“Totalitarianism is the worst when it is least perceptible, and this is the problem now with the so-called free West.”
http://youtu.be/oHBcP3GGyH4
The complete interview can be listened at YouTube.
Steyn at the center, wearing a Kippah with Jews at Toronto
This month at Toronto, the famed author Mark Steyn said that Western society is complicit in a resurgence of anti-Semitism that may lead to a second Holocaust, for which humankind will have no excuses. “There is something profoundly wicked in the contortions that Europeans are willing to make with respect to their own complicated history with the Jewish people,” said Steyn. “We are on the verge of the biggest, most disgusting and evil event of all, in part because of the complicity of the West” (see the Jewish Tribune article where these statement and many other similar statements by Steyn on “anti-Semitism” have been recorded).
Either Steyn is playing the fool by willfully setting aside from his consciousness the vast pool of information about the role of the Jews in the ongoing Western collapse, or he has not heard this sort of info during his long career as an intellectual who presumably defends our civilization. There’s no third possibility.
Considering that Steyn said every recorded word at Toronto assuming that any anti-Semitic sentiment must be pathological, it is impossible to discuss what he said this month without basic information about the Jewish Problem.
If the Jewish Problem (1) does indeed exist, Steyn is either playing the fool or simply someone who has not heard of the Jewish Problem throughout his life, as stated above. On the other hand, if (2) the Jewish Problem is sheer white nationalist paranoia, Steyn’s recent statements make sense from the historical and ethical viewpoint. Everything has to do with these two possibilities.
The long quotation that below comprises most of this post—9,000+ words—conveys the idea that #1 is the right approach to understand Steyn’s mind.
Rather than a quotation it’s a series of excerpts that I typed directly from an academic work by Albert Lindemann, a Jewish scholar who specializes in anti-Semitism and acknowledges the reasons why Jews have been so disliked.
No ellipsis added between unquoted excerpts:
___________________________________________
Note of February 23, 2013. I have moved the long book quotation elsewhere.
The Brigade excerpts, chapter II
by Harold Covington
The Trouble Trio
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unquoted paragraphs:
“Like we’re not marked already?” snorted Washburn. “I think Lear knows damned well who did Liddy King and that plug-ugly dyke Proudfoot. He gave me a funny look when he talked to me about your night of gainful employment at the store. It’s common knowledge we’re Steve’s closest friends, and Zack’s military record isn’t exactly a secret.”
“Yah, same with me. I think he knows, all right. He just can’t prove anything,” said Len Ekstrom.
“I don’t think he wants to prove anything,” said Hatfield. “What I don’t understand is why no FBI involvement? Why no mention in the media of the letters NVA I scrawled on the bedroom wall in dyke squaw blood?”
* * *
“Right on time. A good sign in a revolutionary.”
“How was the traffic on the bridge?” asked Hatfield. “We came down the scenic route, from Ilwaco,” replied the newcomer. “Homeland Security is starting to put closed-circuit TV cameras on bridges.”
“You know our names now, but all we know about you is you’re called Mr. Chips,” said Charlie. “Do we get code names too?”
“Eventually you’ll each have a whole collection of your own, yes,” said the Party’s man with a smile. “Mr. Chips isn’t so much a code name as it is a nickname. I used to be a schoolteacher up in Dundee, and I taught a kind of unofficial history course to certain selected white students after school, strictly extracurricular. The feds know who I am, and there’s no reason you shouldn’t. My name is Henry Morehouse, but back in the days when I had more hair, I ended up being called Red. You guys acted, on your own, and that impresses us. Zack has told me about the incident that took place here with the King woman and her beast of pleasure.”
“Uh, we gonna have to take some blood oath or something?” asked Ekstrom.
“No, not at this time,” said Morehouse. “Later the Army may find it expedient to formalize. For now, if you’re good men and true then an oath is unnecessary, and if you’re not, no oath will make you so. If I say you’re in, then you’re in.” Morehouse paused and took a sip of coffee. “The first question that I need to ask is the obvious one. Are all of you up for this? Do you fully understand just what the hell you’re doing? This isn’t a video game or a made-for-TV movie. This is the real thing. You see what’s going on in the Northwest, every time you turn on CNN. People are dying, and not just white people this time. The Beast is in a blind rage. It has been defied and it has been wounded, and it’s lashing out in all directions. You do understand that if you proceed, there is every chance that you men will end up either dead or living out the remainder of your lives in a federal prison, under conditions that don’t bear thinking about?”
“Mister, the way they’re hollering in the news media about racism and domestic terrorism, if we were even caught sitting here with you, we’d go to prison for the rest of our lives,” said Ekstrom. “We know this, and we’re still here.”
“Yeah, official paranoia is rampaging, all right,” replied Morehouse with a chuckle. “They’re starting to wake up to the fact that they didn’t get us all when they stormed into Coeur d’Alene last month, and some of us are still fighting. Fair enough. But before we get down to cases, I’d like each of you to tell me in your own words what has brought you here tonight.”
“I guess I’ll start,” said Hatfield. “I knew that time had to come, if any of us in this country had one spark of manhood left in us. We have tried everything else,” Hatfield went on grimly. “For generations we have dutifully trooped to the polls like sheep and voted in elections where we were given no meaningful choice, and where not one single candidate or party represented the white man’s racial interests. Nothing changed except the politicians grew more and more coarse and corrupt, more cynical and contemptible. We tried the internet and spent years tapping to one another on keyboards, because we bought into the idea that ‘education’ was the answer, and if we could just get the truth to people, then things would change. Well, education without action isn’t worth a bucket of warm spit. We got the truth to people, all right, and it turned out to be nothing but a bunch of noise that was simply ignored, because the internet was where it stayed. Nobody ever did anything except tap on keyboards. That was fine with the bosses. Tapping on keyboards was no threat to them, we just let off steam and nothing changed. It is now crystal clear to any white man with two brain cells to rub together that the only thing that will make these dogs in power hear the word no is the sound of gunfire.
“But I didn’t make up my mind finally until that night when I took care of Steve King’s problem for him,” Hatfield continued heavily. “I never realized just how damned good it would feel to strike back! It wasn’t like Iraq at all.”
“I know what you mean,” said Charlie Washburn with a smile. “For once, just once, the bad people didn’t win. I am just so damned sick and tired of bad people always winning all the time. But not this time. For once, just once, there was true justice and a good man and two good children will now have some kind of a chance together in life. A horrible deed committed by wicked perverts has been undone. The scales were balanced just a tiny bit back in the right direction. I feel it too, and it’s indescribable.
“But it’s more than that with me,” he went on carefully. “You know, Americans see a lot of movies and TV shows where some ordinary Joe like me is called upon to step up to the plate, so to speak, and be a hero in some way, usually fighting against the Arabs or Serbs or French or evil white racists or whoever the Jews’ main enemy of the moment is. Most of those flicks are just hokum, but in the past few months, ever since Coeur d’Alene, I’ve been feeling like that. Like I’ve gotten a call from destiny.”
“Things must change,” said Lennart Ekstrom slowly. “Every white man and woman in America knows it, deep down inside of themselves. This isn’t America anymore.”
“And that, Mr. Ekstrom, is what the white race has been waiting to hear from men like you for a hundred years,” said Morehouse with a nod. “You know that we were in a very similar situation, back before the Party was formed? The Old Man himself Came Home in 2002, but for years he simply sat all alone in a series of cracker box apartments or trailers or boarding houses, pounding on a computer that grew older and crankier as time passed. For years he looked for those out-of-state license plates to come over the hill, begging and pleading on his knees with his fellow white people to come to his side and help him, and for year after year, no one came. He asked only for a hundred good men, or women. One hundred people who were willing to place the future of their blood and their civilization over their own personal welfare. And for year after year, no one came.”
“And then what happened?” asked Ekstrom.
“Then they came,” replied Morehouse simply. “We refer to this among ourselves as The Awakening, and we still don’t understand it fully. Don’t get me wrong when I say this, because we’re not a religious movement, rather the reverse in fact. But the best and most comprehensible way that I can put this, is that it had to be some kind of divine intervention. God decided to give His most wonderful and yet wayward children one final break before He threw the white race onto the scrap heap of history. He reached into the hearts of one hundred people and moved them, changed them, so that they let the scales fall from their eyes and they knew they had to put something above their own well-being; that they had to live for something besides a job and a paycheck and a shopping spree at the mall. One day it just kind of began, and one hundred people stopped worrying about themselves and went out and began packing the moving van. The Old Man had his first hundred, and they became the nucleus of the Party that was formed when they came to the Homeland and were in place. Without that first hundred people, there could have been no Party, because it was they who set up the infrastructure and the safety net so the rest of the migrants would have something to Come Home to.”
“We’re going to need more than a hundred men now,” said Washburn gloomily.
“They will come,” said Morehouse with quiet confidence. “They came before. Damned late, but they came. Very well. Let’s get on with it.” He knocked back the rest of his coffee, put down the mug, and leaned forward to speak to them. “We are here to make history, gentlemen. We are here to plan and execute the first organized, armed insurrection against the United States of America since 1861.”
“I’m in,” said Hatfield.
“I’m in,” said Washburn.
“And I,” said Ekstrom.
“Gentlemen, you just swore your blood oath. Make sure you honor it all the days of your lives,” said Red softly.
“I look back at all the crap our people have put up with over the past century and I am still astonished that we never picked up a gun before,” said Washburn plaintively. “Why the hell has the white man never fought?”
“Oh, God,” said Morehouse with a sigh. “Some of us have spent our entire lifetimes studying that one simple question, Charlie, and I have to say we’re no closer to an answer than we were at the beginning. There are a few standard, canned answers, of course. Up until the past couple of decades, most white people simply had it too good. Life was just too damned sweet, and all the bullshit caused by liberal democracy and political correctness didn’t seem to be really life-threatening, just more and more annoying as time wore on. When men are merely annoyed, they write letters to the editor, or phone a radio talk show, or bitch and gripe drunkenly in bars about how the world is going to hell. They don’t pick up a rifle or start making bombs in their basement. And of course, up until about twenty years ago, if things got too bad where you were living, then you could just up stakes and move to the suburbs, or some other state that was a little whiter.
“Liberals are always the first to flee from the messes they make. Usually, they’re the only ones who can afford to do so. Anyway, liberalism and political correctness have gone beyond the merely annoying phase for a long time now. Things have been getting colder and crueler for white people. Medicare. The drawbacks of our wonderful democracy have become quite apparent to those of us who find ourselves living in the northernmost province of Mexico. They can’t sweep all the problems under the rug anymore. They’re too visible and obvious, and no one has any money left to run to the suburbs.”
“But that still hasn’t produced anything other than an army of white people hollering on talk radio and then trooping in to the polls on election day to vote Republican,” complained Ekstrom. “What the hell was wrong with us back in the 60s and 70s? Or even earlier? Why didn’t we fight?”
“Perhaps the more pertinent question, Len, would be why are we fighting now?” asked Morehouse. But it’s more complicated than that. White American males are still capable of being physically brave, sure they are. They prove it every day on the battlefield. Every week you can see some story on the tube about a white cop who faces down a pack of gang-bangers or a white fireman who pulls kids out of a burning building, and then you get these extreme sports kooks who jump out of airplanes with snowboards and try to surf down Mount Everest, or snorkel butt naked in a school of sharks, that kind of nonsense.”
“God knows I saw enough Aryan heroism every day in Iraq,” said Hatfield. “White men will still be as brave as lions, granted, but only for the Jews or for their money, Red. When it comes to standing up and fighting for ourselves, against the Jews and the government that’s tyrannizing us, all of a sudden we wuss out.”
“Mmmmm, here’s where it gets complex, Zack,” said Red contemplatively. What we can’t seem to do is to be brave on our own, for our own interests, without the Jewish seal of approval. We have developed a poisonous symbiosis with the system. We can be brave in a structured environment, so long as it is an officially approved form of courage.
You might say the Jew has succeeded in domesticating the Aryan. We can be brave and good dogs so long as we hear the reassuring sound of our master’s voice and get the occasional doggie treat from his hands, but we can’t be lone wolves anymore. We didn’t fight, Charlie, up until now, because for a century or so we have no longer been wolves, but dogs. The Jew domesticated us. But now we must hear the call of the wild again. We have to find that spirit of the wolf once more within us, and bite the hand that feeds us. And I suppose I’d better abandon that simile before I stretch it into a pretzel. But you get what I’m saying?”
“Yeah, I do,” said Zack with a sigh. “And that poisonous symbiosis between the American white male and the system is still very much with us, an ingrained part of us. How many guys are going to be able to break out of it? Those are going to be pretty rare birds.”
“Well, maybe not so rare,” said Red with a smile and a swirl of smoke. “Once that first hundred stepped forward, it wasn’t so hard for others to do so, because more and more, when they came here they found a crowd to hide in. It was getting that first hundred to go first that was the real bitch. We will be the tiny lion against the enormous snake, but the serpent is old and sick and dying, poisoned with its own crapulence.”
“The movement has always had to deal with this defeatist and paranoid belief that if we ever really tried anything, the might of the Army and the Marines would simply crush us,” said Hatfield.
“You would think that maintaining the territorial integrity of the United States would be the régime’s first priority, but it won’t be,” agreed Morehouse. “With the growing world fuel shortage, oil is frankly more important than land, and will become more so. After all, the Northwest has no oil, other than Alaska, which is a separate problem. The Army Council’s strategic assessment is that initially, at least, there will be only a small actual military commitment against us, if any. They won’t take us seriously. Wishful thinking on their part: they desperately won’t want to take us seriously. The idea that white boys would actually revolt against them boggles their minds too much. They’re not going to be sending B-52s to bomb Seattle or landing the Third Marine Division in Astoria. What would that accomplish against small bands of guerrillas who will simply melt away in the face of overwhelming force, and then strike where the underbelly is soft? I think they’ve learned at least that much in Iraq and Iran. It won’t be that type of war.
“No, they’ll try to treat us as a crime problem at first,” Morehouse went on, the three of them leaning forward intently to listen. “Our enemies on the ground will consist of a hodge-podge of local police, National Guard reservists, FBI and BATFE, Homeland Security and other enemy paramilitaries, and eventually probably some SWAT-type special units. Of course, ideally speaking, it should never come to a full-blown shootout. We live light, we move light, we hit hard, and then we vanish before they can bring their superior force to bear. Classic guerrilla tactics.”
“So how many men do you think we will need in the NVA to get the job done?” asked Ekstrom again.
Morehouse puffed his pipe meditatively. “We should be able effectively to terminate federal control over three Northwestern states and maybe more territory as well, if we can maintain a force in the field of approximately one thousand men.”
“Overthrow the United States government with a thousand men?” demanded Washburn in skeptical amazement. “Bullshit!”
“I didn’t say overthrow the United States government,” Morehouse corrected him. “I said effectively terminate federal control and authority in three large Northwestern states, which is not the same thing.”
“How?” asked Ekstrom.
“By hitting the enemy hard and often, in teams or crews of two to five or six people max. Let’s assume an average of five Volunteers per squad or crew. Our thousand effectives will make up two hundred such crews. Assume half of them are involved in support duties, supply, intelligence, medical services, propaganda, whatnot. That’s one hundred combat teams of five guys each remaining, who are actually pulling triggers and making things go boom. Imagine each of those crews striking the enemy on an average of once per day, all across the Northwest. Remember, one of the main reasons we migrated and we’re restricting our campaign to this corner of the country is to reduce the problem to manageable proportions. Let’s assume an average of a single dead enemy of one kind or another per attack. That’s 100 people per day being killed in one three-state area, with concomitant damage to enemy property, infrastructure, and damage to his morale, his public image, and thereby his capacity to govern. Their armies are designed to fight Star Wars, but we won’t be fighting Star Wars. We’ll be fighting Godfather style.” Morehouse knocked out his pipe onto the concrete floor, and then went on.
“In Vietnam, in Iraq, in Iran and Afghanistan, ZOG had every gadget and deadly toy human ingenuity could devise, computerized and covered with bright shiny lights. But they never found a way to beat the little barefoot brown man, dressed in rags and armed with an AK- 47 and a couple of magazines of ammo, and a heart that would never surrender. The human heart and the human spirit can beat their machines, gentlemen. The human heart and the human spirit can beat their money. The human heart can beat their lying media.”
“That’s if we can find the kind of political soldiers necessary for that kind of warfare,” Hatfield reminded them. “The guys with the cool head and the iron nerve and the ice water in their veins.”
“You got it,” agreed Morehouse with a nod. “I can outline for you a structure for a revolutionary armed force. I cannot turn mere white males into white men once again, men that our ancestors would have recognized. That we must somehow do for ourselves, by finding within ourselves that last dying spark of pride and honor and courage that has always distinguished us for thousands of years.”
“You think these bastards will give in no matter how many people we kill?” asked Washburn. “Iraq and Afghanistan are very far away, something people read about over their morning coffee or watch on CNN. We will be striking at the very core of their power, right here on what they consider their home turf. Can they psychologically bring themselves to admit defeat even if we beat them?”
“This is another reason why we are not being so foolish as to try this in all 50 states. What we’re going to be doing, Charlie, is we’re going to be fighting a classical colonial war,” Morehouse told him. “There are rules for fighting a successful colonial war, and they have come into play dozens of times over the last century, from Ireland to Africa. We’re not trying to take their whole loaf from ZOG. Of course, they’d resist that to the death. Such a guerrilla war across all of America would last for generations, and anything we could salvage after such a conflict probably wouldn’t be worth living in anyway. Nor could we win it. For one thing, we’d have to slaughter over one hundred million non-whites, or drive them back south of the Rio Grande in the most massive refugee wave ever seen, and that simply isn’t feasible with what we have or what we are likely to get.
“With our thousand or so people—and by the way, there will almost certainly be more than that as our insurgency grows—anyway, what we can do is to make these three states of Washington, Oregon, and Idaho and maybe parts of Montana and northern California completely ungovernable. We can stop the United States from reaping any profit or income from this territory, and we can turn it into one gigantic black hole sucking in men, resources, time, effort, and above all money. Gentlemen, there is a truth to fighting and winning a colonial war that I want all of you to burn into your brains, because it is the key to our victory. In a colonial war, the generals never surrender! The accountants surrender! What we have to do is to confront the United States with a situation where as bad and as humiliating as it will be to let the Northwest go and let white people have their own country, the continuation of the guerrilla war is no longer an option for them. We can win this, comrades,” concluded Morehouse decisively. “We can beat the God Almighty United States of America, kick their stinking rotten asses right out of here, and take this land for ourselves and our children. But only if we have the stomach for it.”
There was a long moment of silence. “Let’s get started, then,” said Hatfield.
“Right,” said Morehouse, filling his pipe again. “Okay, you’ve already got the basics here. You’ve got three men. In this room you’ve already got your first Trouble Trio.”
“Say what?” asked Charlie.
“The basic building block of the NVA company,” said Morehouse. “A three-man team. When we were planning all this out, studying and analyzing how previous successful revolutionary movements worked in Western political and social environments similar to ours, we came up with a kind of hybrid anatomy combining the IRA and the Cosa Nostra, two highly successful subversive outfits who to this day have never been completely repressed by their governments. You’d be amazed how much hell three men can raise in a society this complex, this racially volatile and unstable.
“Go ahead,” Hatfield urged him.
Morehouse lit his pipe again. “You start with three people as I said, all of whom must have the requisite qualities of courage, resourcefulness, loyalty, and fanatic dedication. That’s the hard part, finding the right men and women for this. Each of these threes will be the nucleus of a company. I know it sounds ridiculous to call three people a company, but there will be more of you, and what we want is a structure that we can maintain right up until the end, when we will make the transformation from a guerrilla insurgency to become a proper national army. During our initial underground phase, the NVA is not an ordinary army where units are supposed to have some kind of set strength or function. We are as fluid as a lava lamp, always changing shape and bobbing around. Each company needs to be free floating, capable of conducting operations indefinitely on its own, even if it is totally cut off from the rest of the movement, and eventually regenerating itself and growing, adding more cells, like an amoeba.
“Each company will be part of a larger unit called a brigade,” Mr. Chips continued. “The next unit up from a company in most armies is actually the battalion, but we’re not going to create any of those until necessary and until we’ve got the bodies. The brigade will be the main operational combat unit of the Northwest Volunteer Army, responsible for taking on ZOG within a roughly defined operational area. Each brigade will report to and be directed by the Army Council in the person of one or more political officers.”
“So the political officer actually commands the brigade?” asked Charlie.
“No. He’s strictly a liaison who acts as a communications conduit between the brigade commander and the central organization.”
“Got it,” said Charlie. “I’m a state forestry employee and I have an official truck and uniform and ID, so I can be seen pretty much anywhere and have a good reason for being there that won’t cause comment.”
“That’s ideal,” said Morehouse with a nod. “Now, one of the first things you will need to do is recruit more Volunteers. This will be the most potentially dangerous of all the things you do. Make a mistake and try to bring in the wrong man, and you’ve compromised the whole company. Make a bigger mistake and actually bring the wrong man in, and you will either die or spend the rest of your lives being sodomized by niggers in the prison shower. Your first duty will of course be to clear this North Shore area of all enemy forces and non-whites.”
“Define enemy forces,” requested Hatfield.
“Anyone who is part of the federal apparatus of control and enforcement, or who assists in maintaining the Zionist occupation, or who gives aid and comfort to the régime,” Morehouse explained. “Military personnel, of course. FBI and Homeland Security agents, obviously. Certain local police but not all; that’s a special problem I’ll go over with you later. Some of the cops will be on our side, or at least willing to stand aside and let us get on with it. State and federal judges and anyone to do with the court system, and all lawyers. Federal bureaucrats of any kind, but especially anyone to do with the IRS or revenue collection. One of the keystones of our strategy is that from now on, not one more dime we can prevent goes to Washington, D.C. from the Pacific Northwest. Elements in the media and the civilian population who actively support the régime or propagandize for it. And of course, anyone with skin the color of shit is henceforth persona non grata in the Northwest. Believe me, Zack, you won’t lack for targets. Basically, your job is to make sure that from Beaverton on down the river to the sea, ZOG’s writ doesn’t run anymore.”
“That’s a mighty big stretch of territory,” commented Ekstrom with a frown.
“Yes, but the potential is immense,” replied Morehouse with a smile. “I don’t know if it’s hit you guys yet, but you’re sitting right in the middle of perfect guerrilla country here. Huge expanses of heavy forest, mountains and ravines where you could hide an army. The whole area a backwater that the feds won’t want to expend much on in the way of effort or manpower, because their main fight will be in the cities.”
A book dedicated “To the hero of the Second World War”
The 20th Century Historical Outlook
The Two Aspects of History
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Men are thus differentiated also with regard to their capacity for understanding History. There is an historical sense, which can see behind the surface of history to the soul that is the determinant of this history. History, seen through the historical sense of a human being, has thus a subjective aspect. This is the first aspect of History.
The other, the objective, aspect of History, is equally incapable of rigid establishment, even though at first glance it might seem to be. The writing of purely objective history is the aim of the so-called reference, or narrative, method of presenting history. Nevertheless, it inevitably selects and orders the facts, and in this process the poetic intuition, historical sense, and flair of the author come into play. If these are totally excluded, the product is not history-writing, but a book of dates, and this, again, cannot be free from selection.
Nor is it history. Nor is impartiality possible. It is the historical sense which decides importance of past developments, past ideas, past great men. For centuries, Brutus and Pompey were held to be greater than Caesar. Around 1800, Vulpius was considered a greater poet than Goethe. Mengs, whom we have forgotten, was ranked in his day as one of the great painters of the world. Shakespeare, until more than a century after his death, was considered inferior as a playwright to more than one of his contemporaries. El Greco was unnoticed 75 years ago. Cicero and Cato were both held, until after the First World War, to be great men, rather than Culture-retarding weaklings. Joan of Arc was not included in Chastellain’s list, drawn up on the death of Charles VII, of all the army commanders who fought against England. Lastly, for the benefit of readers of 2050, I may say that the Hero and the Philosopher of the period 1900-1950 were both invisible to their contemporaries in the historical dimensions in which you see them.
What then, is History? History is the relationship between the Past and the Present. Because the Present is constantly changing, so is History. Each Age has its own History, which the Spirit of the Age creates to fit its own soul. With the passing of that Age, never to return, that particular History picture has passed. Seen from this standpoint, any attempt to write History “as it really happened” is historical immaturity, and the belief in objective standards of history-presentation is self-deception, for what will come forth will be the Spirit of the Age.
Along with the justice brought to the white women who had sex with blacks in the “Day of the Rope” in the last pages of William Pierce’s The Turner Diaries, originally published more than three decades ago, I enjoyed the fate of the feminized western males in the final, apocalyptic stages of the coming racial wars in North America and Europe. Pierce wrote:
“For the first time I understand the deepest meaning of what we are doing. I understand now why we cannot fail, no matter what we must do to win and no matter how many of us must perish in doing it. Everything that has been and everything that is yet to be depend on us. We are truly the instruments of God in the fulfillment of his grand design. These may seem like strange words to be coming from me, who has never been religious.”
Although I am not a religious person either, my chosen images at the right side of this blog, the Florentine Fete murals exhibited at the National Museum of American Illustration, reflect better than a thousand words what we have in mind: the potential divinity of the white race.
To avoid anachronisms, below I slightly edited the final pages of Pierce’s 1978 masterpiece, the toughest book in the white nationalist movement. Take note that in real life there were speculations of blacks lapsing into cannibalism after Katrina hit New Orleans. No ellipsis added between unquoted paragraphs:
Food became critically scarce everywhere during the winter. The Blacks lapsed into cannibalism, just as they had in California, while hundreds of thousands of starving Whites, who earlier had ignored the Organization’s call for a rising against the System, began appearing at the borders of the various liberated zones begging for food. The Organization was only able to feed the White populations already under its control by imposing the severest rationing, and it was necessary to turn many of the latecomers away.
Those who were admitted—and that meant only children, women of childbearing age, and able-bodied men willing to fight in the Organization’s ranks—were subjected to much more severe racial screening than had been used to separate Whites from non-Whites in California. It was no longer sufficient to be merely White; in order to eat one had to be judged the bearer of especially valuable genes. In Detroit the practice was first established (and it was later adopted elsewhere) of providing any able-bodied White male who sought admittance to the Organization’s enclave with a hot meal and a bayonet or other edged weapon. His forehead was then marked with an indelible dye, and he was turned out and could be readmitted permanently only by bringing back the head of a freshly killed Black or other non-White. This practice assured that precious food would not be wasted on those who would not or could not add to the Organization’s fighting strength, but it took a terrible toll of the weaker and more decadent White elements. Tens of millions perished during the first half of that year, and the total White population of the country reached a low point of approximately 50 million.
Outside these zones of order and security, the anarchy and savagery grew steadily worse, with the only real authority wielded by marauding bands which preyed on each other and on the unorganized and defenseless masses. Many of these bands were composed of Blacks, Puerto Ricans, Chicanos, and half-White mongrels. In growing numbers, however, Whites also formed bands along racial lines, even without Organization guidance.
As the war of extermination wore on, millions of soft, city-bred, brainwashed Whites gradually began regaining their manhood. The rest died.
The Organization’s growing success was not without its setbacks, of course. One of the most notable of these was the terrible Pittsburgh Massacre. The Organization had established an enclave there in May of that year, forcing the retreat of local System forces, but it did not act swiftly enough in identifying and liquidating the local Jewish element. A number of Jews, in collaboration with White conservatives and liberals, had time to work out a plan of subversion. The consequence was that System troops, aided by their fifth column inside the enclave, recaptured Pittsburgh. The Jews and Blacks then went on a wild rampage of mass murder, reminiscent of the worst excesses of the Jew-instigated Bolshevik Revolution in Russia. By the time the blood-orgy ended, virtually every White in the area had either been butchered or forced to flee. The surviving staff members of the Organization’s Pittsburgh Field Command, whose hesitation in dealing with the Jews had brought on the catastrophe, were rounded up and shot by a special disciplinary squad acting on orders from Revolutionary Command.
The only time, after that November, that the Organization was forced to detonate a nuclear weapon on the North American continent was a year later, in Toronto.
Hundreds of thousands of Jews had fled the United States to that Canadian city, making almost a second New York of it and using it as their command center for the war raging to the south. So far as both the Jews and the Organization were concerned, the US-Canadian border had no real significance during the later stages of the Great Revolution, and conditions were only slightly less chaotic north of the border than south of it. Throughout the Dark Years neither the Organization nor the System could hope for a completely decisive advantage over the other, so long as they both retained the capability for nuclear warfare. Then, of course, came the mopping-up period, when the last of the non-White bands were hunted down and exterminated.
With the principal centers of world Jewish power annihilated, and the nuclear threat neutralized, the most important obstacles to the Organization’s worldwide victory were out of the way. From as early as that year the Organization had had active cells in Western Europe.
The disastrous economic collapse in Europe in the spring, following the demise of the System in North America, greatly helped in preparing the European masses morally for the Organization’s final takeover. That takeover came in a great, Europe-wide rush in the summer and fall, as a cleansing hurricane of change swept over the continent, clearing away in a few months the refuse of a millennium or more of alien ideology and a century or more of profound moral and material decadence. The blood flowed ankle-deep in the streets of many of Europe’s great cities momentarily, as the race traitors, the offspring of generations of dysgenic breeding, and hordes of Gastarbeiter met a common fate. Then the great dawn of the New Era broke over the Western world.
As everyone is aware, the bands of mutants which roam the Waste remain a real threat, and it may be another century before the last of them has been eliminated and White colonization has once again established a human presence throughout this vast area.
But it was in that year, according to the chronology of the Old Era—just 110 years after the birth of the Great One—that the dream of a White world finally became a certainty.
Categories
Hellstorm (book review)
It is disturbing to learn that, even after almost 70 years of the crimes committed by the Allies against the German people, many white nationalists are still clueless about what really happened right after the Second World War.
Thomas Goodrich’s Hellstorm:
The Death of Nazi Germany,
1944–1947
Book-review
by J. A. Sexton
What is hell?
I’ve often pondered what the concept “hell” entailed; what it means to be living in the absence of “God,” the supreme creative force behind all life. After reading Thomas Goodrich’s breathtaking and physically nauseating analytical narrative of the burnt offering—Holocaust—of Germany I now know what hell looks like and how its inhabitants live and behave.
Relentless, reckless, and senseless hate of a magnitude so profound, so immense, that I am still unable to understand it. And then the irony of it all: that former inhabitants of Europe—Europeans—were responsible for inculcating hell in their own Heimat (homeland).
Who but the Devil itself could make a family turn on itself, causing it to tear itself apart in such a murderous, inhuman fashion that the victims are left unrecognizable after all the torture, abuse, burning, systematic rape, and beatings subsides?
Who or what could inspire such madness? Thomas Goodrich answers this question silently, subtly, but matter-of-factly—the Jews in Communist Russia (the former USSR) and Capitalist America and Britain.
Hellstorm is the type of book that changes lives. Goodrich is the type of author who literally puts you, the reader, there in the midst of hell. And what is this hell that he forces you to experience page after page, torture after torture, and rape after rape? One that has been all but forgotten; the only hell the modern age really knows:
The Allied Holocaust of National Socialist Germany
Goodrich describes the Allied-induced inferno in more detail than most need to know to gain an understanding of the depths of Allied criminality and hatred, but the detail is necessary. Without the detail no one will really know what hell is. Here’s a taste of it.
A German woman has her jaws forced open by the filthy brutish hands of a Soviet serial rapist. He literally spits into her mouth and forces her to swallow his salivary filth as he rams her body again… and again… and again—until he’s satisfied fulfilling his oath to Stalin and his chief Holocaust propagandist, Ilya Ehrenburg. Stalin officially sanctioned the systematic rape of German women. Ilya Ehrenburg, for his part as the lascivious advocator of rape of German women, helped the Red Army perpetrate the largest gynocide and mass rape in recorded history.
Commissar Ehrenburg’s pamphlet—distributed in the millions among Red Army troops on the front lines of battle who were already intoxicated with hate and vengefulness as a result of over two decades of Bolshevik oppression, mass murder of their families and mass collectivization—urged Soviet troops to plunder, rape and kill. The final paragraph of his pamphlet entitled “Kill” reads:
The Germans are not human beings. From now on, the word “German” is the most horrible curse. From now on, the word “German” strikes us to the quick. We have nothing to discuss. We will not get excited. We will kill. If you have not killed at least one German a day, you have wasted that day… If you cannot kill a German with a bullet, then kill him with your bayonet. If your part of the front is quiet and there is no fighting, then kill a German in the meantime… If you have already killed a German, then kill another one—there is nothing more amusing to us than a heap of German corpses. Don’t count the days, don’t count the kilometers. Count only one thing: the number of Germans you have killed. Kill the Germans! Kill the Germans! Kill!
And in another leaflet:
The Germans must be killed. One must kill them… Do you feel sick? Do you feel a nightmare in your breast?… Kill a German! If you are a righteous and conscientious man—kill a German! Kill!
Ehrenburg, like any skilled propagandist with a penchant for revenge and training in human psychology, appealed to the basest instincts of his men, urging them to rape and wantonly slaughter other human beings at will. There would be no penalties for this injustice as it was all officially sanctioned. Ehrenburg:
Kill! Kill! In the German race there is nothing but evil; not one among the living, not one among the yet unborn but is evil! Follow the precepts of Comrade Stalin. Stamp out the fascist beast once and for all in its lair! Use force and break the racial pride of these German women. Take them as your lawful booty. Kill! As you storm onward, kill, you gallant soldiers of the Red Army.
The Gynocide
I went into Goodrich’s book expecting to read little more than I already knew about the worst gynocide and mass rape of womankind in recorded history, but I was in for a shock. As an individual who looks out for women’s interests, I was repeatedly overcome with emotion while reading of the indescribable genital mutilations, deliberate and systematic terrorism, gang-rape and wanton mass murder of women. Goodrich:
From eight to eighty, healthy or ill, indoors or out, in fields, on sidewalks, against walls, the spiritual massacre of German women continued unabated. When even violated corpses could no longer be of use, sticks, iron bars, and telephone receivers were commonly rammed up their vaginas. (p. 155)
Brazilian German Leonora Cavoa:
“Suddenly I heard loud screams, and immediately two Red Army soldiers brought in five girls. The Commissar ordered them to undress. When they refused out of modesty, he ordered me to do it to them, and for all of us to follow him. We crossed the yard to the former works kitchen, which had been completely cleared out except for a few tables on the window side. It was terribly cold, and the poor girls shivered. In the large, tiled room some Russians were waiting for us, making remarks that must have been very obscene, judging from how everything they said drew gales of laughter. The Commissar told me to watch and learn how to turn the Master Race into whimpering bits of misery.”
The horror that ensued nearly defies written description, as no written description can actually make a reader of either sex feel and genuinely know the pain and suffering inflicted in this neverending horror show. The victims’ pain and suffering must have seemed like hours and hours… an entire lifetime… I can’t imagine. I try not to imagine it because about 2,000 women in the Nemmersdorf area alone suffered a similar fate.
“Now two Poles came in, dressed only in their trousers, and the girls cried out at their sight. They quickly grabbed the first of the girls, and bent her backwards over the edge of the table until her joints cracked. I was close to passing out as one of them took his knife and, before the very eyes of the other girls, cut off her right breast. He paused for a moment, then cut off the other side. I have never heard anyone scream as desperately as that girl. After this operation he drove his knife into her abdomen several times, which again was accompanied by the cheers of the Russians.”
Stop. Picture it. Imagine it. Live it.
Force yourself to see your own body mutilated in similar fashion; force yourself to picture a knife plunging into your abdomen again… and again… your short lifetime come to this end: you know you are about to die. You are being murdered; your body brutally tortured by a mob of brutal sadists. Try to imagine the horror and the helplessness you would feel as your person was mutilated and your very life bleeding away on a table.
Can a human being really suffer a worse injustice than this?
Now… step back out of the scene and analyze this needless, inhuman horror with the gift of hindsight. This victim was not just the victim of these Red Army men, reduced to base animal instinct and mentality, but she was also the victim of an ideology inspired by Judaism and a Jewish propagandist named Ilya Ehrenburg. Leonora:
The next girl cried for mercy, but in vain—it even seemed that the gruesome deed was done particularly slowly because she was especially pretty. The other three had collapsed, they cried for their mothers and begged for a quick death, but the same fate awaited them as well. The last of them was still almost a child, with barely developed breasts. They literally tore the flesh off her ribs until the white bones showed.
Loud howls of approval began when someone brought a saw from a tool chest. This was used to tear up the breasts of the other girls, which soon caused the floor to be awash in blood. The Russians were in a blood frenzy. More girls were being brought in continually.
I saw these grisly proceedings as through a red haze.
Leonora tried to dissociate from the situation, which is one of the brain’s foremost methods for dealing with psychological and physical trauma. But to no avail, the Russian and Polish “soldiers” disallowed it.
Over and over again I heard the terrible screams when the breasts were tortured, and the loud groans at the mutilation of the genitals… It was always the same, the begging for mercy, the high-pitched scream when the breasts were cut and the groans when the genitals were mutilated. The slaughter was interrupted several times to sweep the blood out of the room and clear away the bodies… When my knees buckled I was forced onto a chair. The Commissar always made sure that I was watching, and when I had to throw up they even paused in their tortures. One girl had not undressed completely, she may also have been a little older than the others, who were around seventeen years of age. They soaked her bra with oil and set it on fire, and while she screamed, a thin iron rod was shoved into her vagina… until it came out her navel.
In the yard entire groups of girls were clubbed to death after the prettiest of them had been selected for this torture. The air was filled with the death cries of many hundred girls (pp. 156–57). And this is where I have to stop transcribing.
Massacred bodies of German children
The Holocaust
The thought of being burned alive is horrific, but the thought of being burned alive because you are trapped in melted asphalt and literally stuck by your own disfigured hands and knees and screaming—in either agony or for salvation from passers-by, or perhaps both—is worse; perhaps even worse than that is being boiled alive in the air raid shelters designed to keep you safe because steam pipes have burst open, unleashing their scorching wrath upon you—just one of millions of victims of Allied “morale bombing”: Victims of your own White racial brethren driven to absolute base madness and inhumanity by Jewish propagandists in the “liberal democracies”.
What did you do to be burned or boiled alive? What was your crime?
You supported Adolf Hitler, the man who dared to stand up to international finance and the Jewish system of systematic international monetary and spiritual enslavement.
That was your “crime” and the “crime” of millions of other “statistics” in Germany and Europe who were incinerated, melted, tortured, strafed, raped or blown into body parts by their own racial and cultural kindred in the USSR, Britain and America.
The core of the firestorms often reached 3,000 degrees Fahrenheit; the flames 1,300 to 1,800 degrees Fahrenheit. A Holocaust in the truest sense of the word: a burnt offering of the Germanic race—women, children, refugees, POWs, the elderly, and even animals at the Berlin Zoo—to the Christian-Jewish “god” Jahve. The truth is that this was the single largest burnt offering of human flesh to the Devil in recorded history. And for what? For what did hundreds of thousands of German victims suffer: international finance Capitalism.
So that a few people, mostly ethnic Jews, could continue to make money from money; so that a handful of international “bankers” could continue to enslave and exploit hundreds of millions of human beings.
Western man literally burnt and buried his collective spirit, soul and value system in Germany. Germany became the tomb of the West.
The Viricide
Systematic murder of German women and female Axis collaborators was not the only European gendercide from 1944 to 1950. German men and their Cossack and Slavic collaborators became deliberate targets of Anglo-Soviet viricide in the postwar years. German men and boys were reduced to corpses or skeletons by the millions in Eisenhower’s Holodomor (death by famine). Eisenhower’s camps were designed with one purpose in mind: mass death. Millions of German men and boys died from starvation, disease, exposure, heat exhaustion, thirst, and of course torture, slave labor, random massacre, and systematic execution. After having served in the worst war in Western history, and one of the worst in world history, German men came “home” to nothing more than rubble. Their wives, girlfriends, and children were dead, enslaved, mutilated, driven to madness, missing, lost, or had gone with the enemy to survive and prevent further systematic rape by Polish, Russian, and Mongolian “men.” There were very few “homes” to return to, so thousands of men ended their lives in despair. They had survived six years of horror and warfare only to end it all in the street rubble once called “Germany.”
Why?
Because their own blood kindred in America, Britain, the British Commonwealth, and even much of Europe had betrayed them: had turned on them to please their Jewish overlords.
The Spiritual Slaughter
Soviet tanks drive right over German refugees who have survived hell and come so close to salvation, or so they think, in the Allied occupation zone—more aptly described as the Allied destruction zone. The refugees are now just bloodied pulps in the snow, flattened like dough by the tank treks. The Soviet tanks trudge on without even so much as a pause. A German refugee ship capsizes after it is hit by a Soviet torpedo or bombed in an American air strike. All aboard scream and struggle to stay alive; they’ve made it so far, but the vast majority are forced to call the sea their final resting place. Bodies are everywhere in the water. There are literally thousands. Mothers, brothers, sisters, cousins, POWs, and even tiny infants who have just transitioned to life outside the womb and have breathed air for the first time—all dead in a matter of minutes. Some drowned. Many were crushed or torn apart by the rudders. Others froze to death. The sea was awash in human blood and body parts after each and every one of these attacks on refugee ships. No German was innocent. Not one.
This happened to numerous refugee ships. Many aboard were Allied POWs and Jewish camp refugees who had been protected by the fleeing German SS and Wehrmacht men—murdered by their own nation; murdered by their own race.
American pilots swoop down on exposed civilians and refugees in the vast clearing below. They open fire. They actually shoot individual human beings as though they are hunting wild horses or wolves in order to cull them. Machine gun bullets rip into the backs of civilians who had just barely escaped with their lives from the fiery Holocaust that was the city. The holes are the size of baseballs. Hundreds are mowed down instantly or are injured by the fire and debris—nearly all are left to die slow, agonizing deaths in that clearing. All the while Churchill and Roosevelt assure their self-absorbed, apathetic, hedonistic publics, We do not shoot civilians. We do not target civilians.
An older German woman is approached by filthy Soviet soldiers. She knows what awaits her because Goebbels did not lie. She tries to talk them out it. She has children with her. They dispose of the children rapidly, viciously: their heads are rammed into the side of the building. The woman is gang-raped. What does she recall… the rape? No. The sound of a child’s skull when it is crushed against a wall. She’ll never forget that sound. Nor will I because I too can hear it. I too witnessed it. I witnessed it through Goodrich.
And then there were the death camps where over a million German men perished because Eisenhower hated Germans: “God I hate the Germans,” he said. His racism and hate became official policy, a policy of genocide—an American orchestrated Holodomor. Countless thousands of German men were shipped off to Britain and Siberia to serve as slave laborers for the “victors”. Victors of what? Total destruction.
They aren’t paid and most die.
Most white American GIs rob the Germans, starve the Germans, plunder and destroy what remains of the German people’s homes, gang-rape German women, and beat and kill German children and honorable SS men. In the meantime most African GIs act kindly and distribute candy and food to German women and children. It is a bitterly confusing and deplorable world when the alleged “monsters” are the kind ones, and the members of your own race—your own blood brethren—act like deplorable beasts with no conscience. And yet this was the reality of Germany after 1945: an unpredictable dichotomy; an alien world.
While this horror is unfolding, Roosevelt (and later Truman) and Churchill cheerily offer Stalin half of Europe. They are more than happy to accommodate nearly every demand drafted up by this “Man of Steel.” The result of these Anglo accommodations nearly defies description: the greatest mass expulsion and deportation in history (upwards of 13 million); the mass murder of millions of Germans and their allies in Russian, French, Jewish, and Polish retribution camps and prisons dotted all throughout Europe and the USSR; the systematic mass rape and murder of German and collaborator women (an estimated two million); and the deliberate secret starvation of the Germanic race as spelled out by the Jewish advisor to Roosevelt and Truman, Henry Morgenthau.
The Toll
Between 20 and 25 million Germans and collaborators perished in the years after the war had officially ended. It is a crime that will never be forgotten, and it is a crime that will forever stain the hands and national consciences of the former USSR, the United States of America, Great Britain and her Commonwealth nations, and perhaps more pointedly the Anglo and Slavic races of the White supra-race.
A little German boy holds a lantern as he sits in a wagon en route to the Allied lines in the bitter winter snow. He’s with his mother. She’s bleeding profusely; she’s dying. The German doctor who the little boy was lucky enough to hunt down is doing his best to perform a tamponade (a blockage) of her uterus. She was brutally, viciously raped. Did she survive? Goodrich doesn’t say, but the prognosis and tone suggests she didn’t make it. She was a German. She supported Hitler. She was a Nazi. She deserved it.
She deserved it.
So said the Allies in the years following the war: Germany merely got what she deserved. The “morally superior” White nations of the globe had smashed ultimate evil: the Nazis; the German race.
Never has a greater lie been told. Never has so much hatred and vengeance been poured forth onto one people and one nation that had chosen not to abide by the laws of international bankers and financiers who wish only to enslave, plunder, steal and when necessary, kill. And most of the White races of the world were more than willing and eager to take up the flag of international Jewish money power and to smash the one White race that opposed it with such honor, valor and sheer might—so much so that it took all the best brain- and material-power of the entire White supra-race and all the monetary power of its Jewish financiers and overlords to break its back. And yet… and yet… it still was not broken. Goodrich ends the book with a tone of hope.
Beyond Hell
When all had been destroyed, when all seemed to have been lost forever in Year Zero, the Germans proved once again that such was just not the case. Brick by brick and hour by hour they rebuilt upon the ruins of God’s Empire a new Germany. No Holocaust by fire, no gynocide, no viricide, no famine, and no other inhuman atrocities could obliterate or subdue the Germanic element of the White race of humankind.
Even though Germany today is still an occupied nation with a hurting people, she still possesses that flicker of life and spirituality that the other White races and nations lost long ago when they sold their souls to Judaism and the Jewish “god” of hatred and revenge, Jahve. “Unbowed, unbent, unbroken.” Such are the words of an album released by a European band named Hammerfall. And such are the words that describe the German people, the German folk, and the German race. The only ones who bear the burden of bloodstain and guilt are the Allies. No crimes in recorded human history surpass those inflicted against Germany and Europe by the United States, Great Britain and the former United Soviet Socialist Republics—all with Jewish spiritual, media and financial backing and support.
The death of National Socialist Germany was the death of Western man and everything he once stood for.
I must thank Thomas Goodrich. Hellstorm has changed my life.
The recent discussion in this blog about degenerate forms of music moved me today to add a post about Jung’s concept of the “Self.”
It’s all too obvious that, like the rest of mankind, white nationalists are totally ignorant of depth psychology, which must not be confused with the epidermal psychology that is taught at our universities.
A few days ago I reviewed my copy of Stefan Zweig’s Confusion: The Private Papers of Privy Councillor R von D as a starting point to introduce nationalists to deep psychology. Unfortunately, I cannot quote it here since my copy is in Spanish.
Originally the idea occurred to me to write every Friday or Saturday about how modern pleb music—rock and its heaviest derivatives—is “bad for you,” as CorkyAgain said in a recent thread. Unfortunately, besides some snippets from George Lincoln Rockwell and Ford’s The International Jew about music promoted by the Jews I don’t know if there exists more substantial literature that demonstrate this premise, that is, scholarly literature from professional musicians.
Whereas the members of my family are classical musicians, my field of interest had nothing to do with music. Music is not my forte, at least not as a profession. Before I became racially aware I used to be a fan of what may be called intuitive psychology, to differentiate it from academic psychology: the latter, the impossible attempt to understand the human psyche without delving deeply into the dark chambers of one’s soul. Genuine delving into one’s own Self is so didactic that I believe that Zweig could be a good starting point to invite nationalists to set foot on an unheard of continent. That they know nothing of it reminds me that most people who live in New York have never set foot in the Statue of Liberty.
Incidentally, those who complain that Zweig was Jewish should remember that he passed the “Hitler test”. Zweig wrote the script for a Richard Strauss comic opera, and Strauss insisted that Zweig’s name appeared on the theatrical billing, much to the ire of the Nazi regime. But it seems that the script of Strauss’ chosen librettist was read by none other than the Führer himself before the opera was premiered.
I am tempted to purchase a copy of a German-English translation of Zweig’s Confusion with the sole purpose of quoting it here. But is it worth it? I very much doubt that nationalists are interested in intuitive psychology, in spite of the fact that much of the movement’s failure has been the result of the emotional imbalance of some of its members during the previous decades.
Criticizing poser metal bands, William Pierce committed the terrible mistake of proposing to use that sort of extremely degenerate music to counterbalance the message of it—through the same musical genre! While Pierce liked classical music and loathed death metal (cf. this video), his situation was so desperate that, like today’s nationalist pundits, he believed that if only the lyrics would be changed, like some rockers who introduce pro-fascist letters in their melodies, that would be a great asset for white nationalism!
Poor Pierce. No wonder why he failed so miserably. As I have implied elsewhere, you are fooling yourself if you believe you can atone for Sodom’s sins through Sodomite art. (The only righteous way is to leave the damned cities and pray for divine, fiery justice.)
by Harold Covington
“I’ve Had Enough of What Ain’t Right!”
No ellipsis
added between
unquoted paragraphs:
“I’ll do it,” said Zack Hatfield.
“Do what?” asked his friend Charlie Washburn.
“Kill them,” said Hatfield. “I’m going to kill both of those bitches.”
The two of them were sitting on plastic-upholstered armchairs in the musty living room of Zack’s cheap furnished apartment in Astoria, Oregon. Hatfield was a tall and rangy blond man in his late 20s. His muscles were lean and ropy, and his often scowling face was prematurely seamed from working outside in the cold and the wind, at whatever temporary labor jobs he could find in his home town that hadn’t been snapped up by Mexicans.
* * *
“Yah, apparently that’s the big thing in all the feminist self-help and psychobabble books now. They call it life scheduling or some such shit,” explained Hatfield. “The first marriage is for kids, which of course she always takes with her in the divorce settlement after soaking hubby number one for every penny she can. Apparently the lesbian thing is also something every truly liberated woman is supposed to schedule now. I think all Ms. Proudfoot has to her name is a welfare check and a line of noble Native American Womyn crap.”
“Woe-men?” repeated King.
Hatfield nodded. “That’s the way fems write it. I think that’s how it’s pronounced. It’s one of those PC shibboleths the media and the intelligentsia are trying to introduce into the language and make into an accepted and then mandatory term, like the word Ms. George Orwell wrote about it in 1984. Newspeak. Mind control. Just like we have to say African-American instead of nigger. When a totalitarian society controls the language, controls the words that people use in speech, and punishes them for using any word or terminology other than the prescribed ones, eventually the whole population will be so afraid they’ll start using the politically correct terms in their very thoughts, to make sure they don’t blurt out some word that will make them lose their jobs or get them arrested for hatespeech. Anyway, your life has to be destroyed because it fits into Liddy’s life schedule, apparently. It’s all about her, of course. You’re a used component and now she’s throwing you away.”
“But if she wanted a divorce she didn’t have to do—this!” King waved his hand around at the surrounding walls and Plexiglass. “Why this?”
“To make absolutely sure that she gets Caitlin and Judy,” Hatfield replied patiently. He had explained the situation to King several times before, and so had his court-appointed attorney, but it was obvious that King simply could not yet wrap his mind around what was being done to him. “Under both the federal hatecrime laws and the Oregon Diversity and Tolerance Act, any conviction for hatecrime or hatespeech automatically terminates a convicted offender’s parental rights.”
“All for one single word?” screamed King in horror. The walls were closing in on him and he was clearly beginning to go insane. “Just because I said dyke?”
“Hey, buddy, settle down!” snapped the guard behind him. “You’re in enough trouble already! I’m a pretty laid back kind of guy, but it’s my job to make sure you don’t talk any more hateful stuff.”
Hatfield ignored him, and when King got the phone back to his ear he went on. “Martha Proudfoot claims that you made her feel threatened because of her gender, her sexual orientation, and her race. I think she claims you said dyke squaw, actually. You’re lucky the D.A. kept it in state court and so you’re only looking at five years for the speech. If they’d gone federal with it they might claim that making the Proudfoot woman feel apprehensive was an act of hatefully-motivated assault, which they can do under the statute, and then they could hit you with actual hate crime, which is mandatory life, maybe without parole if the judge thinks you actually intended to strike her.”
“Strike her?” laughed King bitterly. “My God, have you seen that creature? She’s built like a bulldozer!”
“Steve, you know that the FBI had some child psychologist and a couple of agents in the other day and they grilled the girls for four or five hours?”
“Yeah, Pritkin, my lawyer, told me about that. Caitlin is six years old! Judy is four! What in God’s name could they expect to get from children?” demanded King incredulously.
“They asked the girls if you’d ever said any bad things about black people or Hispanic people as well as gay people, that kind of crap. This thing up in Idaho last month has them really freaked out and maximum paranoid. The Marines just recaptured Coeur d’Alene a few days ago, and the feds are seeing white supremacist rebels under every bed now. They asked your girls if they’d ever seen any flags in your house. Green, white, and blue ones.”
* * *
“We can just stand by and wring our hands while Steve King’s life is destroyed, and the lives of two little girls are poisoned. We can write a letter to the editor, or maybe get drunk and call up a right-wing talk show, although we’d damned well better not say what we really think, or we’ll be up on hatespeech charges too. And it won’t save Caitlin and Judy King from being raised to hate all men of their own race.”
“Suppose we all club together whatever money we’ve got and try to hire a decent lawyer for Steve?” suggested Ekstrom.
“There’s no such thing as a decent lawyer, and even if there were, they wouldn’t stand a chance in these courts on a hatespeech case,” Zack told them. “No lawyer with enough clout to beat a hatespeech case will touch one, because of the repercussions to his own career if he does win. There is only one way. Those two bitches can’t be around to get up on a witness stand and swear his life away.”
“It’s not just about Steve,” said Washburn heavily. “It’s about Caitlin and Judy as well.”
“It’s not even about them, Charlie, not in the final analysis,” said Hatfield, shaking his head. “It’s about us. About whether we’re men or dogs.” Zack suddenly clenched his fist and roared aloud, a lifetime of rage and humiliation and contempt for the world around him welling up from his heart and his belly and his brain and bursting out of his body in an explosion.
Washburn looked at the other two men. “Me, too. I’m in. Len, I think Zack’s right. You’d best take a powder. Zack’s single and I’m divorced, and we both have crappy jobs and nothing to lose. You have a family and a business and you’ve got everything to lose. I wasn’t a Ranger like Zack, I was just a truck driver, but I remember enough of my military stint to fire a weapon. I’m sure two of us can do this. There’s no need for you to be involved.”
“I am tired of living in hell,” said Ekstrom. “I never thought that I would be ready in my own mind to kill someone. But I’m ready. At some point in time, this madness and this cruelty has to stop. For me, it stops with Steve King. They’re not going to get him. No.”
“That’s the real thing, all right,” said Zack with a sigh and a smile. “It’s taken how many years between us to reach this point? Sometimes I thought white men never would.”
“We have,” said Charlie. “Okay, Zack, you’re the ex-Ranger. You should know how to plan a double assassination. How do we go about this? What do you want Len and me to do?”
“I’ll do the planning and the actual killing. I need you two to provide an alibi, nothing more,” said Zack.
“You do realize the shit is going to hit the fan big time when two lesbians with a hatespeech case pending against a white male are murdered?” asked Charlie. “You also realize that yours is the first door Sheriff Ted Lear is going to come knocking on? He knows you and Steve have been tight since high school, plus you visited him in jail.”
“Yeah, well, that’s why I need you two guys as my alibi,” said Hatfield with a grin. “But I’ve also got a little trick up my sleeve to muddy the waters like hell. I’m going to take a magic marker with me, and I’m going to write the letters NVA on the wall. Maybe in their blood.”
“Jesus, Zack, that will be sure to bring in the FBI!” exclaimed Washburn. “After what’s happened in Coeur d’Alene, they’re descending on the Northwest like a swarm of angry bees!”
“We see all over CNN and Fox News that the uprising in Coeur d’Alene has been crushed and it’s all over. I don’t buy that. My guess is what’s left of the real NVA is going to keep on fighting and hitting these bastards.”
* * *
He walked calmly down the empty street and turned in at the Kings’ driveway. Inside the sweat shirt, stuck into his belt was a truncated double-barreled 12-gauge shotgun. There was a battered military-surplus Hummer in the driveway sporting a number of feminist and pro-abortion bumper stickers, which Zack had learned belonged to Martha Proudfoot. There were no other cars in the driveway, which was a good sign. He had no way of knowing if Liddy King or the Proudfoot woman had become sufficiently paranoid to install an alarm system. Steve King had never used one, since this part of the Northwest was still sufficiently crime-free so it had not seemed necessary, as long as the family had Spuds the terrier to sound the alarm in case of intrusion. But with the media full of hysterical raving about evil racist terrorist conspiracies in the wake of the October rebellion in Idaho, the two lesbians might have gotten jumpy.
He pushed the door open. The chain was off, so he would not need the small pair of bolt cutters in his left back pocket. That’s a stroke of luck, he thought. They’re careless. Careless and arrogant. I’ll bet it simply never occurred to them that despite what they’re doing, anyone would dare to lift a finger to stop them. Why would it occur to them? Until a few weeks ago, no one’s ever fought back.
The little beds were empty. Thank God, he thought to himself. Caity and Judy at least won’t have nightmares about terrible sounds and boogey men in masks from this night’s work. I wonder if they will ever be able to understand why, when they grow up?
Now Hatfield stood outside the master bedroom door. He could hear low, drowsy female voices from within, talking softly and casually. There was no sign of alarm; he had been as silent as the grave. Zack pulled two rubber ear plugs out of his pocket, lifted his mask and inserted them into his ears so the noise and concussion of the heavy bore gun going off in a closed room would not damage or rupture his ear drums. He slid the hammerless shotgun out and eased the safety off; it was ready to fire. He took a long deep breath…
* * *
“You wrote those letters on the wall?” Ekstrom persisted curiously.
“I did. Don’t know when they’ll find the bodies, but when they do I promise you’ll be able to hear the Daily Astorian scream in horror all the way down to Coos Bay.”
“What happened in Coeur d’Alene has changed things. Now we know it can be done. We failed in Coeur d’Alene, but the Party hasn’t been destroyed. I know because I have been in contact with some people who escaped from CdA and who are still fighting, carrying on a guerrilla war to establish our own white country here in the Northwest. It’s going to be long and bloody and horrible, but we’re going to win.”
“How do you figure that?” asked Washburn curiously.
“Short answer? God is on our side,” said Zack simply. “Oooo-kaaay…” said Washburn. “And you know this, how?”
“Because of what happened in Coeur d’Alene and what happened with me tonight,” Zack explained. “These things are God’s sign to us. Not whether we won or lost, or whether I screwed up somehow and I’m in jail looking at a double murder charge this time tomorrow night. That’s not what matters. What matters is that these things happened. That we did them. God has given the white man back his courage. The courage to stand up and defy our oppressors’ laws. The courage to fight back with weapons in our hands, instead of a computer keyboard. The courage to be men again, real courage that comes from our hearts and not from a can of cheap domestic beer or a whiskey bottle. We never had that before, up until now, and that’s why white men always lost. We were ashamed of who we were. We were ashamed to be who we are.
No more. Guys like me and the Old Man and so many others have spent all our lives begging God on our knees to just do this one little thing for us, to give us back the courage that our ancestors had, even if it’s only for one last glorious defeat, so that we can die on our feet instead of live on our knees, and exit the stage of history with our heads held high. God has answered our prayers. We have our courage back now. I don’t know how it happened, but we’ve got it back. We got ours back when we did this thing tonight, because even though I was the trigger man, you guys stepped up to the plate just as much as I did. Anyway, I’m going to meet with some people about joining the Northwest Volunteer Army.”
A book dedicated “To the hero of the Second World War”
The 20th Century Historical Outlook
Perspective
No ellipsis
added between
unquoted paragraphs:
Far out in exterior darkness where no breath stirs, no light shines, and no sound is heard, one can glance toward this spinning earth-ball. In the astral regions, illumination is of the soul, hence all is dark but this certain star, and only a part of it is aglow. From such a distance, one can obtain an utterly untrammeled view of what is transpiring on this earth-ball. Drawing somewhat closer, continents are visible; closer yet, population-streams. One focal point exists whence the light goes forth in all directions. It is the crooked peninsula of Europe. On this tiny pendant of the great land-mass of the earth-ball, the greatest intensity of movement exists. One can see—for out here the soul and its emanations are visible—a concentration of ideas, energy, ambition, purpose, expansiveness, will-to-form. Hovering above Europe we can see what never before was so clearly visible—the presence of a purely spiritual organism.
The primitive cultures are the sole thing existing above the plane of economics, in that they attribute symbolic significance to natural occurrences and human conduct. But there is nothing in these movements resembling the High Cultures which transformed the entire appearance of the Egyptian and Babylonian landscapes for almost forty generations from their first beginning until the last sinking.
Physical time flows on and centuries pass in darkness. Then, precisely as in Egypt and Babylonia, but again of a different hue, and to different music, a light appears over the Punjab. It becomes bright and firm. The same wealth of forms and significant happenings work themselves out as in the earlier two organisms. Its creations are all in the highest degree individual, as different from its two predecessors as they were vis-à-vis one another, but they follow the same grand rhythms. The same multi-colored pageant of nobles and priests, temples and schools, nations and cities, arts and philosophies, armies and sciences, letters and wars, passes before the eye.
II
Before this high culture was well on its way, another had started to actualize itself in the Hwang-Ho valley in China. And then a few centuries later, about 1100 B.C in our way of reckoning, the Classical Culture begins on the shores of the Aegean. Both of these cultures have the stamp of individuality, their own way of coloring and influencing their terrestrial creations, but both are subject to the same morphology as the others observed.
As this Classical Culture draws to its close, around the time of Christ, another one appears in a landscape subjugated by the Classical in its last expansive phase—Arabia.
In its later, expansive phase, this culture embraced European Spain as the Western Caliphate. Its life span, its end form, its last great crisis—all followed the same organic regularity as the others. Some five centuries later the now familiar manifestations of another High Culture begin in the remote landscapes of Mexico and Peru. It is to have the most tragic destiny of any we have yet seen. Around 1000 A.D. the European Culture is meanwhile born, and at its very birth shows itself to be distinguished from the others by the extraordinary intensity of its self-expression, by its pushing into every distance both in the spiritual realm, and in the physical.
Within the [Western] Culture arose Gothic Christianity, the transcendent symbols of Empire and Papacy, the Gothic cathedrals, the unlocking of the secrets of the world of the soul and the world of nature in monastery cells. The Culture-soul shaped for its own expression the nations of the West.
Life slowly externalizes: political problems move into the center; new economic resources are developed to support the political contests; the old agricultural economy metamorphoses into an industrial economy. At the end of this path stands a ghostly and terrifying Idea: Money. Other Cultures also had seen this phenomenon appear at the same stage and grow to similar dimensions. Its slow growth in importance proceeds pari passe with the gradual self-assertion of Reason against Faith. It reaches its highest point with the Age of Nationalism, when the parts of the Culture tear one another to bits, even as outer dangers loom threateningly. At its highest point, Money, allied with Rationalism, contests for the supremacy over the life of the Culture with the forces of State and Tradition, Society and Religion. In our brief visit to interstellar space, we found the position of detachment whence we could see this grand life-drama unfold itself seven times in seven High Cultures, and we saw each of the seven surmount the last great crisis of two centuries’ duration.
The great crisis of the West set in forcefully with the French Revolution and its consequent phenomena. Napoleon was the symbol of the transition of Culture into Civilization—Civilization, the life of the material, the external, of power, giant economies, armies, and fleets, of great numbers and colossal technics, over Culture, the inner life of religion, philosophy, arts, domination of the external life of politics and economics by strict form and symbolism, strict restraint of the beast-of-prey in man, feeling of cultural unity. It is the victory of Rationalism, Money and the great city over the traditions of religion and authority, of Intellect over Instinct.
We had seen all this in the previous high cultures as they approached their final life-phase. In each case the crisis had been resolved by the resurgence of the old forces of Religion and Authority, their victory over Rationalism and Money, and the final union of the nations into an Imperium. The two-century-long crisis in the life of the great organism expressed itself in gigantic wars and revolutions. All the Cultural energy that had previously gone into inner creations of thought, religion, philosophy, science, art-forms, great literature, now goes into the outer life of economics, war, technics, politics. The symbolism of power succeeds to the highest place in this last phase.
III
Since a Culture is organic, it has an individuality, and a soul. Thus it cannot be influenced in its depths from any outside force whatever. It has a destiny, like all organisms. Because it has a soul, all of its manifestations will be impressed by the same spiritual stamp, just as each man’s life is the creation of his own individuality. Because it has a soul, this particular culture can never come again after it has passed. Like the nations it creates to express phases of its own life, it exists only once. There will never be another Indian culture, Aztec-Mayan Culture, Classical Culture, or Western Culture, any more than there will be a second Spartan nation, Roman nation, French or English nation. Since a Culture is organic, it has a life-span. We observed this life span: it is about thirty-five generations at highest potential, or about forty-five generations from its first stirrings in the landscape until its final subsiding.
Like each man, a Culture has ages, which succeed one another with rhythmic inevitability. They are laid down for it by its own organic law, just as the senility of a man is laid down at his conception.
Scientific thinking is at the height of its power in the realm of matter, that which possesses extension, but no direction. Material happenings can be controlled, are reversible, produce identical results under identical conditions, are recurrent, can be classified, can be successfully comprehended as though they are subject to an a priori, mechanical, necessity, in other words, to Causality. Scientific thinking is powerless in the domain of Life, for its happenings are uncontrollable, irreversible, never-recurring, unique, cannot be classified, are unamenable to rational treatment, and possessed of no external, mechanical necessity. Every organism is something never seen before, that follows an inner necessity, that passes away, never to reappear.
Fate is not synonymous with destiny, but the opposite to it. Fate attributes necessity to the incidents of a life, but Destiny is the inner necessity of the organism. An incident can wipe out a life, and thus terminate its destiny, but this event came from outside the organism, and was thus apart from its destiny. Even the most inorganic thinker or scientifico, the crassest materialist or mechanist, is subject to his own destiny, his own soul, his own character, his own life span, and outside this framework of destiny his free, unbound flight of causal fancy cannot deliver him.