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Category: Literature

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Autobiography Literature

Goethe

If Cervantes seems to be the central figure of Spanish literature, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe appears to be the central figure of German literature.

Goethe’s most famous work is Faust, one of the great works of world literature. Its plot reminds us of Satan’s wager with the god of the Jews in the Book of Job. In Goethe’s novel, Mephistopheles makes a pact with God: he says he can divert God’s favourite human being (Faust), striving to learn everything that can be known, away from moral purposes. It also reminds me of the plot of Wagner’s Tannhauser. I have already said on this site that when I first saw the opera I was disappointed because it put Christianity triumphing over paganism (the Virgin Mary over the Goddess Venus). Cervantes and Shakespeare didn’t play into the hands of the Church, and neither did Goethe. But it is clear that like Wagner they never escaped Christian mythology.

I would not like to focus on Goethe’s masterpiece but on what was, at the time, the most popular: The Sorrows of Young Werther (Die Leiden des jungen Werthers): a semi-autobiographical epistolary novel. Considered the book that initiated Romanticism, it brought the young Goethe worldwide fame.

The main character of the novel, Werther, is a sensitive and passionate young man who falls madly in love with Charlotte. In real life, Goethe had fallen in love with a young woman named Charlotte (and in real life, in Manchester, I myself fell in love with a Charlotte who never returned my love!).

So influential was that novel, which Goethe had written in his early twenties, that towards the end of his life travelling to Weimar and visiting the master of German literature was a ritual. In one of his writings Goethe himself mentioned that his youthful suffering was partly the inspiration for the creation of the novel, although unlike the novelist Werther takes his own life at the moment when the midnight bells ring in Wahlheim. Most of the visitors he had in his old age had only read this book and only knew the writer from this novel among all those he wrote! It was very clear what a great impact The Sorrows of Young Werther had on young people in love and depressed.

I wonder what subliminal clues Werther had that a whole generation of young Europeans caught that fever to the point of dressing like the character: with a yellow vest, blue jacket and brown boots. Even some two thousand young Europeans took their own lives! ‘The bullet had entered above the right eye, blowing out the brains’ I read on the penultimate page of the copy of the novel I own. So much did the novel in the form of an epistle catch fire to Europe, that the small town where the fictional events took place became a sort of place of pilgrimage. Napoleon himself carried a copy of Werther in his field backpack!

Already in the 20th century my mother confessed to me that in her early teens this book had made a great impression on her. In my previous article I said that almost all the literary content of the Spanish writers of the Golden Age tasted rancid to me. It is curious to mention what I wrote some years ago on the inside back cover of my copy of Werther (my translation):

Wow!

I barely read the first few words of the book and couldn’t continue. I’d have to see a German film of the novel—if there is one. What matters is that they were committing suicide because ‘In those days parents didn´t listen to their children’, [the words of] Mom.

She didn’t tell me that in relation to Werther, but to a bitter experience she had when she was taken as a child to see The Blue Bird on the big screen: the only occasion, in her entire life, when an indirect criticism of either of her parents came out.

To be frank, I don’t think a teenager who has been treated well by his parents would be capable of committing suicide just because of a love setback. There must something wrong in the lad’s psyche, but to find out we have to dynamite the taboos of the age whose Judeo-Christian commandment to honour the parent has deeply permeated the secular world (Alice Miller has written on this secularization in The Body Never Lies).

That’s why this kind of old literature tastes rancid. Unlike not only the times of Goethe, but the times of my mother (who must have been a little girl when the translated The Blue Bird was released in the country), in this era it is already possible to speak crudely about how we were mistreated at home. So, if the least direct criticism of her parents never came out of my mother’s mouth except for the above quote (which came out indirectly when she was already an old woman), we can imagine on whom she unloaded her pent-up anger. All this has to do with Werther precisely because of the literary genre that I would like people like Benjamin Power and myself to inaugurate.

The following seven paragraphs I had already posted on this site in January 2015 under the heading ‘New Literary Genre’, but they are worth quoting again:

Stefan Zweig wrote in Adepts in Self-Portraiture that when Western literature began with Hesiod and Heraclitus it was still poetry, and of the inevitability of a decline in the mythopoetic talent of Greece when a more Aristotelian thought evolved. As compensation for this loss, says Zweig, modern man obtained with the novel an approach to a science of the mind. But the novel genre doesn’t represent the ultimate degree of self-knowledge:

Autobiography is the hardest of all forms of literary art. Why, then, do new aspirants, generation after generation, try to solve this almost insoluble problem?

[For a] honest autobiography […] he must have a combination of qualities which will hardly be found once in a million instances. To expect perfect sincerity on self-portraiture would be as absurd as to expect absolute justice, freedom, and perfection here on earth. No doubt the pseudo-confession, as Goethe called it, confession under the rose, in the diaphanous veil of novel or poem, is much easier, and is often far more convincing from the artistic point of view, than an account with no assumption of reserve. Autobiography, precisely because it requires not truth alone, but naked truth, demands from the artist an act of peculiar heroism; for the autobiographer must play the traitor to himself.

Only a ripe artist, one thoroughly acquainted with the workings of the mind, can be successful here. This is why psychological self-portraiture has appeared so late among the arts, belonging exclusively to our own days and those yet to come. Man had to discover continents, to fathom his seas, to learn his language, before he could turn his gaze inward to explore the universe of his soul. Classical antiquity had as yet no inkling of these mysterious paths. Caesar and Plutarch, the ancients who describe themselves, are content to deal with facts, with circumstantial happenings, and never dream of showing more than the surface of their hearts.

Zweig then devotes a long paragraph to St Augustine’s Confessions, the thinker I abhor the most of all Western tradition and whose theology about Hell caused massive psychological damage in my own life (see Hojas Susurrantes). Then he wrote:

Many centuries were to pass before Rousseau (that remarkable man who was a pioneer in so many fields) was to draw a self-portrait for its own sake, and was to be amazed and startled at the novelty of his enterprise. Stendhal, Hebbel, Kierkegaard, Tolstoy, Amiel, the intrepid Hans Jaeger, have disclosed unsuspected realms of self-knowledge by self-portraiture. Their successors, provided with more delicate implements of research, will be able to penetrate stratum by stratum, room by room, farther and yet farther into our new universe, into the depths of the human mind.

This quote explains why I decided to devise a hybrid genre between the self-portraiture that betrays the author and thus penetrates beyond the strata pondered by Romantic autobiographers. And it is precisely because of this that, if we have tried to reach this level, the previous stages of confessional literature already seem rancid to us, Werther included: they don’t get to the heart of the matter.

That said, there are a few biographical vignettes about Goethe that I wouldn’t want to overlook. For example, he dearly loved his sister Cornelia, the only surviving of his siblings (I will allude to this below in the context of Goethe’s own children).

Johann Kaspar, Goethe’s father had been a well-to-do scholar, and the letters of Katharina Elizabeth, his mother are quite readable. Goethe studied in Leipzig in enviable times when machine noises weren’t yet audible (I write this over the intolerable sound of air conditioning given the temperature outside my study):

A similar image could be added about Weimar, where Goethe took up residence after the publication of Werther. It was in the old Weimar court theatre that the first Goethean dramas, that he directed for a quarter of a century, were presented.

The trip to beautiful Italy had been pivotal in Goethe’s education. In the image above we see Goethe at the window of his home in Rome, a drawing by Tischbein. It was a time when St. Peter’s stood as the tallest building in the city. As I have said, it is impossible for a ‘man of his time’ not to be influenced by these architectural realities. And Goethe was, like Dante, Cervantes and Shakespeare, a man of his time. Only Nietzsche would rebel against the Christian era, but this is another matter altogether.

Goethe even visited Sicily. I, who like Nietzsche am a premature birth of a future not yet verified, when I travel to Europe I notice the purity of the Aryan in the faces (let’s say: the difference between the Italian near Switzerland and the Sicilian). As a man of his time Goethe noticed other things. On January 25, 1788 he wrote to a duke: ‘The great scenes of nature opened my mind and took away my wrinkles; I created for myself an opinion on the value of landscape painting, and saw Claude Lorrain and Poussin with different eyes; with Hackert, who came to Rome, I spent fourteen days in Tivoli’.

I am intrigued that Goethe’s wife Christiane, whom he had married in 1806, had five children with him of whom only the first survived. It reminds me of what Lloyd deMause wrote in several of his books: at that time babies died mainly from maternal neglect.

The surviving August not only had to live in his father’s shadow, but he died two years before Goethe did! I wonder how he was treated by his father: a kind of question that conventional biographers would never ask. From my point of view, that of the new literary genre, that question is more vital than, say, writing about the friendship between Goethe and the poet Schiller (when the latter died, Goethe felt deprived of the one person to whom he had recognised equal intellectual value). I would prefer to know, of the four children who died of undetermined causes a few days after their births, which reminds me of Goethe’s missing siblings, how were those babies treated?

Another fact that reflects that I am not a man of my time is that one of Goethe’s late inspirational women was the nineteen-year-old Ulrike, who was so afraid of sexual intercourse that she would become canonical: something unthinkable in the Aryan state I imagine, where women will have as much obligation to procreate as men to fight ethnocidal wars (like Hitler’s Master Plan East).

Incidentally, it was some words from Faust that inspired me in a phrase that in years past I have posted on this site: Only the eternal feminine leads to the Absolute.

Categories
Axiology Inquisition Literature

Cervantes

I wouldn’t like to start talking about Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra without saying something about my previous post, ‘Lebensborn’.

See my recent exchange with Greg Johnson (screenshot here). In his podcast with Joel Davis, Johnson mentioned the term ‘unnecessary suffering’ to substantiate why he rejects Nazism. Since my sacred words are Eliminate all unnecessary suffering, as can be seen in my latest books which I will translate, I feel compelled to clarify this point.

The sufferings that the Third Reich inflicted on many Caucasoids were necessary, not unnecessary. It is impossible to conquer an entire continent for the pure Aryan—think of Eduardo Velasco’s essay on the Heartland—without inflicting suffering on the ancient aborigines. If the normie Matt Walsh was recently able to glorify the Anglo-Saxon conquest of America to the detriment of the indigenous, why not also glorify the plans to conquer the Heartland for the pure Aryan? If the sufferings of the Amerindians were necessary for the creation of the US, why not see that the sufferings of the ‘half-gook’, as Maurice calls them, were also necessary? After all, the Anglo-Saxon’s intervention to abort Hitler’s Master Plan East has been so catastrophic that the white man is likely to become extinct!

As my books have yet to be translated, the distinction between necessary suffering and unnecessary suffering is unclear. But the axiological gulf that separates me from white nationalists might be better understood if I were to begin to offer my views on the protagonists of Christian civilisation. And since I have dedicated myself to writing in Spanish, what better than to begin with the author of Don Quixote?

Cervantes at the battle of Lepanto, by Augusto Ferrer-Dalmau.

Unlike me—an obscure writer who except for the warm opinions of some visitors living in other countries lives in almost absolute isolation—, Cervantes was a man of his time; so much so that in the neighbourhood of Madrid where he lived other great writers of the time such as Lope de Vega and Quevedo resided. But to understand the writers of the so-called golden age of Spanish literature, it is necessary to contextualize them in their historical moment.

The maximum aspiration of Charles V was to create a Catholic empire: a dream that could never be fulfilled because in his dominions the germ of the Protestant rupture was born. And something similar could be said of Philip II, who tried to make England bend the knee before Rome.

Although of my middle and high school teachers, the only one I remember with respect is Soledad Anaya Solórzano, my literature teacher (who was also the teacher of Octavio Paz, Nobel Prize winner in literature), I confess that despite being high culture, I reject Spanish literature including its classics.

The reason is simple. No one in Spanish literature has challenged the dogma. Exceptions like Eduardo Velasco are exceptions that confirm the rule (and had it not been for me, his work in the blogosphere would have been lost after his death). Why should we admire a literature that, although magnificent in form, has been unable to escape the Christian / neochristian matrix? Let’s recall one of the essays on this site in which the German Albus said that the first great genius to compose degenerate music was Johann Sebastian Bach (see e.g., pages 149-155 of Daybreak). Of course, this criticism could be extended to many other protagonists of Christian civilisation: since it was written by ‘men of their time’, the most popular European and Western literature never question the paradigm in turn.

It is true that, like Shakespeare, Cervantes didn’t play into the hands of the Church and from that point of view their secularized literary output in an era of religious intolerance had its value. But in this age, which requires fanatic priests to unplug whites from the matrix that destroys them, it is literature that already tastes rancid to us. Moreover, there were contemporaries of Cervantes who did play into the hands of the Church. The moralizing content of Mateo Alemán’s work, for example, was ideologically in line with the spirit of the Counter-Reformation; and let’s not even talk about the mystical painting of El Greco.

To give a very obvious example. Neither Cervantes nor other so-called giants of the Spanish Golden Age could have criticised the Church in times when it was celebrating autos de Fe. Throughout the 16th century the Inquisition acted with increasing harshness to repress any outbreak of the so-called Protestant heresy. Those condemned to death were publicly burned alive in an auto de Fe, and there was clemency only in case of recantation, when they were executed by garrote before being burned.

From the POV of the sacred words, which includes not only the 4 words but the 14 words, what real value can literature from ‘men of their time’ have, to use Savitri Devi’s expression?

Philip II, King of Spain when Cervantes was alive, with his son contemplating an auto de Fe in Valladolid in which members of the newly discovered Protestant communities of Seville and Valladolid were burned.

What do I gain by reading Lope de Vega, the ‘monster of nature’ as Cervantes called him due to his abundant literary production, if due to circumstances he was unable to criticise the burning of Protestants in Valladolid? In other words: if someone fights the current paradigm, he also fights his art, be it Lope’s or Bach’s. Although we cannot blame the artist for his circumstances—in the 1590 edition of Cervantes’ first novel we can read on the title page Impresa con licencia de la Santa Inquisición (Printed with license from the Holy Inquisition)—the priest of the sacred words sees little, if any, value coming from the pens of artists whose minds were chained to the worldview of the time.

The Spanish Visigoths had begun to interbreed since the 7th century (see William Pierce’s Who We Are). Compared to the already mixed ethnicity of the Spanish a thousand years later, only the defeat of the Invincible Armada by Elizabeth’s England tipped the balance to a more Aryan side of Europe. Although the English were also infected with Christian ethics and capable of bringing mixed couples to the marriage altar, by the time of Cervantes and Shakespeare their ‘ethics’ hadn’t metastasized to the incredible anti-white levels we see in today’s UK.

In this new series I will be talking about other protagonists of the Christian civilisation from the point of view of the contemporary priest of the sacred words (in plain English, National Socialism after 1945).

Categories
Autobiography Literature

Last day!

There is something I would like to say about a commenter on this last day of the year.

Exactly four years ago Irrelevant Nobody (I.N.) posted a comment that impressed me so much that I later cited it as an important entry. On 31 December the following year I.N. did the same: a comment also promoted as a special entry. He was one of the commenters to whom I dedicated in this now-dying year an entry in ‘On commenters of WDH’, where I mentioned that I.N. had sent me an email telling me that he was planning to commit suicide.

Sometime later he sent me another email telling me that he hadn’t committed suicide yet but had postponed that plan, and I have not received any more emails from this European, although I confess I haven’t written to him either.

It is not the first or the last time I have noticed that those who say the most lucid things have had mental health problems. It reminds me of what I wrote about my sister Corina in my books on my family, which I have promised myself I will start translating tomorrow. The chiaroscuros of the only honourable member of my family (may she rest in peace) were striking: enormous psychic insight and then dense darkness!

But in fairness to my sister and to commenters who have struggled with mental issues, we must concede that the entire West is in a state of madness at present. As far as the country that since 1945 has captained the West is concerned, on Saturday I mentioned some horrible murders. And yesterday I saw another YouTube video of an American who had decapitated his mother, and put her head in a bag which he left in a stranger’s truck.

I am convinced that to understand the folie en masse suffered by the West, it is imperative to understand the trauma model of mental disorders (which is why tomorrow, the first day of 2025, I will begin the formal translation of my trilogy). This is a model that is never taught in universities because Big Pharma dominates not only the psychiatric profession, but ideologically wields considerable influence in the faculties where clinical psychology is taught. The power of corporations today is such that we can only understand it if we compare it to the power that the Church wielded in the Middle Ages.

The last of my three autobiographical books, which I finished this year.

I hope that I.N. has survived his suicidal depression. I advised him to write his own trilogy (which made me see the light) and that he will return to his habit of commenting here on the last day of each year…

Categories
Deranged altruism Film Literature Videos

Turning the other cheek

In the excellent Russian film I saw based on this Dostoevsky novel, what stuck with me most was the slap given to the idiot prince (watch it here).

Categories
Autobiography Literature

No pain no gain!

Have any visitors to this site heard of an autobiographer, of our times or times past, who has written a philosophical autobiography, in several books, about how his or her parents and other adults destroyed the life of the autobiographer in question?

What distinguishes The West’s Darkest Hour from other racialist sites is that here we preach an open and blatant exterminationist ideology (see, for example, ‘Dies Irae’, the first article in my Day of Wrath compilation). What is not clear to the ordinary visitor, unless someone has read my trilogy, is that such exterminationism originated precisely after what several crazed adults did to me in my adolescence.

The mind changes dramatically after experiences like the one I suffered. It usually changes producing, in the already adult victim, a mental disorder: either psychoses such as so-called schizophrenia or suicidal depression, or neuroses such as addictions (alcoholism, drug addictions—even legal psychotropics, etc.). In the most serious cases, the victim of maddening parents feels compelled to commit serial murder. This is not said by ordinary psychiatrists, who subscribe to the medical model of mental disorders (a bio-reductionist ideology), but by dissident psychiatrists: those who try to create a trauma model of mental disorders.

Some proponents of the trauma model know that those who had schizogenic (i.e., maddening) parents entered, to paraphrase the gospel, through the ‘wide door’. Sadly, 99.99 per cent of those with schizogenic parents enter through the wide door. What these professionals ignore is that there is another door, ‘the narrow door’, which circumvents psychosis. I am talking about spending decades of your life telling your story, at least to yourself, with an emphasis on the most painful episodes.

These days, for example, I have been reviewing my second volume. It has been so disturbing to relive my early experiences, and what my mother used to do to me, that I have had to make an enormous effort, plus countless pauses, to resume over and over again both rereading and revising (i.e. adding or rewriting many sentences and even paragraphs). To tell yourself your own story, through a good deal of re-reading of what has already been written, and to improve the text in further revisions to leave the original charcoal in diamond prose after so many decades, is what heals the mortally wounded soul.

Someone might reproach me that the mere fact of elaborating an exterminationist ideology after my experiences is, in itself, a psychopathological symptom. I believe that the opposite is true: those who don’t subscribe to such an ideology contribute to what we could call ‘Hell Planet’—our present Earth. This is because without the spirit of Kalki the evil of the earthlings will continue unchallenged, producing endless unnecessary suffering. (Those who want to delve deeper into the matter will have to familiarise themselves with the philosophy of Savitri Devi, who in the darkest hour of the West invokes the exterminationist archetype of the Hindu religion: Kalki.)

One of the things that so-called mental health professionals ignore is that they shouldn’t put the exterminationism of, say, a philosopher like Arthur Schopenhauer in the same basket as, say, a serial killer like Jeffrey Dahmer. They are not only different things, but Schopenhauer himself may have a moral code infinitely superior not only to that of Dahmer but also to that of the so-called mental health professional. This is something that the pseudo-scientists working in the mental health sector will never acknowledge: that philosophers like Schopenhauer could be… saner than them! Above I spoke of the first essay in my book Day of Wrath. To understand what I have in mind see now the third essay, ‘Unfalsifiability in Psychiatry’ (pages 21-30).

So for the next days and weeks, I will keep revising my second autobiographical book until I feel that the textual coal has turned into more lyrical prose. My thoughts must be hardened until they are as hard as diamonds. The saying ‘No pain, no gain!’ applies perfectly to the spiritual realm. Without the agony of constantly confronting my past, I would be as our friend Joseph Walsh is: in jail and before that, in a psychiatric ward (Walsh also had a schizogenic mother). Those who don’t process their pain through writing their very painful memoirs, and throughout the decades correcting the syntax of that original charcoal until the diamond prose is formed, will never heal.

No one among the racialist forums editors comes from where I come from: a sort of Bran the Broken seeing Westeros’ past because his dad (not Jaime) threw him off the tower, breaking his spine. As I was saying, the mind changes radically after decades of being in the cave retrocognitively seeing the past, what your dad did to you. Those broken lads who fail to reach Bran’s cave change for the worse (schizophrenia, etc.). But I changed for the better because I found it.

And it was precisely because of that change that I became interested in the real history of Europe in the century in which I was born; specifically, the real history of the Third Reich. By seeing my past as it happened, which has nothing to do with the distorted version my crazy mother told, I developed the knack of seeing, now, the historical past of the West as it happened, not as the Jewish media told it to us.

One way to begin to familiarise oneself with the most notable characters of the Third Reich is to read David Irving’s books. So, in parallel with my posts citing Brendan Simms’ and Savitri Devi’s books on Hitler, I think I will resume reading True Himmler which I had neglected since last year.

Anyone who wants to read my previous True Himmler entries can do so here, here, here and here.

Categories
Literature William Shakespeare

Hamlet revisited

Before I continue commenting on the film where Reinhard Heydrich, the ‘iron-hearted man’, is our hero, I would like to clarify what I recently said about Johann Wolfgang von Goethe. Yesterday in the comments section, I said:

I put a painting of Goethe because I mentioned him in my previous post about Heydrich. But the abject slavery of the greatest writers to Christianity is more evident in Dante, for obvious reasons; and Cervantes, who considered his masterpiece not Don Quixote but Los trabajos de Persiles y Sigismunda, where Nordic princes travel around various places in the world to end up arriving in Rome, the seat of the Vatican, and get married.

I started the discussion about Goethe because he is mentioned in the film to the detriment of the SS. But if Nietzsche had respect for him, it is precisely because Goethe represents what I called ‘Bridges’ in January, in the context of Wagner’s musical dramas taking us away from Johann Sebastian Bach’s resounding Christianity. In other words, despite the mixture of his pagan The Ring of the Nibelung with the Christian Parsifal, Wagner takes a few steps towards our side of the psychological Rubicon, even if neither Goethe nor Wagner crossed it (indeed, even Nietzsche himself didn’t fully cross it, having failed to read Gobineau).

So I can be charitable with Goethe as long as we place him as a man of his time. He indeed took a few baby steps on the Rubicon although he had a long way to reach the other shore. From this angle, I have nothing against him or Wagner, and those who want to delve deeper into the subject could reread my article ‘Bridges’.

Goethe is considered the greatest figure of German letters, but what motivated me to write this entry is that, if I mentioned the most famous writer in the Spanish language, Cervantes, and the most influential in Italian Christendom, Dante, what could I say about the greatest figure of English letters, Shakespeare?

Just as on Saturday I mentioned Faust as Goethe’s most popular drama, Hamlet is Shakespeare’s most popular play, so I must say a few words about the latter.

In Crusade against the Cross I said that my purpose was to detect and expose the vestiges of Christianity that still inhabited figures considered stellar in the Western tradition, and I pointed out that there were even those residues in the metaphysics that Nietzsche himself had wanted to elaborate. If Nietzsche had followed the command of the Delphic oracle he would have understood these residues and, perhaps, wouldn’t have become psychotic by the end of his life.

Though fictional, Hamlet is a character who, asking himself a thousand questions as he wanders the vast halls of the Danish castle, he also struggles with mental illness. In my article ‘Hamlet’ last year, I implied that the Greek tragedians knew the human soul better than the great writers of Christendom for the simple reason that the latter have lived under the sky of the fourth commandment, honour our parents, and that this prevented them from seeing that some parents drive their children mad. This is so true that I commented in that article that even Voltaire hadn’t broken with that Christian commandment (it was not until the 20th and 21st centuries that a Swiss writer, Alice Miller, repudiated such a toxic commandment).

But in this entry I didn’t want to talk about the trauma model of mental disorders. I want to put Shakespeare on par with Goethe in the sense that their most famous works, Faust and Hamlet, contain strong Christian residues.

Like Goethe, Shakespeare needs to be contextualised.

What could a continental freethinker do in the mid-16th century during the wars between Catholics and Protestants? Become a recluse. A sceptic of Christianity, Montaigne, did exactly that: something that evokes that many contemporary racialists are now recluses because of social ostracism if they dare to come down from their towers. Montaigne impresses me because he was the true representative of the intellectual side of the Renaissance, in sharp contrast to Erasmus who still lived in the thickest medieval darkness (cf. what I wrote about Erasmus in Daybreak).

England was then freer than Montaigne’s France, and that is the background to understanding William Shakespeare. We know that Shakespeare read Florio’s translations of Montaigne and that he was very impressed by him. Kenneth Clark said that Shakespeare was the first great poet of Christendom without religious beliefs.

(Left, Hamlet by William Morris Hunt, a 19th century painter.) However, like Goethe with his Faust, this is not entirely accurate. Shakespeare’s Hamlet has to be placed within the matrix of Elizabethan England: a time when Christian doctrine was still taken very seriously, both in its Anglican and Papist versions. Hamlet suffered a schizogenic struggle. He struggled internally with the command of his father’s ghost, from purgatory, to avenge him; but Hamlet couldn’t condemn himself, should he commit the mortal sin of murdering his uncle if he was, after all, innocent: a dilemma with which he struggles internally throughout the play.

So despite being influenced by the free-thinking ideas of his time, like Goethe Shakespeare was playing with Christian post-mortem doctrine. Nonetheless, from the viewpoint of my autobiographical trilogy, which tries to fulfil Delphi’s mandate, Hamlet certainly represents a breakthrough in insight: it is the first foray into what we may call the true self (as opposed to the false self: the internal struggles we read in Augustine’s Confessions).

What gives Hamlet such evocative power is that the tragedy doesn’t take place on stage but within Hamlet’s soul. The whole play is a soliloquy, and since I have finished my trilogy these days with a postscript to my own tragedy with my father, I would like to quote a few words from Hamlet’s second scene:

Would I had met my dearest foe in heaven
Or ever I had seen that day, Horatio!
My father!—methinks I see my father.

A couple of minutes of the 1948 film interpretation from this point onwards portrays Hamlet’s inward-spiralling soliloquies very well. Incidentally, I saw that film with my father in 1975: time when he had already mistreated me.

Categories
Axiology Literature Might is right (book)

Might is right, 2

I stand forth to challenge the wisdom of the world; to interrogate the ‘laws’ of man and of ‘God.’ I request reasons for your Golden Rule and ask the why and wherefore of your Ten Commands. Before none of your printed idols do I bend in acquiescence and he who saith ‘thou shalt’ to me is my mortal foe.

I demand proof over all things, and accept (with reservations) even that which is true. I dip my forefinger in the watery blood of your impotent mad-redeemer (your Divine Democrat—your Hebrew Madman) and write over his thorn-torn brow, ‘The true prince of Evil—the king of the Slaves!’

No hoary falsehood shall be a truth to me—no cult or dogma shall encramp my pen. I break away from all conventions. Alone, untrammeled. I raise up in stern invasion the standard of Strong.

I gaze into the glassy eye of your fearsome Jehovah, and pluck him by the beard—I uplift a broad-axe and split open his worm-eaten skull. I blast out the ghastly contents of philosophic whited sepulchres and laugh with sardonic wrath. Then reaching up the festering and varnished facades of your haughtiest moral dogmas, I write thereon in letters of blazing scorn: —‘Lo and behold, all this is fraud!’

I deny all things! I question all things! And yet! And yet!—Gather around me O! ye death-defiant, and the earth itself shall be thine, to have and to hold.

What is your ‘civilisation and progress’ if its only outcome is hysteria and downgoing? What is ‘government and law’ if their ripened harvests are men without sap? What are ‘religions and literatures’ if their grandest productions are hordes of faithful slaves? What is ‘evolution and culture’ if their noxious blossoms are sterilized women? What is ‘education and enlightenment’ if their dead-sea-fruit is a caitiff race, with rottenness in its bones?

Categories
Literature

Quote

Oh how then could I not lust for eternity and for the nuptial ring of rings – the ring of recurrence!

Never yet have I found the woman from whom I wanted children, unless it were this woman whom I love: for I love you, oh eternity!

For I love you, oh eternity!

—Thus Spoke Zarathustra, last words of the last chapter of the third part.

Categories
Alexandr Solzhenitsyn Literature

Sifting through a river

It’s amazing how the knowledge I’ve been posting on this site makes me see things very differently than I thought before 2009. Currently, it is difficult for me to read normie authors that I previously loved and, as far as the racialists are concerned, well: as we have seen in my previous entries, they are pretenders of the fourteen words; not true priests of them.

I have also said that I have recently been boxing up some books from my father’s library that will go to a dead archive (inactive files), on a family property. One of the books that I didn’t know about and that I started reading today is a deluxe edition of Arenas Movedizas (Quicksands) by Octavio Paz.

Paz’s work is vast and versatile, but when talking about his literary production, very little is said about the stories that he wrote in 1949 and that he grouped under the name Arenas Movedizas. These are ten short stories that many critics have considered to be fantastic and that expose themes such as absurdity, imagination and the feelings of humans. Two years after writing them, in 1951, they were published in Paz’s ¿Águila o sol? and ten years ago the deluxe edition that we see below appeared, published in Mexico City: the edition I have in front of me.

Today I read the first of the ten stories and I remembered that to the most insightful writer that I have known regarding literature, José Luis Vargas Moreno, who died almost a year ago and whom I nicknamed ‘El Santa’ (he looked like a dark-skinned Santa Claus!), the story bothered him because Paz apparently showed off his blue eyes. Unlike Vargas Moreno, the tale didn’t bother me but rather I was fascinated by a passage from that story, ‘El Ramo Azul’ (The Blue Bouquet):

I raised my face: the stars had also set up camp above. I thought the universe was a vast system of signals, a conversation between immense beings. My actions, the saw of the cricket, the blinking of the star, were nothing but pauses and syllables, scattered phrases of that dialogue. What would be that word of which I was a syllable? [1]

It is curious how the poet sometimes comes to intuit what cosmologists who dabble in metaphysics now say, especially those who begin to intuit that consciousness plays a hidden role in the very structure of the universe.

But I couldn’t bear to read the rest of the Pacian stories. Although there was a poetic phrase from the second story that I identified with, “nuestro pequeño sistema de vida, hecho de erizadas negaciones, muralla circular que defiende dos o tres certidumbres” (our little system of life, made of bristling denials, a circular wall that defends two or three certainties), the rest of the story seemed terribly boring to me.

‘So much for so little’ said Octavio Paz in 1983 in a television program when talking about the poet Góngora of the Spanish golden age, in the sense that it was the best possible use of Spanish (as Shakespeare was of Elizabethan English) but that the message was empty. Of Paz’s second story, I would say ‘so much for nothing’. It was just the vain use of diamond language that pisses me off so much. Why?

Because even before my racial awakening I couldn’t stand those poets who revel in the form of language regardless of the content. Paz wrote his stories when the Hellstorm Holocaust was still being perpetrated in a Europe that Paz loved, but which he never knew about because he was, like every Latin American poet and writer, stuck in the form of language.

Solzhenitsyn had already made fun of this matter in his Archipelago by mentioning Proust. He called Proust’s readers foolish because by reading the famous Frenchman and ignoring reality, they failed to see the holocaust perpetrated in Russia by the communists. I cannot agree more with Solzhenitsyn (those who haven’t watched Gonzalo Lira’s video about the Russian writer should watch it now).

Despite the wise quotes above, I will put Arenas Movedizas in the boxes that will go to the dead files. Most of the book lacks these types of phrases. It’s not worth reading it. It’s like sifting through a river of mud to find a few nuggets of gold.

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[1] Alcé la cara: arriba también habían establecido campamento las estrellas. Pensé que el universo era un vasto sistema de señales, una conversación entre seres inmensos. Mis actos, el serrucho del grillo, el parpadeo de la estrella, no eran sino pausas y sílabas, frases dispersas de aquel diálogo. ¿Cuál sería esa palabra de la cual yo era una sílaba?

Categories
Americanism Literature

Dusting off books

I’ve been boxing up the library my father left behind to send to the cellar of the school he founded decades ago. Incidentally, the short article I wrote last week about John Milton was written thanks to the book I took out from that library (remembering that I had read it, I appropriated it and it will no longer go to the cellar).

Today I was going to post a new entry quoting from Simms’ book. But as I went for a walk to warm up my body this winter morning I decided I’d better talk a bit about a new decision I’ve made: to read old books. Looking through the splendid hardback edition of the book on Milton published in Madrid in 1971, I felt it was a crime to alienate myself so much on the internet instead of using more traditional avenues of information.

For example, in the Tucker interview with Putin that I was talking about yesterday, I omitted that the American’s interruptions, when Putin was telling him the history of his people from the 9th century to the present day, were interruptions caused by someone living in the superficiality of the moment. To have a profound knowledge of something, Aristotle said, it is necessary to know the past. And the same can be said of a person’s biography. The symbol of pop culture that I appropriated in the featured post is precisely that of a fictional character who spends his time looking at the historical and biographical past of Westeros to understand his own culture better and better.

This, of course, is of necessity lost in forums where writers merely comment on the news of the present without proper historical background. Even as much as Andrew Anglin admires Putin, he didn’t understand why he summarised Russian history in less than half an hour (see the repost of Anglin’s article in The Unz Review). As far as my site is concerned, blaming Christianity for the anti-white psychosis of our day implies a deep knowledge of Western history. I don’t mean a normie reading of history, but a reading that could be gleaned from William Pierce’s historical book that I linked yesterday in the comments section (a POV which could also be gleaned from some of Hitler’s after-dinner talks).

In other words, it is a crime to become addicted to the internet when the thing to do is to dust off our parents’ and grandparents’ old books and read (or re-read) them. On Saturday last week, we hired two workers to help me dust off, one by one, the books from my father’s library. The depth of understanding the Aryan decline of someone who knows the past from books, by which I mean not just history books but the literature of the people—literature is the soul of a people!—is so fundamental that even Tucker, after the interview, confessed from his hotel room that it would take him a year to assimilate the historical information Putin tried to convey to him.

An American who lives in the epidermis of the psyche won’t understand the soul of either the Russian people or his own. And here I am not so much referring to Putin as to the interview Mike Wallace did with Solzhenitsyn for 60 Minutes a long time ago (Wallace misunderstood the Russian). In 2020 I mentioned on this site a meeting between American writers and a Russian in which the Nobel Prize winner Octavio Paz, a white Mexican, took part. The latter commented that ‘Bentham’s children’ were on completely different wavelengths from the Russian poet. As I see it, the gap cannot be closed unless Americans follow in William Pierce’s footsteps: that their history didn’t begin as recently as the founding of the US, but in the last millennia of white history.