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Category: Literature

Categories
Literature Racial right

Sixteen

years later (III)

Already flying halfway across the Atlantic on 12 September 2009, I read Justin Raimondo’s article “The Good War Wasn’t So Good”, the first few paragraphs of which were published by TOQ Online:

I write these words on September 3, 2009, seventy years to the day since Britain and France declared war on Germany—an occasion observed, if not exactly celebrated by the leaders and opinion-makers of the West, as the beginning of “the good war.” The War Party just loves WWII because it’s the one war where all agree we had no choice but to fight and win a war to the death. Well, not quite all, but on this question dissent is simply not tolerated.

Take, for example, Pat Buchanan, who marks this anniversary with a reiteration of the theme of his excellent book, The Unnecessary War, which makes the case that war was never inevitable, and that only the pernicious idea of “collective security”—the Franco-British “guarantee” to Poland—made it so. Buchanan also makes the indisputable point that if only the Poles had given Danzig back to Germany, from whom it had been taken in the wake of the disastrous Treaty of Versailles, a negotiated peace would have been the result—a much more desirable one than 56,125,262 deaths and the incalculable toll taken by the war in terms of resources and pure human misery.

Oh, but no: to the “bloggers,” left and right, this is a case of “Pat Buchanan, Hitler Apologist.” In the political culture constructed by these pygmies, any challenge to the conventional wisdom—especially one that involves questioning WWII, the Sacred War—is something close to a criminal act, one that separates out the perpetrator from the realm of polite society and consigns him to an intellectual Coventry, where he can do no harm. And of course attacking US entry into WWII is considered a “hate crime” because—well, what are you, some kind of “Hitler apologist”?!

But of course WWII was not inevitable, and Hitler was indeed amenable to negotiations: he never wanted to go to war with the British—whom he admired—and the French, whose influential native fascist movement had good relations with their German co-thinkers.

The article motivated me to obtain a copy of Buchanan’s book. Once settled in Mexico, on 23 September I read Sam G. Dickson’s “A Modest Proposal” in the same webzine which contains these paragraphs:

To those of you who think this is a nutty comment, I would suggest that you attend the next town hall meeting of your local Congressman or Senator. He need not be a liberal, not some crazed Methodist on Marx or a Marxist on meth, like Hillary Clinton. He could be a white Christian Southern conservative Republican Congressman. During the question and answer period, go to the microphone and say: “Congressman, I am concerned about the tide of non-white immigration, and the low white birthrate in this country and around world. I’m concerned that our race might become extinct.”

And just see the reaction of that Christian, Southern, conservative member of the establishment. See how you will be shouted down by his followers. See how the guard will be instructed to come and take you out of the room, because you have committed an act of hate by suggesting that your race should be anything other than exterminated.

It is considered per se immoral to advocate the survival of our race. We need to think about that when weighing the claims of our enemies to be the voices of love and tolerance.

But where do the feelings that it’s immoral to advocate Aryan survival come from? Through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault, which I heard countless times at Mass as a child, only metastasised into the Aryan collective unconscious after the Second World War. As Tom Holland has said both in writing and on YouTube: after WW2, white people managed to maintain Christian ethics only by transferring the idea of the Devil to Adolf Hitler. Because of this transfer, the West now defines morality in a negative way: everything must be done in opposition to Hitler’s ideals!

In other words, after WWII Aryans must commit ethnic suicide. That same day, I read Greg Johnson’s review of the novels of Harold Covington, who had been inspired by The Turner Diaries (the following year, when Johnson launched his new website, Counter Currents, he republished his review which can be read here).

Given that Johnson praised the novels this explains why, in 2009, I, who longed for a revolution, never criticised white nationalism. I imagined it then as a revolutionary ideology, as evident in this comment by Michael O’Meara in TOQ Online regarding Johnson’s review. Incidentally, some TOQ Online articles are still available on the internet. But they no longer have a comments section, so the following gem from O’Meara would have been lost had I not printed it out for my binder sixteen years ago:

This is an extraordinary article on an extraordinary subject. I am constantly amazed by the fact that the Quartet [H.A. Covington's The Hill of the Ravens, A Distant Thunder, A Mighty Fortress and The Brigade —Ed.] has been virtually ignored in our community. Part of this, I imagine, is due to the fact that the present generation of racialists, like their unconscious cohorts, no longer reads. Anything that’s more than two or three thousand words long and lacks illustrations is practically inaccessible to them.

A second reason I imagine the Quartet has been ignored is probably due to Covington himself, who is apparently an uncompromising individual and certainly one who has acquired a great many enemies. I don’t personally know Covington, so I have no way of evaluating the various charges made against him. [The charges were true. See may take here —Ed.]

In any case, even if the nasty things said about him by his enemies are true, it still distracts not in the least from the quality of his works, which are virtually unparalleled in our community. This gets me to the third reason I think the Quartet is ignored. Both white nationalism and race realism are largely cyber phenomena. If you take Covington seriously, however, you would have to tear yourself away from the computer monitor and act in the real world—with all its attendant inconveniences. The thought of political activity, though, is apparently too much for most of us. We too, even if we have remained unmoved by the system’s racial fictions, seem to behave in ways not unlike the rest of the sheep. Will we also go quietly to the slaughter?

I think it’s significant that the spontaneous uprising depicted in the Quartet at Coeur d’Alene, which provoked the war leading to the eventual formation of the Northwest American Republic, was something of a mystery. This rings true to me. We may no longer be the men who defied the might of the British Empire in 1776 or 1916, but there are other forces that might save us from ourselves.

The greatest of the “conservative” thinkers, Joseph de Maistre, pointed out long ago that the French Revolution led the revolutionaries rather than was led by them. For he believed that certain Providential forces rule our lives. These forces he saw in Christian terms, but others, like Heidegger, for instance, saw them in terms of Being, over which humans have no control.

In either case, the force of Providence or Being or Destiny has a power that has often made itself felt in our history. For this reason, I have little doubt that Europeans will eventually throw off the Judeo-liberal system programming their destruction. I’m less confident about we Americans, given the greater weakness of our collective identity and destiny. But nevertheless even we might be saved from ourselves by this force—as long as we do what is still in our power to do. Greg Johnson has given us in this review something we ignore at our own peril.

The tragedy is that, in the years that followed, American white nationalism suffered a regression: from an incipient revolutionary thought to de facto conservatism. Moreover, the revolutionary O’Meara left the movement after a heated discussion thread against the monocausalists of Counter-Currents regarding the JQ.

Categories
Literature Racial right

Sixteen

years later (II)

The norns Urðr, Verðandi and Skuld beneath the world tree Yggdrasil (1882) by Ludwig Burger.

I continue to quote some passages from my binder. Incidentally, when it got wet, not only did the ink from my notes run, but it also bled through to the other side of the pages. Fortunately, it is still legible.
 

______ 卐 ______

 
Once on the plane, when I no longer wanted to be in Zapatero’s Spain and was preparing to live in Mexico, on 12 September 2009, still on the ground but after midnight, I began to read the articles printed in my binder of The Occidental Quarterly Online (TOQ Online from now on).

The first one I read on the plane was “The Seven Pillars of White Nationalism” by Yggdrasil (I would later learn that this was John Gardner’s pen name). I was stunned to see that among the readings Yggdrasil recommended was Himmler’s Posen Speech!

Unlike what I had been reading in Larry Auster’s View From the Right, the contributors to TOQ Online weren’t Jews. Since I was just beginning to familiarise myself with white nationalist literature, I would not wake up to the Jewish Question until the following year (February 2010, to be exact). But on the plane, still grounded at the Gran Canaria airport, I had no way to awaken to the JQ, and I wrote in the binder something in Spanish that I am now translating. When I came across Yggdrasil’s recommendation of The Protocols of the Learned Elders of Zion, I wrote: “Wow, wow, wow. So these guys are totally paranoid?”

In January 2014, when I reread this article, my old notes and I had already awakened to the JQ, I added a postscript on the same page of the binder: “Look what I thought four years ago… I remember reading this on the plane and feeling that it was an evil trait of the author and of all TOQ in general—just the Pavlovian reaction that everyone who takes a look at my current blog for the first time must feel…”

When I started blogging in 2009, in the first incarnation of The West’s Darkest Hour I hadn’t yet awakened to the JQ, so in 2014 I was referring to the second incarnation of my site; the present one is the third incarnation after WordPress cancelled my account. Incidentally, the Spanish word actual (translated as current) is underlined in my binder; above I put it in italics.

In his article Yggdrasil also recommended The Turner Diaries, a novel I was not yet familiar with, and on the second page of the article on recommended readings, I read this sentence by him:

Surprisingly, I was unable to find any coherent and helpful works in English translation from The Third Reich explaining how National Socialism might save us. Most of the major works of that period, including Rosenberg’s Myth of the Twentieth Century and Hitler’s Mein Kampf are dreadful tomes, which fail to recognize our basic predicament. The best explanation I can find of National Socialism is Lincoln Rockwell’s White Power.

I have complained a lot about this: there is no good book from the Third Reich that explains National Socialism; at most, there are inspirational booklets and, after 1945, Hitler’s readable after-dinner talks that can be read one a day (as David Irving recommended). But during the Third Reich there could be no frank books because that would have meant revealing the profound anti-Christianity of NS. It would have been political suicide to reveal that esoteric aspect to the masses. So, while I do not blame Hitler or his intellectuals for the absence of such an educational book (as Mein Kampf is a dreadful tome as Yggdrasil rightly says), our anthology The Fair Race could now be considered an introductory book (unlike the 1930s, in the new century the esoteric aspect of NS must become exoteric). Yggdrasil continues:

The prosperity that followed WW II has reduced the inclination of Euros to resist the human equality mania en-mass, resulting instead in localized witch hunts, including war crimes persecutions and hate crimes laws.

That is why what I long for most of all is for fiat currencies to collapse and, subsequently, for energy devolution to eliminate billions of Neanderthals. Only then will the degenerative effects of material comfort evaporate, like morning dew, among the surviving whites. Yggdrasil continues:

And you cannot interrupt the flow of social reinforcement by adopting a low status label—by claiming to be a KKK member, for example—just to gain the attention of the media. Adopting emblems and symbols that the controlled media has invested billions of dollars stigmatizing as low status merely serves to reinforce the belief among the outer party that their displays of the egalitarian delusions confer precisely what they seek—the opinion of their neighbors that they are “good people.” Thus, in order to interrupt the status transmission mechanism, the outer party must value your opinion of them. You must appear to be just like them. That means you must avoid markers of low status.

Sixteen years after I read the article, we see that even that isn’t possible in the darkest hour of the West. I have been watching many videos about Charlie Kirk, who was murdered this month by a homo, and it hurts that someone as good as him—good by normie standards—, so incapable of the slightest hatred, was slandered as a hater not only by the murderer but also by the progressives who applauded the attack. So it’s not enough to appear to be a good guy, as Yggdrasil recommended, to prevent crazy people from calling you a Nazi. I prefer to show my true colours: red, white and black so that at least a few visitors will want to become priests of the sacred words (cf. our featured article).

Yggdrasil’s article was published on 6 September 2009. Unfortunately, TOQ Online no longer exists. That’s why it was worth printing the articles that started my ideological transformation.

Those were different times. Online I never, ever insulted White Nationalism at that time! Incidentally, only one brief comment appeared in the comments section, from Michael O’Meara, who subscribed to white nationalism but not to NS. O’Meara commented: “I feel about the world in a way different from Yggdrasil, but at the same time I think every important idea of my WN comes from what I learned from him.”

Greg Johnson was then editor of TOQ Online, and I was surprised to discover in my binder that the previous article Johnson had published in that webzine was titled “All-Time Leading Hitlers”.

As I said, those were different times…

Categories
Autobiography Literature

Bibliophile

Hatnote of September 14:

These days (weeks?) I’ll be drying the dozens of soaked books, page by page, with paper towels. I won’t have time to post many entries. My library takes priority because it allows me to write.
 

______ 卐 ______

 

Der Bücherwurm is an oil-on-canvas painting by the German painter and poet Carl Spitzweg.

This is an update to my article from earlier this month, “Books”.

Today, I took a taxi to retrieve my flood-damaged books, which were packed in five boxes.

As I said nine days ago, what is really valuable about these books are my countless footnotes. Since I am debating with the authors, they are like intellectual diaries. That is why I plan, to the extent of my modest means (I have already purchased special brushes to remove the mould, a fan, and a heavy-duty dryer), to rescue what I can from the wet books.

It will be an arduous task that will take weeks… This afternoon, for example, I can’t do anything because the sky is already cloudy, and it was rainy. Tomorrow I will start: in this season it very rarely rains in the mornings and the sun is healthy.

It pains me that I won’t be able to recover the glossy paper books, usually the ones with illustrations, because the pages have stuck together; and the home remedies on YouTube no longer work because my books were wet for several weeks (the guy who keeps them at home is a bit deranged and didn’t warn me when a downpour flooded the room with my boxes). I spoke to an institution that is capable of separating those stuck pages, but the cost of that process, with special liquids and chemicals, is so prohibitive that only a multimillionaire could afford it.

The rest is salvageable, but the water managed to erase many of my notes.

Something that alarms me about the new generations of noble Aryans who are conscious of their race is that they do not seem to value books, but rather focus on purely physical activities. Given that the darkest hour of the West is due to the Jewish infection—I am referring to Christianity—which was transmitted by the written word, to defeat that idea requires another written idea (see what Messala said to Sextus). As the Spanish saying goes, Para que la cuña apriete tiene que ser del mismo palo (For the wedge to tighten it has to be of the same suit), i.e., if you want to defeat the Jew and his ideas, you better become a scholar, a bookworm.

On the one hand, I understand these very young Aryans, because most respected human knowledge has nothing to do with 14/88, as LK rightly observed on this site today about people like Stephen Hawking. But keeping the books I have been accumulating for decades is vital because the notes are testimony to a spiritual odyssey. And if I ever have an heir living in my town to whom I can pass on the mantle, he would keep those old books for their biographical value (just as, say, those who preserve the work of William Pierce keep his personal library).

Although I am not a fan of Carl Sagan, I would like to end this post with this clip from Cosmos: A Personal Voyage.

Categories
Literature New Testament

Eureka!

I am not finished with what I recently said about St Augustine. For the faithful, the crucial event in Augustine’s conversion happened when, at random, he picked up an epistle of Paul and read a verse that struck him like a bolt of lightning.

Augustine was the architect of the Dark Ages. It is high time for Daybreak: exactly the opposite regarding the Jesus myth that persists in quite a few quarters of the American racial right.

From the video ‘Bible scholars leave Christianity’ (which is over 10 hours long!), the eureka moment I like the most is this moment of reverse conversion. While reading an ancient ‘pagan’ text, a Bible scholar realised that Evangelists of later times had plagiarized the legends of Jesus from the story of Romulus, the God of the Romans.

Categories
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 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
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.