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Category: Literature

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Ancient Greece Ancient Rome Homosexuality Literature Pederasty

The Satyricon

Educated homosexuals like to pull out the old Ancient Greco-Roman card that the liberals use. They project their values onto an idealized past that never existed in order to legitimize their lifestyles today.

Judge it by yourself. What could be more decadent in the Greco-Roman world than the homoerotic adventures recounted in a novel written in times of Nero or Caligula? However, classic pederasty was not meant for coeval adults, as is the LGBT movement of today.

Below I include my translation of the prologue by Jacinto Leon Ignacio to one of the Spanish translations of Petronius’ novel (ellipsis omitted between unquoted passages):

jefferson_petronius


Rome,
centuries ago

In the vast and important Greek and Roman literature from which we still live, there are just a few novelists. Maybe for an overwhelming majority of illiterates it would had been much more affordable the theater, which is enough to listen, that the written narrative which must be read. The same was true of poetry and the rhapsodies recited in public.

The fact is that in Greece there are only a few examples of novels, apart of Longus, and from the Romans only Apuleius and Petronius, whose work we offer here.

It appears that, at the time, the Satyricon enjoyed considerable popular success, for both Tacitus and Quintilian commented it in their manuscripts, although it is apparent that neither knew it directly, only from hearsay. It is likely that they did not grant it much literary value because its style and form collided with all the concepts in vogue.

However, the Satyricon was not lost and copies were kept in the Middle Ages, while jealously concealed because of its subject matter [pederasty] and for being the work of a pagan. The work continued to be ignored by the public to the point that only scholars knew its title, but believed it was lost.

Therefore, a scandal broke when, in 1664, appeared the first edition of Pierre Petit.

Soon after, the Satyricon was translated into several languages, including ours, with such success that has made it one of the great bestsellers in history. There were those who sought to take advantage that the work is incomplete, rewriting it to their liking. It was easy nevertheless to expose them.

Presumably, however, the author would not work at top speed like if we should go to a literary prize. He seems to have devoted years to this task. Do not forget that what is now known are only fragments of the original, estimated in twenty books. The author might have started writing when Caligula reigned and Nero followed, to see the publication during the reign of the next emperor. It can be no coincidence that the book mentions contemporary events known to all, or that the author considered worth mentioning many names.

This is a job too conscientious not to be the work of a professional. Moreover, the action does not take place in Rome, but in the provinces and almost none of the men are Latins. It seems as if the author had had an interest in showing the reality of the empire, a reality ignored in the capital.

The novel consists merely of the travel story of [Encolpius] and his servant Gitone through different locations. The incidents, sometimes unrelated, their adventures and the people they encounter are the text of the Satyricon, which lacks a plot as was the style of the epoch. We could actually say that it consists of countless short stories of the two protagonists. This technique influenced many centuries later the books of chivalry, the picaresque and even Don Quixote. Throughout many incidents the author reveals us an extraordinary real view of the life in the Roman provinces, although tinged with irony.

Petronius simply tells us what he saw. In a way, his novel was an approach to realism, leaving aside the epic tone of the tragedies to focus on current issues, as Aristophanes did in Greece. And that was the pattern followed by Petronius. There is a huge difference between his style and that of other contemporary writers.

Poets, despite their undoubted genius, are pompous and in the tragedies the dialogues are extremely emphatic. Petronius by contrast, remains accessible to everyone. He expressed himself in a conversational tone, which justifies the use of a first person that conveys the feeling that someone is telling us a live tale. That’s why today we can read his Satyricon with the same interest of his times and nothing of its freshness is lost.

Writing is, in a sense, a childbirth with the same joys and suffering. Both things must have accompanied Petronius in this trip with [Encolpius] and Gitone through the decline of Rome.

Categories
Julian (novel) Literature

JVLIAN excerpts – V

Julian the Apostate was the nephew of the Emperor Constantine the Great. Julian ascended the throne in A.D. 361, at the age of twenty-nine, and was murdered four years later after an unsuccessful attempt to rebuke Christianity and restore the worship to the old gods.

Julian

The Memoir of Julian Augustus

From the example of my uncle the Emperor Constantine, called the Great, who died when I was six years old, I learned that it is dangerous to side with any party of the Galileans, for they mean to overthrow and veil those things that are truly holy. I can hardly remember Constantine, though I was once presented to him at the Sacred Palace. I dimly recall a giant, heavily scented, wearing a stiff jeweled robe. My older brother Gallus always said that I tried to pull his wig off. But Gallus had a cruel humor, and I doubt that this story was true. If I had tugged at the Emperor’s wig, I would surely not have endeared myself to him, for he was as vain as a woman about his appearance; even his Galilean admirers admit to that.

From my mother Basilina I inherited my love of learning. I never knew her. She died shortly after my birth, 7 April 331. She was the daughter of the praetorian prefect Julius Julianus. From portraits I resemble her more than I do my father; I share with her a straight nose and rather full lips, unlike the imperial Flavians, who tend to have thin hooked noses and tight pursed mouths. The Emperor Constantius, my cousin and predecessor, was a typical Flavian, resembling his father Constantine, except that he was much shorter. But I did inherit the Flavian thick chest and neck, legacy of our Illyrian ancestors, who were men of the mountains. My mother, though Galilean, was devoted to literature. She was taught by the eunuch Mardonius, who was also my tutor.

From my cousin and predecessor, the Emperor Constantius, I learned to dissemble and disguise my true thoughts. A dreadful lesson, but had I not learned it I would not have lived past my twentieth year.

In the year 337 Constantius murdered my father. His crime? Consanguinity. I was spared because I was six years old; my half-brother Gallus—who was eleven years old—was spared because he was sickly and not expected to live.

Yes, I was trying to imitate the style of Marcus Aurelius to Himself, and I have failed. Not only because I lack his purity and goodness but because while he was able to write of the good things he learned from a good family and good friends, I must write of those bitter things I learned from a family of murderers in an age diseased by the quarrels and intolerance of a sect whose purpose is to overthrow that civilization whose first note was stuck upon blind Homer’s lyre.

Categories
Christendom Julian (novel) Literature Pederasty Plato Women

JVLIAN excerpts – IV

“Why were you so ungrateful to our gods
as to desert them for the Jews?”

—Julian, addressing the Christians

Julian

Priscus to Libanius
Athens, June 380

I send you by my pupil Glaucon something less than half of the Emperor Julian’s memoir. It cost me exactly 30 solidi to have this much copied. On receipt of the remaining fifty solidi I shall send you the rest of the book.

We can hardly hope to have another Julian in our lifetime. I have studied the edict since I wrote you last, and though it is somewhat sterner in tone than Constantine’s, I suspect the only immediate victims will be those Christians who follow Arius. But I may be mistaken…

I never go to evening parties. The quarter I referred to in my letter was not the elegant street of Sardes but the quarter of the prostitutes near the agora. I don’t go to parties because I detest talking-women, especially our Athenian ladies who see themselves as heiress to the age of Pericles. Their conversation is hopelessly pretentious and artificial.

Hippia and I get along rather better than we used to. Much of her charm for me has been her lifelong dislike of literature. She talks about servants and food and relatives, and I find her restful. Also, I have in the house a Gothic girl, bought when she was eleven. She is now a beautiful woman, tall and well made, with eyes grey as Athena’s. She never talks. Eventually I shall buy her a husband and free them both as a reward for her serene acceptance of my attentions, which delight her far less than they do me.

But then Plato disliked sexual intercourse between men and women. We tend of course to think of Plato as divine, but I am afraid he was rather like our old friend Iphicles, whose passion for youths has become so outrageous that he now lives day and night in the baths, where the boys call him the queen of philosophy.

Hippia joins me in wishing for your good—or should I say better?—health.

The memoir. It will disturb and sadden you. I shall be curious to see how you use this material.

You will note in the memoir that Julian invariably refers to the Christians as “Galileans” and to their churches as “charnel houses,” this last a dig at their somewhat necrophile passion for the relics of dead men. I think it might be a good idea to alter the text, and reconvert those charnel houses into churches and those Galileans into Christians. Never offend an enemy in a small way.

Here and there in the text, I have made marginal notes. I hope you won’t find them too irrelevant.

Categories
Justice / revenge Literature Miscegenation Turner Diaries (novel) William Pierce

The Day of the Rope

Today has been the Day of the Rope—a grim and bloody day, but an unavoidable one. Tonight, for the first time in weeks, it is quiet and totally peaceful throughout all of southern California. But the night is filled with silent horrors; from tens of thousands of lampposts, power poles, and trees throughout this vast metropolitan area the grisly forms hang.

In the lighted areas one sees them everywhere. Even the street signs at intersections have been pressed into service, and at practically every street corner I passed this evening on my way to HQ there was a dangling corpse, four at every intersection. Hanging from a single overpass only about a mile from here is a group of about thirty, each with an identical placard around its neck bearing the printed legend, “I betrayed my race.” Two or three of that group had been decked out in academic robes before they were strung up, and the whole batch are apparently faculty members from the nearby UCLA campus.

In the areas to which we have not yet restored electrical power the corpses are less visible, but the feeling of horror in the air there is even worse than in the lighted areas. I had to walk through a two-block-long, unlighted residential section between HQ and my living quarters after our unit meeting tonight. In the middle of one of the unlighted blocks I saw what appeared to be a person standing on the sidewalk directly in front of me. As I approached the silent figure, whose features were hidden in the shadow of a large tree overhanging the sidewalk, it remained motionless, blocking my way.

Feeling some apprehension, I slipped my pistol out of its holster. Then, when I was within a dozen feet of the figure, which had been facing away from me, it began turning slowly toward me. There was something indescribably eerie about the movement, and I stopped in my tracks as the figure continued to turn. A slight breeze rustled the foliage overhead, and suddenly a beam of moonlight broke through the leaves and fell directly on the silently turning shape before me.

The first thing I saw in the moonlight was the placard with its legend in large, block letters: “I defiled my race.” Above the placard leered the horribly bloated, purplish face of a young woman, her eyes wide open and bulging, her mouth agape. Finally I could make out the thin, vertical line of rope disappearing into the branches above. Apparently the rope had slipped a bit or the branch to which it was tied had sagged, until the woman’s feet were resting on the pavement, giving the uncanny appearance of a corpse standing upright of its own volition.

I shuddered and quickly went on my way. There are many thousands of hanging female corpses like that in this city tonight, all wearing identical placards around their necks. They are the White women who were married to or living with Blacks, with Jews, or with other non-White males.

There are also a number of men wearing the I-defiled-my-race placard, but the women easily outnumber them seven or eight to one. On the other hand, about ninety per cent of the corpses with the I-betrayed-my-race placards are men, and overall the sexes seem to be roughly balanced.

Those wearing the latter placards are the politicians, the lawyers, the businessmen, the TV newscasters, the newspaper reporters and editors, the judges, the teachers, the school officials, the “civic leaders,” the bureaucrats, the preachers, and all the others who, for reasons of career or status or votes or whatever, helped promote or implement the System’s racial program. The System had already paid them their 30 pieces of silver. Today we paid them.

It started at three o’clock this morning. Yesterday was an especially bad day of rioting, with the Jews using transistorized megaphones to whip up the crowds and egg them into throwing stones and bottles at our troops. They were chanting “racism must go” and “equality forever” and other slogans the Jews had taught them. It reminded me of the mass demonstrations of the Vietnam era. The Jews have a knack for things like that.

But by three o’clock this morning the crowds had long since finished their orgy of violence and chanting and were in bed—all except a few groups of diehards who had rigged up loudspeakers and were blaring System radio broadcasts out over the surrounding neighborhoods, broadcasts which alternated between screaming rock “music” and appeals for “brotherhood.”

Squads of our troops with synchronized watches suddenly appeared in a thousand blocks at once, in fifty different residential neighborhoods, and every squad leader had a long list of names and addresses. The blaring music suddenly stopped and was replaced by the sound of thousands of doors splintering, as booted feet kicked them open.

It was like the Gun Raids of four years ago, only in reverse—and the outcome was both more drastic and more permanent for those raided. One of two things happened to those the troops dragged out onto the streets. If they were non-Whites—and that included all the Jews and everyone who even looked like he had a bit of non-White ancestry—they were shoved into hastily formed columns and started on their no-return march to the canyon in the foothills north of the city. The slightest resistance, any attempt at back talk, or any lagging brought a swift bullet.

The Whites, on the other hand, were, in nearly all cases, hanged on the spot. One of the two types of pre-printed placards was hung on the victim’s chest, his hands were quickly taped behind his back, a rope was thrown over a convenient limb or signpost with the other end knotted around his neck, and he was then hauled clear of the ground with no further ado and left dancing on air while the soldiers went to the next name on their list.

The hangings and the formation of the death columns went on for about ten hours without interruption. When the troops finished their grim work early this afternoon and began returning to their barracks, the Los Angeles area was utterly and completely pacified. The residents of neighborhoods in which we could venture safely only in a tank yesterday were trembling behind closed doors today, afraid even to be seen peering through the crack in drawn drapes. Throughout the morning there was no organized or large-scale opposition to our troops, and by this afternoon even the desire for opposition had evaporated.

I and my men were in the thick of things all day, mostly handling logistics. When the execution squads began running out of rope, we stripped several miles of wire from power poles to use in its place. We also rounded up hundreds of ladders.

And we were the ones who pasted up the proclamations from Revolutionary Command in each block, warning all citizens that henceforth any act of looting, rioting, or sabotage, or any failure to obey the command of a soldier, will result in the summary execution of the offender. The proclamations also carry a similar warning for anyone who knowingly harbors a Jew or other non-White or who willfully provides false information to or withholds information from our police units. Finally, they list the reporting point in each neighborhood to which every person, at a time and date depending upon the position of his name in the alphabet, is to report for registration and assignment to a work unit.

I nearly got into a shooting fight with a company commander near City Hall this morning about nine o’clock. That’s where we were taking all the big shots to be hanged: the well-known politicians, a number of prominent Hollywood actors and actresses, and several TV personalities. If we had strung them up in front of their homes like everyone else, only a few people would have seen them, and we wanted their example to be instructive to a much wider audience. For the same reason many of the priests on our lists were taken to one of three large churches where we had TV crews set up to broadcast their executions. The trouble was that many of the big shots were arriving at City Hall already more dead than alive. The troops on the transport trucks were really giving them a working over.

One famous actress, a notorious race-mixer who had starred in several large-budget, interracial “love” epics, had lost most of her hair, an eye, and several teeth—not to mention all her clothes-before the rope was put around her neck. She was a bruised and bloody mess. I wouldn’t have known who she was if I hadn’t asked. What, I wondered, was the point in publicly hanging her if the public couldn’t recognize her and draw the proper inferences between her former behavior and her punishment?

I was drawn to a commotion near one of the trucks which had just arrived. A grossly fat old man, whom I immediately recognized as the Federal judge who had handed down some of the System’s most outrageous rulings in recent years—including the one confirming the power of arrest granted by the Human Relations Councils to their Black deputies—was resisting the efforts of the troops to pull off his pajamas and dress him in his judicial robe.

One of the soldiers knocked him down, and then four others began kicking him and repeatedly slamming him in the face, stomach, and groin with their rifle butts. He was unconscious, and perhaps already dead, when the rope was knotted around his neck and his limp figure was hauled about halfway up a lamppost. A TV cameraman was recording the whole scene and broadcasting it live.

I was thoroughly disgusted by this latter incident and by several others of a similar nature, and I sought out the officer in charge of the troops there to lodge my complaint. I asked him why he wasn’t maintaining proper discipline among his men, and I told him in strong terms that the beatings of the prisoners were counterproductive.

We must maintain a public image of strength and uncompromising ruthlessness in dealing with the enemies of our race, but to behave like a gang of Ugandans or Puerto Ricans hardly accomplishes that. (Note to the reader: Uganda was a political subdivision of the continent of Africa during the Old Era, when that continent was inhabited by the Negro race. Puerto Rico was the Old Era name of the island of New Carolina. It is occupied now by the descendants of White refugees from radioactive areas of the southeastern United States, but before the race purges in the final days of the Great Revolution it was inhabited by a mongrel race of especially unsavory character.) Above all else we must show ourselves as disciplined, since we will be demanding strict discipline on the part of the civilian population. We must never give vent to our feelings of frustration or our personal hatreds but must show by our behavior at all times that what we are doing is serving a higher purpose.

The captain exploded. He shouted at me to mind my own business. When I insisted that I was minding my business, he became red with anger and said that he, not I, was the one who had the responsibility and that he was doing the best he could under very difficult circumstances.

He pointed out correctly that the Organization had replaced nearly half the men in his company with untrained newcomers in the last month, and so it shouldn’t be surprising to me that discipline wasn’t all it might be. He also told me that he knew enough about the psychology of his men to understand the value of letting them beat the prisoners as a way of justifying to themselves that the prisoners were their enemies and deserved to be hanged.

I really couldn’t counter either of the captain’s arguments, but I did note with some satisfaction that when he turned away from me he strode angrily over to a group of soldiers who were brutally pistol-whipping a long-haired, effeminate-looking youth in an outlandishly “mod” getup— a popular “rock” performer—and ordered them to stop.

Upon thinking about it, I have come to see things more from the captain’s viewpoint.

One other reason for the delay I learned today was that we needed time to finish compiling our arrest lists. For several years Organization members here, just as in other parts of the country, have been building their dossiers of System toadies, Jew-fawners, equalitarian theorists, and other White race criminals, along with their street directories of all non-Whites residing in predominantly White areas. We were able to use the latter, which were kept quite up to date even during the last month, without modification. But the dossiers required a huge amount of evaluation and weeding. In the first place there were far too many of them.

For example, a White family might have a dossier as race criminals because a neighbor had once observed a Black attending a cocktail party at their home or because they displayed one of the “Equality Now” bumper stickers, which have been distributed so widely by the Human Relations Councils. In general, unless there was also other evidence in a particular dossier, these people were not put on the arrest list. Otherwise, we’d have had to hang better than 10 per cent of the White population—an entirely impractical task.

And even if we could hang that many people, there would be no good reason for it; most of that 10 per cent are really no worse than most of the other 90 per cent. They have been brainwashed; they are weak and selfish; they have no sense of racial loyalty—but the same things are true of most people these days. People are what they have become, and we have to accept that—as a starting point.

Actually, it has been true all through history that only small portions of a population are either good or evil. The great bulk are morally neutral—incapable of distinguishing absolute right from absolute wrong—and they take their cue from whoever is on top at the moment.

When good men are the rulers and the program-makers for a society, the population as a whole will reflect this, and people with no originality or moral sense of direction of their own will nevertheless fervently support the highest aims of their society. But when evil men rule, as has been the case in America for many years now, most of the population will wallow happily in degeneracy of the worst kind and will self-righteously parrot every filthy and destructive idea that they have been taught.

Most judges today, most teachers, actors, civic figures, etc., are not being consciously and deliberately evil, or even cynical, in following the lead of the Jews. They think of themselves as being “good citizens,” just as they would think of themselves if they were acting in a diametrically opposite way under the influence of good leaders.

Thus, there is no point in killing them all. This moral weakness will have to be bred out of the race over hundreds of generations. For now it is sufficient for us to eliminate the consciously evil portion of the population—plus a few hundred thousand of our morally crippled “good citizens” across the country, as an example to the rest.

The hanging of a few of the worst race-criminals in every neighborhood in America will help enormously in straightening out the majority of the population and reorienting their thinking. In fact, it will not only help, but it is absolutely necessary. The people require a strong psychological shock to break old habits of thought.

I understand all this, yet I must admit that I was troubled by some of the things I witnessed today.

When the arrests first started the public didn’t realize what was coming, and many citizens were cocky and abusive. I was present shortly before dawn when the soldiers dragged about a dozen young people out of a large house near one of the university campuses, and they, as well as their housemates who were not arrested, were screaming obscenities at our men and spitting on them. All but one of those arrested here were either Jews, Blacks, or mongrels of various sorts, and two of the loudest of them were immediately shot, while the others were herded into a marching column.

The last was a White girl, about 19, a bit flabby but still pretty. The shootings had calmed her down enough so that she was no longer screaming, “Racist pigs!” at the soldiers, but when the preparations for her hanging shortly thereafter awakened her to her own fate, she became hysterical. Informed that she was about to pay the price for defiling her race by living with a Black lover, the girl wailed, “But why me?”

As the rope was knotted around her neck, she blubbered out, “I was only doing what everyone else was. Why are you picking on me? It’s not fair! What about Helen? She was sleeping with him too.” At this last outcry before the girl’s breath was cut off forever, one of the other girls (presumably Helen) in the group of now-silent spectators on the lawn shrank back in terror.

Of course, no one answered the girl’s question, “Why me?” The answer is simply that her name happened to be on our list and Helen’s didn’t. There’s nothing “fair” about that—or unfair either. The girl who was hanged deserved what she got. Helen probably deserves the same fate—and she is undoubtedly suffering the torments of the damned now, in fear that she eventually will be found out and forced to pay the price her friend did.

This little episode has taught me something about political terror. Its very arbitrariness and unpredictability are important aspects of its effectiveness. There are a great many people in Helen’s situation, whose fear that lightning may strike them at any moment will keep them walking on eggs.

The melancholy aspect of the episode is epitomized in the girl’s lament, “I was only doing what everyone else was.” That is a bit of an exaggeration, but it is true enough that had others not set a bad example for her the girl probably would not have become a race-criminal. She paid as much for the sins of others as for her own. Now I realize more than ever before how essential it is that we instill in all our people a new moral basis, a new set of fundamental values, so that they will no longer be morally adrift like that unfortunate girl was—and like the great majority of Americans today are.

This total lack of any healthy or natural morality was brought home to me again just before noon. We were hanging a group of about forty land developers and real estate brokers outside the offices of the Los Angeles County Fair Housing Association. They had all participated in a special program which made lower mortgage rates available for racially mixed families buying homes in predominantly White neighborhoods. One of the realtors was a sturdy, handsome fellow of about thirty-five with a blond crew cut. He was vehemently defending himself: “Hell, I never agreed with any of this race-mixing crap. It makes me sick to my stomach to see these mixed families with their mongrel brats. But a man has to earn a living. I was told by the head building inspector in the county that it would be a lot easier to avoid building-code violations for those realtors who went along with the special mortgage program.”

Without realizing it, he was telling us that a bigger income came before racial loyalty in his set of values—something which is unfortunately true also of a great many who were not hanged today. Well, he made his choice freely, and he hardly deserves any sympathy.

The soldiers didn’t argue with him, of course. When his turn came, he was jerked off his feet with the same impartiality they had shown toward those who had accepted their fate in silence. They were under orders not to argue with anyone or to explain anything, except a brief statement of the offense for which a person was being hanged. Not even the most convincing protestations of innocence or that “there must be some mistake” caused them to hesitate for an instant. Certainly, we must have made some mistakes today—mistaken identities, wrong addresses, false accusations—but once the executions began there was no admitting to the possibility of mistakes. We deliberately created the image of inexorability in the public mind.

And apparently we were quite convincing.

Tomorrow afternoon some of my men will begin organizing civilian labor battalions to cut down the corpses and haul them to the disposal site I have already picked. It’ll probably take three or four days to remove all the bodies—there are between fifty-five and sixty thousand of them—and in this hot weather it’ll be quite unpleasant toward the end.

But what a feeling of relief it is to finally have all the negative part of our task here finished! From now on it’s all uphill—in the good sense: reorganizing, re-educating, and rebuilding this whole society.

Categories
Brigade (novel) Literature

Covington’s ‘The Brigade’


The Brigade excerpts, chapter I

The Brigade excerpts, chapter II

The Brigade excerpts, chapter III

The Brigade excerpts, chapter IV

The Brigade excerpts, chapter V

The Brigade excerpts, chapter VI

The Brigade excerpts, chapter VII

Categories
Literature

Chechar’s ten must-reads




1. Hellstorm (excerpts here)

Hellstorm is the first book in my list for the reasons explained below this post. Whites will not regain a proper self-esteem unless and until the big lies of omission about the Second World War are exposed with all our heart and being. If the Allied crime is not understood, assimilated and atoned for, my prediction is that the white people will perish.

2. Who We Are (excerpts here)

3. March of the Titans (excerpts here)

It is not enough to know the real history of the century when we were born, as well as the astronomic lies of omission of the academia and the media about the wars. The fact is that, unlike the other races—brown, black and yellow—in the last millennia whites have managed to find themselves as an endangered species more than once, and this has paramount importance to understand our times. I find it incredible that only a few white nationalists have been interested in the history of their race; proof of it is that these two splendid books by Arthur Kemp and William Pierce are not the main bestsellers in the community. (Unlike Kemp’s 2011 edition of March of the Titans, Pierce’s Who We Are is not available in book form—he died before sending the manuscript to the printers.)


4. A People that Shall Dwell Alone

5. Separation and its Discontents

6. The Culture of Critique

The Jewish problem is one of the greatest problems in the western world, and, pace counter-jihadists and other naïve conservatives, no man can be considered mature until he has striven to face it. Therefore, besides readable and very entertaining histories of the white race, a specific study on the Jewish question is fundamental. The above books comprise Kevin MacDonald’s magnum opus on Jewry.

MacDonald’s preface to The Culture of Critique (see link above), which he wrote four years after finishing the trilogy, can be read as a didactic introduction to the whole trilogy.

Presently I am reading the sections of the second book on how otherwise individualist whites elaborated collectivist group strategies in the form of the Early Medieval Church and, more recently, the (aborted) National Socialist movement in Germany. These are mirror images of Judaism as a reaction to a perceived group conflict, precisely what the blogger Svigor has been calling “towards white Zionism.” Although MacDonald’s study is academic, what I am reading now in Separation and its Discontents is pretty captivating. It seems to me that a future movement of white collectivism inspired in these precedents is the only way to racial preservation.



7. The Turner Diaries

8. The Brigade

Objective scholarship is not enough to get the picture of what white nationalism is. We also need a thoroughgoing subjective vision, what I call soul-building. We need novels depicting future reactions or group conflicts against the tribe, other non-white invaders and the white traitors. William Pierce’s Turner Diaries inaugurated a literary genre that fills the gap. For those who have no stomach for Pierce’s extermination fantasies I would recommend the best novel of Harold Covington’s quintet, The Brigade, an absolute treat.


9. Toward the White Republic (excerpts here)

This collection of essays authored by Michael O’Meara is the best pamphlet to date on white nationalism. Like the Hellstorm book, we can even send gifts of this slim book to our friends and acquaintances. Unlike most white nationalists, O’Meara is a genuine revolutionary, not a mere reactionary. It is a shame that after being fired by the academia for political incorrectness, as far as I know Professor O’Meara has not found a sponsor within the white movement.


10. Collected essays by F.R. Devlin (example here)

The last “book” of my list has not been published all together, not even online. It’s an imaginary book in my mind containing the best essays of F. Roger Devlin on how feminism has been destroying our morals, our white genotype, phenotype and even our extended phenotype in the latest decades. (Yes: I am old enough to remember the times when the institution of marriage was rock-solid among my relatives.) Those editors in the white movement who are promoting homosexuality ought to mend their ways and, instead of publishing books claiming that “homophobia” is part of the Jewish culture of critique, they should be collecting Devlin’s essays under a single cover. (I confess that hetero-sexual family values are exactly the conscious and unconscious force that drives my mind into the white movement.)

I wish that Devlin’s Collected essays as well as Pierce’s Who We Are be published in hardcovers before the currency crash (coming under Obama’s second term) makes unaffordable any gathering of the best pro-white literature in the market.

Enjoy the reading! After the dollar crashes and the internet is censored you will regret not having a home library!

Categories
Literature Turner Diaries (novel) William Pierce

‘Turner Diaries’ excerpts

Young William Pierce

 

Turner Diaries quote (1)

Turner Diaries quote (2)

Turner Diaries quote (3)

Turner Diaries quote (4)

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Turner Diaries quote (6)

Turner Diaries quote (7)

Turner Diaries quote (8)

 

______ 卐 ______

 

Since then he has been issuing idiotic proclamations about “restoring the Constitution,” and holding new elections to “re-establish the republican form of government intended by the Founding Fathers,” whatever that means.

And he has denounced our radical measures in the south as “communism.” He is appalled that we didn’t hold some sort of public referendum before expelling the non-Whites and that we didn’t give individual trials to the Jews and race-criminals we dealt with summarily.

Doesn’t the old fool understand that the American people voted themselves into the mess they’re in now? Doesn’t he understand that the Jews have taken over the country fair and square, according to the Constitution? Doesn’t he understand that the common people have already had their fling at self-government, and they blew it?

Where does he think new elections can possibly lead now, with this generation of TV-conditioned voters, except right back into the same Jewish pigsty? And how does he think we could have solved our problems down here, except by the radical measures we used?

______ 卐 ______

“Finally, we warn you that, in any event, we intend to liberate, first, the entire United States and then the remainder of this planet. When we have done so we will liquidate all the enemies of our people, including in particular all White persons who have consciously aided those enemies.”

______ 卐 ______

Then we formed the people into labor brigades to carry out a number of necessary functions, one of which was the sanitary disposal of the hundreds of corpses of refugees. The majority of these poor creatures were White, and I overheard one of our members refer to what happened to them as “a slaughter of the innocents.”

I am not sure that is a correct description of the recent holocaust. I am sorry, of course, for the millions of White people, both here and in Russia, who died—and who have yet to die before we have finished—in this war to rid ourselves of the Jewish yoke. But innocents? I think not. Certainly, that term should not be applied to the majority of the adults.

After all, is not man essentially responsible for his condition—at least, in a collective sense? If the White nations of the world had not allowed themselves to become subject to the Jew, to Jewish ideas, to the Jewish spirit, this war would not be necessary. We can hardly consider ourselves blameless. We can hardly say we had no choice, no chance to avoid the Jew’s snare. We can hardly say we were not warned.

______ 卐 ______

Eventually the System began regrouping its forces elsewhere, to meet new challenges in other parts of the country.

And then, just as the Jews had feared, the flow of Organization activists turned exactly 180 degrees from what it had been in the weeks and months. From scores of training camps in the liberated zone, first hundreds, then thousands of highly motivated guerrilla fighters began slipping through the System’s diminishing ring of troops and moving eastward. With these guerrilla forces the Organization followed the example of its Baltimore members and rapidly established dozens of new enclaves, primarily in the nuclear-devastated areas, where System authority was weakest.

The Detroit enclave was initially the most important of these. Bloody anarchy had reigned among the survivors in the Detroit area for several weeks after the nuclear blasts of September 8. Eventually, a semblance of order had been restored, with System troops loosely sharing power with the leaders of a number of Black gangs in the area. Although there were a few isolated White strongholds which kept the roving mobs of Black plundvers and rapists at bay, most of the disorganized and demoralized White survivors in and around Detroit offered no effective resistance to the Blacks, and, just as in other heavily Black areas of the country, they suffered terribly.

Then, in mid-December, the Organization seized the initiative. A number of synchronized lightning raids on the System’s military strong points in the Detroit area resulted in an easy victory. The Organization then established certain patterns in Detroit which were soon followed elsewhere. All captured White troops, as soon as they had laid down their weapons, were offered a chance to fight with the Organization against the System. Those who immediately volunteered were taken aside for preliminary screening and then sent to camps for indoctrination and special training. The others were machine-gunned on the spot, without further ado.

The same degree of ruthlessness was used in dealing with the White civilian population. When the Organization’s cadres moved into the White strongholds in the Detroit suburbs, the first thing they found it necessary to do was to liquidate most of the local White leaders, in order to establish the unquestioned authority of the Organization. There was no time or patience for frying to reason with shortsighted Whites who insisted that they weren’t “racists” or “revolutionaries” and didn’t need the help of any “outside agitators” in dealing with their problems, or who had some other conservative or parochial fixation.

The Whites of Detroit and the other new enclaves were organized more along the lines described by Earl Turner for Baltimore than for California, but even more rapidly and roughly. In most areas of the country there was no opportunity for an orderly, large-scale separation of non-Whites, as in California, and consequently a bloody race war raged for months, taking a terrible toll of those Whites who were not in one of the Organization’s tightly controlled, all-White enclaves.

Food became critically scarce everywhere during the winter. The Blacks lapsed into cannibalism, just as they had in California, while hundreds of thousands of starving Whites, who earlier had ignored the Organization’s call for a rising against the System, began appearing at the borders of the various liberated zones begging for food. The Organization was only able to feed the White populations already under its control by imposing the severest rationing, and it was necessary to turn many of the latecomers away.

Those who were admitted—and that meant only children, women of childbearing age, and able-bodied men willing to fight in the Organization’s ranks—were subjected to much more severe racial screening than had been used to separate Whites from non-Whites in California. It was no longer sufficient to be merely White; in order to eat one had to be judged the bearer of especially valuable genes.

______ 卐 ______

As everyone is aware, the bands of mutants which roam the Waste remain a real threat, and it may be another century before the last of them has been eliminated and White colonization has once again established a human presence throughout this vast area.

But it was in [that] year, according to the chronology of the Old Era—just 110 years after the birth of the Great One—that the dream of a White world finally became a certainty. And it was the sacrifice of the lives of uncounted thousands of brave men and women of the Organization during the preceding years which had kept that dream alive until its realization could no longer be denied.

Among those uncounted thousands Earl Turner played no small part. He gained immortality for himself on that dark November day 106 years ago when he faithfully fulfilled his obligation to his race, to the Organization, and to the holy Order which had accepted him into its ranks. And in so doing he helped greatly to assure that his race would survive and prosper, that the Organization would achieve its worldwide political and military goals, and that the Order would spread its wise and benevolent rule over the earth for all time to come.

The End

Categories
Christendom Literature New Testament Old Testament St Paul

Gospel Fictions, 1


 
Below, excerpts of Randel Helms’ Gospel Fictions’ first chapter, “The Art of the Gospels: Theology as Fictional Narrative” (ellipsis omitted between unquoted passages):


I shall use the word “fiction” rather than “myth” to refer to the study, contained in this book, of the fictional aspects of the four canonical Gospels.

I write as literary critic, not as debunker. The Gospels are, it must be said with gratitude, works of art, the supreme fictions in our culture. Literary artists use their imaginations to produce poetry and fiction, works open to the methods of literary criticism. This literature was oral before it was written and began with the memories of those who knew Jesus personally.

Their memories and teachings were passed on as oral tradition for some forty years or so before achieving written form for the first time in a self-conscious literary work, so far as we know, in the Gospel of Mark, within a few years of 70 A.D.

Luke was obviously writing during a time when literature about Jesus was flowering. Paul was an ecstatic visionary who experienced, for what seems to be a period of nearly thirty years after the death of Jesus, visions of a heavenly being he called “Christ” and “the Lord,” and the fact is that neither Paul nor any other first-century Christian felt a need to distinguish between the heavenly being and the “historical Jesus.”

What is surprising is the great differences among the stories, even though they share, for the most part, similar sources. For example, according to Matthew and Mark, the dying words of Jesus were, “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?” According to Luke, Jesus’ dying words were “Father, into your hands I commit my spirit.” But according to John, they were, “It is accomplished.” To put it another way, we cannot know what the dying words of Jesus were, or even whether he uttered any. It is not that we have too little information, but that we have too much. Each narrative implicitly argues that the others are fictional. In this case at least, it is inappropriate to ask of the Gospels what “actually” happened; they may pretend to be telling us, but the effort remains a pretense, a fiction.

We are, with these scenes, in the literary realm known as fiction, in which narratives exist less to describe the past than to affect the present. In De Quincy’s phrase, the Gospels are not so much literature of knowledge as literature of power. As in the case mentioned above, the content of the Gospels is frequently not “Jesus” but “what certain persons in the first century wanted us to think about Jesus.” In the language of the Fourth Gospel, “Those [narratives] here written have been recorded in order that you may hold the faith that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God” (John 20:31).

The Gospels are Hellenistic religious narratives in the tradition of the Greek Septuagint version of the Old Testament, which constituted the “Scriptures” to those Greek-speaking Christians who wrote the four canonical Gospels and who appealed to it, explicitly or implicitly, in nearly every paragraph they wrote. A simple example is the case of the last words of Christ. Mark presents these words in self-consciously realistic fashion, shifting from his usual Greek into the Aramaic of Jesus, transliterated into Greek letters Eloi eloi lama sabachthanei (My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?—Mark 15:34). Mark gives us no hint that Jesus is “quoting” Psalm 22:1; we are clearly to believe that we are hearing the grieving outcry of a dying man.

But the author of Matthew, who used Mark as one of his major written sources, is self-consciously “literary” in both this and yet another way. Though using Mark as his major source for the passion story, Matthew is fully aware that Mark’s crucifixion narrative is based largely on the Twenty-second Psalm, fully aware, that is, that Mark’s Gospel is part of a literary tradition (this description would not be Matthew’s vocabulary, but his method is nonetheless literary).

Aware of the tradition, Matthew concerned himself with another kind of “realism” or verisimilitude. When the bystanders heard Jesus crying, according to Mark, to “Eloi,” they assumed that “he is calling Elijah [Eleian]” (Mark 15:35). But Matthew knew that no Aramaic speaker present at the Cross would mistake a cry to God (Eloi) for one to Elijah—the words are too dissimilar. So Matthew self-consciously evoked yet another literary tradition in the service both of verisimilitude and of greater faithfulness to the Scriptures: not the Aramaic of Psalm 22:1 but the Hebrew, which he too transliterated into Greek—Eli Eli (Matt. 27:46)—a cry which could more realistically be confused with “Eleian.”

Luke is even more self-conscious literary and fictive than Matthew in his crucifixion scene. Though, as I have said, he knew perfectly well what Mark had written as the dying words of Jesus, he created new ones more suitable to his understanding of what the death of Jesus meant—an act with at least two critical implications. First, that he has thus implicitly declared Mark’s account a fiction; second, that he self-consciously presents his own as a fiction. For like Matthew, Luke 23:46 deliberately placed his own work in the literary tradition by quoting Psalm 30 (31):5 in the Septuagint as the dying speech of Jesus: “Into your hands I will commit my spirit” (eis cheiras sou parathsomai to pneuma mou), changing the verb from future to present (paratihemai) to suit the circumstances and leaving the rest of the quotation exact.

This is self-conscious creation of literary fiction, creation of part of a narrative scene for religious and moral rather than historical purposes. Luke knew perfectly well, I would venture to assert, that he was not describing what happened in the past; he was instead creating an ideal model of Christian death, authorized both by doctrine and by literary precedent.

First-century Christians believed that the career of Jesus, even down to minor details, was predicted in their sacred writings. By a remarkably creative fiat of interpretation, the Jewish scriptures (especially in Greek translation) became a book that had never existed before, the Old Testament, a book no longer about Israel but about Israel’s hope, the Messiah, Jesus. Northrop Frye nicely sums up this self-reflexive aspect of the two Testaments as early Christians saw them:

How do we know that the Gospel story is true? Because it confirms the prophecies of the Old Testament. But how do we know that the Old Testament prophecies are true? Because they are confirmed by the Gospel story. Evidence, so called, is bounced back and forth between the testaments like a tennis ball; and no other evidence is given us. The two testaments form a double mirror, each reflecting the other but neither the world outside.

A voice, for example, in the (now) “Old” Testament became by interpretative fiat the voice of Jesus. When the psalmist wrote “My flesh shall rest in hope: because thou wilt not leave my soul in hell, neither wilt thou suffer thine holy one to see corruption” (Psalms 15 [16]:9-10 LXX), it was in fact not “really” the psalmist speaking, but Jesus, a thousand years before his birth. As Luke has Peter say, in interpreting these verses to the crowd at Pentecost:

Let me tell you plainly, my friends, that the patriarch David died and was buried, and his tomb is here to this very day. It is clear therefore that he spoke as a prophet… and when he said he was not abandoned to death, and his flesh never suffered corruption, he spoke with foreknowledge of the resurrection of the Messiah (Acts 2:29-31).

By fiat of interpretation, a psalm becomes a prophecy. David becomes Jesus.

We see a two-stage creative process here: first, the psalm is turned into a prophetic minidrama; then the interpretation of the psalm becomes another dramatic scene: Peter explaining it to the multitude. That the fictive creative act is Luke’s, and not Peter’s, is clear from the Greek of the scene: Luke has Peter quote, fairly loosely, as if from memory, the Septuagint Greek text of Psalms (though the historical Peter spoke Aramaic and needed, Christian tradition tells us, a Greek interpreter). The point of Luke’s interpretation depends on the Greek texts of the verse, not on the Hebrew. The Hebrew text of Psalm 16:10b has something like: “nor suffer thy faithful servant to see the pit,” which stands in simple parallelism to the first line of the distich, “Thou will not abandon me to Sheol” —that is, you will not allow me to die. The Greek text could, however, be taken to mean “You will not let me remain in the grave, nor will you let me rot.”

Peter’s speech is an effective work of dramatic fiction, the culmination of a complex two-stage creative process. Luke, as we shall see, creates the same kinds of dramatic fictions in his Gospel, the first half of the Christian history that includes his Acts of the Apostles.

Invention of that kind is the subject of this book.

Categories
Literature

On Harold

Whether Covington is a problematic character or not is a completely separate issue from the quality of his creative work. He is a powerful novelist and myth maker, as well as a capable radio host. The reality is that Covington has put out more inspiring and creative work in the last decade than anybody else.

—Trainspotter

Categories
Ancient Greece Ancient Rome Art Beauty Charlemagne Civilisation (TV series) Islamization of Europe Kali Yuga Kenneth Clark Literature Mainstream media Philosophy of history

Civilisation’s “The Skin of our Teeth”

For an introduction to these series, see here.

Below, some indented excerpts of “The Skin of our Teeth,” the first chapter of Civilisation by Kenneth Clark, after which I offer my comments.

Ellipsis omitted between unquoted passages:


I am standing on the Pont des Arts in Paris.

What is civilisation? I don’t know. I can’t define it in abstract terms—yet. But I think I can recognize it when I see it; and I am looking at it now.

If I had to say which was telling the truth about society, a speech by a Minister of Housing or the actual buildings put up in his time, I should believe the buildings. But this doesn’t mean that the history of civilisation is the history of art—far from it. Great works of art can be produced in barbarous societies.

Whatever its merits as a work of art, I don’t think that there is any doubt that the Apollo embodies a higher state of civilisation than the mask. They both represent spirits, messengers from another world—that is to say, from a world of our own imagining. To the Negro imagination it is a world of fear and darkness, ready to inflict horrible punishment for the smallest infringement of taboo. To the Hellenistic imagination it is a world of light and confidence, in which the gods are like ourselves, only more beautiful.

It is not my intention to insult white nationalists. But what they ignore is that, presently, with their rock music and media tastes they themselves, like the overwhelming majority of the white population are, spiritually, far closer to the Negro mask than to the Apollo of Belvedere. For Lord Clark it would have been unthinkable to consider civilised the popular forms of cultural expression such as heavy metal and the movies that today are watched even by white nationalists throughout the West.

As we saw in some of my latest entries, other self-destructing forms of cultural expression already occurred in the times of the fall of the Roman Empire. Clark said:

The same architectural language, the same imagery, the same theatres, the same temples—at any time for five hundred years you could have found them all round the Mediterranean, in Greece, Italy, France.

What happened? It took Gibbon six volumes to describe the decline and fall of the Roman Empire, so I shan’t embark on that. But thinking about this almost incredible episode does tell one something about the nature of civilisation. It shows that however complex and solid it seems, it is actually quite fragile. It can be destroyed. What are its enemies? Well, first of all fear—fear of the supernatural, which means that you daren’t question anything or change anything. The late antique world was full of meaningless rituals, mystery religions, that destroyed self-confidence.

Unlike Gibbon and Nietzsche, before his TV audience Clark didn’t dare to point the finger at Christianity. But later in the program, Clark spoke about Islam:

In a miraculously short time—about fifty years—the classical world was overrun [by the Muslim conquests]. Only its bleached bones stood out against the Mediterranean sky. The old source of civilisation was sealed off, and if a new civilisation was to be born it would have to face the Atlantic.

But something very odd happened to Man’s self-image in the early medieval world facing the Atlantic in what today is Ireland. According to Clark:

The subject of Mediterranean man was man. Two hundred years have passed—perhaps a little more—and man has almost vanished.

Crude as this imago hominis may be when compared to the Apollo, presently some white nationalists advertise their blogs with soft-porn pics of semi-nude women: something far more degrading for the divine human figure than the image of 8th century insular art in the Echternach Gospels.

To my mind—and, like Clark, I must say that this is only my personal view­—, the imago hominis only means a psychogenic regression in Man’s understanding of himself compared to the Greeks and the Romans. However, the white nationalists’ soft porn spits on the avatar of God, even if I don’t believe in the existence of a personal god.

After the above image chosen by Clark for the first episode of his program, in the following pages of the book version Clark mentions how St. Gregory destroyed entire libraries of the classical world (I quoted part of it in my recent antichristian series, here), and on the next page he states that even in those obscure days the Europeans fought strenuously against their enemies:

All great civilisations, in their early stages, are based on success in war. The Romans were the best organised and most ruthless fighters in Latium. So it was with the Franks. Clovis and his successors not only conquered their enemies, but maintained themselves by cruelties and tortures remarkable even by the standards of the last thirty years.

Without Charles Martel’s victory over the Moors at Poitiers in 732, western civilisation might never have existed, and without Charlemagne’s tireless campaigns we should never have had the notion of a united Europe.

Charlemagne was the first great man of action to emerge from the darkness since the collapse of the Roman world. The old idea that he saved civilisation isn’t far wrong. On the whole, our whole knowledge of ancient literature is due to the collecting and copying that began under Charlemagne.

If we compared ourselves with the franks, what could it be said about present-day nationalists? Many of them don’t even let our most serious fighter discuss in their forums (by “serious fighter” I mean someone who’s actively planning a revolution). Didn’t the Führer say that those who want to live, let them fight, and that those who do not want to fight in this world of eternal struggle do not deserve to live? Do whites and white nationalists deserve to live? If so, where are the Charles Martels in today’s islamized Europe, in America’s mexicanized states?

I am not proposing to do something stupid in a world which media is a hundred percent dominated by the Enemy. But at least be prepared for the tough, revolutionary times that are coming after the dollar crashes.