Laurent Guyénot recently wrote in The Unz Review: “The Christian question is the flip side of the Jewish question, which has now become the Israeli question. It is the question of Christendom’s responsibility—and complicity—in Jewish Power”. Unfortunately, Guyénot messed up shortly afterward with these words: “Let’s not confuse Christ and Christianity. The life and philosophy of Jesus are deeply inspiring; I’m not questioning that”.
Well, at least his first sentence quoted above from his article, which at the time of writing has received 174 responses, is a step in the right direction.
The volume I have of Consumption comprises two books. Today, I read from chapter 19 to the end of the first book: the narrative of what happened to Benjamin at the age of seventeen, when, alarmed by what I quoted in the previous instalment of this series, he was admitted to Brookside, a psychiatric unit for adolescents.
It is vital to understand the real cause of the psychosis, as it is very rare to find someone who knows that psychiatry is as pseudoscientific as, say, parapsychology or ufology. For example, it is curious that Ben’s father, the person most responsible for his son’s mental catastrophe, was as clueless about his role as my mother was when she destroyed my life, also at the age of seventeen. Ben’s father even gave his son a book to read during the year he was hospitalised in the Brookside clinic, The Noonday Demon: a book that promotes the accepted pseudoscience (and about which I wrote a review that can serve as an introduction to debunking the medical model in favour of the trauma model).
But back to the final chapters of the first book of Consumption. It is very impressive to read, in Benjamin’s prose, that some of the other teenagers who were admitted to Brookside also told terrible stories about their pasts that would easily validate the trauma model for anyone with a minimum degree of empathy. But that’s not what the orthodox psychiatrist sells us to understand these young self-harmers committed in Brookside, some even in their early or middle teens. In the words of Ben’s father:
“See, you might think that,” my Dad said, “but no, the science is clear. You see, there are such things in the brain as monoamine neurotransmitters. Little grouped rings of amino acids which control the regulation of emotions, for example, dopamine and serotonin. In your case, you were born with the genes that put you at risk of producing too little serotonin, which in turn leads to your adolescent Depression, which is where your tablets come in. You take daily SSRIs, which stands for Selective Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitors. The medications in the tablets increase the amount of serotonin in your brain by limiting its reabsorption, thus keeping your mood stable. It’s important that you keep taking them, as the doctor says. They’ve studied this area and are professionals, and they know what’s best for you.”
One of the things Benjamin recounts in these chapters is that, after he left Brookside at the age of eighteen, he kept in touch with the teenage friends he made there and, to his dismay, even though they used to take their psychiatric meds several of them committed suicide, one as late as 2005.
As had happened to me on the other side of the Atlantic, no one had wanted to listen to them: something that results in a devastating panic of the inner self that sometimes leads to dire consequences. I have said it before and it is worth repeating ad infinitum and ad nauseam: the psychological havoc that abusive parents cause to their offspring is the greatest taboo of the human species. We can already imagine why a profession that shares this universal taboo can only be iatrogenic, in that its “treatments”—drugs, electroshock or even lobotomy—only victimise the victim again. This absolute lack of empathy, even to listen, prompted Benjamin to write retrospectively about his seventeen years: “…the new world I was gradually being exposed to proving far darker and more horrific than I had ever realised, far from the idyllic countryside of my early years”.
Making friends at Brookside and, in a way, recognising himself in them began to serve Ben as a form of therapy, although not in the sense that the professionals expected (the doctors made him take antidepressants) but because of the similarities with these teenagers’ family tragedies. Alas, this healthy coexistence with other teens was brutally interrupted when his parents visited him at Brookside bringing with them… the Pakistani lad who had molested Ben! Although his parents’ intentions in bringing Tariq weren’t malicious, their lack of empathy reminded me of an anecdote related to a school where I was tormented. Although it was not sexual abuse in my case, what is striking is the absolute disconnect between both families in terms of the most basic communication with the affected person.
The visit proved fateful. Not long after, in a psychotic episode triggered by Benjamin feeling betrayed for having brought Tariq along, instead of hating the perpetrators, in Brookside he re-directed the rage towards himself inflicting terrible self-harm. The ultimate cause of such pathological transference is that society doesn’t allow the victim to speak out his or her emotions (i.e., blame the guilty parties) and the rage is redirected.
In front of his father during one of his visits, Benjamin collapsed because of the horrific things he had done to his body. I will refrain from detailing them, but it was something like a pressure cooker that society, with its Fourth Commandment to honour one’s father, puts a lid on. If that pressure cooker had an escape valve instead of the horrendous repression that caused the psychoses of the Brookside teenagers, we would have common neuroses. But since it is the most potent taboo of the human mind, society insists on its lid until the pressure cooker explodes, dirtying the entire kitchen and even leaving a hole in the ceiling due to the tremendous force with which the metal lid was thrown.
Ben’s self-harm was this time so severe that he had to be taken from Brookside to an emergency hospital, where, in the operating theatre and under general anaesthesia, the surgeons had to remove flesh from one of his legs in a desperate attempt to avoid amputating an arm that had become gangrenous due to his self-harm. The curious thing is that right before the operation, when the doctors told him he could lose his arm, Benjamin didn’t care at all about it: he only cared about the (paranoid) guilt that his family and the System had instilled in his mind (cf. the final words on page 136 of the March 2025 edition). That sense of abysmal guilt is why he had self-harmed.
By then, Benjamin was allowed by the Brookside staff to visit his parents on weekends. If mental health professionals were run by proponents of the trauma model that would never, ever be allowed because his parents would go back to their old ways and that would ensure a relapse (think of something similar to taking Tariq to Brookside but every weekend)! And although I won’t recount the anecdote that was exactly what happened. To boot, after his father abused his son again the iatrogenic profession re-victimised him in the most humiliating and hurtful way:
“Thank you for arranging this [meeting]. Well, it’s my Dad; he’s been making my life really difficult at home. He keeps patronising me and getting at me like he doesn’t like me very much, and my Mum’s not stopping him…”
“Stop right there”, the doctor said with an incredulous expression, interrupting me, “So are you saying to me that you think your father is responsible for your selfinjuring behaviour recently?” to which I replied, “Um, yes, to a degree, I mean, it’s other stuff I’m sad about, but he’s not helping, and he keeps shouting at me and bossing me about, and he bins my stuff” […].
“You see, Benjamin. Listen to your father and mother. They know what’s best for you, and try not to be difficult at home, ok? Sometimes, when we get ill, we can think people are persecuting us, when they really aren’t, and it can feel very real at times.”
Remember what I said not long ago, that according to Tom Szasz psychiatry is a kind of pediatrics because it treats adults as if they were children? What the doctor did is precisely what Alice Miller called “poisonous pedagogy”.
To which, horrified, I responded with “but… but… I’m not lying to you, doctor. It’s true; he does bully me in the house. Please, Mum, Mum, say something!” The doctor appeared put out at this point and a little flustered. Evidently, he had not been expecting my interruption. “Benjamin, keep your voice down, please. Don’t get excited!”
My mother spoke up at this point, in surprising solidarity, “Well, sometimes, you know what it’s like with two men in the house; they come to loggerheads with each other, and Benjamin’s Dad isn’t always the most patient with him…” to which my father gave the sharp retort, “Mary!” and the doctor himself, keen to get on with the meeting, brushed this new response aside, as if he hadn’t heard, and did not pause to write it down as he had done with my own responses.
He went on, “Ok, let’s keep on the point now, as it’s easy to drift off topic. I think what we’re going to do is re-evaluate Benjamin’s diagnosis from now on. It seems Borderline Personality Disorder may not be the whole picture. Just as a preliminary hypothesis, I suggest a co-morbidity of Paranoid Personality Disorder. It’s clear from what Benjamin’s saying about his father that he’s suffering from at least some paranoid symptoms.”
Note that the shrink doctor never witnessed what was happening at home. Only by living with them would he have seen the family dynamics! He’s diagnosing paranoia simply because he sides with the father, like a lawyer with his corrupt client. This is what happened to me at seventeen on the other side of the Atlantic.
He turned to specifically address me. “What we’re going to do now is keep you on your 60mg of Citalopram daily, but in addition to that we’re starting you on a course of Olanzapine, it’s one of the newer atypical antipsychotic mood stabilisers. We’ve had very good results from the clinical trials, and we think it’ll help sort out your paranoid delusions. You take one tablet a day, at 10mg, just as a starting dose, and we’ll see if we should increase it from there.”
“But why are you doing this?!” I called to the psychiatrist, “I’m telling you the truth!” Momentarily, he paused again, taken aback, then turned, as if personally insulted, and motioned to the nurse next to him, saying, “Nurse, it seems Benjamin is becoming agitated; please could you ask him to leave the meeting room” and, before I could say anything else to defend myself, or to contest the decision, and in front of both my parents, I was motioned again to my feet, and boldly escorted out of the room, back to my bedroom to “calm down”.
It was as if a rug had been pulled out from under me. How could my Dad lie like that, right in front of my face? Why couldn’t he just acknowledge it and be more patient around me? After all, my room was hardly untidy [his father’s claim to constantly intrude in his room—Ed.], and, if anything, he was just finding something to do since retiring, himself the obsessive one. And why did the doctor side with him when I told him Dad had been hurting my feelings and side with him from the get-go, really? Why wasn’t I allowed to say my piece? Why was it his word over mine, automatically?! And was I really paranoid?
I didn’t think so, pleased a little that at least my Mum had come to a partial defence of me, impotent though it was. And curse that doctor for not listening to me, the arrogant swine! I hated him. I hated all of the staff. And, more than anything, a deep humiliation settled over me, peaked and incensed, insulted to my core…
Benjamin’s reaction was brutal. Not long after, he began biting his arm like a rabid dog, tearing off pieces of living tissue that had not yet healed from the operation, in such a horrible way that “an experienced surgeon… vomited on the floor, excusing himself from the scene in panic”.
“My forearm wound twenty years later, November 2024” [page 151 of his book. Consumption, by the way, has been dedicated to… yours truly!].
One might think that after such volcanic outbursts of psychosis, a sane father might begin to become a little more humble and listen to his son for the first time in his life.
But that doesn’t happen with narcissistic parents: a form of self-righteousness to the nth degree (the unforgivable sin of pride in Christian terms)! That’s why these parents are so destructive. In fact, if my trilogy were ever to be published under a single cover, I would love for the publisher to use the title of the first volume, Hojas Susurrantes, as I explain there that the title refers to a dream I had in which, at last, the adolescent I once was was able to communicate with his dearest dad…
“The anti-Semitism of the new movement [Christian Social movement] was based on religious ideas instead of racial knowledge… It was obvious, however, that this kind of anti-Semitism did not upset the Jews very much, simply because it had a purely religious foundation. If the worst came to the worst a few drops of baptismal water would settle the matter, hereupon the Jew could still carry on his business safely and at the same time retain his Jewish nationality”.
—Mein Kampf, chapter 3: Political Reflections Arising out of my Sojourn in Vienna.
I have said that understanding individual psychoses might provide the key to understanding the folie en masse, also called “mass formation”, which currently affects virtually all Westerners. In short, if a child named Ben is treated like shit by his parents, schoolmates and even mental health professionals throughout his formative years when his brain is still malleable, his inner self will internalise it (“I am Evil”) and, out of self-hatred, he will self-harm. I am oversimplifying an extremely complex process of erosion of the inner self that takes years, but that’s basically what it is.
The point I am trying to make is that this can also be done to an entire society. If, since 1945, virtually every Westerner has been brainwashed with propaganda that paints the Nazis in the blackest possible light, over time millions of Aryans will internalise the propaganda with such violence (“we whites are Evil”) that their ethnosuicide will become as natural as self-harming. That is why to save the West it is so crucial to un-demonise Hitler: the goal of this website.
Today, as I was resuming the reading of Benjamin’s book, I had to pause because of a serious episode of self-harm when he used to go to school, so much so that his parents had to take him to the hospital in an emergency. I tend to faint at graphic descriptions of blood, to the extent that I cannot watch images of surgeries in operating theatres. So I felt dizzy while reading chapter 18 of Consumption and I had to stop immediately to tidy my room (I am using a new wardrobe that the carpenter built for me yesterday and today) before continuing with my reading.
Remember that I was born in a place where half a millennium ago millions of Indians still practised ritual self-harm. If studying the Mesoamerican world is shocking, even more shocking is the absolute stubbornness of family members, friends, loved ones, and even mental health professionals in grasping the most basic fact: the problem of millions of children like Ben has been purely existential, not biomedical.
Priests performing a ritual of self-harming with bone awls (Codex Tudela, drawing by Fernando Carrizosa).
The Mesoamerican Indians belonged to a lower psychoclass than the Iberian conquerors. But that doesn’t mean that these conquerors were already the overmen Hitler dreamed of. Compared to him, the 16th-century Spanish and Portuguese belonged to a lower psychoclass. So the criticism that a conquistador might make of the psychologically dissociated indigenous people can also be made by me of the contemporary Westerner, insofar as I have developed more empathy than most of them. Otherwise the average Westerner would understand boys like Ben (see my Day of Wrath to better understand the concept of psychoclasses: it has to do with the historical development of empathy in a process that Lloyd deMause calls psychogenesis).
The boy Ben, for example, should have been helped with the most basic empathy, but that could only have been done by a “helping witness” (I explained that concept by Alice Miller a few posts ago). In a case like Benjamin’s, it was as surrealistically idiotic to treat his body with antidepressants as, say, prescribing Prozac to you if your child has been kidnapped and no one wants to help you rescue her!
It seems unbelievable but in this crazy world that is basically how psychiatry works!, although there are notable psychiatrists who have detected the madness of their profession and have dedicated their lives to debunking it. Although I am not one of them, I contributed to this debunking with my original article on the “irrefutable hypothesis” in biological psychiatry: a violation of the principle of falsifiability devised by Karl Popper to distinguish between science and pseudoscience.
Benjamin wrote:
______ 卐 ______
Chapter Eighteen
By the summer of 2001, my overt depression had not lifted. In the house, Dad was increasingly bad-tempered. As with Gerald, he could not understand why I would not pull together, seeing as I had been awarded my tablets by the psychiatrist, which I would still take daily. More and more, I would be tearful and morose, and more and more, he would become snappy with me or overbearing, criticising my choice of fashion or that I had not changed my clothes often enough and excessively reminding me to do my homework, even as I struggled to get homework finished in good time, and frequently left it until the last moment (though in English and Philosophy, I was still top of the class and received steady A-grade marks).
In Philosophy I would learn about Socrates’ moral and ethical dialogues and the theory of virtue and knowledge in the pursuit of eudaimonia (happiness), the epistemology of Plato and his theory of Forms, and Aristotle’s teleological causes and his works on the soul, followed by the writings of Thomas Aquinas and his arguments for the existence of God, moving on into John Locke’s evaluation of the self, David Hume’s empiricism and the theory of compatibilism the takes causal determinism as fully compatible with human free will, the metaphysical idealism of Bishop Berkeley and the mind-body dualism of René Descartes, the utilitarianism of Jeremy Bentham and John Stuart Mill, and then Immanuel Kant’s categorical imperative and his distinguishing between phenomena and noumena, and Arthur Schopenhauer’s transcendental idealism and the arguments on morality, finishing with Richard Swinburne’s substance dualism and Christian apologetics, and Gottfried Wilhelm Leibnitz’ theory of the best of all possible worlds, addressing theodicy, the problem of the existence of evil.
My mind was filled with complicated philosophical ideas, dwelling on ethics, good and evil, and ways to define and delineate the world around me, and indeed myself. My study of English literature complemented this intensity with an evaluation of the Romantic poets Coleridge, Shelley, Byron, Blake and Keats, with an emphasis on contemplations of nature, imagination, and the sublime, and an often-melancholic display of open emotion weaved through beautiful natural world similes and metaphors for the changing seasons and life and death. Later, I would study the poetry of Thomas Hardy and other poets writing on the First World War, the mystical symbolism of William Butler Yeats’ later work and the modernist desolation and despair of T.S. Eliot in The Waste Land and The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, and, particularly, Philip Larkin, in detail, dwelling on his often-ironic depictions of everyday life, a sad fatalism at a changing world now unfamiliar to him, his colloquial lyricism displaying a great, mournful discontent at the loss of an England he once knew.
As the school year ended, I returned to my house and bedroom. I now moved downstairs into the craft room full-time. I would barely leave my room, sat sadly in the corner, trying to read, or write a poem inspired by the Romantic poets I had read at school, lonely and without company. Often, I would self-harm, making less effort than I once did to shield myself from discovery, increasingly morose and fatalistic, having given up on trying to hide how I felt and forgoing the efforts I once made to bandage myself, then only to ward off the attention of others, now simply letting the blood soak into my clothes, or wiping it onto my bathroom towel.
It was a cold, wet summer for that time of year, and I had no cause to be outside, barely communicating, bar once in a brief phone call from Ali to the blocky blue mobile phone I now carried, sitting in silence most days on my painting desk. My father had become bossy with me, impatient, frustrated by tears, and somehow embarrassed by me and my lack of enthusiasm, and, as my mother said to me later, “he doesn’t understand illness.” As for the nature of my self-harming itself, I took less caution now and would press deeper with my craft scalpel, running furrows into myself where once there had been scratches, re-opening sealing wounds, and often approaching the same spot again and again until the skin was split wide, in agony, damaged beyond all repair. As an adult now, my body is wrecked, almost all of my body at one time or other attacked by me, crisscrossed with multiple pink and white lines of rubbery scar tissue from some appalling wounds and insensate, courtesy of the depth and regularity of my injuries, and the protracted loss of nerves, some taking many years to grow back partially. These days, feeling obliged for other’s sake as much as to ward off inconvenient questions, knowing the gist of them far in advance, I wear long-sleeved shirts exclusively and often have recourse to pull my sleeves right down to further mask the many black ink tattoos I added in foolishness as an adult to try and hide the extent of the injured skin (tattoos do not settle well on scar tissue) themselves garish mutilation, fading into a maze of jaded lines and mounds and other patches of traumatised tissue. I will never look the same again.
And so it was, finally, in terrible sadness (‘Depression’ is an ugly, barren word) that, feeling the pain of loneliness had reached its nadir, and seeing no future for myself, despite my first-year grades, and holding no past life of any quality or wholesomeness, that I took the pair of taxidermied Tiger Shark jaws that I had bought as a souvenir on my last diving trip, and, snapping the crescent-shaped maxilla in half with a pair of hobby pliers, took the piece of cartilage, filled with rows of razor-sharp serrated teeth, curved into squat ‘s’ shapes, and pressed them to my throat, on the inner right-hand side of my neck above the jugular vein and carotid artery, and began to saw, slicing into my sensitive tissue until the blood trickled in gleaming rows down my shoulder and onto my chest, in swift, precise repetitions, not to wound myself away this time, but quick and resolute in my desire for oblivion. My parents were in the house, but I could not care, and I knew I could act swiftly if I wanted to (or so I thought). But, as the wounds began to open, and sting, and as more blood emerged, I began to panic, the biological tool slicked in my hand, and hard to manoeuvre, and the wound grisly, little thick pieces of skin coated in my neck hair clogging against the teeth of the instrument, some snapping off at the tips from my angle of attack, and falling to be lost on the floor. I called out, in a loud moan of pain, and collapsed into my chair, nauseous and dim in my head, and my mother, hearing suddenly a great noise from next door, rushed into the room and gasped in abject horror.
“Benjamin!!! Oh God, Oh God, what have you done?!” and then to my father, “Billy! Quick! He’s cut his neck, and he’s bleeding badly! Get him in the car, quickly! We need to take him to the surgery!” and my father, impatient as always, but genuinely shocked too, moved into the room, and announced sharply, “sh*t! f**king hell!” (I had never heard him swear before), seeming very angry, but also concerned, as he picked me up, my mother rushing to apply gauze from her medicine cabinet to my neck and to stop the bleeding, as my head lolled limp to the side, my mouth dribbling slightly and my tongue poking out, and eyes closed, in despair at the world as much as in fading consciousness, the tool dropped from my hand now, and sitting on the floor red and gleaming, in a pile of bloody droplets.
I was sped down to the surgery in my father’s Favorit, and I do not remember the journey nor being there, but when next I felt clear again, I was at home, the same evening, and my neck was bandaged, the blood scrubbed from what was now in these years a laminate wood-look floor. All I felt was stiffness from bruising and a sharp, stinging scratch every time I moved my head from the thick bandages coating the surgical sutures and steri-strips all across my inner neck. I cannot remember what my parents said or what I replied with. Still, my mother sat with me that evening in my room, and, later, before bed, a priest was called to visit me, Father Brian O’Shea, who sat and chatted with me a while, asking what was on my mind (to which I could not reply) and saying prayers together, giving me a blessing before leaving, his face and manner kind but concerned.
It was not long before my psychiatrist was made aware, and I was soon called to a meeting with him with my mother by my side. “It’s a shame, but it’s clear what we’re doing isn’t quite enough so far,” he said, his tone distant and clinical and not particularly sympathetic, as if dealing with the return of a defective piece of machinery and not an innocent teenager in some emotional distress, “Benjamin will need a more intensive service. Now, I’ve contacted The Linden Centre, but currently, they don’t take on adolescents. I recommend Brookside Child and Adolescent Inpatient Unit to you. It’s a residential unit based in Goodmayes, in East London. I don’t know it personally, but the recommendations say their care is very effective. I’ve made some phone calls with the staff there, and you should drop Benjamin down this weekend, if possible. He may have to be there for over a month.”
My mother, not knowing any different and perhaps keen to have me out of the house for a little while (a tacit suspicion on my part), agreed, thanking the doctor and busying us out of the room, and for my part I remained silent, unsure now of what to say, finding the doctor useless and unempathetic to talk to (it took me over twenty years of interactions to fully understand that psychiatrists are not therapeutic listeners[emphasis by Ed.], and one should not expect from them what one would hope to receive from a compassionate psychologist), and fearful now, knowing I was to be taken somewhere completely new, where I would be away from my parents and my schooling, terrified that I would be in trouble for missing my lessons, having never skipped even a whole day before in my life, sad that I would not get to complete what I was studying, and prepare appropriately for my A2 exams, and that my hopes of university would be jeopardised on account of it. When I got home, I cried even more, in abject misery and worry, but I had no choice. The doctor had decided for me, and my mother (and later father) agreed. “It’ll be ok”, they said to me, “It’ll only be for a couple of weeks, and then, before you know it, you’ll be all better, just like the doctor says.”
Psychiatry is just the tip of the iceberg. The whole problem has to do with a society that wants to know nothing about existential problems.
This includes the racial right and explains why my posts on the subject don’t get comments, leaving Ben and me talking to ourselves.
But almost everyone knows that it is a calamity to live with a loved one who suffers from a severe mental disorder. Why not try to grasp the new paradigm for understanding disorders? (Well, not so new: some honest mental health professionals have been saying since the 1940s that abusive parents were involved in their children’s disorders.) The fact is that without properly understanding mental disorders, it is impossible to do anything substantial to save either our disordered loved ones, or the madmen who are ethnically self-destroying in the West.
The case of Benjamin, whom I will continue to quote, illustrates the new paradigm. The antidepressants he religiously took were of no use to him because those pills never addressed the root cause of his self-harming behaviour. In my Day of Wrath (DOW) I mention that pre-Hispanic Amerindians practised self-harm, and even Emperor Moctezuma had to ritually self-harm (drawing blood from his ear, for example). The Mayans did it too, even the kings. Given that in Mesoamerican culture self-harm was not only accepted but promoted—in Tenochtitlan children had to self-harm at the elite school, the Calmécac—it should be obvious that the subject needs to be investigated.
I iterate: it is impossible to save the Aryan if psychoses are not fully understood. Yesterday, for example, I watched Disney’s Sleeping Beauty for the umpteenth time. Those were times when Aryans still knew, like Prince Philip, that we must fight for the maiden we met in the forest, “gold of sunshine in her hair; lips that shame the red, red rose…”
What is worth remembering about those healthier times in which the film was released is that Aryan beauty—the 14 words!—was still valued to the extent that its preservation was sought.
My claim is that, although it is universal and not individual, the psychosis that currently covers the West—rampant feminism is nothing more than ethnic suicide for those who practise it—can only be understood through a psychohistorical variant of the trauma model of mental disorders. The Amish don’t suffer from this psychosis, and a female friend of my sister’s, educated in the old-fashioned way (remember what I said in my post yesterday about a very traditionalist priest I met) had nine children in Monterrey.
It is of no use for our goal if I focus exclusively on Mein Kampftoday when the white race is suffering from a folie en masse that is annihilating it. The cause of mental disorders should be investigated, far from the medical models that only serve to enrich Big Pharma. Anyone who assimilates the content of DOW—and even better, its more detailed expansion in my trilogy—will understand not only the self-harming Aztecs but also the individual disorders that contemporary Aryans suffer from, such as so-called schizophrenia and others.
My brief optimism in those weeks did not last. Soon enough, my mood plummeted back into its soft, sad hole, and my scalpel was in my hands again. This time, I did not tell my parents. I also tried my hardest to be more careful at school, wearing a long-sleeved underlayer and bandaging my arms with elasticated crepe bandages from my mother’s medical cabinet. Though still relatively containable, the damage I was inflicting increased, as did the frequency.
In between, I drifted in moody silence, occasionally breaking into vast floods of tears, up in my bedroom, soaking my pillow, or in the downstairs’ craft room’ sat in the corner on a wooden kitchen chair, the dining room long turned over to my burgeoning library, my computer, and a table of fantasy lead figures with a painting desk to one side. Contained, or so they thought, in my historical reading habits or my miniature painting, much time was still spent by myself, my parents “giving me some space”.
However, sometimes my Dad would come in and tell me to go to bed, his tone more irritable than usual, impatient with me in conversation, and his face grim, exhausted from his gruelling work, and less inclined to talk about our usual spread of cultural interests, or indeed my feelings, curt and prescriptive, asking me simply, “have you self-harmed today?” and accepting my denial at face value, then stomping out. In the evening, murmurs came from their bedroom. Occasionally, voices were raised, and my mother would appear on the stairs in tears. […]
Here we see not only that Benjamin’s parents lacked empathy for what was happening to their son, or rather, what they had been doing to their teenage son in conjunction with the abuse at school. As if that weren’t enough the parents used psychiatry: a fraudulent profession that, without medical evidence, makes big business with Big Pharma by claiming that all mental problems are biomedical. On my Spanish-language website you can read a section in which I expose how Giuseppe Amara, the psychiatrist my mother wanted to use to break my teenage will, had a sort of unspoken slogan: “Family problems, medical solutions”.
Naturally! If someone wants to profit from the pain of others, children included, they will never, ever side with the affected party. They will always side with those who can pay for their services, no matter how surreal it may be to drug a victim of, say, school bullying instead of rescuing the child from the insulting environment. In my trilogy I call this “psychiatric revictimisation”.
In biological psychiatry the environment is never questioned. All the blame is placed on the victim: his brain or genes. That is why Benjamin’s doctor simply prescribed him SRI antidepressants without making the slightest inquiry as to whether the problem had an existential cause, as was the case.
In my case, as I recount in Letter to mom Medusa, shortly after I tried to tell the psychoanalyst in his office what my parents were doing to me at home, Giuseppe Amara prescribed that they bombard my brain with the most incisive neuroleptic (even though I had no psychiatric symptoms)! Although it may seem incredible to unsuspecting readers, this is precisely how psychiatry works: the client, the father or mother, who requests his services is always right, and “he who pays the piper calls the tune” (children can never pay the so-called mental health professional).
But Benjamin did have symptoms. I don’t want to go into the details of how he self-harmed because it is very disturbing. Anyone who wants to find out can obtain a copy of his book. I just want to reiterate what I recently said in the comments section: We explain the internal process of the self-harmer on page 40 of my book Day of Wrath, and anyone who wants to delve deeper into the subject should read the entire chapter, not just page 40. Benjamin’s story continues:
A useless, stupid form, I had no reason now to look for justifications, settled into my pattern. I was simply a sinner, a wretched waste, and each new lunge at myself, conducted with fierce, black hatred and the coldest rage, cemented my necessity to continue. After all, I was evil now, and I had disappointed my parents, let down all around me, and betrayed the words of God. And the only cure for that weakness and that criminal lack of decency was to cut it better, however long it took, to redeem myself through pain, a pain I did not, at any point, enjoy, a terrible sensation wracking my pale, sensitive skin.
I shouldn’t be allowed to escape unpunished, I thought, clear to me; it was only right. I had upset them, scared them and hurt their feelings. My poor parents. What a monster I was. My head filled with rude swear words, names for myself, “the c**t”, “the bast*rd”, “the f**king idiot”. And so the blades went in, one by one then in tandem, clasped between fingers, in wincing gasps of agony and falling skin, and the days went on. “Please”, I pleaded with myself, “mercy”. “F**k you, you pathetic bast*rd”, I answered myself silently, “you did this”, “now shut up!”
This sort of Gollum’s warfare against the healthy part of his self denotes, according to our point of view in Day of Wrath, what Colin Ross calls “the locus of control shift”: something closely related to “the problem of attachment to the perpetrator” whom we are conditioned to love as children. Benjamin then includes another disturbing paragraph about the details of his self-harm, which I will also refrain from quoting. He then writes:
“Benjamin!” my father said in snappy annoyance. “Sit down here now and stop being so antisocial.” So I sat on the black leather upholstery of the sofa for a while and tried to smile a little more, listening to my aunties tell their jokes, pretending I couldn’t feel the detestable sensation under my clothes, an ever-present sting perched there, legs together, quiet and reserved, and riddled with hundreds of sharp little scratches, my burning surface partially skinned and my clothes slightly damp, distracted and cloudy in mind, just waiting to head upstairs again. […]
Shame had become guilt, and I was fused with self-hate, my rigged moral perfectionism inverting the reality of my historical situation, inculcated from such a young age with steady doses of mental poison that I was now at a critical threshold, as if in toxic shock.
In between these bouts of auto-sadism, I was still cogent and in full cognitive clarity, my intellectual faculties otherwise unaffected, and, provided they did not persist in making inquiries or watch me like a hawk (which did not become apparent to them until much later), I found other people did not notice anything was wrong. Though the pupils had heard of my first injuries from Josh, they had no idea of the scale, and I gather most considered it an isolated incident, a ‘fad’ that I would soon grow out of.
When I returned from Ireland in the new year, binning two of my shirts before leaving, washing out the stains from my jacket lining in the sink, and packing my suitcase, I was able to blend straight back into the school environment, continuing my lessons in the commencing term, with a little SSRI tablet a day, and nothing really to add to that, to all intents and purposes getting slightly better, or so everyone thought. Much as it was well understood that “he’s got Depression”, “he did this…” and “he’s ill now”, no one, curiously, had ever paused to ask me how I felt or to inquire what actually was wrong. […]
One day, near the end of the Spring term, not long before my AS exams, I was sitting in the dorm study room with another boy named Gerald, a half- Malaysian pupil whom I had a mild friendship with […] Gerald had caught me crying also, in the dorm and various quiet parts of the school, and soon after began to distance himself again, considering me “nuts” and “a bit of a head case”, disapproving of my distress, and frustrated that I didn’t just “snap out of it”.
Psychiatry is just the tip of the iceberg. The whole problem has to do with a society that wants to know nothing about existential problems—unless they are presented in theatrical tragedies, as the Greeks did, or in modern movies where the plot can be understood even by housewives. But if someone in real life wants to communicate that she suffers from a maddening dynamics with her mother, like the self-harmer woman in the film La Pianiste, she is generally ignored not only by those close to them, but also by so-called mental health professionals.
For example, in my trilogy I recount how my mother, who really was the crazy one in the house, projected her evil onto me and sent me to various professionals over the years. None of them wanted to listen to me. But the most shocking thing is something I confess in the third volume.
Only a very traditionalist priest, whom my mother suggested I go to on the advice of Mrs Eva Grimaldi, listened to me! The reason for this wouldn’t be understood in the least unless the reader is familiar with the critical literature on all mental health professions, whether pseudo-medical like psychiatry, or mere therapy with psychoanalysts or clinical psychologists. (See, for example, Against Therapy: Emotional Tyranny and the Myth of Psychological Healing by Jeffrey Masson, with whom I exchanged a brief correspondence several years ago.)
After the fifth instalment of selected quotes from Benjamin’s book, I had planned to comment on Brendan Simms’ biography about Hitler. That way, I would be interspersing a post about the four words—which includes stopping abusing children—with another post about the fourteen words.
But since I am also a victim of abusive parents and a psychiatrist my mother hired to finish destroying me, reading Consumption makes me dwell on my past, especially since these days I have been suffering from what I wrote on the first day of the month in “Selfish heirs.” In many ways, my past was as handicapping as Benjamin’s. For example, it is unclear what will become of me when I run out of money from the sale of my parents’ house, divided among six heirs.
On the one hand, it is true that someone like “Bran the Broken”, whom (in my appropriation, not in the novel) his beloved father threw off the tower and who, with his broken spine, can no longer lead a normal life, can see his biographical past and even History from a paranormal perspective that normies, who lack that retrocognitive gift, can’t.
But on the other hand, material needs remain imperative. Even in the HBO adaptation of Martin’s novels—directed by a couple of Jews who in many ways betray the author—it can be seen that Bran enters the mind of his pet wolf to have the illusion of eating when, in reality, he is not feeding himself. These astral journeys can be harmful in that, in real life, Bran must feed himself, as his travelling companion Jojen warns him. The novel is even more sinister than the HBO series because it seems to suggest that, already in the cave and learning the magic of the three-eyed raven, Jojen allowed himself to be sacrificed so that Bran could eat a paste that was made from his body thanks to the culinary arts of the children of the forest…
I can say something similar about my countless journeys into inner space. Like Van Gogh and the painters of his time, I have sacrificed the most basic aspects of physical survival in pursuit of enlightenment about what happened in my early life. The difference, of course, is that in the real world there are no children of the forest to help me, even with their black magic. I have survived to the age at which Cézanne died, but it is unclear how I will survive when I reach my seventies. It really sucks that, if my literary work has any value (I am referring to the trilogy), I have to die to be recognised. And that’s if you’re lucky! (the work of Aristarchus of Samos, for example, was lost forever when the Christians destroyed the Library of Alexandria).
I will end this post with an image of the very copy that I used to look at with my parents when I was a child, around five or six years old: a book that inspired me greatly to understand the great painters. I am referring to an image of the first painter reviewed in the book, Cézanne:
My mind finally gave way a little way through the school year 2001. I had lasted as long as I could. My entire life was not one of much pleasure; it was just brief bursts of love in an otherwise barren tableau of shaming and shame. My pride in myself had never been able to develop, my confidence never given a chance to bloom, held back by cruel hands and eyes, sharp mouths, and the dispassion and dismissal of arrogant, narcissistic parents. But I did not think like that. All I could see, all of a sudden, and obsessively so, was my own fault and my own failings. My fundamental inadequacy was clear to me, and the only conscience that recognised an ‘I’ at all anymore exacerbated to a punishing inquisitor, sceptical of my abilities, suspicious of my every action, and with no pity for mistakes or petty misdemeanours.
So it was that, quietly, unannounced, and – perhaps unexpectedly and unbelievably – with no external prompting or copycat inspiration, purely of my own isolated volition, that I took the thin, technical craft knife, sharp as a scalpel, from my Games Workshop hobby kits, and began to scrape at myself, in the evenings late on after school, always careful to layer my toilet tissues first and to clean myself thoroughly so no one would know, a long superficial slit at a time, across my inner thighs, or my chest, or down to my private area, and my feet, and then back onto my right arm above the cuff of my school shirt, padding the tissues until the blood had ceased to trickle, tears in distant eyes, open and unblinking, and the softest mists inside. Gone. I wasn’t playing sports that year and was not required to undress for any school gym or athletics field, so I could always pass unseen. Plasters were a luxury, and I preferred the process to hurt. All because I was nothing, a bad nothing. In the head, the me that was Benjamin became an “it”, sensing myself in the third person, dehumanising myself, and no longer in recognition of the need to protect my body, wishing more than anything to whittle it away, this stuff, a piecemeal unravelling into oblivion, knife cut by knife cut, expressing how little and worthless I was in a more suitable presentation, red and inconsequential, and so what for the sensation? I was just meat. For all the terrible things I was and had done (which I liked to search for at length, with some imagination, writing down in my textbooks to assist, in case I ‘got off the hook’ and forgot). It was not that I was compelled nor impulsive. Still, slowly, methodically, and regularly, I knew what had to be done, as if a dark duty, the best I could do by moral choice to make up to the world, taking all this stupid, idiotic flesh and damaging it beyond repair. If I did not keep to this, I assured myself it would be worse for me later. A frigid discipline, I was a sadist to my trembling form. No one else was involved in this disgraceful, unrepented error, so no one else needed to know.
Still, it was impossible after a while to hide. A boy at school in my senior dorm, I forget which one (perhaps Josh, my roommate) spotted that my shirt was sticking to me one day and that I seemed stiff and laboured in breath, as if disguising discomfort, and uncovered the fact that I had been, as the popular idiom goes ‘cutting myself’. The clear fluids leaking from the infected wounds on my arm worried him terribly, and he encouraged me in horror and distaste to tell one of my parents, or he would have to tell someone.
So I told them, discussing the matter with my mother in the car one day, as best I could, downplaying the extent of my wounds and how long I had been pursuing this action. I told her I was sad, though, very sad. I didn’t want to show her at all. Still, the expression on her face, a gasp of total horror when she saw my skin underneath, rendered it too late to brush her aside or claim that the situation was not serious, much as I wished I could have kept my act up with more subtlety, and continued to fade unopposed, pulled apart into darkness. I’m not sure what she said to my father. He did not discuss the matter with me in person, his workload heavier in those years, often away for longer at weekends, and distant in the house, drained and tired by a massive joint effort with the European Space Agency to contribute to the NASA Mars probes, a final project with his Nortel workmates before his retirement, and based now in Maidstone, Kent, an even longer drive away, the latter company running into financial difficulties internally, and much stress in the office.
I was informed by my mother the day after that an appointment had been made for me with the local GP to examine my body and have a word with me. I felt dead as I filed into the familiar Writtle surgery. Nothing was clear to me anymore. In my own words, I stated to the doctor, “I’ve been hurting my body. And crying a lot, too.” And then I proceeded again to try and minimise, putting on a false smile and attempting to tell a joke, repeating to him, “It’s not that bad” and “I don’t know why I’m upset, must just be tiredness”, desperate not to have to speak any longer. Doctor Bailey, a long-term friend of the family who had treated me since I was an infant, did not seem so easily pacified, though. That same day, a referral was made to psychiatric practice on Broomfield Road, at the Child and Adolescent Service building (now Community Health Services), just down the road from the King Edward IV Grammar School and not far from the nursery I had briefly attended many years before. I was to meet with the doctor there as soon as possible, so how to best help me could be decided. Politely, I thanked the doctor and his assistant for examining me, for patching up my many wounds, and for providing antibiotics, and then I left again. I was unsure all of a sudden, finding myself in too deep and wishing more than anything that they would forget about me. […]
The meeting with the psychiatrist was brief and uneventful. He sat in a chair opposite mine on the upstairs floor, the room otherwise empty and forgettable, and asked me what had been going on. “I don’t know,” I said, “I’m just very sad, that’s all” He nodded. “And how long have you been doing this for?” […]
“Oh, I haven’t been cutting myself long,” I told him, “just for a while”, leaving my answer vague, unsure as to what he might do and if I would get in trouble for answering him. “OK,” he said, making another note. “The GP told me it’s superficial. It’s a common enough problem these days. Some people just get the urge to draw a bit of attention to themselves. It’s something that can be worked on. Anyway, go on…” […]
I told him, “I don’t like the Winter weather either. It’s so dark and cheerless, and it rains all the time. I wish it were Spring again. I was happier in Spring.” “Is that right?” he said, looking up at me suddenly from his notepad. […]
Presently, the interview ended. “I’ll tell you what’s going to happen”, the doctor said, “I think you need some medication to make you better. It sounds like you’re suffering from what might be Depression with a Seasonally Affective Disorder component. I’m going to write a note to your GP, and he’ll provide you with some tablets which will help you. The medication is called Citalopram. It’s a recent development and is very effective for your symptoms. Take one 10mg tablet daily with a glass of water as soon as you wake up, and we’ll continue to monitor your progress every few months.” He finished speaking and motioned for me to rise.
Not knowing what else to say, I thanked the doctor and headed out the door to my mother’s car outside to pop home quickly and change into my school clothes so as not to miss afternoon lessons. Later that day, my mother went down to the pharmacy on Writtle Green and handed in my prescription, and soon enough, the carton was in my hands. Knowing something had been done, I felt a little happier and shrugged regardless. It was a busy school year, and my AS levels demanded much attention. If the tablets could help me, all for the better. At least, I thought, they can’t do any harm. From then on, dutifully, my father would hand me a small tablet every morning, and I would swallow it straight down with water, this tiny white pill, slightly sweet on my tongue.
Adolf Hitler chose to use the Dark Age weapons because, — contrarily to that other uncompromising champion of Truth, Akhenaton of Egypt, who lived 3300 years before him, — he fully realised that there is, in this world, no peaceful escape from the grip of the Dark forces. He realised it as he experienced that his German people, and, along with them, the whole Aryan race — the youngest creative race of our Time-cycle and the only creative race for centuries; the best — were threatened in their existence by the agents of the Death-powers; cornered; and that their definitive downfall and disappearance would mean the definitive downfall of higher organised Life upon this planet, with no hope of resurrection[red emphasis by Editor]. That experience did not begin on the day Adolf Hitler was told that the First World War was lost for Germany. It had been familiar to him for years. But the news of the loss of the war and then of the infamous Treaties of Versailles and Saint-German imposed upon Germany by her victors, and the sight of the following misery, gave it further depth, further acuteness, and a further tremendous hold on him. A growing sense of emergency, a feverish haste — not unlike that, which one can trace in the building of the capital of King Akhenaton’s ideal State — drove him forwards, defining his whole policy in its positive and negative aspects, at home and abroad, to the end.
His Gospel of Germanic pride and glorious healthy earthly life — ’freedom and bread’ — coupled with the hard blows of the early Storm Troopers’ fists, that kept order in his public meetings and, when necessary, fought his battle in the streets, broke down whatever opposition stood in his way to power. There was, in that blending of mystical insight, elemental logic and well-organised brutality — of truth and youth — that characterises National Socialism, a grandeur that appealed to the masses and to the very best of the best people: to those exceptionally intelligent and reliable men who have retained the raw vitality of the masses within their psychological make-up.
Temporary set-backs[1] only kindled the bitter determination of both. And the struggle started in 1919 was a staggering triumph. On the 30th of January, 1933, Adolf Hitler was acclaimed as Chancellor of the German Reich. A few months later, the Reichstag was to vote him ‘illimited powers,’ so that he might, without hindrance, remould the whole State, and direct Germany’s foreign policy according to his programme — which he consistently did to the extent it could be done in spite of the undermining activities of a well-hidden and — alas! — extremely efficient pack of traitors in Germany itself, and in defiance of the increasing hostility of the whole world, i.e. against the pressure of the coalesced forces of this Dark Age.
It is an error to believe that ‘after a time’ the National Socialist State ‘should have’ — could have, in the first place, — avoided evolving into a ‘police State,’ i.e. a State permanently dominated by the consciousness of emergency. In other words, it is an error to believe that, in 1933, — or 1934 — the struggle was ‘over,’ and conditions of emergency a thing of the past. From the moment Adolf Hitler acquired a free hand to remould the German Reich according to his ideals, the National Socialist struggle merely entered a new phase. It was no longer the struggle for power. But it still was the Struggle for Truth; for cosmic Truth applied to social problems and to politics in our advanced Dark Age, i.e. the Struggle for Truth, with unavoidable Dark Age methods. And for that very reason — because it is the State ‘against Time’ par excellence, — the National Socialist State could (and can, were it again to take shape during this Dark Age) only be a State resting upon an iron coercive and military organisation; a State in which every free citizen feels himself a soldier — a voluntary soldier, glad to submit to integral (inner and outer) discipline, for the advent and defence of Adolf Hitler’s ideal Reich, (the Kingdom of Truth ‘against Time’) — and in which every enemy of the new Order lives under the constant threat of denunciation and arrest, hard labour in a concentration camp, or death; what a well-known hater of the Hitler faith has tried to slander under the name of an ‘S.S. State.’[2] (The word is, in reality, the greatest compliment paid, to the glorious revolutionary State ‘against Time.’)
‘A revolution,’ says Konstantin Hierl, one of the men to whom the National Socialist regime owes the most, in the practical field, ‘can only be a transitory state of affairs, (ein Ubergangszustand). And he adds: ‘Also the absolute system, of government connected with the National Socialist revolution should have been only a transition, and could not be the first aim of a German revolution.’[3]
It is true that revolutions in the usual sense of the word — such as the French Revolution or the Russian Revolution, which are but passages from given conditions ‘in Time’ to different conditions, also ‘in Time’; steps along the downward path of history — can only be ‘transitory states of affairs.’ But it is, from the cosmic standpoint, an error — an understandable error, maybe, yet, a fundamental one, — to consider the National Socialist upheaval as a mere ‘German Revolution’ of the same type as those. Being an upheaval ‘against Time,’ the National Socialist Revolution was, — and, as long as its guiding, Idea lives in the consciousness of a militant minority, remains, a transition, no doubt, but a transition between advanced Dark Age conditions and coming, Golden Age conditions, yet hardly dreamable. And therefore only with the end of the Dark Age — with the end of every influence of the Forces of disintegration and, subsequently, the end of all opposition to the truth it stands for, — can and will ‘the absolute system of government’ connected with it cease to have its justification, and the National Socialist emergency State ‘against Time’ give place to a normal form (which will then be a Golden Age form) of collective life a form devised for a few — very few — god-like men and women, of the best blood, uncontested masters of a beautiful regenerate earth more than broad enough to contain them and their descendants for many generations, and to feed them, without them needing to kill or harm or exploit any living creature; the glorious fulfilment of those very ideals of perfect health and more-than-human strength and beauty that the heroic Third German Reich has striven to impose yesterday, against the current of time, with Dark Age weapons.
That is the proper meaning of Adolf Hitler’s own comments upon the ‘humane pacifist Idea’ according to which every human life is supposed to have such an enormous ‘value.’ The humane pacifist idea is, in fact, perhaps quite good, once the highest type of human being has already conquered and subdued so much of the surface of the world as to make himself the sole lord of this earth,’ writes he, in Mein Kampf.[4] ‘The idea can, in that case, cause no harm, inasmuch as its application’ (meaning: its application in its present-day form) ‘will be rare, and finally impossible’ — ’impossible’ precisely because, then, there will (for very many millenniums at least) no longer exist any politically dangerous or racially inferior elements, capable of corrupting the best and of marring the harmony between actual life and its divine pattern. But now ‘the highest type of human being’ — the best of the best among Nature’s chosen race, — are far from being the ‘sole masters of this earth.’ Now, we are still in the Dark Age, — sinking into it more and more. And therefore comes the logical conclusion of the inspired Man, Founder of the Dark Age State ‘against Time’: Also erst Kampf, und dann vielleicht Pazifismus — ‘So, first struggle, and then, perhaps, pacifism.’[5]
All but a very few people have thoroughly misunderstood — and millions have most unjustly condemned — the coercive methods of the Third Reich and its drastic steps intended to protect Western Aryandom against the Jewish danger (and against the influence of any man-centred, international Weltanschauung, all. of which are, in the West, Jewish products.) They have misunderstood them precisely because they have refused to acknowledge the infinitely more than political significance of National Socialism, and to see, in it, what I have called an upheaval ‘against Time.’ And they have condemned them because, as I have stated in the beginning of this book, evolution in Time goes hand in hand not with a decrease in violence (on the contrary!) but with a steady decrease in honesty regarding violence, and in understanding concerning the right use of it. They have condemned them while tolerating (and, more often than not, defending) all manner of horrors, among others, vivisection, that most degrading of all crimes against Life. They have — unknowingly, perhaps, but in fact, — condemned them, because the drastic coercive and preventive steps taken by the National Socialist State against the actual or potential agents of the Dark Forces had, inasmuch as they were taken in the Führer’s spirit, their full justification in the light of cosmic Truth, which our Dark Age denies; because one had resorted to them not in order to try to find out means of patching up a sickly humanity or of prolonging the life and enjoyment of the vicious, but in order to make possible, here and now, a new world of the strong in which vice and disease would be unknown; because one had resorted to them not ‘for the sake of suffering mankind’ — of mankind in its present-day, contemptible state — but ‘in the interest of the Universe’ in the sense these words are used in the Bhagavad-Gita.
Nay, inasmuch as the men who were trusted to carry out those steps did so selflessly and without passion, simply because I they knew it was their duty as Aryan fighters for the Cause of Truth, they acted exactly as the Blessed One has urged warriors to act. And one can safely say that, despite all individual cases of unfaithfulness to the spirit of detached Violence (cases with which one is bound to reckon, at such an advanced stage of the Age of Gloom as the one in which we are living) no state in history has, as a whole, embodied the moral outlook of the Bhagavad-Gita, as the Third German Reich has done.
That was enough for typical Dark Age people — people whose man-centred moral outlook is the exact opposite of that expressed both in the oldest Book of Aryan wisdom and in Adolf Hitler’s words and deeds and regulations, — to feel personally threatened through the mere existence of such an organised power ‘against Time,’ and to hate it.
And that hatred is, as we shall see, the real cause of the Second World War.
___________
[1]Such as the failure of the putsch of the 9th November 1923.
[2]This is the title of one of Eugen Kogon’s books against the Third Reich [published in 1946—Ed.]
[3]Konstantin Hierl, In Dienst für Deutschland, p. 121-122.
Laurent Guyénot recently wrote in The Unz Review: “The Christian question is the flip side of the Jewish question, which has now become the Israeli question. It is the question of Christendom’s responsibility—and complicity—in Jewish Power”. Unfortunately, Guyénot messed up shortly afterward with these words: “Let’s not confuse Christ and Christianity. The life and philosophy of Jesus are deeply inspiring; I’m not questioning that”. 
