Two years ago, during the pandemic and lockdowns, I recommended half a hundred films. And about ten years ago an Australian asked me in the comments section of this site what pieces of classical music I would recommend for him to suggest to his daughters.
But music is not like films. One can watch typical Hollywood cinema, like Presumed Innocent and The Fugitive with Harrison Ford, and not degrade one’s soul. Those films are light cinema, but they don’t necessarily corrupt us.
Music, on the other hand, is like sex.
These days I have participated in a comment thread on The Unz Review about an article by Michael E. Jones in which he mentions his recent debate with Greg Johnson, where the Catholic Jones criticises homosexualism.
It has been over ten years since I distanced myself from Johnson because of his defence of the misnamed ‘gay’ movement, and for promoting what the Nazis called ‘degenerate music’ on his webzine.
To my way of thinking, sex education is like music education. It is not so much, as the Australian naively asked me, a matter of suggesting a dozen masterful pieces of classical music. Rather, we must prevent our children from listening to degenerate music just as, in a healthy society, we prevent our girls from having premarital sex.
What good is a long list of my favourite works in classical music if the average Westerner would then go on to listen to—and even enjoy!—degenerate music? It’s like showing a teenage daughter the old movie Ivanhoe starring an archetypically Aryan actor like Robert Taylor and an absolute adolescent beauty (Liz Taylor) when, on the weekend, that same daughter goes on a date with a black.
In music education it’s not the sums that count (remember the Australian who asked me for a list so his daughters could add my recommendations on their mobile phones). It is subtraction that counts.
So, in today’s world, it makes no sense to make a list of classical music pieces for our children to listen to. For education to work, one would have to cut the child off from the West as Russia has cut itself off, and create a traditional society—something impossible in the soft totalitarianism of today’s West.
I was educated musically. At the age of five or six I discovered my first musical love thanks to a record of my father’s, Mussorgsky’s Khovanshchina or Dawn Over the River Moscow, an anecdote I tell in more detail in one of my books.
My early discovery of that sublime prelude happened in the early sixties, a time when the little boy I was had not heard a note of degenerate music. And how could I not be well educated when in those years my father had gone to Utica in New York to re-release one of his symphonic works?
Do you understand what I mean when I say that in musical matters one educates by example? In Gomorrah it makes no sense to make a list of classical pieces when we are as surrounded by degenerate music as fish in water. But I would like to make an exception.
Below we can listen to my first musical love. It’s curious that my first loves were Russian pieces. That’s because, as we see in the old newspaper clip of my father in Utica, he confessed ‘Stravinsky is my idol’. (Not long after discovering Khovanshchina my dad used to play for me another Russian piece that, in time, would become one of my favourites: the Firebird Suite.)
Like decent sexual behaviour, good music can only be taught by example, and by strict prohibitions. With all that Russia has banned in recent days from the Gomorrahite and dying West, that country will soon become the healthiest white society in the world…
The last three days I watched Lohengrin on YouTube, one act each night, corroborating what I think of opera.
If a good film loses ten or twenty per cent of its art when seen on the small screen, opera easily loses ninety-nine per cent. It is art made to be seen live, with the flesh and blood characters in front of our seats, and with all the ritual of spending our meagre savings, as the adolescent Hitler did when he discovered Wagner; dressing up in our best clothes, and going to a palace (like this one in Mexico City: the only one where I have enjoyed an opera, inviting a lady of course, to accompany me).
Opera really misses almost one hundred per cent of its magic. It seems an outrage that in the next few days I will continue to use this medium to see other Wagnerian operas. But in the palace of the town where I live, operas by the Führer’s favourite composer are very rarely performed. And even in the single opera I have seen there, the subtitles in my native language were essential to understanding the songs and the plot.
It is impossible to understand National Socialism without enjoying the art of its background. And it is impossible to grasp Wagner’s art in all its glory without having the funds to go to Vienna or Bayreuth in Germany, where some of his operas are performed every year. But even if you have the money, say, to go to the opera theatre in the Judaized US, in recent times modern choreography has bastardised the German composer’s original vision, courtesy of the Jews (see for example these quotations of an article that was later deleted in The Occidental Observer).
In the performance I saw yesterday, embedded below, Lohengrin is not the blond Aryan that Europeans used to see in more accurate performances. While the singer I heard yesterday has a magnificent voice, we will have to wait for the Fourth Reich before we can, once again, enjoy Wagner’s works as they were seen by those born in much less obscure times than ours…
On the sidebar, yesterday I replaced Savitri’s photo with a video showing a beautiful parade in Munich in 1939. If there is one thing white nationalists still don’t understand, it is that before a Semitic cult took over their culture, for the Aryan mind the visual and plastic arts, including architecture, took precedence over the written word. Even Homer was recited in special houses orally, with speakers memorising the Iliad.
The sites of white nationalism are children of the Reformation, which, unlike the Renaissance, emphasised the written word following the theologians who rebelled against the revival in Italy: a light on a potential revival of the Aryan spirit.
Judeo-Christianity, with its emphasis on the written word, eclipsed the Renaissance in the subsequent centuries as the Reformation imposed, once again, the cult of holy writ, and this time introducing the Old Testament into the psyche of Aryan man.
Having once again inverted the values, centuries later National Socialism attempted to reverse the process using public arts—just as it was done in ancient Rome and even in Greece. That’s why what happened in Munich and elsewhere in Germany is so important.
Why do I say all this in an entry devoted to the second booklet that came to me among those booklets that portrayed the spirit, now in the written word, during the most glorious times of the Third Reich? Because since the American publishers of those booklets were deprived of almost all forms of payment, the presentation of their translated booklets is too rustic. What better than to quote what on 22 July this year I wrote, in the form of a soliloquy, on the white pages of the booklet The SS Calls You! (translated from the SS original, Dich ruft die SS!):
These translations are not made with love. Just compare them with Casanova’s small book [a superb edition of a biography of an Austrian author I acquired in Manchester]: just the font and book size that the translated German booklet would deserve. It is unfortunate that there are no artists like me in the publishing industry of racialists. Therefore, I will just skim through it (the tiny font size is very uncomfortable to read…).
That said, just looking at the first page [actually page 7, after the opening credits] I can’t help but think that I shouldn’t revisit the WN sites, which are rubbish compared to this fighting spirit.
It is precisely because the US relies on that materialistic phrase containing the misleading word ‘happiness’ that makes Americans the antithesis of the Aryan hero. But there is a problem, page 10 mentions the word ‘God’.
Page 64 announces the career ‘SS music officer’ at the Berlin Conservatory, and continues the information about that SS career on the next page.
Non-degenerate music, obviously. Then, on page 66, comes a phrase I have already spoken about a couple of times on this site addressing German parents: ‘Sooner or later your son will become a soldier’.
Perhaps it is worth closing this post with an image of how the Roman church bewitches its faithful precisely with super-aesthetic editions of its liturgy: the most aesthetic editions I have ever seen in a publishing house! If with money it is possible to publish this kind of little books to instil evil, won’t it be possible to found a new publishing house that collects all these little jewels of the Third Reich in editions as elegant as those of Ediciones Cristiandad, whose publishing house resides in Madrid?
It cannot be repeated or emphasised enough: intolerance, religious or philosophical, is characteristic of devotees of ‘man’ regardless of any consideration of race or personality. As a result, it is the real racists who show the greatest tolerance.
No doubt racists demand from their comrades in arms absolute fidelity to the common faith. This is not ‘intolerance’; it is a question of order. Everyone must know what they want, and not adhere to a doctrine and then make reservations about it. Whoever has objections to formulate—and above all, objections concerning the basic values of the doctrine—has only to remain outside the community of the faithful, and not to pretend to be the comrade of those with whom he does not share faith entirely. No doubt also the racist is ready to fight men who act, and even who think, as enemies of their race. But he does not fight them in order to change them, to convert them. If they stay in their place, and stop opposing him and his blood brothers, he leaves them alone—for he is not interested enough in them to care about their fate, in this world or into another.
In the third Book of his Essays, Montaigne laments that the Americas were not conquered ‘by the Greeks or the Romans’, rather than by the Spaniards and the Portuguese. He believes that the New World would never have known the horrors committed to converting the native to a religion considered by the conquerors to be the ‘only’ good, the only true one.
What he does not say; what, perhaps, he had not understood, is that it is precisely the absence of racism and the love of ‘man’ that are at the root of these horrors. The Greeks and Romans—and all ancient peoples—were racists, at least during their time of greatness. As such they found it quite natural that different peoples had different gods, and different customs. They did not get involved in imposing their own gods and customs on the vanquished, under pain of extermination.
Even the Jews did not do this. They so despised all those who sacrificed to gods other than Yahweh, that they were content—on the order of this god, says the Bible—to exterminate them without seeking to convert them. They imposed on them the terror of war—not that ‘spiritual terror’ which, as Adolf Hitler so aptly writes, ‘entered for the first time into the Ancient World, until then much freer than ours, with the appearance of Christianity’. The Spaniards, the Portuguese, were Christians. They imposed terror of war and spiritual terror on the Americas.
What would the Greeks of ancient Greece have done in their place, or the Romans or other Aryan people who would have had, in the sixteenth century, the spirit of our racists of the twentieth? They would undoubtedly have conquered the countries; they would have exploited them economically. But they would have left to the Aztecs, Tlaxcaltecs, Mayans, etc., as well as the peoples of Peru, their gods and their customs. Furthermore, they would have fully exploited the belief of these peoples in a ‘white and bearded’ god, civiliser of their country, who, after having left their ancestors many centuries before, was to return from the East, to reign over them—their descendants—with his companions: men of fair complexion. Their leaders would have acted, and ordered their soldiers to act, so that the natives effectively take them for the god Quetzalcoatl and his army. They would have respected the temples—instead of destroying them and building on their ruins monuments of a foreign cult. They would have been tough, sure—as all conquerors are but they would not have been sacrilegious. They would not have been the destroyers of civilisations that, even with their weaknesses, were worth their own.
The Romans, so tolerant of religion, have on occasion persecuted adherents of certain cults. The religion of the Druids was, for example, banned in Gaul by Emperor Claudius. And there were those persecutions of the early Christians, which we talked about too much, without always knowing what we were saying. But all of these repressive measures were purely political, not doctrinal—not ethical. It was as leaders of the clandestine resistance of the Celts against Roman domination, and not as priests of a cult which might have appeared unusual to the conquerors, that the Druids were stripped of their privileges (in particular, of their monopoly of teaching young people) and prosecuted. It was as bad citizens, who refused to pay homage to the Emperor-god, the embodiment of the State, and not as devotees of a particular god, that Christians were persecuted.
If in the sixteenth century Indo-European conquerors, faithful to the spirit of tolerance which has always characterised their race, had made themselves masters of the Americas by exploiting the indigenous belief in the return of the white god, Quetzalcoatl, there would have been no resistance to their domination, therefore no occasion for the persecution of the kind I have just recalled. Not only would the peoples of the New World never have known the atrocities of the Holy Inquisition, but their writings (as for those who, like the Mayans and Aztecs, had them) and their monuments would have survived.
And in Tenochtitlan, which over the centuries had become one of the great capitals of the world, the imposing multi-storey pyramids—intact—would now dominate modern streets. And the palaces and fortresses of Cuzco would still be admired by visitors. And the solar and warlike religions of the peoples of Mexico and Peru, while evolving, probably, in contact with that of the victors, at least in their external forms, would have kept their basic principles, and continued to transmit, from generation to generation, the eternal esoteric truths under their particular symbolism. In other words, they would have settled in Central America and in the former Empire of the Incas Aryan dynasties, whose relations with the conquered countries would have been more or less similar to those which they formerly had maintained, with the aristocracy and the peoples of India, the Greek dynasties who, from the third century BC to the first after the Christian era, ruled over what is now Afghanistan, Sindh and Punjab.
______ 卐 ______
Note of the Editor: William Pierce’s Who We Are was published after Savitri Devi’s book. She didn’t grasp the full meaning that the Aryans of India would, over many centuries, succumb to what happened to the Iberian Europeans in a few centuries: interbreeding with the Indians. Since Savitri was female, because of her yin nature she couldn’t see tremendously yang issues, like what Pierce tells us about extermination or expulsion.
The yin wisdom of the priestess (her loyal Hitlerism, something that Pierce lacked) must be balanced with the yang input of the priest (an exterminationist drive, something that priestess usually lack).
______ 卐 ______
Unfortunately, Europe itself in the sixteenth century had long since succumbed to that spirit of intolerance which it had, along with Christianity, received from the Jews. The history of the wars of religion bears witness to this, in Germany as well as in France. And as for the old Hellenic-Aegean blood—the very blood of the ‘ancient world’, once so tolerant—it was won in the service of the Roman Church: represented, among the conquerors of Peru, in the person of Pedro de Candia, Cretan adventurer, one of Francisco Pizarro’s most ruthless companions.
I will be told that the cruelties committed in the name of the salvation of souls, by the Spaniards in their colonies—and by the Portuguese in theirs (the Inquisition was, in Goa, perhaps even worse than in Mexico, which is not little to say!)—are no more attributable to true Christianity than to Aryan racism as understood by the Führer, unnecessary acts of violence, carried out without orders, during the Second World War, by some men in German uniforms. I am told that neither Cortés nor Pizarro nor their companions, nor the Inquisitors of Goa or Europe, nor those who approved their actions, loved man as Christ would have wanted his disciples to love him.
That is true. These people were not humanitarians. And I never claimed they were. But they were humanists, not in the narrow sense of ‘scholars’, but in the broad sense: men for whom man was, in the visible world at least, the supreme value. They were, anyway, people who bathed in the atmosphere of a civilisation centred on the cult of ‘man’, whom they neither denounced nor fought—quite the contrary! They were not necessarily—they were even very rarely—kind to humans of other races (even theirs!) as Jesus wanted everyone to be. But even in their worst excesses, they venerated in him, even without loving him, Man, the only living being created, according to their faith, ‘in the image of God’, and provided with an immortal soul, or at least—in the eyes of those who in their hearts had already detached themselves from the Church, as, later, to those of so many list colonialists of the eighteenth or nineteenth century—the only living being endowed with reason.
Note of the Editor: Left, a monk pitying and loving a conquered Amerindian (mural by Orozco in Mexico).
They worshipped him, despite the atrocities they committed against him, individually or collectively. And, even if some of them, in the secrecy of their thoughts, did not revere him more than they did love him, not granting him, if he was only a ‘savage’, neither soul nor right soul—after all, there were Christians who refused to attribute to women a soul similar to their own—this does not change the fact that the ‘civilisation’ of which they claimed, and of which they were the agents, proclaimed the love and respect for every man, and the duty to help him access ‘happiness’, if not in this earthly life, at least in the Hereafter.
It has sometimes been maintained that any action undertaken in the colonies, including missionary action, was, even without the knowledge of those who carried it out, remotely guided by businessmen who did not have them in sight, only material profit and nothing else. It has been suggested that the Church itself was only following the plans and carrying out the orders of such men—which would partly explain why it seems to have been far more interested in the souls of the natives than in those of the conquering chiefs and soldiers—who, however, sinned so scandalously against the great commandment of Christ: the law of love. Even if all these allegations were based on historical facts that could be proven, one would still be forced to admit that colonial wars would have been impossible, from the sixteenth to the nineteenth century (and especially perhaps in the nineteenth), without the belief, then generally widespread in Europe, that they provided the opportunity to ‘save’ souls, and to ‘civilise savages’.
This belief that Christianity was the ‘true’ faith for ‘all’ men, and that the standards of conduct of Europe marked by Christianity were also for ‘all’ men—the criterion of ‘civilisation’—was questioned by no one. The leaders who led the colonial wars, the adventurers, soldiers and brigands who waged them, the settlers who benefited from them, shared it—even if, in the eyes of most of them, the hope of material profit was in the foreground less as important, if not more, than the eternal salvation of the natives. And whether they had shared it or not, they were nonetheless supported, in their action, by this collective belief of their distant continent, of the whole Christendom.
______ 卐 ______
Note of the Editor: That is very true. For example, in the last decades of his life my very Catholic father became obsessed with the biography of a 16th-century Spanish monk who made several trips from the Old to the New World to protect the rights of the Amerindians; so much so that my father dedicated his magnum opus, La Santa Furia (Holy Wrath), to him. This is a composition with three series of woods, six horns, three trumpets, four trombones and tuba, two harps, piano and timpani, percussion instruments among which were some pre-Hispanic, as well as a solo vocal quartet, a sextet of men and a choir mixed with four voices: 115 choristers in total and 90 orchestral musicians: a one-hour symphonic work that can be watched on YouTube:
It was precisely my father’s behaviour—cf. my eleven books in Spanish—that prompted me to repudiate not only Catholicism but Christian axiology, becoming a true apostate of Christianity. Savitri concludes:
______ 卐 ______
It is this belief which—officially—justified their wars which, if they had been waged in the conditions in which they were waged, but solely in the name of profit, or even security (as had been the wars of the Mongolian conquerors in the thirteenth century), would have seemed ‘inhuman’. It was such conquest that, still officially, defined the spirit of their conduct towards the natives. From there this haste to convert him—willingly, by force or using ‘bribes’—to their Christian faith, or to make him share the ‘treasures’ of their culture, in particular to initiate him to their sciences, while making him lose all contact with his own.
 Mein Kampf, German edition of 1935, p. 507.
 Or, in Peru, for the god Viracocha. The Peruvians had initially called the Spaniards Viracochas.
‘Why do chess players grieve so much after a defeat?… Because defeat is like a little death’. —Manuel Suárez / Boris Zlotnik
What to do after defeat
None of the chess fans I know knows that mastery of the game is due to factors that have nothing to do with his will. Only in a small group of vocations can a human being aspire to be a child prodigy. Music, mathematics and chess are paradigms. Some compare Bach’s music with mathematics, whose logic is inherent, or a priori a Kantian would say, to the human mind. Also, as a special form of computation that is chess, early training can turn a child with special characteristics into a Capablanca, for whom chess was his mother tongue. The same can be said for Russian and former Soviet republics players who, unlike my very modest level when I played Monroy, reach grandmaster norm at fifteen or sixteen.
Few things have impressed me more than the autobiographical part of Capablanca’s My Chess Career. By winning a match against American Frank Marshall, the Cuban reached the level of a grandmaster without studying a single opening book. This is the most representative fact that I can think of to point out how someone with good genes who learned to play chess from the age of four, and developed the edge of his mind in that computational area, can become a world champion. Capablanca’s brain, the ‘chess machine’, was trained in the span of life in which one is capable of developing new faculties. That is why music conservatories do not admit students after a certain age. The same thing happens in chess.
The neurological development of certain areas of the brain differs between a Capablanca or fifteen-year-old GMs and the rest of the hobbyists. An even more terrible truth is that a high IQ is innate, and has to do with the ethnic group to which one belongs. Not having heard this, many have pursued the mirage that, through sheer study, they would become grandmasters as if it were something similar to obtaining a doctorate in physics. In reality, the rating that a young man learning the game in his twenties can develop is relatively modest, and even the level of a child or pubescent if he doesn’t have the right genes for this game. If we study chess to reach the equivalent of a doctorate, the knowledge acquired can help us to be excellent instructors, but it won’t necessarily allow us to play like the first boards in the world. Like the violin or piano prodigies, in chess what counts is how much we train certain areas of our brain in childhood, puberty and adolescence. Using a crude computational analogy, what really matters is the kind of software our brains were trained with, in addition to racial hardware (nowadays, there are no active chess GMs of the black race).
In the introduction I said that the talks of some amateur fans motivated me to write this book. One of these friends is called Alcides, who is well educated in chess. In the café where we talked Alcides played matches with Yayo, who doesn’t read chess and doesn’t even know how to maintain the opposition in a king and pawn versus king ending. However, Yayo generally beat Alcides in matches. On several occasions I spoke with Alcides about the Lasker manual. He likes the original German version better than the shortened English and Spanish versions. One of these versions once wore on a coffee table, but as usual Lasker’s pupil was swept away by Yayo. Alcides is capable in his profession of computer science and handling of computers. But despite his chess and computational knowledge, his uneducated rival has a better brain to play chess. Let’s put it iconoclastically: Lasker’s manual, and in fact all the chess books that I know, are bad and anti-pedagogical because they don’t start from a vital axiom about the game: the development of certain brain areas differs among people and even among the races.
It is not my intention to discourage Caissa’s suitors. But the young aspiring would spare a lot of dreams if, at home or school, we had been given this elementary class in neurology and raciology. Personally, given my father’s talents in music and visual arts, that was where I could’ve excelled (think of prominent Mexican filmmakers in Hollywood like Cuarón, Iñárritu, and del Toro), not computational business like chess. But even if we take all of this into account, compared to Cuba the chess level in Mexico is low. If we add to this that many of us are ageing and that we don’t have good instructors, those Botvinnik and Averbach that the Russian children and lads had, it will be virtually impossible to make the quantum leap to become GMs. Here I can’t help but come to mind a photograph of instructor Botvinnik with a young Garri Kasparov next to him. It also comes to mind that both of Fischer’s parents were Jewish. His biological father was a brilliant mathematician (Ashkenazi Jews are the ethnic group ranked the highest on the IQ scale).
Listening to a thirteen-year-old boy play Beethoven’s concerto for violin and orchestra is like watching some children from the former Soviet republics play games of blitz. Such is the virtuosity of these Paganinis of Caissa that they give their colleagues a five-minute lead, by just two minutes of their own, and destroy them with diabolical precision. No matter how hard you study, you’ll never play blitz games like that: an infallible measurer of the level of a boy whose mother tongue had been chess. To meditate thoughtfully on what we read in chess literature, to put our games to Fritz to understand them better, to consult the Encyclopedia of Chess Openings to see where we made the imprecision, to play one tournament after another to accustom to fighting chess, may be instructive but not necessarily to jump significantly in skill level. At least not to take the leap that some young people fantasise about. Our brain is already formed, formatted I would dare to say.
Presently, the edge of my mind manifests itself in my speciality of understanding the psychic havoc that abusive parents cause—an area that has nothing to do with chess. Capablanca, who never undertook the chess study marathons that many unsuspecting do, played infinitely better than I and other inveterate scholars. I have said that few things have impressed me more than Capablanca beat a GM during a match without studying a single opening book (on another level, this is exactly what happened in Alcides’ matches with Yayo). At twenty Capablanca had not played a single match with a grandmaster, and he beat Marshall with a crushing score of +8 = 14 –1 (eight games won, fourteen draws and one loss). This is the fact that best illustrates what a genius is. If the pedagogues were humble enough to accept the innate deficiencies of the child, they would know that he won’t speak as fast as the Jew Ben Shapiro, or that he won’t obtain the title of GM of chess at thirteen as did the Nordic Magnus Carlsen, who would conquer the sceptre.
(Thirteen-year-old Carlsen in Norway giving a simultaneous exhibition.) We don’t need to rank high on verbal IQ, the speciality of the Jews, to become a champion. But we do need to rank high, like the Nordics, Slavs or Asians, in spatial intelligence. If you still want to play under these circumstances, my suggestion is that you write an intimate diary about your emotions in the game and your love of the game taking these facts into account.
‘A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms’ is the second episode of the eighth season of HBO’s fantasy television series Game of Thrones, and the 69th overall. The first feminist message of the episode is seen in the Winterfell smithy, during the dialogue between Gendry and Arya. I don’t even want to detail it because, later, what happens between them is worse. As always, the woman is on top of the man in the sexual act, and in this case Arya was losing her virginity! By getting on top of him, she plays the role of the macho.
Later, speaking alone with Sansa, Dany tells her: ‘We have other things in common. We’ve both known what it means to lead people who aren’t inclined to accept a woman’s rule. And we’ve both done a damn good job of it, from what I can tell’.
But that’s nothing. The most offensive scene of the episode comes later, when Davos gives hot food to every commoner in Winterfell, outside the castle walls, in the winter. An adult male gets the soup with these words: ‘My lord, we’re no soldiers’. The men from the north are preparing to fight the Night King’s army, which has already crossed the Wall and is heading to Winterfell. Davos replies: ‘You are now’ and the man is stunned. Davos has to reassure him with personal anecdotes, as Davos isn’t a warrior either (although he has participated in important battles).
The next person who reaches out to Davos with an empty plate to receive the soup is a little girl, about ten years old, and she says to Davos with the accent of a little English girl: ‘All the children will be going below [of the castle] when the time comes. But… I want to fight’. There can be no clearer message.
Above, Podrick, Brienne’s squire, right before Jaime knighted Brienne, a woman, for the first time in Westeros history. That naming gave the episode its title, ‘A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms’.
In the next scene, Jorah Mormont asks his cousin Lyanna Mormont—the girl who, as we have seen, has admonished Jon several times in front of the lords—to stay in the crypt under the castle during the battle, along with the women and children. Lady Mormont replies that she will fight alongside her soldiers (in the next episode we will see that she dies heroically when the Night King’s army of the dead infiltrates the castle).
Perhaps what was most worth hearing from the episode was the song Podrick sings on the eve of the enemy army arriving at Winterfell, which can be heard: here. Many of those in the castle will die in a few hours. The song conveys a state of unusual relaxation before facing destiny.
‘Walk of Punishment’ is the third episode of the third season of HBO’s fantasy television series Game of Thrones, and the 23rd episode of the series.
‘I want you’, poor Stannis said to the witch Melisandre on the beach, almost begging her to stay with him instead of going on a boat in search of someone to sacrifice. One might think that women cast a spell on us. But as some of the MGTOW have noted, that isn’t the case. It is our desire to possess them that makes us annul ourselves at their whim when we are in heat.
Of course, this wouldn’t happen if we had patriarchy like Republican Rome, when women were treated as property. And even in a softer patriarchy, like what we read in Jane Austen’s novels, no stupid laws had been enacted regarding marital rape. We only make a fool of ourselves when we empower them and give up the power with which Nature endowed us to the degree that we allow ourselves to be handled like puppets. That wouldn’t happen if the West regained its judgment and transvalued its values if not as far as the Roman world, at least as the values in Austen’s world.
In the episode Melisandre sees with open contempt the lust of poor Stannis. Declarations of love don’t work. We give them the power to say ‘no’. A king like Stannis Baratheon who can’t control the woman who was always by his side—compare him with the way his brother Robert Baratheon treated women—is not a true king.
In Astapor, on the other side of the world, we heard a dialogue between Jorah and Dany about war. The theme of the sword always reminds me of how feminised white nationalists are:
Jorah: You know what I saw? Butchery. Babies, children, old men. More women raped than what you can count. There’s a beast in every man, and it stirs when you put a sword in his hand.
Dany then scolds his two loyal advisers, Jorah and Barristan, when they advised her not to sell one of her dragons in exchange for an army of mulattos. The scene represents a very bad message for the white viewer. And the irony is that Emilia Clarke, the actress who played the role of Dany in all seasons, has a very feminine character in real life; so much so that she had difficulties filming scenes in which she appears as a dragon-woman in full command of her leader personality. But that’s the point of Game of Thrones: to reverse male-female roles in the perennial campaign of the media, government and universities to brainwash the white man. Dany’s dialogue with the mulatto woman Missandei, the translator she just got in Astapor while trying to sell one of her dragons, epitomises the feminist message:
Dany: And what about you? You know that I’m taking you to war. You may go hungry. You may fall sick. You may be killed.
Missandei: Valar Morghulis.
Dany: Yes, all men must die. But we are not men.
Missandei smiles. But in the penultimate episode of the last season, during the war of the bitches Dany and Cersei (note that the most powerful were queens, not kings), the latter orders Missandei be beheaded in front of Dany. But back to the episode ‘Walk of Punishment’, in the scene at Littlefinger’s brothel the Jewish director manages to keep the viewer from craving any of his white whores. I can imagine if the Germans were in charge of the cinema instead of the Jews. What would whites be watching now on the small screen?
The degenerate music of the end credits is the final insult, after Locke cut off Jaime Lannister’s hand (in the novels Locke is a cruel man sworn to House Bolton, considered by Roose Bolton as his best hunter). Again, if the Germans had won the war what music would we hear in the end credits of films today?
In the aforementioned documentary, after minute 46 the narrator talks again about Bach’s ‘life ambition’: writing music for the church. It is very interesting to observe how Bach worked frantically in Leipzig to compose, in a relatively short time, his two Passions.
Leipzig was ‘the city of churches’ and out of a population of thirty thousand, nine thousand of them gathered together in two churches, making Bach the centre of an audience ten to twelve times larger than an opera house. Wagner would have envied him! It was there that Bach premiered a Passion: a central gem in a series of cantatas and oratorios that told the story of a rabbi’s arrest, trial, and crucifixion. This was a fictional rabbi that the treasonous Aryans still adore, including a good many of the misnamed white nationalists. St John Passion is an amalgam of ‘storytelling, meditation and drama’ and let us remember that the Gospel of John was Luther’s favourite gospel.
If one takes a look at minute 56:40 in the referred documentary we see the narrator directing a group of musicians that includes a woman of dark skin: the perfect corollary of an ethic that commands the German to love every anthropomorphic creature. The narrator comments on playing St John Passion: ‘It’s like nails being driven into bare flesh’ and that’s exactly the feeling that that music causes me. But not in the sense that the narrator imagines: but in the sense of my dreams of terrifying cathedrals and my dislike for dad’s Christianity (and Bach’s music). I especially feel that when the choir sings together.
In a non-nightmarish world Aryan Germany would have continued without Levantine contamination. How would that Teutonic music have sounded in an 18th-century parallel world in which Julian had not been murdered? Maybe when Christianity finishes dying Bach’s music will die but even in secular Germany Christianity is alive. Just listen to the lyrics of St John Passion sung by the German choir after the 58th minute!:
(((Lord))), our ruler
whose fame in every land is glorious!
Axiologically (‘ethnocentrism for me but universalism for thee’), the Hebrew god still rules the West, even the secular West. In a ‘wonderful presentation of story-telling’ the Passion composed by Bach tried to transmit, in ‘an extraordinary amalgam between theology and music’, the drama of the rabbi’s crucifixion whom mad people ordered to be killed. It hurts to see these Aryans sing to the god of the Jews seven decades after a German Reich tried to get them on the right track.
St John Passion, the narrator informs us, is a masterpiece even though the authorities at the time disliked it so much that they forced Bach to make changes to it.
I invite visitors who like classical music to watch an hour-and-a-half documentary: ‘Bach: A Passionate Life’. The host of the documentary informs us that, when Luther took refuge in a castle, he believed that the devil was stalking him from the ceiling. Compare such dark paranoia with the return to the artistic spirit that then reigned in Renaissance Rome!
In that room the dark monk, Luther, translated the New Testament using many German dialects, thus creating a unified language for that nation. In one of my previous posts I said that all western nations since Constantine, except for the brief reigns of Julian the Apostate and Hitler, should be considered quackery from the new point of view. The reason why the Germans allowed themselves to be brainwashed so easily since the US-imposed Diktat is explained if we see that the inertia of their culture was infinitely more Christian than the occult paganism of the Third Reich. In other words, what succeeded again in WW2 was, as happened after the assassination of Julian, the grip that the Christian archetype holds over the white man’s psyche.
Compare my point of view with what even a racist revolutionary, a non-Christian, wrote in one of his novels. Harold Covington envisioned a dispute between Christians and pagans, both freedom fighters for the 14 words, during the racial revolution: a dispute that was only resolved when the pagans allowed that the hymn of the new Aryan republic was… a hymn that Luther had composed! Naturally, neither the late Covington nor his secular followers that can still be heard once a month on Radio Free Northwest knew that Christianity and the JQ are one and the same.
These Luther hymns went perfectly in line with the central goal of Bach’s life, as we are informed after minute 29 of the documentary linked above: ‘A well-regulated church music to the glory of (((God)))’. Those were Johann Sebastian Bach’s words: the words of the grandfather of all the composers! But without putting triple parentheses now, after the 45th minute of the documentary a writer confesses to us, when we hear Partita for Violin No. 2 in the background, that this sort of musical soliloquy ‘would convince me that there is a God’.
This is most interesting because that Partita is the music solo I have heard the most from Bach, and although it is secular (i.e., non-sacred music) it perfectly portrays the feeling of the child of my dream in my previous post: that what for my father (or Christians) seemed sublime to me it seems hellish. Infernal not in the sense of today’s degenerate music, but in another sense. Just as Gothic cathedrals represent magnificent art, much of Bach’s music (and even Beethoven’s quartets) transports me to that gargoyle-filled nightmare world of which I want nothing more than a return to a musically enlightened world.
Please understand me well. Unlike those Neanderthals who don’t understand the music of Bach, Beethoven or Wagner, since my parents were musicians by profession I did understand them. But it is the dark Zeitgeist that, as in my dark cathedrals series of dreams, bothers me even though I recognise that the Partita is a masterpiece. Curiously, when after getting used to listening to it on violin I once heard the same Partita by Bach, but this time versioned for classical guitar, the gargoyles disappeared and I was finally able to enjoy it. Something similar happens to me with the church organ and the harpsichord: I cannot hear them except when the pieces are versioned for other classical instruments, although more modern. It is the Christian Era Zeitgeist that irritates me, and to understand my subjectivity I must translate another page of El Grial:
______ 卐 ______
What impresses me about this historical revisionism is the clairvoyance of the teenager I was, whom my parents and a psychoanalyst destroyed at the time. He saw things as they were, and compared the loss of his beautiful life with the loss of the ancient Hellas. For the adolescent Caesar, the best of his Palenque had been his ‘Greek’ stage, and the stage after November 1974 was like the fourth century and subsequent European centuries. How I remember the way in which I then projected that drama on the image of an LP that my father liked, that we called the Hercules Mass.
I was deeply hurt by the transition from the world of the Greeks and the Romans to Christendom; and the face of the lad on the cover of the album, together with the Kyrie of Josquin des Prés, represented the fateful transit: sculpture and music that, in my adolescent mentality, I thought dated from the times after Constantine. Still something of the Hellenic beauty was seen in the profile of the young man—I felt inside—and it hurt me that, unlike the jovial times of the ancient world, he was now praying with his face up (note that the female above the lad is no longer Aryan). Later I remember very vividly that, already living with my grandmother in the darkest stage of my life, I blamed my father’s Christianity for the annihilation of the beautiful youth of Athens. What I was unaware of at my seventeen is that the grandiose temples, statues, and libraries of Greco-Roman culture had been ripped apart, and adepts of the old culture marginalised and even genocided by Christians…
Now I know that the tragedy of the West in general, and the tragedy of my life in particular, are two sides of the same coin. The soul that the adolescent Caesar so projected on the downgraded ‘Greek’ of the album was killed by the same regressive forces by which the Greco-Roman world was killed: the incredible evil, stupidity, massive psychosis and envy of humans. From this angle, writing about my life has also been, in some way, writing about the western tragedy.