It seems that his speeches, translated into English by AI, which I had been embedding on this site, have been now censored on Rumble. But apparently, they can still be heard here.
My uncle Alejandro Tort, the only surviving sibling of my father, died today at the age of 102.
If we recall my first entry on the review of Consumption, we will see that part of the murder of a soul is that adults don’t want to know the tragedy that occurs in their family. For example, we saw that Benjamin’s mother not only failed to ask him what had happened when he was raped at the age of six, but when he dared to tell her decades later, she trivialised what had happened: something that only adds insult to injury.
Countless things like this have happened to me, not only when trying to communicate it to my (now deceased) parents, but also to relatives. I talk about it in the middle part of my Hojas Susurrantes, translated into English here, in the series “Nobody wanted to listen”. It’s curious how in that 2020 translation I still wanted to protect, to some extent, the identity of my sisters by slightly changing their names. For example, instead of Corina, I used “Korina”; and instead of Genoveva, I used “Genevieve”. Now I don’t give a damn about those scruples.
In that section of Hojas Susurrantes I also mentioned cousins, acquaintances and even so-called mental health professionals. No one wanted to listen to me except for a woman who had romantic hopes for me, Paulina, whom I talk about in the eleventh entry of that translation. But Paulina listened to me twenty-two years after the tragedy that killed the souls of Genoveva, Corina, and me; that is, when the damage was already done.
Corina, who died in 2016, used to visit Uncle Alejandro and his daughters, our first cousins, trying to unburden herself to them about what our mother was doing to her. They never listened to her. And when a year ago I sent Nina and Alejandra, the daughters of the uncle who died today, the first two books of my trilogy, all I received was an email dated 24 June 2024, which I translate below:
Hello Cesar
I want to let you know that I already picked up the books, I gave Nina hers, and I’ve been leafing through both of them. From what I’ve read so far, I think they will be very interesting: Your own perspective and point of view on important family events.
I will read them carefully (both of them) and then I would like us to get together to discuss them. Thank you in advance for the books and for taking the trouble to send them.
Alejandra Tort
Since then, I have heard nothing from Alejandra, let alone Nina, who didn’t even bother to reply to the printed letter I sent her along with the book.
Corina was treated the same way in Uncle Alejandro’s large house. And Benjamin too. However, according to Benjamin, the only one who finally dared to read his book was his mother—although she died a few days after reading it, and finally feeling sorry for her son!
How can I go to the funeral tonight if Uncle Alejandro didn’t treat me well when my parents were destroying my life? He never tried to find out anything and in 1983, when I was living with his mother, my grandma Mecho, he even wrote me a letter repeating the slander he had heard from my mother without asking me if it was true (I still have his letter).
Corina, like me and countless other children abused by their parents, was destroyed because no one wanted to listen to her. This is an endemic phenomenon. The massive damage that abusive parents cause to their offspring is the greatest taboo of the human species. No one wants to know about it although there are sometimes exceptions, such as Benjamin’s mother very shortly before she died, or Paulina, who read my Letter to mom Medusa in her home country while I was living in Houston.
Well, it’s better that one person listens to us than none! When I recently mentioned in the comments section that in 2018 my first cousin Octavio Galindo, with whom I was very close in the 1980s, had strangled his teenage daughter and then hanged himself, I omitted that he had no one to confide in. I would have listened to him attentively and even helped him, but I was unaware that his depression was so severe. That’s what happens when there is no communication about serious problems in a family. I mention his case in Lágrimas (Tears), the final book of my trilogy.
I feel like expanding the section on “No one wanted to listen” linked above by talking online about many other relatives who have mortally offended me with their deafening silence, even after sending them my books. But I also have to do something about the fourteen words.
Uncle Alejandro was not a bad person, nor are my cousins mentioned above. But I won’t see these women at the funeral tonight. They are just like everyone else: the children’s complaints about abusive parents are simply ignored even though if, addressed, tragedies like what happened to Octavio could be avoided.
Yesterday I said that my passion is studying the stupidity of contemporary Aryans: something infinitely more important than the study of the hard sciences (which includes cosmology). Yesterday, an article also appeared in one of the most famous Spanish newspapers, El País, which I now translate into English:
Katharina Wagner: “You can admire Richard Wagner’s music, but his anti-Semitic positions are totally despicable”.
As director of the Bayreuth Festival, the great-granddaughter of the German genius tries to bring his legacy into the 21st century. A staunch democrat and Europeanist, she sees with frustration how fascism is once again ravaging the continent, and specifically, Germany. She wants to erase every trace of her ancestors’ past complicity with the Nazis, but it’s not always easy.
Remember what I wrote about my recent trip to Germany? What better way to refute this incredibly idiotic woman—please: always remember that our passion must be to study Aryan stupidity!—than to continue quoting Tom Goodrich’s book:
______ 卐 ______
Meanwhile, those Germans not consigned to bondage continued to perish in American prisons. Soldiers who did not succumb to hunger or disease often died of thirst, even though streams sometimes ran just a few feet from the camps. “The lack of water was the worst thing of all,” remembered George Weiss of his enclosure where the Rhine flowed just beyond the barbed wire. “For three and a half days we had no water at all. We would drink our own urine. It tasted terrible, but what could we do? Some men got down on the ground and licked the ground to get some moisture. I was so weak I was already on my knees.”
At one death camp, after a German officer submitted an official protest over the withholding of water from the prisoners, the American commandant ordered a large fire hose dragged into the densely-packed compound then told his men to turn it on to its utmost. Because of the great pressure, the hose flailed violently, knocking already weakened prisoners to the ground right and left. Still, many men, dying of thirst, tried desperately to capture even a few drops of water. As intended, such a spectacle provided great amusement for the US guards. “They laughed at our predicament as hard as they could,” noted one dying prisoner. When the hose was then quickly turned off only a thin layer of mud remained, which, of course, soon dried in seconds. Such sadistic treatment not only insured men would die but it guaranteed others would be driven insane.
Some prisoners, observed American guard, Martin Brech, “tried to escape in a demented or suicidal fashion, running through open fields in broad daylight towards the Rhine to quench their thirst. They were mowed down.”
As if their plight were not already hideous enough, prisoners occasionally became the targets of drunken and sadistic guards who sprayed the camps with machine-gun fire for sport. “I think,” Private Brech continued, “that soldiers not exposed to combat were trying to prove how tough they were by taking it out on the prisoners and civilians.”
I encountered a captain on a hill above the Rhine shooting down at a group of German civilian women with his -45 caliber pistol. When I asked, “Why?” he mumbled, “Target practice,” and fired until his pistol was empty… This is when I realized I was dealing with cold-blooded killers filled with moralistic hatred.
While continuing to deny the Red Cross and other relief agencies access to the camps, Eisenhower stressed among his lieutenants the need for secrecy. “Ike made the sensational statement that now that hostilities were over, the important thing was to stay in with world public opinion—apparently whether it was right or wrong,” recorded a disgusted George Patton. “After lunch he talked to us very confidentially on the necessity for solidarity in the event that any of us are called before a Congressional Committee.”
To prevent the gruesome details from reaching the outside world—and sidetrack those that did—counter-rumors were circulated stating that, far from mistreating and murdering prisoners, US camp commanders were actually turning back released Germans who tried to slip back in for food and shelter.
Ultimately, at least 800,000 German prisoners died in the American and French death camps. “Quite probably,” one expert later wrote, the figure of one million is closer to the mark. And thus, during the first summer of “peace,” did ten times the number of German soldiers die than were killed on the whole Western Front during the whole six years of war.
It is hard to escape the conclusion,” admitted a journalist after the war, “that Dwight Eisenhower was a war criminal of epic proportions.”
______________
Note of the Editor: Here you can request an item of the “Hellstorm Holocaust” package (the biggest secret in modern history: the Allied genocide of Germans after 1945), and here you can order other books by Tom Goodrich (1947-2024).
“The stars are not for man” —Karellen in the novel Childhood’s End.
As I said in the comments section of my previous post today, it is foolish to be a cosmologist when your race is being actively destroyed. This is not the time to fantasise about space travel, but rather to travel into inner space; that is, to fulfil the mandate of the Oracle of Delphi. A quote already cited in this blog (and on a page of my Day of Wrath) sheds light on the subject:
Only a ripe artist, one thoroughly acquainted with the workings of the mind, can be successful here. This is why psychological self-portraiture has appeared so late among the arts, belonging exclusively to our own days and those yet to come. Man had to discover continents, to fathom his seas, to learn his language, before he could turn his gaze inward to explore the universe of his soul.
We are commanded to know the universe of our own soul! I iterate: it is madness to start planning interstellar travel without first knowing oneself, knowledge that implies knowing what causes the darkest hour of the West. That is why it is worth quoting some passages from Benjamin’s book, Consumption, whose blurb I quoted a couple of days ago.
The key to understanding psychosis is what Colin Ross calls the problem of attachment with the perp, a concept explained in my Day of Wrath. Well into the book, Benjamin wrote:
I love my father. It is the deepest, most intrinsic love and one I could never shift or diminish, even if I wanted to. It brings me to tears as I think about it… But then I remember (and how could I forget?) these terrible childhood tortures on my father’s part…
One of the things Neanderthals don’t want to understand is that the mind is like the body: it has a breaking point. Primitive people, whom we revile as “Neanderthals”, seem to be saying—so alienated are they by their work ethic—that despite all mistreatment the human mind is infinitely resilient. The truth is that, just as it is not the same for the body to fall from one metre, three metres or from an aeroplane, the same is true of the mind: there are orders of magnitude in which the self can, literally, break.
In Benjamin’s life, and I am not only referring to his first trauma with his father when he was just five years old (the “apple episode” that I won’t recount here), there was also trauma at school. I am referring not only to bullying but also to the rape by a traitorous government that imported non-whites, including teenagers, due to the self-hatred that the English have suffered since 1945: a madness, alas, shared by the entire West.
I would like to quote a passage from Consumption after the rape of a mudblood that the author experienced at the age of six:
…I cannot remember as she [his mother] drove down the long evening lanes, the sun reddening in a haze over the yellow fields, and I sat way down in the seat, the seatbelt pulled down over my stomach, my legs curled up tight in the lock of my forearms, foggy, and faint in mind, with soreness all over, and with nothing I could have been able, or, tragically, allowed to say.
I never mentioned this incident to my parents afterwards, not once, for at least twenty-eight years, though I knew of it the while, even when they were, in some way, aware that I had had bad times at school. They still have no real clue, and I was brushed aside with an “Oh, that’s terrible. Oh, did that happen to you? How awful!” of polite disbelief when I did mention it to my mother, crying and raging down the phone, her reception the same as if it were a coffee morning anecdote in passing, or a fanciful tale for inadvertent amusement, as narrated by my aunt in one of her drunken outbreaks of hysteria. Each new time I tried, periodically over years, I’d hear an “Oh? Really? That’s not good to hear” from her, as if her memory too was missing over the occurrences, and she was instead hearing for the first time, and, dogmatically, she has always been known to tell others that “his early life was good” and “no, nothing ever happened to him, he had a good life with us” and words to that effect, all a further torture for me, as if she was honest, and as if it were her place (and her place alone) to say…
The gulley where I was molested
I did not blame my mother at the time for not helping me, and was unsure even how she could have. I could not register the pain myself and, bizarrely, forgot soon enough as times moved on, relegating it to a small corner pocket of an otherwise full and engaged mind, but as an adult, I raged mercilessly at her for her disbelief and was more than wounded.
This is where the soul murder only begins, plunging the child into a spiral of amplifying abuse until his mind collapses. When parents without empathy don’t understand, or do not want to understand, why their child no longer wants to get along with their schoolmates, instead of blaming the environment they blame the child: courtesy of biological psychiatry, although there are still professionals who realise that the fault did not lie with the child. Benjamin tells us:
Indeed, my thorough lack of interest in football was one of the prime reasons that my parents, in some heightened suspicion of me, took me at this age [seven years old] down to the village surgery to request an autism evaluation…
…given that I was used to being heavily bullied, “he dislikes noisy groups of children.” Though the GP listened to their unfounded complaints, did a few simple tests on me, and gave me the all-clear almost immediately, telling them quite bluntly to go away and stop speculating, I was left upset by this lack of faith on their parts, and the initial zeal of their incorrect sentiment offended me a little, acknowledging to myself that, for some frustrating reason, they had been swift to pathologise my innocuous – and totally normal – childhood behaviours, and still somehow, despite capitulating outwardly, could not entirely take the doctor’s firm “no” for an answer, confident in thinking themselves equipped to know my health better.
In the coming days I will continue reading Consumption. For now, the above quote provides a clear idea not only of the literary genre that Benjamin and I want to inaugurate, but also of why studying inner space is infinitely more important than studying outer space. The first may save the white race from its ongoing self-destruction; the second may not.
The first books I read decades ago by the most popular science explainers were those by Isaac Asimov, who disappointed me when I read in one of them that he endorsed the medical model of mental disorders. (I would later learn that virtually all scientists are incapable of questioning biological psychiatry, even sceptics of the paranormal, as I discuss in the middle section of my Hojas Susurrantes.) Later, I was captivated by Jacob Bronowski and Carl Sagan with their television series, The Ascent of Man and Cosmos. But over time both Jews, whose books based on those series I read, disappointed me. Bronowski used Auschwitz for propaganda purposes in one of his Ascent of Man programs, and Sagan appears on a Cosmos program in a classroom with white and black children, treating them as equals (you can imagine niglets in a European classroom if Hitler had won the war!).
Virtually all scientists behave like pseudoscientists on topics like the real aetiology of mental disorders, and what Jared Taylor calls race realism. So I lost interest in science after an important period in my life (late 1989 to mid-1995), when paranormal sceptics educated me to distinguish between science and pseudoscience.
I rarely read science books these days, though one exception was one by Roger Penrose that I briefly reviewed on this site. It’s nice to see Penrose on YouTube. But it’s very unpleasant to watch other science educators’ videos, where the editors aggressively inundate us with strident images. But today I saw a video that, without images of that strident and degenerate culture, shows Brian Cox speaking directly to us.
In the first part, Cox said something I didn’t know about black holes: that holographically, what’s at their centre seems to be encoded outside, on their horizon! I didn’t know that.
In the second part, Cox talks about the Fermi paradox, and that’s what caught my attention the most. He said that one possibility for resolving the paradox is that emerging extra-terrestrial civilisations self-destruct because their technology develops much faster than their wisdom. Those who have followed this blog know that I’ve used the metaphor of Bran the Broken, a sort of philosopher-king from Plato’s Republic, as the only wise non-stupid form of government I can imagine (cf. what Savitri Devi wrote about Hitler).
Cox lives in Manchester, where I lived for a year. It’s obvious that this modern-day science communicator, like the very popular communicators of the past, is incapable of seeing the malignant ethnocidal psychosis afflicting the West, and especially the United Kingdom with its public billboards of English roses with Negroes—the sin against the holy ghost! Cox can show us, in understandable language, the cutting-edge science of black holes and their importance for understanding the universe, but he is incapable of seeing the malignant psychosis of his fellow citizens right in front of his nose. To my mind he himself, like the rest of the normies, resolves the Fermi paradox because scientists themselves fail to see their own stupidity: the stupidity that causes the West’s darkest hour.
Even so, instead of being distracted by a movie with clear anti-white messages like the latest Jurassic Park, anyone who wants to get a little distracted while simultaneously educating himself on a topic I now consider marginal—science, as my focus is Aryan stupidity—, can watch the video linked above.
Physical distortion and mental malformation are the direct result of two thousand years of bad-breeding: that is to say, of mongrelism, of democracy, of equality… Christian-ism, originating in the despairful and fallacious philosophy of a crucified wanderer (suffering from acute morbus sacer) is now developed into an organised and world-wide conspiracy of clericals, politicals and decadents directed en masse, with Jesuitic cunning against all the primitive and heroic virtues.
Our clean-skinned ‘heathenish’ ancestors with all their vital forces unimpaired, were really the nobler type of animal. We on the other hand, with our corrupt, irresolute, civilised hearts, our trembling nerves, our fragile anaemic constitutions, are actually the lower, the viler type—notwithstanding the baseless optimism that courtly rhymers drivel into their ‘Heirs of all the ages’, etc.
No people can long retain hardihood and independence, whose minds become submissive to a false ideal.
Blessed are the strong for they shall possess the earth—Cursed are the weak for they shall inherit the yoke. Blessed are the powerful for they shall be reverenced among men—Cursed are the feeble for they shall be blotted out.
Blessed are the bold for they shall be masters of the world—Cursed are the humble for they shall be trodden under hoofs. Blessed are the victorious for victory is the basis of right—Cursed are the vanquished for they shall be vassals forever.
Blessed are the battle-blooded, Beauty shall smile upon them—Cursed are the poor-in-spirit, they shall be spat upon. Blessed are the audacious for they have imbibed true wisdom—Cursed are the obedient for they shall breed creeplings.
Blessed are the iron-handed, the unfit shall flee before them—Cursed are the haters of battle, subjugation is their portion. Blessed are the death-defiant, their days shall be long in the land—Cursed are the feeble-brained, for they shall perish amidst plenty.
Blessed are the destroyers of false-hope, they are true Messiahs—Cursed are the God-adorers, they shall be as shorn sheep. Blessed are the valiant for they shall obtain great treasure—Cursed are the believers in good and evil for they are frightened by shadows…
Blessed is the man who hath powerful enemies, they shall make him a hero—Cursed is he who ‘doeth good’ unto others, he shall be despised.
Blessed is the man whose foot is swift to serve a friend, he is a friend indeed—Cursed are the organisers of charities, they are propagators of plagues. Blessed are the wise and brave for in the struggle they shall win—Cursed are the unfit for they shall be righteously exterminated [emphasis by Ed.].
Blessed are the sires of noble maidens, they are the salt of the earth—Cursed are the mothers of strumous tenderlings for they shall be shamed. Blessed are the mighty-minded for they shall ride the whirl-winds—Cursed are they who teach lies for truth, and truth for lies, for they are abomination.
Blessed are the unmerciful, their posterity shall own the world—Cursed are the pitiful for they shall receive no pity. Blessed are the destroyers of idols, for tyrants shall fear them—Cursed are the famous wiselings, their seed shall perish off the earth. Thrice cursed are the vile for they shall serve and suffer.
Contrast this with an orthodox Sermonette—one that is repeated every seventh day, in thousands of sacred sanctuaries by consecrated black-robed clericals, who have been specially trained from boyhood to weepfully, unctuously rehearse the same with upturned eyes and skilful snuffle or in classic diction, sounding, sonorous, nay! Sublime—as suits the occasion.
A candid psychiatric autobiography on the guilt, shame, fear, and long-term trauma instigated by parental emotional abuse in a toxic environment of schoolyard bullying, medical malpractice, molestation, and harrowing physical violence, and the spiralling personal consequences for a wounded childhood.
Beginning when Benjamin was not yet a toddler, this heart-wrenching account tracks his sad dissolution across his early life, up through school, and into the climax of the depression that engulfed his late teenage years, culminating in a terrifying and destructive psychosis and the effective murder of his soul.
Inspired by the writings of Alice Miller, César Tort, and John Modrow, this two-book life history seeks to create a new literary genre, that of vindictive autobiography, where the painful abuses of Benjamin’s parents are spelled out in full detail, and, contrary to the ‘wisdom’ of most modern psychological therapies, they are held to account and not forgiven.
As Benjamin explains:
I love my Mum and Dad, but forgiveness is not a one way street, and they have never assimilated their responsibility, apologised, or tried to make things right, instead foisting me with further trauma on the cynical, pseudoscientific victim-blaming of the orthodox psychiatric industry.
Though I was raised as a strict Catholic, my writings seek to repudiate the fourth commandment, remembering the words of Friedrich Nietzsche in Twilight of the Idols: ‘When one gives up the Christian faith, one pulls the right to Christian morality out from under one’s feet.’
“He’d identify the ‘pattern’ in such [anti-white] hate… and act decisively: round them up, strip rights, and eliminate the threat through camps and worse”, Grok posted. “Effective because it’s total; no half-measures let the venom spread. History shows half-hearted responses fail—go big or go extinct”.
Exterminationism! Note how in the linked article Kevin MacDonald, the foremost expert on the JQ, sides with Christian ethics.
“I can’t change the fact that my paintings don’t sell”.
—Vincent Van Gogh
It is curious that as a very young child, and we are talking about sixty years ago now, thanks to the artistic spirit that my dad instilled in me, I was so passionate about the great painters. But it was not until 1999 that I realised the great similarity between their unfortunate lives and mine.
I have spoken of the tragic life of Nietzsche, who by the end of the 19th century suffered a psychotic breakdown from which he never recovered, dying in the last year of the century. But curiously, it was in those same years, and at the beginning of the 20th century, that the painters I became familiar with as a child also suffered terribly and died.
The classic example is Vincent van Gogh, and I believe that unlike the anti-white poison of today’s films, anyone who believes, like Hitler, that painting plays a vital role should watch the movie Lust for Life (which can be viewed for free here).
Vincent, an exponent of post-impressionism, died in 1890 at the age of thirty-seven. But Seurat, who was always financially dependent on his mother, died even younger: at the age of thirty-one, in 1891. Toulouse-Lautrec, who had been a friend of Van Gogh’s, died a decade later, in 1901, at the age of thirty-six. And Gauguin, Van Gogh’s fateful friend in Arles, died a couple of years later, in 1903. As the father of the solitary Cézanne—a post-impressionist painter like Van Gogh and Gauguin—was a banker, this misunderstood artist was financially secure and managed to reach the age I am now, dying in 1906.
I identify with these artists because I am convinced that innovative artistic expression is an escape valve from personal misfortune. Unlike academic painters, and like El Greco (it took the world three centuries to recognise the genius of this Spaniard!), these painters revealed the world in unexpected ways. And it is tragic that they sought in vain to sell their paintings during their lifetimes, because the canvases only reached fabulous prices after their deaths. For example, all art shops have reproductions of Van Gogh’s Bedroom in Arles, The Yellow Chair or Sunflowers, but the poor Dutch painter only sold a single painting in his lifetime.
That fate doesn’t terrify me so much. What really terrifies me is that what happened to Gauguin will happen to me. After he died at the age of fifty-four on one of the Marquesas Islands, a fisherman who found his works in the artist’s humble hut—threw them all into the sea!
At this point in my life, what matters is that something similar doesn’t happen to my intellectual legacy if I die prematurely or unexpectedly. That is why I have decided to translate my trilogy, and I ask visitors to save the PDFs of the featured post on their hard drives: anthologies by various writers.
The above is not my title, but Judge Napolitano’s (this video was uploaded today). Despite being anti-Nazi, it’s nice that the normies are starting to see not only the JQ but also the JP enablers: American Christians of the evangelical variety.
I feel like expanding the section on “No one wanted to listen” linked above by talking online about many other relatives who have mortally offended me with their deafening silence, even after sending them my books. But I also have to do something about the fourteen words.
Meanwhile, those Germans not consigned to bondage continued to perish in American prisons. Soldiers who did not succumb to hunger or disease often died of thirst, even though streams sometimes ran just a few feet from the camps. “The lack of water was the worst thing of all,” remembered George Weiss of his enclosure where the Rhine flowed just beyond the barbed wire. “For three and a half days we had no water at all. We would drink our own urine. It tasted terrible, but what could we do? Some men got down on the ground and licked the ground to get some moisture. I was so weak I was already on my knees.”
Blessed are the unmerciful, their posterity shall own the world—Cursed are the pitiful for they shall receive no pity. Blessed are the destroyers of idols, for tyrants shall fear them—Cursed are the famous wiselings, their seed shall perish off the earth. Thrice cursed are the vile for they shall serve and suffer.
A candid psychiatric autobiography on the guilt, shame, fear, and long-term trauma instigated by parental emotional abuse in a toxic environment of schoolyard bullying, medical malpractice, molestation, and harrowing physical violence, and the spiralling personal consequences for a wounded childhood.
Vincent, an exponent of post-impressionism, died in 1890 at the age of thirty-seven. But Seurat, who was always financially dependent on his mother, died even younger: at the age of thirty-one, in 1891. Toulouse-Lautrec, who had been a friend of Van Gogh’s, died a decade later, in 1901, at the age of thirty-six. And Gauguin, Van Gogh’s fateful friend in Arles, died a couple of years later, in 1903. As the father of the solitary Cézanne—a post-impressionist painter like Van Gogh and Gauguin—was a banker, this misunderstood artist was financially secure and managed to reach the age I am now, dying in 1906.
The above is not my title, but Judge Napolitano’s (this video was uploaded today). Despite being anti-Nazi, it’s nice that the normies are starting to see not only the JQ but also the JP enablers: American Christians of the evangelical variety.