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¿Me Ayudarás? (book) Autobiography Child abuse Ethnic cleansing Evil Hojas Susurrantes (book) Justice / revenge Neanderthalism Patriarchy Rape of the Sabine Women Real men

Extermination • II

Libro
 
“How much good it would do if one could exterminate the human race.”

—Bertrand Russell

Quoted in A Bibliography of Bertrand Russell

 

1

No one, to my knowledge, has written a thorough analysis of his parents. But what I said in Hojas Susurrantes (abbreviated HS this line up) about the murder of children’s souls only lays the foundation for a further and deeper elaboration of Psychohistory, which in the last analysis shows us that the human species is a failed species.

2

From a careful reading of HS it cannot but be inferred that most of the human species should be exterminated—on top of what is written there, because, as Schopenhauer wrote, if the world is hell, human beings are the devils of the animals. And if we want to save the animals from the human devils, there is no choice but to dispatch the latter.

3

That only some of the most beautiful specimens of whites deserve to continue living; so beautiful in body and soul that they have left human devilry behind, has become so obvious to me as that the cow is a mammal—as we shall see in this sort of continuation to HS.

 
 

By way of a prologue

Most of the text of HS is not original. There are original parts, yes: the long letter to the mother with which the book opens; my experiences to twelve years, and the final part where I analyze my fear of damnation as an internal persecutor begotten as a result of my father’s crimes. However, most of HS consists of long paraphrases of other peoples’ ideas, pastiches and re-workings of their works to present the trauma model (refuting, along the way, the fraudulent professions of “mental health”).

I believe that, as a didactic work to Aryanize the trauma model away from the Semitic or philo-Semitic hands of Alice Miller and Lloyd deMause, HS honors its goal. But the problems I raised—remember how the fourth book in HS ends by mentioning the burning of children by their Semitic parents in the Ancient World, wondering if mankind had a right to exist—were left unsolved. Fortunately, this century will be crucial because of the energy devolution that is upon us, especially of oil, for Nature’s killing these humans that I hate so much and whose destruction has become my personal religion.

I will not live to see my day: that which for decades I have called the extermination of the Neanderthals, in which I include not only non-whites but those white traitors who brought them into the West. But the burden is upon me to bear witness to why I believe that the être supérieur should yearn, as so desperately I do, that the primitive version of modified apes, as in my soliloquies I call the humans of today, both white and of other races, becomes extinct.

Another huge issue never made onto paper is a detailed narrative of my agonizing experiences in 1976, when I was only seventeen, and ten years later, while living in California: experiences outlined in HS. Here I hope to talk more about those life lessons. So to confess why I hate humanity to the extent of wanting to exterminate it, at the same time being the first to analyze in detail his destructive parents—so that, after due extermination, in the Acadia of my most cherished dreams the treatment to children and animals be free of my hells—is the double helix of this new text.

But there is much more than that. In the Neanderthalesque literature that I run into the bookstores I never see confessions about male sexuality that go to the merits. In HS I quoted an Austrian writer who said that autobiography is the most difficult literary art because the adept of self-portraiture has to betray himself. Of course! How it won’t be self-betrayal for a respectable writer to recount, say, his sexual fantasies? Previous literature to the “total autobiography” suffers from cowardice insofar a text that confesses everything could be posthumous. But the so-called giants of letters, that I find so small that I do not read, never reached such confessional level. They stayed in the pre-autobiographical phase of literature. Here I will try to amend this lacuna in the section entitled “In search of the soulmate.”

Quite apart from the autobiographical question, we propose the need to rescue and/or abduct Aryan women—only the very young and pretty—from what will become multiracial clans after the civilizational collapse pulls us over to strictly ethnic strongholds. To paraphrase George Lincoln Rockwell, “He who doesn’t rape won’t fight!” will be the motto of a Blonde Beast redivivus that, by getting his manhood back, will not only become genocidal of everything that does not resemble him. The Beast will hunt for his females once the collective unconscious falls back to its original form by historical inertia forces. The brutality and savagery resulting from the collapse of the rule of law, together with the most elemental Darwinism, will mercilessly weed the feminized white males. Thanks to the energy devolution of our century the yin where today is pending the psyche of these whites will swing, like a pendulum of kilometric arc, to the Yang extreme of the right.

We won’t only lucubrate to kill non-whites around the globe and renaming cities currently inhabited by people of brown, yellow or black skin with names like “Pierce City” or “Himmler City.” The idea is that, alongside the extermination of Neanderthals, the Beast will have to go on the hunt for females, abandoning a masturbation currently afflicting millions of feminized males. The Aryan sperm injected involuntarily into those who had fornicated with the colored will fulfill the fourteen words during a holy war that will cover the world—and this time fulfilling them by brute force. The obvious objective will be to form families thank to the same élan vital that breathed life into the ancient founders of Rome by abducting, and raping, their attractive Sabine neighbors. In other words: if every nation, not just ancient Rome, is born with violence, after the darkest night of the West the Aryan Nation can only be born with extreme violence: from limit to limit of the pendulum’s arc, from the extreme yin to the extreme Yang.

Basic historical inertia: the swung pendulum is rushing toward us with vengeful force because of the incredible liberal lengths it reached in the late 20th and early 21st centuries. So far it swung toward the dark side that the “Day of the Rope” so dreamt by William Pierce in The Turner Diaries, a novel written in the 1970s but projected in the 90s, won’t be enough. We will go further. Neither Pierce nor Covington—much less Covington: a de facto feminist novelist in Freedom’s Sons—dared to predict the abduction of the new Sabine women. They did not seem to have considered that if the ancient Latins (Aryans) abducted and raped the Sabines (Aryans who copulated with Aryans), with much greater reason will be legitimate to direct our rediscovered sexual primitivism over those who delivered themselves to non-whites!

Returning to the subject of total autobiography. The victim of his parents and the fucking society who has lost everything requires getting revenge against those who spit on his cross. Only revenge heals the soul, and as I cannot settle scores with the Neanderthals at least I can tell what they did. Going into detail of what I omitted in HS will show how the evil that infected my parents also infected my siblings and how some of them, in turn, voluntarily surrendered to evil after reaching adulthood. Also, when analyzing my family, relatives, acquaintances, close and distant persons I met and even strangers whom I only interacted over the net, we will see how their behavior helped me realize that the human being is so obsolete a version of Homo sapiens as the niggers of the seedy hostel with whom I spent a night.

Finally, my exterminator conclusions I have come regarding all these people have relevance for understanding the darkest hour of the West. This topic sucked my recent years to the point of putting on a blog in English and its ramifications over a thousand entries summarized in two books: The Fair Race’s Darkest Hour and Day of Wrath (which I will be abbreviating as FR and DW). The book Extermination, that I now start, is relevant because the evil that ails the white man is the same one that destroyed my tree and its leaves and my dear family of Palenque.* And if I can unravel the evil that destroyed me I will probably unravel the evil that destroys the white race around the world, including the mass migration of non-whites in London I witnessed last month.

In other words, the evil I saw in my parents and the people I met (cf. HS) and the evil I see in westerners who are committing ethnic suicide (cf. FR and DW) is, down to the core, two sides of the same coin. That alone deserves my venture into this new literary genre: the vindictive autobiography.

Mexico City
September 2014

 

___________________________________________

(*) Note that this book is written for those who have already read my previous books, including HS, and understand exactly what I mean, for example, with the word “Palenque”: the house where I experienced happiness before the catastrophe of my adolescence.

Categories
¿Me Ayudarás? (book) Autobiography

Extermination • I

Or:

Second thoughts about my “parting word”

 

I was serious last July when I wrote that I would not add more posts to this page until the financial accident happens. But another sort of accident happened to me that ruined my plans (see below), and instead of making a living overseas I find myself writing again.

In the July message I also said that I would “be busy explaining my minority report.” Well, I have started that autobiographical book in my native language. Its first translated pages are precisely the ones that appear below:
 

 

_______________________________________

 

To the memory of Percy

 

_______________________________________

 
 
 
LibroOn August 4, 2014 I arrived to London in the hope of moving to a small town in the United Kingdom in order to save my life once Mexico City catches fire after the looming collapse of the dollar.

One of the smartest commenters on my blog, whom I will call “the Brazilian,” had promised, through his contacts, forged work permit so I could look for a job in England. Throughout the two years I interacted with him in the blog and then thru personal communications, this guy reiterated that he wanted to help me to move there, and when in early 2014 he indeed moved to England I thought his plans were sincere.

The man is the result of a mixture between the races of his homeland, Brazil. He himself confessed publicly that his ancestors were Iberians, blacks and mestizos. Thus in order he did not feel self-conscious with me, I told him that I was not properly white.

Later in this chapter I will talk about some “Creole nationalists”—Mexicans that show off their Iberian roots and claim to have no drop of Indian blood—with whom I interacted in Mexico. The Brazilian’s intelligence had so impressed me that I told these Creole nationalists that my Brazilian, “mulatto friend has an IQ of 140.” Moreover, in my intimate soliloquies I said, more than once, that the level of penetration of the Brazilian on important issues to understand the darkest hour in Occident amazed me. I even told to myself that an “upward quantum leap” was crystal-clear when comparing the Brazilian to the vast majority of Aryan commenters visiting my site. No one like him had captured perfectly the disaster that represented Christianity for the white race, to the extent that—like me—the Brazilian considered it a more serious problem that the Jewish problem itself. Even his derogatory remarks about the philosophers sounded to my ears far above the intellectual masturbation we read in some sophisticated pro-white sites in the internet.

The Brazilian’s intellectual acumen, along with my huge need to escape Mexico, made my defenses down and I trusted him to the extent of deferring to his judgment my first steps to immigrate. I refer not only to the steps to obtain forged documents but also to roommate concerns. (London is so expensive that almost everyone shares their departments and the poorest even their rooms.) Although, as we shall see later in Extermination, thirty-two years before I had a horrible experience in London at a time when I also wanted to escape from Mexico, this time I thought that with such smart colleague our plans could not fail. The Brazilian even offered to pick me up at Heathrow Airport outside London; by telephone he informed me that he would not go to work the Monday I arrived to pick me up.

I thanked him and my flight arrived on time. After exiting from the immigration line, where obviously I hid the British woman who interrogated me that the purpose of my trip was to immigrate, I was surprised that the Brazilian was not there. I waited about twenty minutes at Terminal 4, the specific spot of international arrivals I had mentioned to the colleague, but no sign of him. After half hour he hadn’t come. Nor forty or fifty minutes after arriving at the terminal… I had virtually not slept due to my inability to sleep sitting on the plane and I badly needed to leave the soulless airport lounge and go to the hotel I had booked and even paid from Mexico. But the Brazilian did not appear. With the heavy suitcase I carried—suitcase to emigrate, not for tourism—I could not even move at ease in the terminal. I made a change in coins from a fiver to call the Brazilian’s mobile phone. What was my surprise that he wasn’t at the airport; just on his way, and he claimed he was “about to arrive.” I stopped worrying. But time continued to pass, and more than an hour-and-a-half after my arrival at the agreed terminal, he did not appear. I was hesitant to make extra phone calls because the airport’s phone had swallowed one or two of my pound coins but tried calling. This second time his tone was less friendly, “I’m almost there!” It must have been about two to three hours after the plane landed that the Brazilian finally appeared, without apologizing for the delay.

I wish to stop now and don’t recount the misadventure of that day because it makes me mad that I trusted someone whom I had never met in the real world, but I shall keep writing…

Having been so much delayed would be only the first lack of consideration by the Brazilian to a man more than twenty years his elder, who had arrived sleepless from a transatlantic voyage. After greeting each other, the Brazilian convinced me that the taxi would be very expensive and that we better take the subway to my hotel. Once in the tube, as it is called the narrow subway in London, we had to transship over more than once the various lines en route to the hotel, always carrying my heavy suitcase up awful stairs during the transfers. When we got off from a train among the London crowd for one of these transfers, the Brazilian asked me to wait because he wanted to buy something in the store just across the tracks. He climbed the stairs, walked into the shop, came out and smiled at me before… getting out into the street.

I was completely flabbergasted! If such a thing happened to me in my right mind, not in the confused state I was, I would have acted differently. But I was at the mercy of a bloke that—allegedly—would solve my migration problems. He was the only contact I knew in London for a (crooked) work permit. As he had already been delayed at the airport without a good reason or having apologized, had I been in my right mind when he went off the street I would have told him to get lost; fled by taxi to my hotel, and would have sought a more reliable contact the following days (say, through Spanish-speaking restaurants). But without sleep as I was, with great anxiety I remained on the tube station watching the largest racial melting pot of Europe (nowadays London has white minority).

The Brazilian should have taken about thirty-five minutes to arrive, or more, since he left and only then I realized that he had not found what he wanted at the front shop; that’s why he looked it out on the street. Hours later I discovered it were beers what the miscreant had bought, who had cared a damn that his fellow blogger (the Brazilian used to maintain a blog about “racial realism” in Portuguese) remained stranded with his heavy suitcase wondering what the hell had happened.

As I said, it makes me mad to tell this because I did not react as I should. The fact that I did not possess work permit and that the Brazilian had the handle for the grill not only for it, but to get me affordable accommodation—according to him he already had reserved one—played a psychological role in my indecision to make a clean break after the second or third discourtesy. Anyway, when he came laughing and said, “What did you think: that this crazy Brazilian had abandoned you?” I hid my feelings and continued the underground journey to the hotel.

It was during another transfer, now closer to the hotel and where we had to go outside to take another train (I think it was the street where he showed me the tallest building in Europe) that the Brazilian asked me something. He said that instead of going to my hotel, why not accompanying him to the slum hostel where he was living these days. They only charged £60 per week and although his roommates were black—that is, three blacks slept in a single room, beside the Brazilian—, it was only for a week while the better place he had reserved for us would be vacating. The Brazilian had a small back suitcase containing his laptop. He dared not leave it in the hostel with such hosts and carried it every time he went out.

Go figure my dear readers… All of my travel strategy had been based on a bloke that, now I realized, was on the verge of homelessness as he had to carry his belongings in the street for fear of loosing them in a “hostel” without lockers. Had I not been so obfuscated by the turn of events I would have stopped dry the adventure that very instant. But cognitively I was not well. In fact, I was completely alienated. True: I had prepared with extreme meticulousness everything left in Mexico—my library, my manuscripts in ring-binders and envelopes sealed against moisture (I thought I wouldn’t be back in years), the taking care of my pet and even a big farewell party for all believed I would leave for good—, but about my stay in England I had deferred all planning to “the mulatto of 140 of IQ.”

What a mistake. It was not until my return to Mexico, when I told the details of my misadventure to my old friend Paulina, that I noticed things that a man usually cannot see. Pau listened carefully and explained that men tend to admire intelligence at the expense of the other facet of the human psyche: empathy. I knew that in the white nationalist movement there were people with terrible character flaws. But the fact that the Brazilian seemed a hybrid between mestizo and mulatto was no reason to distrust him, as he believes in the “fourteen words” to the extent of having promised not to leave offspring. (Remember the first lesson to the Hitler Youth of Faith and Action by Helmut Stellrecht: “But if your blood has traits that will make your children unhappy and burdens to the state, then you have the heroic duty to be the last.”)

Unfortunately, character flaws can be hidden over the internet. And as in Mexico I only had considered the intellectual aspect of this bloke—a “hemiplegia” of mine, so to speak instead of having delved into the two facets of the person—, in a state of complete cognitive alienation to what was happening I agreed to his idea to abort the journey to my hotel and go to his hostel.

I would lie if I lay the blame at the Brazilian. Now that I’m out of the UK I find it obvious that the planning of my trip was grotesque, to say the least. “The drowning will grab at straws,” and the urgency of leaving a Neanderthalesque Mexico and survive the dollar collapse was such that I put aside from my consciousness basic matters I should have contemplated at my age, before venturing on another continent.

The journey to the hostel was not underground but from the outside, traveling in one of those red double-decker Routemaster buses so showy in London. And still there came the miscreant character of he whom I had placed my most cherished hopes. Throughout the journey in the underground and on the outside of the biggest city in Europe—a crossing that, due to change of plans, had already lasted more than two hours after leaving the airport—the Brazilian had never been solicitous in helping me with my heavy suitcase. Now, in the red double-decker bus, he swiftly climbed to the second floor and asked me repeatedly to go upstairs with him! It was then for the first time, that I showed some self-respect by refusing to come up with my heavy suitcase. During that second-long journey—remember that by aborting the way to the hotel we now were going to a very different address—we still had to make another transfer, but this time from bus to bus. We descended into a densely populated and very noisy area of London; streets swarmed with lots of blacks. To my surprise, the Brazilian told me to wait because he was going to find a toilet.

Lo and behold I was once again alone among human swarms with my heavy suitcase and no sleep! (Later, when I learned that the first time he left he had gone to buy beer, I connected the dots and realized that it was urgent for him to urinate the ingested alcohol.) In that hideous swarthy-filled street, and carrying something less than £2,000 in cash along with my credit cards, a black approached me. I didn’t understand a word. Scared and carrying the heavy suitcase I entered a grocery store but the attendants were not white either. My anxiety was very obvious until the Brazilian reappeared and we boarded the final bus that would take us to our destination.

Unlike the noisy subway, on the red bus it was possible to talk. At last we initiated conversation on topics that fascinate me. I told him that I had seen some mixed couples in London and was greatly surprised that there were so many blacks. He replied that it was a punishment to the English for having waged war against Germany, and added that Nazi Germany was by far the noblest creature that European history had produced. Then he said he did not understand how Americans like Matt Parrott insist on mixing the unmixable: Christianity with white nationalism.

It was not until we reached his quarters that I received the biggest shock of the trip. It’s true that in 1982 I had spent a night in London in a spacious room of a Youth Hostel; a room with many beds. But back then they were all European Aryans; I, the only foreigner. I was twenty-four and, coming from Mexico, was amazed at how good looking some of those English were (in the country where I was born almost all seemed Neanderthals to me). But now I was in 2014, and the all-encompassing social engineering of the British elites in recent decades, that is, replacement of the native race by imported race, had been a success. The Brazilian’s room was not spacious as the hostel I had slept decades ago. It was of regular size with the most miserable niggers you might think of. In fact, in no way it resembled a hostel but one of those trash-people rooms subsidized by charities for the homeless in large metropolis. But they were not homeless: they were blacks surviving, I suppose, from the same type of underemployment of the Brazilian.

I barely saw the spectacle and wanted to run away. On the street the Brazilian insisted that I should pay the £60 for the week. It was already night and he claimed he was tired and that we should think things over the next day. I didn’t know what to do. I had to cancel the hotel reservation so that it was not charged to my American Express, but there were no public telephones in the neighborhood. I tried to get information in a grocery store that opened at night, but they were immigrants who hardly knew English and were unaware of the dynamics of the big city. Not even the Brazilian could tell me what was, in England, the telephone equivalent to 911 so that, through his cell phone, I could make a call. The Brazilian kept insisting me to pay the £60, as the “hostel” never receives one-night payment, only a full week; and said I should forget my worries until the next day. (Take into account that with those £60 I could have spent a single night in a modest hotel, even after losing my reservation.) Still arguing in the street, the Brazilian, speaking in a serious tone, argued that he was tired; ignoring that it was me who had not slept the night before, and insisted to forget the matter of seeking hotel or making emergency phone calls.

As there was no one to help me, not even a taxi to get on in those streets, and as I was worried that in that colored neighborhood I could be assaulted and my money taken away (for my heavy suitcase I was an obvious target), I agreed. I reentered the “hostel,” paid the administrator of the slum the £60 he demanded, and walked into to the room of blacks and the mulatto Brazilian.

But I could not sleep… Although I had not slept the night before I was in a state of extreme anxiety.

I went out to the hostel’s terrace and finally I saw a white man. He was also an immigrant. He didn’t have fluent English and told me he was from Romania. As it had happened to me decades ago in the same city, as I newly arrived from Neanderthalesque lands I was pleasantly surprised by the looks of the blond Romanian. I spoke with him in the fresh night but not for long. He was not very smart and I also felt a little cold in the outdoors terrace. (I had left the plane with my jacket, shirt and dress pants but had not changed my clothes; one of the blacks that tried to sleep in the dirty room, where my cloths were, had warned me not turn the light on.) Apparently the Brazilian also failed to reconcile sleep and after sighting me in the terrace he went to the kitchen to talk at length with a muscular black returning from the gym. The Brazilian informed me that to survive in such place—go figure, myself in formalwear with the downtrodden—, one had to learn to converse amiably with the dark-skinned. The long conversation of the Brazilian with the huge black gave the lie to the claim that he was too tired to help me make an urgent phone-call.

I don’t remember the exact moment when the Brazilian told me that the police had arrested his contact—the very contact that was supposed to get me the papers. He did not say whether he had been arrested the day before or the day I arrived at Heathrow. But I doubt that, if the story is true, it was such a recent event. Chances are that the arrest had occurred long before—which means that the Brazilian had not warned me on time, when I was in Mexico. Had I been informed on time I would have aborted any plan to cross the Atlantic!

The events yelled at me that the trip had been in vain. By not having warned me in time of the arrest the Brazilian had committed a trick of confidence. However, even though that day the Brazilian confessed that he was desperately seeking a decent roommate, I failed to suspect that behind his convincing me to come to London a sinister motive was hiding. The crux of his confession was that his old roommate was a black homosexual whose conduct had caused the Brazilian to flee from there and move to the seedy hostel (where we were now).

I am ashamed to say that even with all this novel information I was slow to connect the dots that such insistence that I go London had not been motivated to help me, the word he used several times but to help himself in his problems with blacks. The underlying motivation of Brazilian seemed to be: “Unlike this nigger, blogger César, who comes from an educated family and whose parents have three pianos at home and five servants, will be my personal savior.”

Such naiveté!: In Mexico I had only imagined a Brazilian full of honor, insofar he vehemently insisted he did not plan to reproduce even after finding a woman in England (remember the wise counsel of Helmut Stellrecht for non-whites). But in London he told me that even before his “racial awakening”—something unheard of in a man of color—he had come to the firm conclusion that he would not leave descendants in Brazil. It was not until I assimilated even more painful confessions than that of the “gay nigger”—for example, that the day prior to my arrival the Brazilian had been wandering at London’s downtown because he could not remember where he lived, and that he drank alcohol to cope with his pathetic life—that I began to glimpse who he really was.

The trip had been a fraud. My purpose had never been crossing the ocean to help a mulatoid fellow to find a roommate—but looking sanctuary for me in a small English village with no coloreds to survive the dollar collapse! He who so much boasted to know something of human psychology had been duped like a child…! Nothing had I suspected of the motives of Brazilian: trying to use me to solve his problem and, therefore, the understandable lack to timely notify me about the “arrest.”

But back to my sleepless night.

My mattress had no sheets. I had no choice but to put my white skin in contact with a mattress that must have suffered a thousand sweats from blacks. Even in such conditions I tried to sleep with the four darks of the room. My anxieties and a disagreeable negress snoring inches from me on the top bunk—the pseudohostel was so abhorrent that not only races mixed, but the very sexes too—didn’t let me sleep…

But with the dawn I regained my senses. In the morning, with several guests already waking up on the terrace, including some I had not seen the previous evening, the Brazilian insisted I opened a bank account and said that another of his contacts worked in a bank (by law, tourists cannot open accounts in the UK). Perhaps that employee even knew, the Brazilian told me, another person to obtain work permit.

But I had lost confidence in him. The second night of consecutive sleeplessness I had talked to another night bird, Stuart, who lived there in another room and used to talk to the Romanian during the evenings on the terrace. His accent was not British. Stuart was born in Scotland and raised in New Orleans. As the Brazilian, Stuart had been so badly beaten by life that he had fallen to the pseudohostel. We spoke of my racial ideas and this young man conceded that in New Orleans blacks had behaved very poorly during hurricane Katrina. He was not bothered, though somewhat surprised, about my overtly racist worldview and I asked him what was the whitest city in Scotland. He said that Perth and his hometown, Dundee. He added that the beautiful town of Perth was ideal for retirees (i.e., for people like me had I arrived with the proper funds to buy a modest house).

I made my decision. That morning I was not going to endure a single minute of a “hostel” which did not even have showers for bathing. The blacks woke up and put their filthy music we all heard over the terrace. I told the Brazilian that I would go to Scotland. He was surprised but, by seeing my resolution, walked along with me to the outskirts of the metro station. We said goodbye and never met again.

I still struggled that day to reach Perth. It was not the Victoria Station that the Brazilian had suggested but the famous King’s Cross the one which would take me to the far north: the very one where they had filmed the movies of the magical station in Harry Potter. My flight had been so hurried that already going on my train to Scotland I had to ask one of the uniformed train attendants if Perth was large enough to house hotels. By fleeing multiracial London and the nightmarish underworld of the Brazilian I hadn’t had time to make the most basic inquiries! (the hostel didn’t have Wifi access). Although nearly all uniformed workers in train stations were black, I approached an Anglo-Saxon woman who informed me that there were hotels there. However, still dying of tiredness I was unable to sleep sitting up and had to wait six more hours to reach my destination.

When I arrived to Perth the tourist information center was closed, but the taxi driver of the terminal, a typical Scot, was extremely helpful in taking me to the cheapest places he knew. We went to Dunkeld Road not far from the station, and the Scot awaited me several times while I knocked the doors of various guesthouses. As it was midsummer the signs were saying “No vacancy” but in one of the houses, Connie, the Irish woman who received guests in Clark Kimberly Guest House, admitted me gladly. Having no reservation I had to rent an expensive room with double bed.

But it didn’t matter. That night I slept placidly after so long. At last I encountered myself in the hands of the white man…

Categories
Conspiracy theories

Disagree with Ronin

"A Short History of the RPN”: A radio podcast interview of Sebastian Ronin. - July 27, 2014

 

I agree and disagree with Sebastian on quite a few points.

I agree with most of Sebas’ criticism of American-style white nationalism and that Covington is mainly a writer, not an actual politician. But… somewhere during the interview, did Sebas imply that 9/11 was an inside job? Readers of WDH know that conspiracy theories are utter BS for me.

After listening the interview I wonder if Sebas is promoting women in the inner party? I ask this because I am a real traditionalist: no women were politically empowered in the most virile, martial societies that we must admire in our history. Feminist quotas are to be avoided at all costs, especially in the coming holy wars which will be the nastiest of all history due to the WMD. Compassionate women would only impede final solutions to our many problems.

More important is that both Sebas and his interviewer reject genocide on non-whites in the coming struggle for secession. I believe they are contradicting themselves on this point.

If energy devolution is pivotal in their worldview, there’s no chance that a white ethnostate will survive with a gluttonous new kid on the bloc like China unless it hostilely takes over the oil fields of non-white countries later in the century (which would condemn them to die like flies). Since Mother Nature will kill at least 5 billion of humans, there’s no chance that the ethno-nationalists in charge of a newly-formed State won’t ferociously fight for the ever scarcer fields after Nature hits the fan.

In other words, Sebas et al cannot have it both ways—peak oil and behave like Christian axiologists with the sand-niggers. On this point they’re on the same page of a recent article by Greg Johnson, the wishful belief that the ethnostate will be achieved without true “Rivers of Blood”.

Categories
Aryan beauty Child abuse God Hojas Susurrantes (book) Maxfield Parrish Metaphysics of race / sex

Parting word:

Only the eternal feminine leads to the Absolute

Catalina (1980)

Above, Maxfield Parrish’s 1925 Lady Violet, who reminds me a girl I met long, long time ago… If an ethno-state is ever created, my ultimate dream is that in the distant future its people will resemble the paradisiacal world of Parrish.

What prevents whites from working toward that noble end, keeping in mind that Aryan female beauty represents the crown of the evolution? Elsewhere I have discussed the majority report: Capitalism and Christian axiology as the twofold etiology of Western malaise (Jewish depredations, a tertiary infection). But I have also mentioned my minority report: that the most extreme cases of self-hatred among whites—those who celebrate that their kind will become a minority surrounded by non-white swarms—cannot be explained satisfactorily by any of these two factors.

In this blog I have briefly written about how child abuse among some whites drives them to hate the culture of their parents, and also presented my book Hojas Susurrantes, most of which has not been translated to English.

After publication of this entry I won’t add new posts to this blogsite. Although I’ll still answer some comments, the site will basically remain frozen with the below PDFs advertising my books until the dollar crashes. But I’ll be busy explaining my minority report: writing another book related to the subject of why, in some families, the silly mechanism erected by the abused victim is none other than hatred for his or her parents’ civilization.

____________________________

Day of Wrath

The Fair Race’s Darkest Hour

Categories
Michael O'Meara Real men

On American

capitalism

“Cultural Marxism is a code word for American Capitalism.”

White nationalists have been deceiving themselves with their single-cause hypothesis, i.e., an omnipotent tribe and the utter innocence of poor little whites. Yockey, O’Meara and Sunic on the other hand have seen capitalism as the main etiology of Western malaise (the non-Gentile, a secondary infection).

Below, no ellipsis added between excerpts taken from pages 93-99 of Michael O’Meara’s Toward the White Republic:
 

______ 卐 ______

 
Corporate capitalism, in tandem with the new managerial state, began redesigning American culture and society to accord with its specific social-economic imperatives. The country’s historic racial hierarchy was overturned; cities, in the name of “urban renewal” (i.e., social engineering) were ethnically cleansed and white communities destroyed; masses of Negroes were not just allowed into, but imposed on, white society to resocialize whites as mindless, deracinated consumers; most cultural and educational institutions were taken over by Jews or market forces hostile to tradition.

Our people will survive only if white men, in struggle, learn again to stand, like their ancestors, on their own two legs and fight for a land of their own, free from everything associated with the monstrous Leviathan that has become the United States [emphasis by Ed.].

Almost as depressing as the thought of our people’s extinction is that of the white opposition to it. It’s not just that this opposition is minuscule in number, confined to the internet, and attracts a great many asocial, dysfunctional types incapable of sustaining any sort of nationalist resistance. Our people face extinction not because the Jews or the liberals monopolize the media, force feed us anti-white ideas, control the leading institutions, and wield all the power and influence. This is a big part of it, to be sure, but to see things solely—or principally—in these terms is to overlook the last two or three centuries of Western history.

As for the white masses—whose vegetative existence is lived unconscious of the higher forces governing them—they’ll never be moved by ideas and principles openly challenging the existing order. Only a social crisis set off by some cataclysm that makes their normal way of life impossible will cause them to look for alternatives. And at that point, what matters most will not be ideas and principles, but men and organizations whose exemplary stature instills in them the confidence for decisive action.

The white race will be reborn, then, not by electing Congressmen, hiring lobbyists, and participating in a system that seeks its destruction, but by returning to its original self—and to the challenge of creating a new elite, a revolutionary vanguard morally and organizationally armed to stand against the Jewish age—so that when the foul system supporting it collapses in decay, there will be someone around to fight for our fair share of the spoils.

If our people are to restore European America it will be in the Aryan way.

_______________

Editor’s note:

See also my translation of Manu Rodríguez’s letter.

Categories
Americanism Degenerate art Music Revilo Oliver

Degenerate “nationalists”

by Roger

Let it be declared that National Socialism, so uniquely responsive to harmony and beauty, health and strength, has absolutely no room for “rock”, that degenerate din of the African jungle to which the above hooligans [skinheads], and also others pretending to be National Socialists, are addicted, and which, we would have them know, Hitler would most certainly have prohibited. This is something that skinheads—if they are to elevate themselves from this category, have got to learn.

—Colin Jordan, “National Socialism:
Vanguard of the Future”, pp. 26-27,
Historical Review Press, 2011



I don’t know much about Génération Identitaire (their alleged British branch does not exist outside of Facebook, to my knowledge, and is inactive even there), but there is a popular current in continental Europe nowadays for “social-nationalism”, which is manifested through various different fronts: National-Anarchism, Autonomous Nationalism, and so forth. I find it repulsive aesthetically and politcially. The best example might be CasaPound in Italy, whose behaviour seems like an ostensibly right-wing mirror of the 1968 New Left. They live as squatters in unoccupied properties, they have their own rock band, and they organise meetings to promote extremely pretentious “beyond left and right” nonsense in which enemies like Che Guevara are revised as heroic national liberators.

Worst yet are the Autonomous Nationalists, who record “NS Hip-Hop” and idolise the likes of Otto Strasser, a renowned traitor who spent the large part of his life attacking Adolf Hitler and the Third Reich from outside (he was essentially the Trotsky of National Socialism). They self-consciously dress themselves like anarchists and they use anti-fascist symbols, like a bunch of inverted Situationists.

This must be heard to be believed: (YouTube link) .

H youth1How can a nation go from producing marches like Preußens Gloria and Volk ans Gewehr to this? I’ll tell you how: the imposition of foreign anti-values by the 1945 Allied occupiation (which Strasser, the hero of countless social-nationalists, fully supported; in fact, he testified against Germans at the Nuremberg show trials). Even the German federal constitution was written by the occupiers, so naturally their culture ended up getting debased by what Solzhenitsyn referred to in 1994 as “liquid manure from the West”, which was flooding into Russia after the fall of Soviet Socialism. We can and should hate all Bolsheviks, but it is impossible to deny that the Soviet Union’s protectionist attitude towards culture managed to prevent Beatlemania from taking off in most of Eastern Europe.

The above quotation by Colin Jordan is taken from an essay entitled “The Enemy Within”, which is largely a critique of Strasserism. The fact that attacked the skinhead rock fans in the same same essay shows how little things have changed since he wrote that. Here is another one from the same book of essays, again against rock music and its worshippers:

This is what we are up against! The bulk of our younger generation clad appropriately in the slovenly uniform of the creed of slovenliness, debauching their minds in an ecstasy of adoration of a chaos of cacophony and the vile creatures of the night purveying it. This represents democracy’s maturity, and that maturity is the prelude to communism. (pp. 108-109)

I also enjoy Revilo P. Oliver’s definition of rock music: “the cacophonous din that has replaced music in degenerate circles”.

H.C. Strache, the leader of the FPÖ, has released several videos of himself rapping. It is a disgrace. I want to like that party, seeing as it has the support of 42% of Austrians in the 18-30 age group, but it is hard to get enthused when its most senior figure is happy to make such a fool of himself in public. Perhaps it can only garner the support of that 42% by being degenerate.

Categories
Homosexuality Sex

On the art of having it both ways

As I have stated before, one of the reasons I have repudiated white nationalists is because they really want to eat their cake: enjoying the pleasures of liberal hedonism while at the same time pretending to be saving their race. Below, a recent exchange between other bloggers who think like me:


Iranian for Aryans said:

The only reason I link to Counter Currents is because it sometimes features very well written and culturally insightful articles. Nonetheless, much that comes out of this site is balderdash; to put it very innocuously. For instance, besides the articles on trite subjects, asinine and insipid articles and books are promoted by two homosexual authors: Jack Donovan and James O’Meara.

It’s bad enough that I have to read monotonous essays, which, truth be told, at least have educational properties for the neophyte, but I have to be victimized, traumatized, and violated by two disgusting faggots: one who pushes other faggots (James O’Meara) and one who preaches to us about the necessity of having a masculine militia so, I’m sure, we can sodomize each other to oblivion (Jack Donovan).

God, how I miss the original, vintage, nationalist groups and movements! The Old Parties who smashed homosexuals within their midsts. The Old Right which was raised on opera, march music, folk music, and the Masters—the Old Vanguard who would have looked at his bastard descendants with disdain and disgust.
 

Roger said:

White Nationalism should be a one-issue political outlook. White Nationalism is for the interests of whites and against the interests of our racial enemies. Period. Anything else is beside the point.

This is what Greg Johnson wrote in his article about homosexuality and white nationalism. If one’s sole concern is to propagate the interests of whites, the corollary is to attack degenerate behaviour among whites. This has to be inclusive of homosexuality and all other forms of non-reproductive sexual misbehaviour. If the outcome of a man’s sexual deeds is a disease rather than a baby, he is doing it wrong. He is lowering the general health of his race and increasing the risk of contaminating normal people. James O’Meara actually uses the term “ambisexual”, so one can assume he thinks it is acceptable for a man to poke turds and then pass his diseases on to a woman. He envisions these alleged benefits of teenage “ambisexuality”:

In a traditional society, these erotic energies would be recognized, valued, and safely diverted into “homoromances” (along the lines of Nietzschean “sublimation” vs. Judeo-Christian asceticism). This is possible because, contrary to Freud and Hirshfeld, humans are, as Neill documents, an “ambisexual” species, which allows society to shape and prune human sexuality in various ways and into various channels. In this way, male/female relations are reserved for marriage at appropriate ages, and the whole problem of teenage pregnancy, STDs, knife-fights among pubescent Romeos, etc. is avoided.

Such tripe. Teenage pregnancy is not a problem. It was normal for women to be married before the age of twenty in the past. 18-23 is the peak fertility age. They are better off getting married at 18 than packing their bags to study psychology at the University of Gomorrah, and men are better off finding a woman than being subjected to “homoerotic inter-generational pedagogic relations”. Teenage pregnancy is only a problem among populations which treat sex as nothing more than a form of pleasure, and I can only laugh at the idea that STDs would become less prominent if male homosexuality was encouraged. I don’t doubt that teenage boys will get sexually frustrated and seek some outlet—for most of them, onanism or celibacy will be preferable to buggery until they find a shrew to tame.

If Johnson conceives WN as a single-issue cause, and positions himself as a WN, why does he spend so much time and money advancing causes which do not benefit white interests in any way? Everyone who donates money to Counter-Currents is funding new books by James O’Meara.
 

Iranian for Aryans said:

As always, well written and humorously so. The truth of the matter, as you asseverated, is that male homosexuality is disease-ridden. Not only that, but that “knife-fights among pubescent Romeos” would increase as male homos have shown throughout their nasty history to be involved in more numerous physical conflicts.

Why would anyone promote a “lifestyle” that is detrimental to White reproduction, health, and normalcy? Well, because Johnson and Co. are part of the problem with their ugly distortions.

Categories
Chris Martenson Currency crash Energy / peak oil Eschatology Videos

The accelerated crash course

This “Accelerated” Crash Course, a 2014 video that includes both the coming currency crash and peak oil crisis, condenses over 4.5 hours of detailed material into less than an hour to view:

Full transcript: here.

Categories
Eduardo Velasco Hans F. K. Günther Miscegenation Nordicism Racial studies Science

Gens alba conservanda est

“The white race must be preserved”


ES

The new racial classification (first part)

First and foremost, if the white race must be preserved, a scientific definition of “white race” must be provided.

Editor’s Abstract: The European race is divided into three primordial races: the European Nordid White (“White Nordid” or WN), the Nordid Central Asian Redhead (“Red Nordid” or RN), and the Near Eastern Armenid. The white race is actually a mixture of two or more races. We cannot say, “This person is a pure white” but “This person has a mixture of A, B and C races in such proportions.” With terms like Aryan or White we designate a mixture between White Nordid and Red Nordid and its mild crossing with non-white “Armenids” or “Mongolids”—usually people of Germanic and Slavic origin.

Therefore, while the ideal white is a White Nordid with a Red Nordid, we cannot say that those whites who have some Armenid or Mongolid genes are non-whites. However, we could say they are non-whites if they have substantial Armenid and/or Mongolid and especially Congid genes.

In the new racial classification the phenotype is more important than genetic studies.

The rest of this long essay can be read at the end of The Fair Race’s Darkest Hour (see the featured post).

Categories
Art

The death of art

The following quotes are taken from The Death of Western Art by Kenneth Lloyd Anderson, which appeared in Instauration Vol. 24, No. 6, May 1999, p. 6-8 (viewable here).


Peter_Paul_Rubens
There is definitely a parallel between accepting virtually anything as art and the interracial, international egalitarian acceptance of all races and all people. A world without borders parallels art with no restrictions and no narrative history.

Six centuries of Western art have come to an end, apparently to be followed by the end of Western man. What Arthur Danto calls the “post-historical” period will be followed by post-white man, since the narrative history of Western Art was essentially narrated and created by white men.

The affirmation of white culture in art ended with WWII. Internationalism and interracialism conquered nationalism. The concept of “no borders” was increasingly reflected in the artistic concepts of unreality and nihilism.

The history of art shows that the affirmation of the sacred—those things which each race holds of divine provenance—has been the formula behind the greatest works of art.

The exciting thing about a racial preservationist movement in art is that it can revive sacred art, which has been buried by the profane art of the modern and postmodern world.

Ellen Dissanayake’s book on the biological origin of art (Homo Aestheticus, 1995, University of Washington Press) suggests that traditional art is concerned with “making special” those things which are considered important, such as birth, puberty, marriage and death.

Modern art does not make special the traditionally important aspects of life, perhaps because survival is far easier now and one doesn’t need to bond people through art for survival’s sake. Unimportant things are “made special” by the commonness and vulgarity of Pop Art subjects.

Reviving or saving a declining or dying race and culture is an exciting cause, perfectly designed for “making special” what is traditionally important—the affirmation of the sacred in art. This has the potential for creating great art.