran as far as the big cities, and so temporarily at least there was actually a slight increase in the number of non-whites in Portland suburbs such as Hillsboro, McMinnville, and North Portland. The urban teams of the Portland brigades then took over the task of persuading them to váyanse from the Northwest as a whole, permanently. At least half of Kicky’s tickles involved burning out or blowing up various Mexican hangouts, with or without the Mexicans inside, or else businesses known to employ illegals, including a construction site, a warehouse on the river front, and a commercial laundry owned by Jews and run by a Chinese straw boss with illegal coolie labor. These missions involved the approach to the target, one scouting tour through the area looking for potential problems, and then covering down and preventing interference while Fred and other volunteers hurled incendiaries through windows.
Kicky read the words from the sheet in a steady voice: “At 2035 hours tonight, elements of C Company, First Portland Brigade, Northwest Volunteer Army carried out a General Order Number Four enforcement action directed against the Blue Lagoon Lounge on 82nd Avenue in Portland, a known resort of drug dealers, transvestites, and non-whites posing a clear and present danger to the white community. A vehicle containing two hundred pounds of explosives was parked in front of the main entrance and detonated, destroying the building and everyone inside it completely. All sexual deviates, Jews and other non-whites are reminded that Army General Order Number Four prohibits their presence anywhere in the Homeland, and if found within any NVA command’s area of operation they are liable to immediate termination as military targets. End communication.”
“Wait!” squealed the woman. “Let me get a pen. What did you …?” Kicky closed the phone and handed it back to Ace. “Uh, comrade, looks like this script was printed earlier today, before the bomb could have even gone off,” she inquired, handing it back to him as well. “How could you know beforehand that everything I just said would happen according to plan?”
“It did. That was the confirmation call I got just now,” said Ace. “As to how we knew beforehand, the Red Baron never misses.”
“Red Baron?” asked Kicky.
“Best car bomb maker in the NVA,” said Ace proudly. “He not only makes ’em, he drives his own work. Maybe you’ll meet him one day.” A moment later, Kicky felt her own cellphone at her side vibrate. She guessed that Lainie Martínez was having an orgasm at the thought of getting close to a major NVA explosives expert, and was sending her a hint that she was to pursue the subject, which she ignored.
“Things That Go Boom In The Night”
“The NVA [Northwest Volunteer Army] uses explosives in three basic situations. First off, when there is an economic or strategic or propaganda-related target that has to be physically destroyed, sometimes loudly and visibly in order to set an example.
The second instance in which we use bombing is against enemy armor and fortifications, like when we toss these primitive rockets and mortar shells here over the Bremer walls (*) and razor wire and give Daddy a kiss. This is where the good old IED or Improvised Explosive Device, otherwise known as the Baghdad Banger, comes into its own. Like some other NVA guys who are vets, I have the unusual experience of having been on both ends of an IED, and between the Muslims and ourselves, we have refined them down to an art form. Through the use of IEDs we make enemy troop movements dangerous and difficult to plan and execute, and in some areas of the Northwest, we have succeeded in more or less driving the police and the military off the highways completely, forcing them to fall back on helicopters. If we ever succeed in obtaining any shoulder-fired missiles or some other way to bring those birds down, Uncle Slime is going to be really fucked. I imagine that some of you guys are already familiar with the third way in which the NVA uses explosives. Anyone?”
“Booby-traps!” said Annette.
“You got it,” confirmed Pascarella. “Whenever it is physically possible, the NVA always booby-traps the scene of an operation before un-assing the area. Pascarella chuckled. “Okay, now, as to the practical aspect of assembling and detonating ordnance. Every explosive device consists of three basic components. There is the main charge, the dynamite or Semtex or whatever will provide the main blast. The key to blowing the enemy into smithereens and not yourselves is simple: you keep these three components disconnected until the last possible minute.
“The champagne of all insurrectionary explosives is still Semtex, which is now manufactured in a dozen countries as well as the Czech Republic where it was invented,” the lieutenant continued. Semtex is the charge of choice for big jobs when we can lay hands on it. It’s just about the most potent stuff available for our purposes. A pound of it can take down a good-sized house, a briefcase full can decapitate an office building, and in the rare cases where we want to go that distance, a car trunk full of Semtex can send an entire city block to the moon. Gelignite, jellied nitroglycerine, is actually a bit more powerful, but it’s not manufactured anymore and like I mentioned, the bathtub variety is dangerous to work with.”
“How about C-4, sir?” asked Eric Sellars.
“We do still get hold of some, but it’s actually a lot easier and simpler and more cost effective for us to load up on dynamite and TNT. Now—delivery. This is where you guys come in.”
The young Volunteers leaned forward. “There are car and truck bombs, of course,” Pascarella told them. “Sometimes that’s the only way. We do not want the streets of Northwest cities turned into Baghdad or the Gaza Strip. Our sharp-eyed lads in the sniper companies inflict more physical and psychological harm on the enemy than a hundred carbombs could do, and they do it surgically and with a panache that excites admiration among whites, not fear and loathing.
“Most bombing is specifically targeted against indoor installations, the object being to slip inside their defensive perimeters and hit them where they think they’re safe. Have any of you been asked to deliver a package yet?”
“I have,” said Kicky. “It was my first solo tickle. That faggot bookstore and sex shop downtown with the big cartoon character sign, Homer Erotica. The Red Baron himself made up my package. I was given a fake student ID, and I brought in a shoulder bag full of books on the poems of Sappho and the Joy of Lesbian Sex and all that crap. Each book was cut out, and it had a stick or two of dynamite inside.”
“Good job, comrade, and a typical day’s work for our parcel post,” responded Pascarella with a nod, impressed. “It is entirely likely that you other three will at one stage or other be asked to deliver a package. There is no mission in the Army that requires more courage, more cool-headedness, and more just plain balls, as well as the ability to think on your feet and be a better actor or actress than anyone in Hollywood, which this classy lady here seems to have. Each one of these missions is unique, and I can’t really prepare you for them except to say that you will be given full training in everything you are to carry, its risks and how to handle and use it.”
_______________
(*) Bremer Wall—Heavy concrete berm, portable and lowered into place by a crane, used by the Americans to fortify police stations, FATPO (Federal Anti-Terrorist Police Organization) barracks, Green Zones (federal headquarters), etc. Also used extensively by American occupation forces in conquered Middle Eastern countries.
Chechar’s note:
Just compare Covington’s views about homosexualism to Counter Currents’ constant promotion of an author that likes to post images like this one… and demand tolerance from the pro-white community!
“Setting The Scene”
On the day before the Oscars, for the first time, Task Force Director’s Cut was all gathered in one place, a large private home with a green lawn and hissing sprinklers on 20th Street in Santa Monica. It was very risky, and some of the crew were on sentry duty and would be briefed later by their team leaders, but this was the most important operation that the Northwest Volunteer Army had undertaken to date.
“I’ll run the operation down for you from beginning to end,” said Hill. “Hit the lights please, somebody.” The lights dimmed and one overhead projector cast a floor plan of the Kodak Theater onto the wall, while a second showed the plan of the Hollywood Royale hotel. “The actual infiltration of the theater and the assault will be carried out by seven personnel. Red fire team will consist of Volunteers Lockhart, Wingo, and McGee. Gold team will consist of Volunteers Kolchak, Gauss, and Washburn. As always, comrades, the gods favor us. I’ve noticed that happens a lot since we decided to quit running around street corners holding signs and wearing silly costumes, and took up the gun.”
“Amen,” spoke up one of the Volunteers.
“We want a Mad Minute of Shock and Awe,” said Hill. “The maddest ever, because remember, this is going to be on live nationwide TV. Cat, you and Ron will both fire twenty well-aimed rounds apiece, and remember, after those two initial faggots for camera effect, you’re going for the Burger Kings, the Big Kikes. The grenadiers will throw both their grenades, one each as soon as the firing begins, and a second after approximately thirty seconds. They will also open fire on full automatic, into what will almost certainly be a screaming vortex of sheer madness, concentrating on the VIP circle in front of the orchestra pit. There will be no innocent parties down there. Anyone who rates a seat in that section is Hollywood up to their eyeballs, and guilty as sin. Ideally not one glitterati pig or bitch who sits down at one of those little Parisian café tables to pose for us unwashed masses in all their haute couture glory should make it out of that theater alive. But especially not Jews. Bear in mind what all this is in aid of, comrades.
Hollywood is possibly the greatest weapon the Jews have against our race, maybe even more powerful and dangerous in some ways than their control of the federal government and of international banking. Hollywood is the biggest leg of that unholy tripod, and we have to knock it out from under them.”
Chechar’s note:
Just compare Covington’s views about Hollywood to Greg Johnson’s opposite views and leave a comment: either below, or in a recent thread.
“ Must-See TV”
“No matter what happens to us, tonight or from now on, we have written indelibly into the history books that at least some white men finally revolted after a century of oppression and insult, and that our race did not go gentle into that good night. We’ve shattered so many politically correct myths over the past two years I can’t even count’em. And I’ll tell you this much, Erica. We may not have the power to remake the world in our image, or even to grab back the small part of it we’re demanding of these bastards. But we can make bloody well sure they can’t create their Brave New World either, with no race, no culture, no God, no identity, nothing to live and die for except bloody money and mindless recreation. If it can’t be the white man’s world ever again, by God, it will never belong to the Jews!” He saw she was looking at him strangely. “Sorry. Got up on me soapbox there for a bit.”
“No, I’m riveted, actually,” she said earnestly. “Look, Mr. Dundee, or Mick, or whatever your name really is, I have to admit, all this is a bit freaky for me, but not in a bad way. I was listening to you just then, and all of a sudden it hit me that in all my life, I’ve never known a man, a real man, of my own race.”
“What about Chase?” he asked her.
“Chase was kind, and gentle, and supportive, and creative, and funny, and a great kisser, among other things.”
“Those aren’t at all bad qualities for a man to have, you know,” Randall reminded her gently. “Sounds to me like you could have done a lot worse.”
“Yes, I know, but that’s all he was,” said Erica. “It’s like that with so many otherwise fine white males today. It’s like half of them is missing. The hard half, the strong half, that once led our race to conquer almost all the world, to make the world the way it is today. The strength, the courage, the ruggedness, the will to power and to overcome obstacles that our people once had is gone now.”
“The Old Man calls it the alpha gene,” said Randall.
“Yeah, well, it seems to have gone missing in white males these days. It’s like we’ve just given up and accepted our own end.”
♣
“I’m in place,” he told the rest of them.
In the Hollywood Royale’s Suite 1401, Cat-Eyes Lockhart said, “We’re on our way,” and slipped the radio into his back pocket. “Right, let’s go.” The six Volunteers left the suite, all wearing identical black and white tuxedos and wearing festive costume party masks, each lugging a heavy canvas gym bag.
“We’re set,” he told Randall in a tense voice.
Cat took up a position on the right side of the projector, and Kicky to the left. Cat took out an extra 20-round magazine for his M-21, containing normal copper-jacketed rounds, and checked to make sure that the magazine in his weapon indeed contained the special exploding lead bullets. There was a delay of ten seconds or so, which seemed very long, and then he heard Kolchak’s voice say, “Gold Team set.”
“Red Team Leader, fire at will,” came Randall’s voice.
On stage the pudgy Martin Rudin and the tall, slim mulatto Nat Turner Thomas, elegant in their tuxedos, approached the podium, hand in hand. They each embraced a smiling Erica and gave her a kiss on the cheek as she handed them the gold Oscar statuette. Marty Rudin began to speak. “It’s no secret that The Color of Love is largely autobiographical, the story of how my beloved partner Nat and myself were able to overcome a racist society’s hurdles, not just one, but the triple prejudices of racism, anti-Semitism, and homophobia…”
“Nat, I couldn’t have done it without you,” blubbered an overcome Rudin down on the stage. “I couldn’t have done any of it without you.” The two men leaned over and gave each other a long, tongue-slurping French kiss. There was a sigh of “Awwww…” and a scattering of applause from the audience.
The two kissing men’s heads exploded like watermelons, a single bullet virtually decapitating both of them. Erica Collingwood’s mouth opened in a single long scream of pure terror, a scream heard around the world and immortalized for all time. She seemed to faint and dropped to the floor. Then all hell broke loose.
The Kodak Theater was originally designed as an operatic and concert house, and the acoustics were widely and justly acclaimed to be the best in the world, second only to the Sydney Opera House. The ribbed and shaped steel bands running from floor to high domed ceiling along the oval walls could magnify and reverberate the sound of a coin being dropped on stage.
The noise that filled the theater now passed any description that might convey the reality of it to anyone who was not there. The subsequent millions of replays of the videos from all angles were filled with the madness and the terror and the death and the blood, but could never adequately convey the sound of the gunfire that roared down from the sky, rolling in waves from the ceiling and the walls. One survivor described it as being “trapped inside an endless clap of thunder.” The first grenades flew down from the projection booths, bounced and rolled along the floor, then detonated and hurtled fragments of wood and metal from chairs and tables, and human body parts. Several people were blown into the air, whirling like rag dolls in a tornado. Men and women screamed and scrambled and ran and hid, trampled and fought one another to get to the exits while a rain of death poured among them, rifle and submachine-gun fire, cutting them down and sending them flopping and gushing blood down to the floor.
After maybe ten seconds, Kicky and Cat heard pops from the theater floor and heard the slap of pistol bullets slamming into the wall around the projection booth. The security guards, the bodyguards, and the cops were firing back at them. One bullet shattered the lens of the projector, showering them with powdered glass. A second clanged into the metal body of the projector and rang deafeningly. “The bells, the bells!” moaned Lockhart in a Hunchback of Notre Dame imitation, grinning maniacally at Kicky, who screamed with adrenalin-fueled laughter, blazing away with her submachine gun. Still firing, Cat yelled “Grenade!” and Kicky threw her second one, then returned to spraying bullets at anything that moved, slapping empty magazines out onto the floor and full ones into the weapon. The grenade exploded with a whump that made the building shake, and maybe five seconds later the fourth grenade from the other projection booth detonated as well.
In one way it was an endless time, and in another way it was but the flash of a moment until Cat ripped the empty magazine out of his M-21, slapped in the next one, and laid it on the bullet-scarred ledge, and yelled, “That’s twenty rounds, and we’re outta here!” Kolchak and Washburn were still firing into the shrieking, undulating mass of bodies down in the theater. Out in the corridor, heavy-set Jewish men, some in yarmulkes, all in tuxedos, had come charging out the doors of the private boxes dragging women in expensive gowns, mostly young and blonde, as they tried to escape. Jimmy Wingowas waiting for them, crouching behind the corner of the entranceway, and with short, well aimed bursts he cut them all down. Not one made it to the stairs. Cat and Kicky came out of the projection room. “Let me go first,” said Wingo, and they pelted down the corridor after him. Just as they reached the stairwell the door opened and a Centurion guard popped out, pistol in his hand. Wingo chopped him down with the AK. A bullet screamed by them and slapped into the wall. Kicky turned and blazed away with the HK at a couple of guards who were stumbling along the corridor behind them, hitting one of them and dropping him. The other turned and fled. They crashed down the stairs and Wingo machine gunned another Centurion guard who was on his way up.
A woman screamed as the Volunteers came out of the stairwell in their ski masks. Wingo spotted a Mexican security guard and splattered him against the wall with a burst of the Kalashnikov.
♣
The day after the Oscar Night Massacre, the following casualty list appeared on the front page of a black-bordered edition of the Los Angeles Times. In addition to the dead listed here, over two hundred people were wounded by bullets and flying shrapnel, and also from being trampled in the stampede to escape. The L.A. Times list was subsequently posted to the internet on a satiric Web site called insidetinseltown.com, with certain pointed and irreverent commentary added. The day after it was posted, the site was shut down and the webmaster arrested under the Patriot Act. He has never been seen since. But this did not occur before the site was mirrored all across the World Wide Web:
Adelstein, Jeremy (34)—Jewish. Scriptwriter for six major television sitcoms on two networks. Faked mental illness to evade draft.
Adler, Allen (41)—Jewish. Senior vice president in charge of marketing, Paradigm Studios. Gothis start making porno in Mexico.
Baylor, Amber (30)—White. Nominated for Best Supporting Actress for portrayal of tough female FBI agent hunting evil white racists in the Pacific Northwest. Married to Israeli independent producer and director Avrohom Stern.
Bernstein, Arthur (45)—Jewish. Prominent director, recipient of two Lifetime Achievement Academy Awards and two Best Directors. Slated to direct Great White North for World Artists. Indicted for insurance fraud and tax evasion. Charges dropped.
Borenstein, Albert (50)—Jewish. Senior Vice President In Charge of Production, World Artists. Several complaints of physical and sexual abuse by multiple wives dropped through unknown influence.
Cochran, Mark (44)—White. Married, no children. Nominee for Best Special Effects for The Return of the Zoid.
Cohen, Harry (23)—Jewish. Actor. Star of television sitcom The Rabbi and Me wherein Cohen plays feckless high school kid who solves mysteries with the help of a wise old rabbi, crimes that always originate with evil white racists or Muslims. Charges of obtaining a false medical exemption from the draft dropped, influence of Sid Glick.
Cohen, Todd (36)—Jewish. Casting director, Paradigm Studios. Subject of repeated sexual harassment suits from aspiring actresses and studio employees.
Colbert, Kaneisha (24)—Mulatto. Actress. Nominated for Best Supporting Actress for her role as a Strong Womyn African-American freedom fighter in the epic Southern anti-slavery movie Eagleton Plantation, for which she had already received the Best Actress award from the Black Film Actors’ Guild. Ms. Colbert was not shot, but trampled to death by her fellow glitterati trying to escape.
Concasseur, Ti-Jean (35)—Black. Centurion security officer. Former UN-trained Haitian police officer, former Port-au-Prince gangster and enforcer for outlawed Lavalas party.
Daniels, Ray (42)—White. Actor. Nominated for Best Actor for Let’s Go Home, wherein Vietnam vet returns to reunite with his Saigon bar-girl lover and his mixed-race child and fights against the Communists and then wicked racist American immigration law to bring them into the United States.
Dickstein, Morris (39)—Jewish. Golden Globe award-winning actor and stand-up comedian. Chairman of the Hollywood-Israel Friendship Society.
Fiegenbaum, Yossele (70)—Jewish. President, MGM Studios. Member of Anti-Defamation League’s national Board of Directors.
Franken, Andrea (38)—Jewish. Co-scriptwriter for Great White North.
Galvez, Ramon (28)—Hispanic. Centurion security officer.
Ganz, Allen (32)—Jewish. Head of script department at FoxFlix Productions.
Gelblum, Emmanuel (54) –Jewish. Chairman of the Board of Directors of World Artists Studios. Approved recent project Great White North. Son heroin addict. Gelblum was a shochet, a kosher slaughter man, not out of religious obligation but because he simply enjoyed killing animals.
Glick, Shlomo (53)—Jewish. Head of Mammoth Productions. Scheduled producer of Homeland.
Glick, Sidney (58)—Jewish. President, Paradigm Studios. Known as “Mr. Hollywood,” Glickwas renowned as the most powerful Jew in the motion picture industry since Louis B. Mayer’s time. Driving force behind Homeland project.
Goldblum, Ari (56)—Jewish. Israeli-born head of largest talent agency in Hollywood. Famed as first Hollywood manager actually to write a casting couch clause for actresses into his contracts, known as the “personal services” clause.
Goldblume, Jerry (42)—Jewish. Actor-director. Arrests for rape and stock fraud, all suppressed through the influence of Sid Glick.
Goram, Rafi (31)—Jewish. Bodyguard to Sid Glick. Ex-Israeli Mossad. Goram was wanted by the United Nations War Crimes Committee for the murder of over 100 elderly Palestinians in a nursing home burned to the ground during an Israeli army incursion into Ramallah.
Greenwood, Michelle (25)—White. “Aspiring actress” actually employed by escort service, accompanying Saul Steinberg of Twenty-First Century Fox to ceremonies that night.
Gunderson, Robert (43)—White. Bodyguard to Sid Glick. Former FBI agent. Dismissed from Bureau for selling information to Colombian drug lords.
Gutierrez, Pablo (32)—Hispanic. Hotel Royale control room guard.
Halter, Yossi (34)—Jewish. Just appointed youngest studio Vice President in history at Mammoth Productions. Reputedly blackmailed entire board of directors with six months’ worth of secret surveillance tapes of their assorted sexual and financial peccadilloes. “This young man will go far,” said Mammoth on announcing his appointment in the media.
Hirschfield, Albert (50)—Jewish. Editor of Variety Online.
Horowitz, Joshua (30)—Jewish. Script writer for Great White North. Had bribery arrangement with California Department of Corrections wherein he was occasionally admitted to correctional institutions and left alone with “white supremacist” inmates who were handcuffed and restrained, and allowed to beat them with a baton. It is not known whether he was ever allowed to flagellate his co-writer Andrea Franken (see above).
Hudson, Mary Anne (27)—White. “Aspiring actress” actually employed by escort agency. Accompanied Irving Kirschbaum to the ceremonies that night.
Jones, Lamont (29)—Black. Bodyguard to Yossele Fiegenbaum. Karate black belt, ex-Marine Corps. Cocaine addict.
Katz, David (52)—Jewish. Director and independent producer. Producer of Great White North. Two counts of rape dismissed through influence of persons unknown.
Kirschbaum, Irving (58)—Jewish. Producer of over seventy major motion pictures, including four Academy Awards for Best Picture and one personally for Lifetime Achievement.
Kirschner, Marion (56)—Jewish. Specialized in wise and salty Jewish mother roles, including her latest television series where she portrayed a wise-cracking Yiddishe mama who was also a federal judge, sentencing evil white racists and Muslims to prison every week. Found dead at her VIP table, face down in a bowl of her own trademark chicken soup.
Landauer, Hyman (49)—Jewish. Senior Vice President in charge of Production, World Artists studios, in charge of proposed film Great White North. Arrested in legal Nevada brothel. No charges filed.
Mandel, Peter (75)—Jewish. President of Global Studios. A raging sex maniac who once engaged in coitus with two dozen aspiring starlets in one twenty-four hour period to win a bet, one per hour, after which he fired them all and had them hounded out of town by the LAPD because “Nobody nails my leftovers.”
Martinez, Rafael (26)—Hispanic. Centurion security officer.
Nussbaum, Philip (48)—Jewish. Producer and director, mostly for Paradigm. Killed three members of the Riordan family of San Diego, including two children, while driving the wrong way up an exit ramp on Interstate Five at eighty miles an hour in his Maserati, with a blood alcohol level of .16. Charges reduced to straight DUI, license suspended for ninety days.
Padilla, Juan (30)—Hispanic. Centurion security officer.
Pechter, Rabbi Leo (48)—Jewish. Southern California regional director, Anti-Defamation League of B’nai B’rith. Served as interrogator in U.S. Army, investigated by JAG for torture of Arab prisoners going even beyond the Dershowitz Protocols, quietly discharged, and immediately employed by ADL.
Ratner, Lew (54)—Jewish. “Attorney to the Stars.” Main legal troubleshooter for Hollywood establishment under Generalissimo Sid Glick. Fowler was nominated for this year’s awards as Best Supporting Actor for Blood on the Basket.
Robertson, Frederick (40)—White. Centurion security officer. Married, two children.
Rodriguez, Manuel (22)—Hispanic. Centurion security officer.
Rosenberg, Abe (45)—Jewish. Senior in-house legal counsel to Paradigm Studios. Found with almost a full gigabyte of child pornography on his company computer and a whole secret viewing room full of such material in his Carmel, California home. No charges filed.
Rubinstein, Jennifer (40)—Jewish. Gossip columnist and reviewer for Variety. Alleged to have driven actresses Jenny Kraft and Mila Bellarov to suicide after ruining their careers.
Rudin, Marty (36)—Jewish. Homosexual. Joint winner of Best Screenplay award for The Color of Love.
Salazar, Ramon (27)—Hispanic. Centurion security officer.
Shmulevitz, Rabbi Samuel (62)—Jewish. Director of the Simon Wiesenthal Center in Los Angeles. Personal friend of Hillary Clinton.
Stanford, Jenna (26)—White. Actress. Star of several interracial films including a Mafia version of Othello, the consensual incest movie Brother Beloved wherein a teenaged Stanford seduces her ten year-old brother, as well as engaging in one of the grottiest lesbian scenes ever filmed during the movie version of Sappho.
Steinberg, Saul (59)—Jewish. Executive vice president, Twenty-First Century Fox. Known associate of organized crime figures, suspected of money laundering, reputed to be unofficial Mossad station chief for Hollywood.
Steinfeld, Bert (43)—Jewish. Actor. Specialized in macho martial arts roles beating up on Arabs, Nazis, Frenchmen, and other villainous characters. Rifle bullet entered anus while he was crawling on floor and exited his brain.
Stern, Avrohom (63)—Jewish. Israeli independent director and producer. Imported over ten thousand black Africans from Guinea-Bissau and Senegal into Florida to use as extras for an African war movie he was making. Movie lost financing, and so Stern simply opened the compound one morning and turned the Africans loose, resulting in several dozen murders and over two hundred rapes of local residents, as well as over a thousand separate lawsuits, all of which were dismissed due to unknown influence.
Thomas, Nathan Turner (31)—Black. Homosexual. Joint winner of Best Screenplay award for The Color of Love.
Tostigsdottir, Ingrid (21)—White. Icelandic supermodel, escorting Hyman Landauer to the Oscar ceremonies.
Washington, Bo-Bo (47)—Black. Centurion security officer.
Weinberg, Bruce (54)—President, Star Crown Motion Pictures, Inc. Investigated by the SEC for securities fraud and by the DEA for allegedly arranging “in-house” narcotics supplies to his actors and executives, and collecting cut of the profits. No charges filed.
Weinstein, Abe (60)—Jewish. Senior vice president for Finance for Universe Studios. Investigated for “creatively financing” many films with laundered drug money and for statutory rape of a minor. No charges filed.
Woltz, Louis (70)—Jewish. CEO of Excelsior Studios. Multi-millionaire. In his younger days as an agent he was charged with embezzling clients’ money, mail fraud, drug trafficking, and suspicion of murder when actress Jill Considine died under mysterious circumstances in her home just after filing a multi-million dollar lawsuit against Woltz to recover money he stole from her over a five-year period.
I had posted this entry on February 5 but want to repost it so that it may be read along with my previous entry on Nietzsche’s very traditional views about what used to be our most sacred institution before Western man committed racial suicide: Marriage.
The subject of the virtual abolition of Marriage is, to my mind, more important than the Jewish question. Those who want to know why are advised to print Roger Devlin’s article “Sexual Utopia in Power” and study it carefully.
♣
During pre-Christian times Nordics began emigrating in wave after wave heading south. The original Romans, themselves the descendants of one of these waves, would later refer to the German-Scandinavian area as vagina gentium, the womb of white nations. Also, the land which ultimately comprised Russia ought to be hugely significant for white nationalists because it included the Caucasus area, the original source of the “Indo-European” (Caucasian) peoples.
What pained me the most while reading both William Pierce and Arthur Kemp’s stories of the white race is that Europe’s vagina was closed and raped into the Asiatic gene pool in the course of the Asiatic invasions. After those interminable invasions that lasted centuries the Caucasus area ceased to be the womb of the Nordish peoples. “It was perhaps the single most important racial genocide in history” wrote Kemp.
The aggressor was external of course. But during my lifespan I have witnessed the destruction of whites by whites themselves on a scale no seen since the Mongolian invasions. With reproduction levels below the minimum relacement of 2.1 per family, we, not the Huns or Genghis Khan’s hordes, have closed the womb through the so-called sexual liberation movement, feminism, the pill, the legalization of abortion, the empowerment of women, mixed marriages, and the destigmatization of lesbianism and male homosexuality.
It is my hope that, after the dollar crashes and Western society falls into utter chaos—and, thanks to the laws of social entropy, ethno-states are formed at both sides of the Atlantic—, Roger Devlin’s dream to reinstitute heterosexual marriage will become reality.
If our civilization is under the grip of liberal mores, especially the belief that non-discrimination on race and gender is the highest moral value, when values are transvaluated back to Austen mores our women will be having six or more kids.
If whites are to survive as a people the vagina gentium must be reopened, whether our spoiled women like it or not…
After James O’Meara told me at The Occidental Observer that “Only the Jews have demonized all forms of male affection” I responded:
So what’s your model society?
Yesterday I watched Pride and Prejudice (the 1995 TV series) and experienced great emotion at the very end during the double marriage of Elizabeth Bennet with Mr Darcy and Jane Bennet with Mr Bingley.
That’s the world I would aspire to live in after the vindictive Day of the Rope and a brief interregnum of Lycanthropes chasing over the naughty feminists turned now into Sabine women in order to found large families. Once the violence is all over after the racial wars the Austen world makes sense in a future ethnostate, except that instead of Christianity we might have something like Nazi Aryanism as the cement for holy heterosexual marriage (as holy as the Austen series I saw yesterday; yes, traditional family values).
You propose the Athens model of Pericles? Not Spartans, who unlike the Athenians did not commit the mortal sin of mongrelization? What do you propose exactly? (The Burroughs novel you use in your blog depicts an altogether violent and degenerate, non-Athenian homo world that would be easy prey for the enemies of the white ethnostate.)
While posting this entry I’m still awaiting a response to the above. Meanwhile, this is what I responded to Lew at VNN Forum about a month ago:
I said…
I agree that the level of some criticism in this thread is 7th grade. However, why doesn’t Greg Johnson allow at Counter Currents a much more discrete criticism of the homo agenda he’s promoting by publishing James’ book? Why doesn’t he say a real word, not the evasive way he dismissed my point (“strawman”), about the problems presented in my linked article, “On classic pederasty”?
Lew said…
If a particular white male homosexual is not interested in pushing the modern gay agenda, supports traditional man / woman marriage as the societal ideal, and is willing to work for society and the collective good, what possible harm could he cause?
I said…
But there’s the rub. James O’Meara doesn’t seem to support traditional marriage (he recently published an article at Counter Currents critical of 1950s family values). Instead, he theorizes that real western families must be a kind of pagan homophiliacs.
Greg Johnson said…
James O’Meara’s startling thesis is that the male groups that create and sustain civilization have been destroyed not just with the hammer of feminism but also on the anvil of “homophobia.” For today, any all-male group is stigmatized as “homoerotic” (usually by the same people who want to normalize homosexuality). Thus, to exorcise the specter of homosexuality, male groups have been pressured to accept female members. Merely excluding actual homosexuals is not enough, because the problem is the mere possibility of homosexuality in groups of men who live, work, and fight together. Thus O’Meara points to the conclusion that the only way to maintain all-male institutions is to de-stigmatize homosexuality.
Of course this is a non-starter for the conservatives who posture as defenders of Western civilization, because there is something they want to conserve even more: Judeo-Christian “family values,” including homophobia. Thus O’Meara argues that the homophobic conservative “family values” agenda actually undermines the foundations of Western civilization. As an alternative, O’Meara urges us to look to the other West, the real West, the West before it was conquered by a Near Eastern religion, namely the pagan West, for a model of civilization that managed to integrate all-male institutions with family life, due in part to more fluid conceptions of sexual identity and tolerant attitudes toward same-sex attractions.
I said…
The above sentence demonstrates that Greg was wrong when claiming that my piece [“Gitone’s magic”] was “so off the mark, such a straw man argument” because it’s James himself who’s placing “the pagan West”, i.e., the Greco-Roman world, as a “model” of civilization: precisely the claim that I debunked in my article, insofar as classic homosexuality was mainly pederasty—not the transvestite behavior that James provocatively and unabashedly boasts visually in his blog, even in the “About me” page.
As I said in my article on classic pederasty, I read a couple of Latin-Spanish translations of the first long novel in the western world. And although Petronius depicts the Roman provinces in altogether decadent times—perhaps under the reign of Caligula—, the main character, Encolpius, and his epheboy Gitone are described as feeling a great deal of revulsion towards a queerfag who tried to seduce them (during the banquet of Trimalchio if I remember correctly). If The Satyricon is a window to the past we can conclude that, even in those degenerate times, when vomitoriums were introduced in the Roman homes as depicted in Petronius’ novel, the lovers of the story—a 25-year-old young man and a 16 year-old teen—still felt incredible revulsion for obvious queers.
It’s James the one who makes use of the classic world as his pivotal argument for his hypothesis. Thus, if I could demonstrate that he was arguing from a false analogy, I reasoned out when writing my essay, his hypothesis would be falsified by History itself.
Something similar could be said of how the pre-Christian Germanics handled the fags (say, like those who made Encolpius and Gitone almost throw up). Tacitus wrote, “Traitors and deserters are hanged; cowards and those guilty of unnatural practices are suffocated in mud under a hurdle.”
This article has been edited in September 2017.
For a longer version of this article see: here
Julian Jaynes argued in The Breakdown of The Bicameral Mind that Homeric Greeks were, psychologically, vastly different from historical Greeks. Semitic cultures were even more different. In the online edition of my Day of Wrath I refrained to reproduce this image for the simple reason that it would have meant retro-projection.
In the image we see women, presumably the mothers, trying to rescue their children from a propitiatory child sacrifice to Moloch Baal. The disturbing truth is that, in real life, the parents themselves handed over their crying children to the assistants of the priest, hence the inflammatory sentence with which I ended one of my books (“In the final book of this work I’ll go back to my autobiography, and we shall see if after such grim findings mankind has the right to exist”).
In Hollywood such sort of retroprojections are ubiquitous in movies about the historical past. For instance, Australia, a pro-aboriginals film set before the Second World War, had an upset Nicole Kidman telling another white person, “No mother would leave her child!” when in real life, as recounted in Day of Wrath, quite a few Australian abbos not only abandoned some of their babies, but killed and ate them (for scholarly references supporting this claim see Day of Wrath).
Psycho-classes
By “retroprojection” I mean projecting one’s own morals and frame of mind onto the Radical Other, insofar as most people are unaware of the existence of “psychoclasses.”
Westerners, and incredibly, child abuse researchers included, have not awakened to the fact that there have been very dissimilar psychoclasses or ways of childrearing in the world; and that this has had enormous implications for the mental health of a people, primitive or modern. For example, in my Day of Wrath I said that Rhea hid Zeus and presented a stone wrapped in strips, which Cronus took as a swaddled baby and ate it. Cronus represents the pre-Homeric Greeks, the archaic Hellas. After the breakdown of the bicameral, or schizoid mind, historical Greeks considered barbarous the practice of child sacrifice, symbolized in Zeus’ successful rebellion against his filicidal father. Though they still practiced the exposure of unwanted babies, the historical Greeks at least stopped sacrificing them in horrible ways: a practice that their neighbors continued. Nonetheless, if films on both Homeric and post-Homeric Greeks were historically accurate, the exposure of babies, which was practiced even in Roman times, would be visually depicted.
Recently I saw two films that I had not watched for a long time. In the 1959 Hollywood interpretation of Ben-Hur starring Charlton Heston, Tiberius’ Rome and Jerusalem are idealized far beyond what those cities looked like in the times of Jesus. Think of how, to impress the audience with the grandeur of the Roman circus in a Hollywoodesque Palestine, for the chariot race sequence the director made it look as large as Constantinople’s circus! Conversely, in Fellini’s 1969 Satyricon, freely based on Petronius’ classic, the Roman Empire is oneirically caricaturized to the point that the film’s extreme grotesqueries bear no visual relationship whatsoever to the empire of historical time. Both extreme idealization and oneiric caricature constitute artistic ways to understand the soul of Rome. One may think that an Aristotelian golden mean may lie somewhere between Ben-Hur and Fellini-Satyricon, but not even in HBO’s Rome, a purportedly realistic TV series that claimed paying more attention to historical women, dared to show that such women abandoned their babies who died on the hills, roads and the next day were found under the frozen streets: a custom approved even by Plato and Aristotle.
Growing in a “late infanticidal” culture, to use Lloyd deMause’s term, makes members of that psychoclass greatly different compared to our modern western psychoclass. (One could easily imagine what a shock for the modern mind would represent the spectacle of white babies dying on the streets of Vermont, Bonn or Florence with nobody bothering to rescue them.) So different that I believe that the hostile takeover I do of deMause’s Psychohistory to deliver it to the nationalist community will revolutionize the understanding of history once it is properly digested and understood.
In my Day of Wrath I quoted psychohistorian Henry Ebel (no ellipsis added between unquoted sentences):
DeMause’s argument had a breathtaking sweep and grandeur such as we associate with the work of Hegel, Darwin and Marx. Moreover, it seemed to be a valid response and interpretation of a series of gruesome facts that had been consistently understated or suppressed by conventional historians. “The Evolution of Childhood” has proved a morsel too large, too complete, too assertive, and in many ways too grim for the historical profession to digest. Since adult styles and roles, including the academic and professional, are mainly denial-systems erected against those early needs and terrors, the academic consideration of deMause’s argument has been, understandably enough, of less than earthshaking intelligence.
Once we integrate Psychohistory to our view of history, it is easy to notice that when Greg Johnson talks of Greco-Roman homosexuality he does it retroprojectively, as if it was similar to the mores of today’s world: consenting sex between adults. But if Jaynes and deMause are right, the peoples of the classical world inhabited an altogether distinct psychic universe, especially before Solon. So different that sometimes I even wonder if Francis Parker Yockey has a valid point when he wrote that the Italian Renaissance is sold as a link between two cultures that, according to him, have nothing in common.
The real Greco-Roman homosexuality: pederasty
A splendid example of such discontinuity is what André Gide called normal pederasty, the ancients’ infatuation for adolescents. Keep in mind that Gide did not condemn such customs. On the contrary, he considered his Corydon, published in 1924 and which received widespread condemnation, his most important work. However, since I can only understand the geist of a culture through the visual arts, before quoting Gide let me convey visually what “homo”-sexuality signified for the classical world through a couple of scenes of the Italian movie Satyricon (YouTube clip: here).
Cinematic experiences aside, what are scholars saying about what I call pseudo-homosexuality: pederasty (which must never be confused with pedophilia)? In the introduction to On Homosexuality: Lysis, Phaedrus, and Symposium, published by Prometheus Books, Eugene O’Connor wrote (again, no ellipsis added):
Benjamin Jowett’s introduction to his translation of Plato’s Symposium expresses prevalent Victorian, Edwardian, and even later attitudes, particularly in England and America, toward Greek homosexuality. Some excerpts from the introduction will illustrate this “clash of cultures.” Since Jowett’s day much has been done to counter and correct this willful distortion of ancient sexuality. We may now consult, for example, the more sober appraisals of K.J. Dover, Greek Homosexuality (1978), and Saara Lilja, Homosexuality in Republican and Augustan Rome (1983) to help us redress the oversights of earlier scholarship.
The composition of [Plato’s] Symposium owes much to the Greek tradition of “banquet literature,” often a collection of informal discussions (in prose or verse) on various topics, including the power of love and the delights of young men and boys. Indeed, a whole body of homoerotic literature grew up around the themes of male beauty and how one ought to woo and win a boy.
The customary social pattern was this: a boy in his teens or, at any rate, a younger man (called an eromenos, or “beloved”) was sought out by an older male (called an erastes or “lover”), who might be already married. Women in classical Athens were kept in virtual seclusion from everyone but their immediate families and their domestic activities were relegated to certain “female” parts of the house. As a consequence, boys and young men—partly by virtue of their being seen, whether in the gymnasium, in the streets, or at a sacrifice (as in the Lysis)—became natural love-objects.
Strict rules of conduct bound both parties: adult males could face prosecution for seducing free-born youths, while Athenian boys and young men could be censured for soliciting sexual favors for money. That would make them in effect equal to courtesans, who were hired companions and lacked citizen status.
This erastes-eromenos (lover-beloved) relationship, although it was sexual and in many ways comparable to typical, male-female relations, with the man assuming the dominant role, was meant ideally to be an educative one. The older man instilled in the younger—in essence, “made him pregnant with”—a respect for the requisite masculine virtues of courage and honor.
Socrates in the Phaedrus describes how the soul of the pederast (literally, “a lover of youths”) who is blessed with philosophy will grow wings after a certain cycle of reincarnations. In recent centuries, the word “pederast” has come to be viewed with opprobrium, fit only to describe child molesters. But in ancient Greece the word carried no such negative connotation, and was employed in a very different context.
Surrounded as he often was by the brightest young men of Athens, Socrates jokingly compared himself, in Xenophon’s Symposium, to a pander or procurer. These are witty, humorous characterizations of Socrates to be sure; yet, in the end, Socrates was the best erastes of all; the loving adult male teacher who sought to lead his aristocratic eromenoi (male beloveds) on the road to virtue.
I have read Xenophon’s Symposium and on chapter VIII it does look like Socrates and others had intense crushes with the eromenoi.
In his Corydon Gide shares the Platonic view that what he calls “normal pederasty” (to distinguish it from child molestation) is a propitious state of the mind to shed light on truth and beauty. In the last pages of his slim book Gide concludes: “I believe that such a lover will jealously watch over him, protect him, and himself exalted, purified by this love, will guide him toward those radiant heights which are not reached without love.” In the very final page Gide adds that “From thirteen to twenty-two (to take the age suggested by La Bruyere) is for the Greeks the age of loving friendship, of shared exaltation, of the noblest emulation,” and that only after this age the youth “wants to be a man”: marrying a woman.
But not only I need visuals to properly understand a culture. Narrative is fundamental too as a way to get into the unfathomed deeps of a bygone world. Below, a tale recounted by an old poet, Eumolpus in the first long novel that Western literature knows, Petronius’ Satyricon:
I relocated the hilarious, though rather long, quotation of the Satyricon as an isolated quote in another of my blogs: here
However, the erastes-eromenos relationship was not always as hilariously picaresque as Petronius depicts it. In my previous response to Johnson, when I added the image of a terracotta statuette of Zeus carrying off Ganymede, I included no references. Here I’ll add a couple of them. In the academic work that O’Connor mentioned above, Greek Homosexuality, K.J. Dover writes:
Ephoros, writing in the mid-fourth century, gives a remarkable account (F149) of ritualised homosexual rape in Crete. The erastes gave notice of his intention, and the family and friends of the eromenos did not attempt to hide the boy away, for that would have been admission that he was not worthy of the honour offered him by the erastes. If they believed that the erastes was unworthy, they prevented the rape by force; otherwise they put a good-humoured and half-hearted resistance, which ended with the erastes carrying off the eromenos to a hide-out for two months.
At the end of that period the two of them returned to the city (the eromenos was known, during the relationship, as parastatheis, ‘posted beside…’ or ‘brought over to the side of…’) and the erastes gave the eromenos expensive presents, including clothing which would thereafter testify to the achievement of the eromenos in being chosen; he was kleinos, ‘celebrated’, thanks to his philetor, ‘lover’. [p. 189]
John Boswell, a homosexual professor at YaleUniversity who died at forty-seven of complications from AIDS, specialized in the relationship between homosexuality and Christianity. For this reason alone it is interesting to compare his claims with James O’Meara’s on exactly the same subject. Boswell abstains to mention the word “rape” which Dover unabashedly used in his treatise published by Harvard University. But in Same-Sex Unions in Premodern Europe Boswell describes in less academic, and more colorful language, the legal arrangements regarding such abductions:
Apart from the abduction aspect, this practice has all the elements of European marriage tradition: witness, gifts, religious sacrifice, a public banquet, a chalice, a ritual change of clothing for one partner, a change of status for both, even a honeymoon.
The abduction is less remarkable, by the standards of the times, that it seems. The ruler of the gods, Zeus, mandated a permanent relationship with a beautiful Trojan prince, Ganymede, after abducting him and carrying him off to heaven; they were the most famous same-sex couple of the ancient world, familiar to all its educated residents. Zeus even gave Ganymede’s father a gift—the equivalent of a dower or “morning gift”. The inhabitants of Chalcis honored what they believed to be the very spot of Ganymede’s abduction, called Harpagion (“Place of Abduction”). Moreover, as late as Boccaccio (Decameron, Day 5, Tale 1) an abduction marriage that takes place seems to find its most natural home in Crete.
Heterosexual abduction marriage was also extremely common in the ancient world—especially in the neighboring state of Sparta, with which Crete shared its constitution and much of its social organization, where it was the normal mode of heterosexual marriage. It remained frequent well into modern times, and even under Christian influence men who abducted women were often only constrained to marry them, and not punished in any other way. In a society where women were regarded as property and their sexuality their major asset, by the time an abducted woman was returned most of her value was gone, and the more public attention was focused on the matter the less likely it was she would ever find a husband. And in a moral universe where the abduction of Helen (and of the Sabine women) provided the foundation myths of the greatest contemporary political entities, such an act was as likely to seem heroic as disreputable. The Erotic Discourses attributed to Plutarch begin with stories of abduction for love, both heterosexual and homosexual. [pp. 91-93]
This last sentence about the foundation myths of both the ancient Hellas and Rome is absolutely central to understand their moral universe. However, Boswell omits to say that Zeus would be considered a bisexual god with strong heterosexual preferences—Hera and many other consorts—according to current standards, in no way a “gay” god.
Furthermore, unlike the same-sex unions of today, the erastes-eromenos relationship wasn’t meant to be permanent. The continuance of an erotic relationship was disapproved. In dramatic contrast to contemporary “gay marriages” and the myth promulgated by James O’Meara at Counter-Currents, romantic relationships between adult coevals were disrespected. In fact, the former eromenos might well become an erastes himself with a younger youth when he got older. Boswell, who strove to use classic scholarship to support the so-called “gay marriage” of our times, overstates his case in other passages of Same-Sex Unions in Premodern Europe. What struck me the most of his study was that on page 66 he misled the readers by claiming that the Satyricon protagonists, Encolpius and Gitone, are simply a same-sex couple. I have read a couple of translations of the Satyricon and it is all too clear that Boswell omitted two fundamental facts: Gitone’s age, an underage teen for today’s standards, and another lover of Gitone, Ascyltus (who also appears in my embedded YouTube clip way above).
Discussion
Classic pederasty did not resemble what currently is called the “gay movement,” let alone O’Meara’s preposterous claim that homosexuals have represented a sort of Western elite, in some ways superior to the bourgeoisie of the Christian world. The causes of pederasty are to be found not only in what O’Connor said above: women being kept in seclusion and men transferring their affections to younger boys. More serious was something that neither O’Connor nor Dover or Boswell dared to say: Infanticidal Greece and Rome produced a surplus of males as a result of the exposure of babies, especially baby girls. As I said in my Day of Wrath, it was not until 374 AD that the emperor Valentinian I, a Christian, mandated to rear all children. What apologists of homosexuality fail to understand is that that was a psychoclass distinct from our own, since for modern westerners it is unthinkable to expose baby girls.
In a nutshell, the Greco-Roman erastes-eromenos institution was not “gay” in the modern sense of the word.
In the “Saturday Afternoon with Carolyn Yeager: Kairos on The German Character,” a man called to rebut the German blogger Kairos arguing that Christianity is good because of the Fourth Commandment, “Honor thy father and thy mother.”
What the caller ignored is that the Fourth Commandment is intrinsically intertwined with the Monsters from the Id that are destroying our civilization.
I don’t want to explain the subject at length. Suffice it to say that the late Alice Miller discussed how religion can contribute to the guilt that prevents us from being conscious adults. In The Body Never Lies Miller urges us to realize that the Fourth Commandment offers immunity to abusive parents, and argues it is healthier not to extend forgiveness to parents whose tyrannical childrearing methods have resulted in ruined adult lives.
Below, a page about the poet Arthur Rimbaud from The Body Never Lies that I stole from Miller’s webpage:
Self-Hatred and Unfulfilled Love
Arthur Rimbaud was born in 1854 and died of cancer in 1891, a few months after his right leg had been amputated. In other words, he only lived to be 37 years old. Yves Bonnefoy tells us that his mother was harsh and brutal, a fact on which all the available sources are unanimous.
Bonnefoy describes her as ambitious, proud, stubbornly self-opinionated, arid, and full of covert hatred. He calls her the classic case of someone fired by the pure energy derived from bigoted religiosity. The astonishing letters she wrote around 1900 reveal that she was enamored of death and destruction. She was fascinated by graveyards, and at the age of 75 she had gravediggers lower her into the grave she was later to share with her dead children Vitali and Arthur, so that she could have a foretaste of the eternal night that was to come.
What must it have been like for an intelligent and sensitive child to grow up in the care of a woman like this? We find the answer in Rimbaud’s poetry. Bonnefoy tells us that his mother did everything in her power to curb and thwart his development as a poet, albeit to no avail. Failing that, she nipped in the bud every desire for independence on his part, every premonition of liberty. The boy took to regarding himself as an orphan, and his relationship to his mother split up into hatred, on the one hand, and obsequious dependency on the other. From the fact that he received no token of affection Rimbaud concluded that he must be in some way guilty: “With all the strength of his innocence, he rebelled fiercely against the judgment passed on him by his mother.”
Rimbaud’s mother maintained total control over her children and called this control motherly love. Her acutely perceptive son saw through this lie. He realized that her constant concern for outward appearances had nothing to do with love. But he was unable to admit to this observation without reserve, because as a child he needed love, or at least the illusion of it. He could not hate his mother, particularly as she was so obviously concerned for him. So he hated himself instead, unconsciously convinced that in some obscure way he must have deserved such mendacity and coldness. Plagued by an ill-defined sense of disgust, he projected it onto the provincial town where he lived, onto the hypocrisy of the system of morality he grew up in (much like Nietzsche in this respect), and onto himself. All his life he strove to escape these feelings, resorting in the process to alcohol, hashish, absinth, opium, and extensive travels to faraway places. In his youth he made two attempts to run away from home but was caught and restored to his mother’s “care” on both occasions.
His poetry reflects not only his self-hatred but also his quest for the love so completely denied him in the early stages of his life. Later, at school, he was fortunate enough to encounter a kindly teacher who gave him the companionship and support he so desperately needed in the decisive years of puberty. His teacher’s affection and confidence enabled him to write and to develop his philosophical ideas. But his childhood retained its stifling grip on him. He attempted to combat his despair at the absence of love in his life by transforming it into philosophical observations on the nature of true love. But these ideas were no more than abstractions because despite his intellectual rejection of conventional morality, his emotional allegiance to the code of conduct it prescribed was unswerving. Self-disgust was legitimate, but detestation for his mother was unthinkable. He could not pay heed to the painful messages of his childhood memories without destroying the hopes that had helped him to survive as a child. Time and again, Rimbaud tells us that he had no one to rely on except himself. This was surely the fruit of his experience with a mother who had nothing to offer him but her own derangement and hypocrisy, rather than true love. His entire life was a magnificent but vain attempt to save himself from destruction at the hands of his mother, with all the means at his disposal.
Young people who have gone through much the same kind of childhood as Rimbaud are probably fascinated by his poetry because they can vaguely sense the presence of a kindred spirit in it. Rimbaud’s friendship with Paul Verlaine is a well-known fact of literary history. His longing for love and genuine communication initially appeared to find gratification in this friendship. But the mistrust rooted in his childhood gradually poisoned their intimacy, and this, coupled with Verlaine’s own difficult past, prevented the love between them from achieving any permanence. Ultimately, their recourse to drugs made it impossible for them to live the life of total honesty that they were in search of. Their relationship was crippled by the psychological injuries they inflicted on one another. In the last resort, Verlaine acted in just as destructive a way as Rimbaud’s mother, and the final crisis came when Rimbaud was shot twice by the drunken Verlaine, who was sentenced to two years in prison for his crime.
To salvage the genuine love he was deprived of in childhood, Rimbaud turned to the idea of love embodied in Christian charity, in understanding and compassion for others. He set out to give others what he himself had never received. He tried to understand his friend and to help him understand himself, but the repressed emotions from his childhood repeatedly interfered with this attempt. He sought redemption in Christian charity, but his implacably perspicacious intelligence would allow him no self-deception. Thus he spent his whole life searching for his own truth, but it remained hidden to him because he had learned at a very early age to hate himself for what his mother had done to him. He experienced himself as a monster, his homosexuality as a vice, his despair as a sin. But not once did he allow himself to direct his endless, justified rage at the true culprit, the woman who had kept him locked up in her prison for as long as she could. All his life he attempted to free himself of that prison, with the help of drugs, travel, illusions, and above all poetry. But in all these desperate efforts to open the doors that would have led to liberation, one of them remained obstinately shut, the most important one: the door to the emotional reality of his childhood, to the feelings of the little child that was forced to grow up with a severely disturbed, malevolent woman, with no father to protect him from her.
Verlaine (far left) and Rimbaud (second to left)
depicted in an 1872 painting
by Henri Fantin-LatourRimbaud’s biography is a telling instance of how the body cannot but seek desperately for the early nourishment it has been denied. Rimbaud was driven to assuage a deficiency, a hunger that could never be stilled. His drug addiction, his compulsive travels, his friendship with Verlaine can be interpreted not merely as an attempt to flee from his mother, but also as a quest for the nourishment she had withheld from him. As his internal reality inevitably remained unconscious, Rimbaud’s life was marked by compulsive repetition. After every abortive escape attempt, he returned to his mother, both after the separation from Verlaine and at the end of his life, when he had finally sacrificed his creative gifts by giving up his writing to become a business man, thus indirectly fulfilling his mother’s expectations of him. Though Rimbaud spent the last days of his life in a hospital in Marseille, he had gone back to Roche immediately before, to be looked after by his mother and sister. The quest for his mother’s love ended in the prison of childhood.
♣
For those interested in the subject, I’ve written about why forgiving our parents may invoke those Monsters from the Unconscious that are destroying our civilization. In Fallen Leaves I mention the mental issues of a poor Michael Jackson that forgave his father:
“Solitude among millions of fans”
More to the point, a few years ago I analyzed a woman who hates the West as a result of transferring her repressed, parental rage onto substitutive objects:
Editor’s Note: For those who liked a featured article I reproduced here under the title “Wagner’s wisdom,” Michael Colhaze has now written another piece on Wagner, but this time about “Barbarians who seem to lack any access to Beauty’s divine joy, and therefore hate it, and thus try to destroy what they can’t have.”
However relevant to understand how these “gay” barbarians of San Francisco want to destroy Aryan beauty, below I omitted most of the images chosen by Colhaze in his recent article at The Occidental Observer:
______ 卐 ______
Let’s assume, just for the fun of it, that they blindfold you, help you up the wide stairs of the San Francisco Opera and lower you carefully into a velvet fauteuil. You hear the murmur of many voices, a squeaking and scraping of instruments being tuned, and a few harsh coughs as mucous residues are brought under control. Then, on a more mechanical note, a different squeaking and scraping as the curtain opens. Silence! Suddenly the tentative moan of wind-instruments, perhaps oboes and bass clarinets. Horns, or possibly tubas, trumpets, bassoons, bass trumpets, trombones, contrabass trombones and contrabass tubas join the gradually accelerating symphony until a ringing crash shatters the ominous tonal procession. As an old Wagner aficionado you have already twigged the conundrum: this is Mime wielding his hammer while forging anew the sword Nothung that was broken. A sword intended for his mighty foster-son Siegfried who must kill Fafner the Dragon and divest him of his most precious treasure, the one Ring of Power. Which, as the nasty dwarf hopes, will thus end up in his own claws and so make him Master of the World! With a deep sigh you lean back, and while the powerful music overwhelms your heart and mind, its visual setting unfolds before your inner eye.
When Mime laments the Forced Drudgery! with a voluminous tenor while doggedly banging his hammer, you can’t take it anymore. You jump to your feet and rip the blindfold from your eyes. And, from your Grand Tier Premium seat, what do you see?
The above! A hideously illuminated scrap-yard with a smashed-up trailer and a stunted street-bum banging his Made in China Wal-Mart mallet onto a piece of rusty iron.
Stunned, you sit down again. And while you do so, the terrible truth dawns on you. Namely that you have been tricked into attending the modern production of a great classical opera.
Now let’s assume you weren’t in such a great mood anyway, because some run in with your Japanese SUV or Siamese tomcat or crooked solicitor had darkened the day already, and all it needed to blow your top was a piece of theatrical hogwash like this. Thus you jump to your feet again and, with all the power your lungs can muster, begin to curse the heathen hogs to kingdom come.
Which, for a while at least, has the desired effects. The orchestra stops playing. Harp, trombone and first violin allow for a sip from the pocket flask while the conductor opts for a line. Mime drops his hammer and pops another upper. The audience is in turmoil. Some people stand and stare. Others use the opportunity and rip off programs when nobody looks. Old Rebecca Greenberg-Traurig, granny to some of the House’s foremost sponsors, goes down with the vapours. David Dunn Bauer, a celebrated art critic and rabbi, recognizes you as sincerely heterosexual and therefore, amongst other deviations, terroristically inclined. The House’s General Director, David Gockley, widely derided in certain circles as one of the major innovators in American opera, appears on stage while frantically hissing into his diamond-studded I-pod. Francesca Zambello, the production’s legendary artistic director, rolls into the main isle and yells insults at you that would make a harbour trollop blush. From your elevated position you glare down at her heavily powdered pizza-face and hurl your French fauteuil at it. But the damn thing misses by half a yard and only flattens her recently wed wife, Faith Gay (sic).
Finally the door is kicked down and all the world’s cops jump on you, and you are blissfully saved from watching the rest of the outrage.
Well, too bad really! Because by refusing so callously to consider the SFO’s magnificent production of Richard Wagner’s Ring des Nibelung, you’ve missed one the season’s cultural highlights. Just read what the assorted press had to say of the old semitophobe’s most acclaimed oeuvre:
Wagner’s Siegfried a Stunning Smasher, informs Opera Warhorses, which is most likely the most consummate praise ever.
Zambello’s “decaying American landscape” and “world ravaged by greed and neglect”—on Michael Yeargan’s sets with piles of garbage, polluted water and smoke-belching chimneys”—is OK, we are categorically assured by Janos Gereben in The Examiner.
Francesca Zambello, the first American woman to direct Wagner’s macho four-opera epic, was loudly cheered (if also booed by a handful), writes Mark Swed in the Los Angeles Times.
A Siegfried of unparalleled physicality and imagination. Director Francesca Zambello and her forces have created a five-hour opera that plays like a two-hour action flick, enthuses Michael J. Vaughan in The Opera Critic.
And more of the same. But to get a real in-depth impression of the grandiose event, let us look at what one of the more subtle and thoughtful art critics has to say in his international journal for the arts where we are treated prominently to his curriculum vitae:
David Dunn Bauer is a rabbi, stage director, critic, and educator. He is an alumnus of Yale University, Reconstructionist Rabbinical College, and Pacific School of Religion, in addition to having studied with Nadia Boulanger in 1976 and at the Liz Lerman Dance Exchange in 2010 and 2011. Based in San Francisco, he coordinates the Jewish Queer Sexual Ethics Project at the Center for Lesbian and Gay Studies in Religion and Ministry and is the Bay Area Director of Programming for Nehirim, the leading national provider of community programming for gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender (GLBT) Jews, partners, and allies. He writes regularly on issues of Torah, sexuality, Queer culture and community, and the arts.
Truly impressive credentials, you will agree, and particularly appropriate to give the stunning, smashing SFO production its proper due. In addition, Mr. Bauer’s journal styles itself The Berkshire Review, a somewhat misleading label since it clearly tries to give the impression that its editor is in some way akin to bygone critical genii like George Bernard Shaw who commanded the ethical and aesthetic clout to understand what the whole incredible Ring was really all about.
Here follows a brief compression of Rabbi Dunn Bauer’s critical acclaim:
Francesca Zambello forged something new and wondrous from Wagner’s tremendous and often toxic masterwork. I want to proclaim the true innovative triumph of the whole endeavour, the way in which Zambello told a worthy and contemporary feminist story through Wagner’s Romantic score, his heroes and heroines. While the sung (German) text remained unaltered, SFO’s (American) supertitles never referred to “the Rhine” (do you remember the Rhine?), only a nameless “river” and, as has become more and more the custom, often provided a slang and ironic commentary that bent the meaning of the original words.
For this Jewish Wagnerian who feels profound discomfort with Wagnerian anti-Semitism, I was deeply relieved at how thoroughly Zambello’s production eschewed the racist stereotypes implicit in the text and score. The prime Nibelungs, Alberich and Mime, were not by nature ugly or evil, more troubled and embittered. The Valhallan Gods were not lofty in manner or motivation. Neither the Volsung Twins, Siegmund and Sieglinde, nor their love-child Siegfried shone with gilded character against the dark horde of their moral inferiors. The ethical playing field was rendered strikingly even for a game played among deities and dwarves, goddesses of wisdom, demigod heroes, and scheming murderers.
As if to mete out a further measure of Borscht-Belt retribution for repugnant Aryan sins past, Zambello introduced an unprecedented amount of shtick into this portentous musical mythology. There were enough precisely timed elements of low comedy and enough laugh-provoking prop gags (beer bottles, butt kicks to God, telephones, televisions, remote controls, croquet mallets, and lap dances) to fill a revival of Gianni Schicci. In a rough tally, we find that Zambello transported the Ring out of the Rhine to the American River; brought the gods down (and the gnomes up) to a very humane plane; spiked Teutonic mead with vaudeville borscht; enriched the quality of women’s experience and agency beyond the stale limits of conventional heroine-ism; and erased the ethnic caricatures of the most offensively anti-Semitic work of dramatic art to hold an enduring place on the world stage.
And here a few visual highlights of the incredible extravaganza. The comments are lifted from Mr. Dunn Bauer’s unabridged critical piece. [images omitted]
Which seems to be a persiflage of Conrad’s “The horror! The horror!” and is therefore a perfect epitome of the entire hideous and miserable travesty.
Mr. Dunn Bauer, himself in danger to be labelled an ethnic caricature, and a damn queer one at that, has correctly identified Alberich as one of his own tribe. Though imperatives of loyalty forbid him to enlarge on the matter, he surely understands that the nasty dwarf is alive and well and wields the one Ring of Power to his heart’s content. What better therefore to divert attention to Siegfried’s heirs and crush a baby Nibelung for sport, an elegant simile clearly inspired by Elie Wiesel’s masterwork Night wherein the famed Nobelist and crackpot saw with his very own eyes how lorry-loads of small babies were hurled into a gigantic furnace?
Seen in this context, it is of course small wonder that a vengeful schmuck like Mr. Dunn Bauer rejoices about the mountains of shtick that disfigure Wagner’s incomparable magnum opus like plague spots a beautiful Rhinemaiden. Yet what seems odd is that he never mentions the generous sponsors who made this Twenty Five Million Dollar Enterprise possible. Because they are easy to make out. Just look at SFO’s official website and you will find, among small fry like La Boulange who occasionally doles out a free espresso, the usual suspects, namely a few international investment corporations who obviously laid out most of the aforementioned millions.
Just as in other great houses where there are frantic and vain attempts to destroy Wagner’s glorious legacy by presenting it as a theatrical garbage heap. Which gives us once again a clear idea about this particular type of barbarian who seem to lack any access to Beauty’s divine joy, and therefore hate it, and thus try to destroy what they can’t have.
As for those who are firmly grounded in Christian-humanist ethics and aesthetics, the smutty antics of the San Francisco Opera can’t be anything but the convulsions of an utterly diseased counter-culture that will slide back into the gutter once its sponsors have been divested of the one Ring of Power. Which, according to the developments in Greece and elsewhere, will happen rather sooner than later.
