My brief optimism in those weeks did not last. Soon enough, my mood plummeted back into its soft, sad hole, and my scalpel was in my hands again. This time, I did not tell my parents. I also tried my hardest to be more careful at school, wearing a long-sleeved underlayer and bandaging my arms with elasticated crepe bandages from my mother’s medical cabinet. Though still relatively containable, the damage I was inflicting increased, as did the frequency.
In between, I drifted in moody silence, occasionally breaking into vast floods of tears, up in my bedroom, soaking my pillow, or in the downstairs’ craft room’ sat in the corner on a wooden kitchen chair, the dining room long turned over to my burgeoning library, my computer, and a table of fantasy lead figures with a painting desk to one side. Contained, or so they thought, in my historical reading habits or my miniature painting, much time was still spent by myself, my parents “giving me some space”.
However, sometimes my Dad would come in and tell me to go to bed, his tone more irritable than usual, impatient with me in conversation, and his face grim, exhausted from his gruelling work, and less inclined to talk about our usual spread of cultural interests, or indeed my feelings, curt and prescriptive, asking me simply, “have you self-harmed today?” and accepting my denial at face value, then stomping out. In the evening, murmurs came from their bedroom. Occasionally, voices were raised, and my mother would appear on the stairs in tears. […]
Here we see not only that Benjamin’s parents lacked empathy for what was happening to their son, or rather, what they had been doing to their teenage son in conjunction with the abuse at school. As if that weren’t enough the parents used psychiatry: a fraudulent profession that, without medical evidence, makes big business with Big Pharma by claiming that all mental problems are biomedical. On my Spanish-language website you can read a section in which I expose how Giuseppe Amara, the psychiatrist my mother wanted to use to break my teenage will, had a sort of unspoken slogan: “Family problems, medical solutions”.
Naturally! If someone wants to profit from the pain of others, children included, they will never, ever side with the affected party. They will always side with those who can pay for their services, no matter how surreal it may be to drug a victim of, say, school bullying instead of rescuing the child from the insulting environment. In my trilogy I call this “psychiatric revictimisation”.
In biological psychiatry the environment is never questioned. All the blame is placed on the victim: his brain or genes. That is why Benjamin’s doctor simply prescribed him SRI antidepressants without making the slightest inquiry as to whether the problem had an existential cause, as was the case.
In my case, as I recount in Letter to mom Medusa, shortly after I tried to tell the psychoanalyst in his office what my parents were doing to me at home, Giuseppe Amara prescribed that they bombard my brain with the most incisive neuroleptic (even though I had no psychiatric symptoms)! Although it may seem incredible to unsuspecting readers, this is precisely how psychiatry works: the client, the father or mother, who requests his services is always right, and “he who pays the piper calls the tune” (children can never pay the so-called mental health professional).
But Benjamin did have symptoms. I don’t want to go into the details of how he self-harmed because it is very disturbing. Anyone who wants to find out can obtain a copy of his book. I just want to reiterate what I recently said in the comments section: We explain the internal process of the self-harmer on page 40 of my book Day of Wrath, and anyone who wants to delve deeper into the subject should read the entire chapter, not just page 40. Benjamin’s story continues:
A useless, stupid form, I had no reason now to look for justifications, settled into my pattern. I was simply a sinner, a wretched waste, and each new lunge at myself, conducted with fierce, black hatred and the coldest rage, cemented my necessity to continue. After all, I was evil now, and I had disappointed my parents, let down all around me, and betrayed the words of God. And the only cure for that weakness and that criminal lack of decency was to cut it better, however long it took, to redeem myself through pain, a pain I did not, at any point, enjoy, a terrible sensation wracking my pale, sensitive skin.
I shouldn’t be allowed to escape unpunished, I thought, clear to me; it was only right. I had upset them, scared them and hurt their feelings. My poor parents. What a monster I was. My head filled with rude swear words, names for myself, “the c**t”, “the bast*rd”, “the f**king idiot”. And so the blades went in, one by one then in tandem, clasped between fingers, in wincing gasps of agony and falling skin, and the days went on. “Please”, I pleaded with myself, “mercy”. “F**k you, you pathetic bast*rd”, I answered myself silently, “you did this”, “now shut up!”
This sort of Gollum’s warfare against the healthy part of his self denotes, according to our point of view in Day of Wrath, what Colin Ross calls “the locus of control shift”: something closely related to “the problem of attachment to the perpetrator” whom we are conditioned to love as children. Benjamin then includes another disturbing paragraph about the details of his self-harm, which I will also refrain from quoting. He then writes:
“Benjamin!” my father said in snappy annoyance. “Sit down here now and stop being so antisocial.” So I sat on the black leather upholstery of the sofa for a while and tried to smile a little more, listening to my aunties tell their jokes, pretending I couldn’t feel the detestable sensation under my clothes, an ever-present sting perched there, legs together, quiet and reserved, and riddled with hundreds of sharp little scratches, my burning surface partially skinned and my clothes slightly damp, distracted and cloudy in mind, just waiting to head upstairs again. […]
Shame had become guilt, and I was fused with self-hate, my rigged moral perfectionism inverting the reality of my historical situation, inculcated from such a young age with steady doses of mental poison that I was now at a critical threshold, as if in toxic shock.
In between these bouts of auto-sadism, I was still cogent and in full cognitive clarity, my intellectual faculties otherwise unaffected, and, provided they did not persist in making inquiries or watch me like a hawk (which did not become apparent to them until much later), I found other people did not notice anything was wrong. Though the pupils had heard of my first injuries from Josh, they had no idea of the scale, and I gather most considered it an isolated incident, a ‘fad’ that I would soon grow out of.
When I returned from Ireland in the new year, binning two of my shirts before leaving, washing out the stains from my jacket lining in the sink, and packing my suitcase, I was able to blend straight back into the school environment, continuing my lessons in the commencing term, with a little SSRI tablet a day, and nothing really to add to that, to all intents and purposes getting slightly better, or so everyone thought. Much as it was well understood that “he’s got Depression”, “he did this…” and “he’s ill now”, no one, curiously, had ever paused to ask me how I felt or to inquire what actually was wrong. […]
One day, near the end of the Spring term, not long before my AS exams, I was sitting in the dorm study room with another boy named Gerald, a half- Malaysian pupil whom I had a mild friendship with […] Gerald had caught me crying also, in the dorm and various quiet parts of the school, and soon after began to distance himself again, considering me “nuts” and “a bit of a head case”, disapproving of my distress, and frustrated that I didn’t just “snap out of it”.
Psychiatry is just the tip of the iceberg. The whole problem has to do with a society that wants to know nothing about existential problems—unless they are presented in theatrical tragedies, as the Greeks did, or in modern movies where the plot can be understood even by housewives. But if someone in real life wants to communicate that she suffers from a maddening dynamics with her mother, like the self-harmer woman in the film La Pianiste, she is generally ignored not only by those close to them, but also by so-called mental health professionals.
For example, in my trilogy I recount how my mother, who really was the crazy one in the house, projected her evil onto me and sent me to various professionals over the years. None of them wanted to listen to me. But the most shocking thing is something I confess in the third volume.
Only a very traditionalist priest, whom my mother suggested I go to on the advice of Mrs Eva Grimaldi, listened to me! The reason for this wouldn’t be understood in the least unless the reader is familiar with the critical literature on all mental health professions, whether pseudo-medical like psychiatry, or mere therapy with psychoanalysts or clinical psychologists. (See, for example, Against Therapy: Emotional Tyranny and the Myth of Psychological Healing by Jeffrey Masson, with whom I exchanged a brief correspondence several years ago.)
My mind finally gave way a little way through the school year 2001. I had lasted as long as I could. My entire life was not one of much pleasure; it was just brief bursts of love in an otherwise barren tableau of shaming and shame. My pride in myself had never been able to develop, my confidence never given a chance to bloom, held back by cruel hands and eyes, sharp mouths, and the dispassion and dismissal of arrogant, narcissistic parents. But I did not think like that. All I could see, all of a sudden, and obsessively so, was my own fault and my own failings. My fundamental inadequacy was clear to me, and the only conscience that recognised an ‘I’ at all anymore exacerbated to a punishing inquisitor, sceptical of my abilities, suspicious of my every action, and with no pity for mistakes or petty misdemeanours.
So it was that, quietly, unannounced, and – perhaps unexpectedly and unbelievably – with no external prompting or copycat inspiration, purely of my own isolated volition, that I took the thin, technical craft knife, sharp as a scalpel, from my Games Workshop hobby kits, and began to scrape at myself, in the evenings late on after school, always careful to layer my toilet tissues first and to clean myself thoroughly so no one would know, a long superficial slit at a time, across my inner thighs, or my chest, or down to my private area, and my feet, and then back onto my right arm above the cuff of my school shirt, padding the tissues until the blood had ceased to trickle, tears in distant eyes, open and unblinking, and the softest mists inside. Gone. I wasn’t playing sports that year and was not required to undress for any school gym or athletics field, so I could always pass unseen. Plasters were a luxury, and I preferred the process to hurt. All because I was nothing, a bad nothing. In the head, the me that was Benjamin became an “it”, sensing myself in the third person, dehumanising myself, and no longer in recognition of the need to protect my body, wishing more than anything to whittle it away, this stuff, a piecemeal unravelling into oblivion, knife cut by knife cut, expressing how little and worthless I was in a more suitable presentation, red and inconsequential, and so what for the sensation? I was just meat. For all the terrible things I was and had done (which I liked to search for at length, with some imagination, writing down in my textbooks to assist, in case I ‘got off the hook’ and forgot). It was not that I was compelled nor impulsive. Still, slowly, methodically, and regularly, I knew what had to be done, as if a dark duty, the best I could do by moral choice to make up to the world, taking all this stupid, idiotic flesh and damaging it beyond repair. If I did not keep to this, I assured myself it would be worse for me later. A frigid discipline, I was a sadist to my trembling form. No one else was involved in this disgraceful, unrepented error, so no one else needed to know.
Still, it was impossible after a while to hide. A boy at school in my senior dorm, I forget which one (perhaps Josh, my roommate) spotted that my shirt was sticking to me one day and that I seemed stiff and laboured in breath, as if disguising discomfort, and uncovered the fact that I had been, as the popular idiom goes ‘cutting myself’. The clear fluids leaking from the infected wounds on my arm worried him terribly, and he encouraged me in horror and distaste to tell one of my parents, or he would have to tell someone.
So I told them, discussing the matter with my mother in the car one day, as best I could, downplaying the extent of my wounds and how long I had been pursuing this action. I told her I was sad, though, very sad. I didn’t want to show her at all. Still, the expression on her face, a gasp of total horror when she saw my skin underneath, rendered it too late to brush her aside or claim that the situation was not serious, much as I wished I could have kept my act up with more subtlety, and continued to fade unopposed, pulled apart into darkness. I’m not sure what she said to my father. He did not discuss the matter with me in person, his workload heavier in those years, often away for longer at weekends, and distant in the house, drained and tired by a massive joint effort with the European Space Agency to contribute to the NASA Mars probes, a final project with his Nortel workmates before his retirement, and based now in Maidstone, Kent, an even longer drive away, the latter company running into financial difficulties internally, and much stress in the office.
I was informed by my mother the day after that an appointment had been made for me with the local GP to examine my body and have a word with me. I felt dead as I filed into the familiar Writtle surgery. Nothing was clear to me anymore. In my own words, I stated to the doctor, “I’ve been hurting my body. And crying a lot, too.” And then I proceeded again to try and minimise, putting on a false smile and attempting to tell a joke, repeating to him, “It’s not that bad” and “I don’t know why I’m upset, must just be tiredness”, desperate not to have to speak any longer. Doctor Bailey, a long-term friend of the family who had treated me since I was an infant, did not seem so easily pacified, though. That same day, a referral was made to psychiatric practice on Broomfield Road, at the Child and Adolescent Service building (now Community Health Services), just down the road from the King Edward IV Grammar School and not far from the nursery I had briefly attended many years before. I was to meet with the doctor there as soon as possible, so how to best help me could be decided. Politely, I thanked the doctor and his assistant for examining me, for patching up my many wounds, and for providing antibiotics, and then I left again. I was unsure all of a sudden, finding myself in too deep and wishing more than anything that they would forget about me. […]
The meeting with the psychiatrist was brief and uneventful. He sat in a chair opposite mine on the upstairs floor, the room otherwise empty and forgettable, and asked me what had been going on. “I don’t know,” I said, “I’m just very sad, that’s all” He nodded. “And how long have you been doing this for?” […]
“Oh, I haven’t been cutting myself long,” I told him, “just for a while”, leaving my answer vague, unsure as to what he might do and if I would get in trouble for answering him. “OK,” he said, making another note. “The GP told me it’s superficial. It’s a common enough problem these days. Some people just get the urge to draw a bit of attention to themselves. It’s something that can be worked on. Anyway, go on…” […]
I told him, “I don’t like the Winter weather either. It’s so dark and cheerless, and it rains all the time. I wish it were Spring again. I was happier in Spring.” “Is that right?” he said, looking up at me suddenly from his notepad. […]
Presently, the interview ended. “I’ll tell you what’s going to happen”, the doctor said, “I think you need some medication to make you better. It sounds like you’re suffering from what might be Depression with a Seasonally Affective Disorder component. I’m going to write a note to your GP, and he’ll provide you with some tablets which will help you. The medication is called Citalopram. It’s a recent development and is very effective for your symptoms. Take one 10mg tablet daily with a glass of water as soon as you wake up, and we’ll continue to monitor your progress every few months.” He finished speaking and motioned for me to rise.
Not knowing what else to say, I thanked the doctor and headed out the door to my mother’s car outside to pop home quickly and change into my school clothes so as not to miss afternoon lessons. Later that day, my mother went down to the pharmacy on Writtle Green and handed in my prescription, and soon enough, the carton was in my hands. Knowing something had been done, I felt a little happier and shrugged regardless. It was a busy school year, and my AS levels demanded much attention. If the tablets could help me, all for the better. At least, I thought, they can’t do any harm. From then on, dutifully, my father would hand me a small tablet every morning, and I would swallow it straight down with water, this tiny white pill, slightly sweet on my tongue.
In 1999, my mother was diagnosed with lung cancer. She had been suffering from a chest infection, and though the usual treatments of antibiotics had been administered, her condition did not improve. […]
This was of no consequence to my bullies, though. By that age I was living between lessons in a dormitory, the pupils separated into independent ‘houses’ that competed with one another in sport and singing competitions […]
Naturally, free from adult condemnation or reprimand, they continued to mock her to my face, telling me that “it would be funny if she died” and reminding me as if in sincerity and the vulgar slang of the day that she was “still fit though” and thus “shaggable.” The worst culprits for this were Chris and Tim. Their horrible words left me shaken to my core and weary, damaged, appalled that they would be so weak and so feral as to, in effect, pass above me to insult my mother long distance, a sadly all too common line of child-on-child abuse that I have always considered extremely below the belt. […]
“Hello there! I’m Ben’s mum; I’m a fat, ugly Irish c**t!” My mother was still in her acute phase of healing in real life at this point, having just left the London hospital following her two-week window and in recuperation in Chelmsford’s Broomfield. It was not the worst insult I had heard from one of them over the cruel months, but it was enough. Something I had never felt before welled up in me, a piercing column of dark flame and red-hot rage filling my consciousness.
I slammed out of my desk and stared at him with pure hatred, not saying a word. Never before had I tackled a bully, but I knew my body was stronger, and I was now well over six feet tall, and besides, I was angry. Without a second passing, I reached out, grabbing him by the throat with my right hand and squeezing, and picked him up a little by the neck, pinning him to the wall of the cubicle. My fingers squeezed tight around his windpipe, feeling the warm flesh in my hand, that physical connection, his stiff surprise, and all the pounding intensity of full on contact aggression. Then, pushing him to one side, him yelping, his eyes wide in shock, spluttering and choking, I glanced over at the first-floor window, motioning that I was going to throw him out of it. “What the hell did you say!” I shouted at him, gritting my teeth, snarling in inchoate rage, “You’re the f**king c**t!!” and his struggling face writhed in panic, in total surprise and fear. Only then did I let go and heard him immediately say, and in fluster, “I’m sorry, Ben! I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry!” I had no more trouble with him on the matter after that.
By now, my anger had faded, still more melancholic by nature than aggressive enough to be able to defend myself adequately in the long run, a painful consequence of the years of torment and sorrow before. I felt awful that I had felt compelled to use swear words, especially words of that calibre, and, despite the circumstances of the incident, I remember taking what I had said to Confession with me at Our Lady Immaculate and what I had done, re-wording it to the priest a little to downplay Tim’s words, and the context of our fight, embarrassed and torn, feeling myself morally culpable, despite being in defence of my mother. […]
Knowing of this incident, the other boys ignored me instead of directly confronting me with their mockery and put-downs. They were never really my friends, and I knew then that I was never well liked, not even by the quieter, less popular pupils who could tolerate my company. I had shown them something in me that they had never seen before, and, perhaps unfairly, they distrusted me for it and considered me above all “really weird”, if not “a psychopath”, words of ignorance and judgement which have always hurt me. I never again had the personal necessity to physically engage a pupil at that school with my newfound rage. However, I was no better in confidence despite my defensive act, too used still to my long years of passively suffering violent attacks before that, and a sad, shy boy.
Time paced on slowly, and I moved on in my emptied, silent spaces, always lonely, watching happiness from the sidelines, already missing a world I had never been privy to. I just did my work when I could and slipped away, looking to the sky and the woods and the fields and pacing out alone down the bleak countryside tracks to the side of the river a mile off to lie by the soft banks of the water and cry, returning in the twilight, with no expression on my face.
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Editor’s Note:
In the first instalment of this series, I mentioned that a mudblood migrant raped Benjamin when he was six years old, the age at which he appears in this photograph. In that instalment, I didn’t include the photo because I posted another one: the location of the rape, which Benjamin visited many years later as part of his introspection and self-therapy.
There are things I’d rather not mention in this post out of modesty; at the very least, I won’t include passages from this chapter with graphic details (let those interested purchase the book!). Suffice it to say that when Benjamin was eleven and twelve years old, a Pakistani boy, the son of very wealthy parents and a schoolmate, tried to initiate him sexually: something that naturally disgusted and horrified the White boy. I was also horrified, but for other reasons as well.
In 2017, in the context of the Harvey Weinstein scandal, actor Anthony Rapp stated that in 1986 he had been sexually harassed by Kevin Spacey during a Hollywood party when Rapp was fourteen years old. When the Spacey scandal broke, I told myself that I couldn’t differ more in my morals than these scandalised Americans, who, as good Christians and neochristians, focused solely and exclusively on Spacey’s behaviour (even atheists have internalised the infinite nonsense that “life is individual”).
It seemed obvious to me that Spacey was only the last link in a chain of degeneration: degeneration initiated by Rapp’s parents, who allowed the beardless teenager to go to a degenerate party; the vices surrounding Hollywood, and Western culture in general, which has been in a downward spiral since the 1960s and continues to fall. (Compare, for example, the 1956 film about Van Gogh that I recently linked to on this site with the crap that contemporary Westerners smear on their brains every day.) In other words, the POV of those who were scandalised by Spacey eight years ago focuses solely on the actor, as if everyone else were innocent, including Rapp’s parents.
This comes to mind when commenting on what happened to Benjamin with the Pakistani because it is similar. Who was the Saruman who brought those Orcs to Middle-earth? I recently said that our passion shouldn’t be to study the infinite universe, but rather the infinite Aryan stupidity. Hard science—in fact, almost everything studied in universities—is for madmen who fall into the well, like Thales of Miletus. The mind must be used in this Age… to understand the mind! Only if the Aryan race passed that test, and reached a world that resembled Maxfield Parrish’s with no one on earth whose skin was the colour of poo, would it make sense to think about the stars.
Well, when I read chapter 13 of Consumption I boiled with rage when I realised that the Pakistani’s obscenities were only the last link in a chain that began in the second half of the 1940s, when after WW2 the British government began, very gradually at first, to import Orcs to the island of beautiful English roses. And Benjamin’s parents, according to the anecdotes the writer recounts in the chapter, behaved in a pretty similar manner to the UK government. The nauseating thing that happened to the autobiographer, perpetrated by the Pakistani Tariq, was nothing more than the last link in a perverse chain in which even the school, the teachers and the other pupils were involved because of the anti-white zeitgeist.
It makes me so mad to imagine the possibility that this Orc of very rich parents could have seduced English roses that I don’t want to quote a single line from that chapter. It should be obvious to racialists who are not crazy—that is, those who don’t subscribe to monocausalism, attributing all evil to the Jews—that the corruption of the Aryan spirit has reached astronomical levels to allow such things (recently, there has been much talk in racialist forums about the rape of English pubescent girls by Pakistani gangs).
If the white man fails to look himself in the mirror, for only by looking it would he see the monster that Dorian Grey saw in the painting, his race will perish. The sad thing is that many sectors of white nationalism share the self-serving myth that only Jews are responsible for our misfortunes as if we had no autonomy or will to rebel, say, against the pestilent merde that is currently seen in virtually every Hollywood film, on Netflix, on mobile phones and even taught in schools and universities.
Editor’s Note: My recent exchange with
Benjamin this morning is worth a post:
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Benjamin said: The most offensive comment I ever get from anyone in my life on anything creative or meaningful (presenting books, paintings, articles, whatever…) is ‘oh, that’s interesting’. One knows the person couldn’t give a damn about you at that point. It’s simply filler, as they never, ever elaborate why. I’m still thinking about presenting Consumption to my eldest aunt – one of my mother’s surviving sisters, and the closest to me growing up – but I know it’ll either be ‘oh that’s interesting’ or ‘that’s very sad you write that’, and ‘ I’ll have to give it some thought’, or stub words to that effect, cutting off all further emotion, discussion and commitment.
I should say, I think the only reason my mother wanted to read my book at first was to humour me, then increasingly to prove me wrong (I was critically examined over many sections), and finally in tears when she realised she couldn’t, she kind of softened towards me. I find it a tragedy she died so soon afterwards, and I never got to discuss it with her. All I know is she agreed (or if she still didn’t on anything she’s taken it into the ground with her).
Dad will never read it, that’s for sure. If you forced him to, his response would be to tut and call it fantasy, and then if I persisted, to shout at me, and to cut me off forever in rage and social embarrassment. I wrote a spurious book many years ago briefly mentioning Dad’s conduct and he did read a few lines of that one, and I remember all he said was “you don’t make me look very good in this”, and laughed a little, as if what I had written was hysterical nonsense, or a big neurotic running joke, unable always to twig that he simply wasn’t ‘very good’ to me, no. It’s not even denial.
I’m sorry for your tragedies, and for your uncle’s death. I’d like to hope that what happened to Corina and Octavio (and his daughter) cannot happen again. But how does one change society on this taboo issue if no one is prepared to read these books – or always too little too late? I suppose one can still put them out there, and hope. I always wanted psychiatry destroyed in my lifetime. I don’t think that’ll happen though, although I see it as a major gatekeeper to the (parental) trauma model being understood by the public.
I think I use you as my witness personally. I hope it isn’t an imposition. Ideally, I would have had a family or local friends to go to, but their silence and standoffish ignorance on this matter is galling. I’m not used to being asked what’s wrong.
I responded: That’s precisely why the encounter in my life of someone like Paulina, the first person who took pity on me, was so important even though it happened more than twenty years after my teens (what Miller calls an “enlightened witness”). Ideally, someone should appear when you’re being abused as a child. That and only that could have saved us (what Miller calls a “helping witness”). The sad thing is that many didn’t have either…
And when it comes to the mental health professions, psychiatry is the way the System defends itself; like the Inquisition defended the Roman Church against the dissidents of the time. Thomas Szasz wrote a book comparing psychiatry to the Inquisition, and he said something that stuck with me: “An Inquisition [like psychiatry] cannot be reformed, only abolished”.
Indeed, and this shows that even people like Colin Ross, the current proponent of the trauma model, are still lost on this point—like John Read et al., who believe that change is possible within academia. They’re like white nationalists who believe that voting for Trump can bring about change. In fact, WN is another variant of country-club conservatism as Michael O’Meara put it, an American who knows French.
Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose.
Benjamin said: So it seems, as with the other issues we discussed recently, that it’s come down to this again: the necessity of a (violent, it’s obvious there is no other sort) revolution, in this as in all areas… what we really mean by bringing down the System, across all its entangled branches and avenues. Everything has reached a multi-faceted dead end otherwise… science, technology, academia, health, family wellbeing… the race itself is long-stalled biologically, at least since the Cro-Magnon era. I suppose the only thing to do now is to school would-be revolutionaries and auxiliary radicals on why they’re fighting (or will be fighting), which I suppose is what this site functions as, beyond your autobiographical space.
Personally, from what I note, the 4 words ["Eliminad todo sufrimiento innecesario" —Ed.] seem far harder for people to latch onto and assimilate than the vaguer, more generalised concept of the 14, even though I see both as to some degree synonymous, or semi-symmetric perhaps.
Eventually we’ll have to go somewhere else for those sorts of conversations. I’m not sure of the prudence of me continuing to type this even, right out in the open. The stepping stone from the theoretical to the practical is the hardest for me to strategize, the point where mutual internal jihad had reached its zenith, so to speak, and there should then instead be organization, and such, etc.
Anyway, I’m getting ahead of myself. I know I’ve found it very frustrating for decades, where no one has really taken the slightest bit of interest (care) in my history, and yet have still professed to being my friends… ‘twigging’, and realising in clarity the scale of this problem across our race drives one to want to act, and as soon as possible (even though there is no way to do that currently).
I responded: No: there’s no way to do it, and you can see what happened to our friend Tyrone for even suggesting it on podcasts (although years ago his parents put him in a psychiatric hospital for a while, now the System has locked him up for seven years!).
Mauricio liked my Paths of Glory metaphor. Kirk Douglas’s soldiers couldn’t go out to fight because of the hail of bullets. It was a time of staying in the trenches in a state of exasperation, but necessary…
The degenerate Aryan I recently saw in Europe is still in “happy mode”. Several sociopolitical, economic, and especially energy catastrophes will have to converge for him to enter “angry mode”; eventually a defensive “combat mode” and finally “killing mode” (bloody revolution). In the meantime, they’re behaving like lobotomised eunuchs.
Unlike Europeans, racialist Americans are no longer lobotomized: they’re beginning to think. But they’re still eunuchs. Otherwise they would already be talking about how to bring Turner’s diaries into the real world.
Benjamin said: P.S. I just re-read the, as you say, epistolary scold from Corina. I was particularly struck by the lines (and can only imagine how much they hurt and infuriated you):
“The damage is done and only you can fix it.”
and
“…not all people in the world are therapists or psychiatrists or psychoanalysts and we don’t want to hear about problems, let alone such serious ones. We are normal people who run away from problems. We are not interested and cannot do anything about it.”
Both directly echo things my partner has said to me before when I raise the issue of my childhood with her, the first being the equivalent of ‘just let it go’ (which is impossible naturally short of developing dementia, and translates literally as ‘repress yourself again’), or ‘get over it’ (a callous statement in itself indicating their lack of patience/empathy more than any psychological insight – they don’t realise you’re trying to do that, and can only do that if listened to). And the second a terrible misunderstanding – you are at first not looking for change, just to be listened to at all: as another example, in my case I didn’t want to be taken out of my environment when I emailed my Tyrolean penpal Harald about latter-day trauma, nor would it have been possible for him to do so, I just wanted to be listened to long-distance… also, as if one needed a license or a professional qualification to be a compassionate listener! Their ‘we’re not therapists’ line is simply a cop out to avoid them of their responsibility.
I can see why Corina wrote why she did then, as it’s all too common to, as you say, see things backwards, putting again all responsibility for both the experiences and the healing process onto the victim. People are so quick to give this prescriptive black pedagogy ‘advice’, or otherwise to act non-committal with the silent treatment, or wash their hands of the matter. Another reason I’d like vast swathes of the population exterminated, as by your 4 words doctrine – if they really can’t develop empathy for these matters then they’re simply a liability in general.
I responded:
Corina was the only one who saw what my parents were doing to me when I was a teenager, but she didn’t confess it to me because she was fourteen years old, and when she tried to tell my mother, she only received a slap in the face, which ended the argument for decades, until Corina herself developed paranoid symptoms, although in her lucid moments we were finally able to communicate.
But when Cori wrote that letter she was acting as an agent of the System, what Miller calls “poisonous pedagogy”. Szasz hits the nail on the head when he said that psychiatry is like paediatrics: instead of listening, they try to lecture the victim (although Szasz never fully grasped the trauma model).
All these people giving advice don’t realise that what they’re doing is similar to telling the messenger who has just escaped the clutches of someone like Jeffrey Dahmer, and wants to alert his neighbours that there’s a serial killer in the block to calm down; to seek professional help, to forgive and forget, to not suffer from self-pity but take a stress pill instead, etc. The result of this insane deafness? Another victim of the serial killer!
This crazy example is not a false analogy.
If my grandmother Yoya had listened to me during the anecdote I tell at the beginning of “Nobody Wanted to Listen” she could have acted as my helping witness, intervened to the best of her humble ability (my parents had the power), and prevent my crucifixion and, in the years to come, prevent Corina’s psychological catastrophe too. But we lacked a helping witness.
All this explains, in effect, why I have developed an exterminationist philosophy. The current version of Homo sapiens remains a kind of Homo sapiens neanderthalensis in the sense that it still needs to be greatly ennobled.
Public education, in general, was a nightmare for me at Felsted Preparatory School and then at the senior school. My first steady experience of terrible loneliness and a source of daily fear and sadness; I was bullied relentlessly for almost ten years, day in and day out, never accepted by the other pupils, and always an ostracised outsider, quiet, timid, and increasingly morose… [page 65]
Most of my school days were spent alone, hiding from bullies and ignoring specific routes and chokepoints through the expansive country public school, always scared, sad and low, expecting the worst, and often getting it, still ambushed outside, mocked daily, and beaten up at times…
Ten years experienced in social silence, bar the routine shaming and fear and embarrassment, I’m surprised I lasted it at all, very used to tears and harrowing isolation, always sad, and shielded in my thoughts, hidden away with no one to talk to, knowing I had no one to back me up or to console me. Anything I thought, found interest in, or was moved by was forever off-limits, unsaid, and unacknowledged. It’s as if I didn’t exist there.
I would occasionally tell my parents, but nothing was ever done, and they barely noticed my intense suffering and sadness. I learned to keep it all inside and that it was not worth commenting on to them, as it would bring me no comfort in the aftermath. My mother continued to socialise with the mothers of my many bullies. She remained in friendly contact with them for many years afterwards, sending me occasional cards and letters telling me how those parents’ offspring were doing and the successes they experienced as they got older and began to attend and then graduate from university, getting married and having children, winning awards, and establishing lucrative careers. Having naturally assumed I was ok without consultation and having not paid any attention back then, they never asked me how things were, maintaining firm historical blindness and deeply selective memories, and their historical narrative now is that my childhood was happy, safe, and blemish free, totally oblivious to the entirety of that torture, a great insult to me, and the most frustrating sense of terrible, damning betrayal, brushing me off, a stiff upper lip, and a natural lack of all concern. My mother was interested only in preserving her social status, any adult conversations touching on her behaviour swiftly developing into a relentless doubling down of “Benjamin! Look…” and “I think you’re misinterpreting me”, and “I think you’re imagining me misbehaving,” and “think of all the good things I do for you”…
I’ve never once heard either of them volunteer of their own free will to apologise to me. My Dad can occasionally capitulate, as if put out, in deadpan emotionlessness or snappy anger, to shut me up, a sharp, empty “fine! I’m sorry, I’ve said it, can we move on now?” where one knows he does not feel remorse in the slightest and is merely exasperated. My Mum cannot even reach this level… [pages 68-69]
I sometimes wonder if my grades could have been higher were I not always so set-upon and scared and low, distracted, hurt, and worried. Accustomed to this treatment and with no other, better experience to compare it to, I carried on in quiet, emptied melancholia, longing impotently for friendship, company, and warmth… [page 71]
“The stars are not for man” —Karellen in the novel Childhood’s End.
As I said in the comments section of my previous post today, it is foolish to be a cosmologist when your race is being actively destroyed. This is not the time to fantasise about space travel, but rather to travel into inner space; that is, to fulfil the mandate of the Oracle of Delphi. A quote already cited in this blog (and on a page of my Day of Wrath) sheds light on the subject:
Only a ripe artist, one thoroughly acquainted with the workings of the mind, can be successful here. This is why psychological self-portraiture has appeared so late among the arts, belonging exclusively to our own days and those yet to come. Man had to discover continents, to fathom his seas, to learn his language, before he could turn his gaze inward to explore the universe of his soul.
We are commanded to know the universe of our own soul! I iterate: it is madness to start planning interstellar travel without first knowing oneself, knowledge that implies knowing what causes the darkest hour of the West. That is why it is worth quoting some passages from Benjamin’s book, Consumption, whose blurb I quoted a couple of days ago.
The key to understanding psychosis is what Colin Ross calls the problem of attachment with the perp, a concept explained in my Day of Wrath. Well into the book, Benjamin wrote:
I love my father. It is the deepest, most intrinsic love and one I could never shift or diminish, even if I wanted to. It brings me to tears as I think about it… But then I remember (and how could I forget?) these terrible childhood tortures on my father’s part…
One of the things Neanderthals don’t want to understand is that the mind is like the body: it has a breaking point. Primitive people, whom we revile as “Neanderthals”, seem to be saying—so alienated are they by their work ethic—that despite all mistreatment the human mind is infinitely resilient. The truth is that, just as it is not the same for the body to fall from one metre, three metres or from an aeroplane, the same is true of the mind: there are orders of magnitude in which the self can, literally, break.
In Benjamin’s life, and I am not only referring to his first trauma with his father when he was just five years old (the “apple episode” that I won’t recount here), there was also trauma at school. I am referring not only to bullying but also to the rape by a traitorous government that imported non-whites, including teenagers, due to the self-hatred that the English have suffered since 1945: a madness, alas, shared by the entire West.
I would like to quote a passage from Consumption after the rape of a mudblood that the author experienced at the age of six:
…I cannot remember as she [his mother] drove down the long evening lanes, the sun reddening in a haze over the yellow fields, and I sat way down in the seat, the seatbelt pulled down over my stomach, my legs curled up tight in the lock of my forearms, foggy, and faint in mind, with soreness all over, and with nothing I could have been able, or, tragically, allowed to say.
I never mentioned this incident to my parents afterwards, not once, for at least twenty-eight years, though I knew of it the while, even when they were, in some way, aware that I had had bad times at school. They still have no real clue, and I was brushed aside with an “Oh, that’s terrible. Oh, did that happen to you? How awful!” of polite disbelief when I did mention it to my mother, crying and raging down the phone, her reception the same as if it were a coffee morning anecdote in passing, or a fanciful tale for inadvertent amusement, as narrated by my aunt in one of her drunken outbreaks of hysteria. Each new time I tried, periodically over years, I’d hear an “Oh? Really? That’s not good to hear” from her, as if her memory too was missing over the occurrences, and she was instead hearing for the first time, and, dogmatically, she has always been known to tell others that “his early life was good” and “no, nothing ever happened to him, he had a good life with us” and words to that effect, all a further torture for me, as if she was honest, and as if it were her place (and her place alone) to say…
The gulley where I was molested
I did not blame my mother at the time for not helping me, and was unsure even how she could have. I could not register the pain myself and, bizarrely, forgot soon enough as times moved on, relegating it to a small corner pocket of an otherwise full and engaged mind, but as an adult, I raged mercilessly at her for her disbelief and was more than wounded.
This is where the soul murder only begins, plunging the child into a spiral of amplifying abuse until his mind collapses. When parents without empathy don’t understand, or do not want to understand, why their child no longer wants to get along with their schoolmates, instead of blaming the environment they blame the child: courtesy of biological psychiatry, although there are still professionals who realise that the fault did not lie with the child. Benjamin tells us:
Indeed, my thorough lack of interest in football was one of the prime reasons that my parents, in some heightened suspicion of me, took me at this age [seven years old] down to the village surgery to request an autism evaluation…
…given that I was used to being heavily bullied, “he dislikes noisy groups of children.” Though the GP listened to their unfounded complaints, did a few simple tests on me, and gave me the all-clear almost immediately, telling them quite bluntly to go away and stop speculating, I was left upset by this lack of faith on their parts, and the initial zeal of their incorrect sentiment offended me a little, acknowledging to myself that, for some frustrating reason, they had been swift to pathologise my innocuous – and totally normal – childhood behaviours, and still somehow, despite capitulating outwardly, could not entirely take the doctor’s firm “no” for an answer, confident in thinking themselves equipped to know my health better.
In the coming days I will continue reading Consumption. For now, the above quote provides a clear idea not only of the literary genre that Benjamin and I want to inaugurate, but also of why studying inner space is infinitely more important than studying outer space. The first may save the white race from its ongoing self-destruction; the second may not.
A candid psychiatric autobiography on the guilt, shame, fear, and long-term trauma instigated by parental emotional abuse in a toxic environment of schoolyard bullying, medical malpractice, molestation, and harrowing physical violence, and the spiralling personal consequences for a wounded childhood.
Beginning when Benjamin was not yet a toddler, this heart-wrenching account tracks his sad dissolution across his early life, up through school, and into the climax of the depression that engulfed his late teenage years, culminating in a terrifying and destructive psychosis and the effective murder of his soul.
Inspired by the writings of Alice Miller, César Tort, and John Modrow, this two-book life history seeks to create a new literary genre, that of vindictive autobiography, where the painful abuses of Benjamin’s parents are spelled out in full detail, and, contrary to the ‘wisdom’ of most modern psychological therapies, they are held to account and not forgiven.
As Benjamin explains:
I love my Mum and Dad, but forgiveness is not a one way street, and they have never assimilated their responsibility, apologised, or tried to make things right, instead foisting me with further trauma on the cynical, pseudoscientific victim-blaming of the orthodox psychiatric industry.
Though I was raised as a strict Catholic, my writings seek to repudiate the fourth commandment, remembering the words of Friedrich Nietzsche in Twilight of the Idols: ‘When one gives up the Christian faith, one pulls the right to Christian morality out from under one’s feet.’
pages 97-107 of the December 2024 edition of Benjamin’s The Less Than Jolly Heretic:
______ 卐 ______
I’ve become very anti-Christian over the recent years, seeing this slavish faith-based ideology as perhaps the primary cause of European civilisational collapse, having read quite closely into the likes of Catherine Nixey’s The Darkening Age, Revilo P. Oliver’s The Origins of Christianity, Tom Holland’s Dominion, and Charles Freeman’s The Closing of the Western Mind, and some abridged translations of Christianity’s Criminal History by Karlheinz Deschner, reinforced by the historical Roman writings of Celsus, Porphyry of Tyre, and the Emperor Julian, and, as with Edward Gibbon, have considered Christianity’s responsibility for the fall of Rome (and the theocratic brutality of Byzantium and the Dark Ages that effectively ended European science for well over a millennium, torturing and exterminating those Europeans who tried to hold out against the impositions of countless generations of bloodthirsty, ignorant, perverted Christian regimes, Europe split for seventeen centuries by terrible Christian sectarian warfare).
I have also considered its post-Enlightenment transition into liberalism and that all-encompassing secular ‘Neochristianity’, in the inspirational words of César Tort. This value system has conditioned a knee-jerk egalitarianism and relativistic weakness, a morality that Friedrich Nietzsche famously derided as fit only for slaves, a racially suicidal, life-hating framework of passivity, submission, and out-group preference, in complete contrast to the master morality values of Republican Rome and the cohesive Indo-European civilisations of the ancient world.
Drawing from a translated summary of Demolish Them by Vlassis Rassias, provided in original form on the West’s Darkest Hour blog, we can chart the principal Christian moves to destroy the Classical world. It’s worth noting that Christians referred to European advocates of Greco-Roman civilisation as ‘Gentiles,’ a Semitic term, before transitioning into even more erroneous and derogatory descriptors.
In 314, after the full legalisation of Christianity, the Christian church moved to attack the Gentiles. The Council of Ancyra denounced the worship of the Goddess Artemis. In 324, the Emperor Constantine declared Christianity as the only religion of the Roman Empire. At Dydima in Asia Minor, he sacked the Oracle of God Apollo and tortured its priests to death. He also evicted the Gentiles from Mt. Athos and destroyed all local Hellenic Temples. In 326, Constantine destroyed the Temple of God Asclepius in Aigeai in Celicia and many Temples of Goddess Aphrodite in Jerusalem, Aphaca, Mambre, Phoenice, and Baalbek. In 330, Constantine looted the treasures and statues of the Greco-Roman Temples of Greece to decorate his new capital of the empire, Nova Roma (the city of Constantinople), and in 335, went on to sack the Temples of Asia Minor and Palestine and ordered the execution by crucifixion of Gentile priests as “magicians and soothsayers” including the Neoplatonist philosopher Sopater of Apamea.
In 341, Emperor Constantius, the son of Constantine, persecuted “all the soothsayers and the Hellenists,” imprisoning and executing many Gentile Hellenes. In 346, there were large-scale persecutions against the Gentiles in Constantinople, during which the famous orator Libanius was banished as a “magician.” In 343, an edict of Constantius ordered the death penalty for all kinds of worship through “idols,” and a new edict in 354 ordered the closing of all Greco-Roman Temples, some of them to be turned into brothels or gambling rooms, and their priests were executed. In various cities of the empire, libraries began to be burnt, and lime factories were built next to the closed Temples. A large part of sacred Gentile architecture was turned to lime. A further edit in 356 ordered the Temples destroyed altogether and the execution of all “idolators,” and in 357, Constantius outlawed all methods of Divination.
In 359, massive death camps were built in Skythopolis in Syria for the torture and execution of arrested Gentiles from all around the empire. In 361, a new, non-Christian Emperor, Julian, pronounced religious tolerance and called for the restoration of the various pre-Christian cults but was assassinated in 363. In 364, the Emperor Flavius Jovianus ordered the burning of the library of Antioch, an Imperial edict ordered the death penalty for all Gentiles who worshipped their ancestral Gods, and three separate further edicts ordered the confiscation of all properties of Temples and the death penalty for participation in Greco-Roman rituals, even in private. In 365, an Imperial edict forbade Gentile army officers to command Christian soldiers.
In 370, Emperor Valens ordered a tremendous persecution of Gentiles throughout the Eastern Empire. In Antioch, the ex-governor Fidustius, the priests Hilarius and Patricius, and many other non-Christian believers were executed. All friends of Julian, such as his personal physician Orebasius, the Greek medical writer, the Roman historian Sallustius, and Pegasius, the custodian of the Temple of Minerva, were persecuted, and the philosopher Simonides was burnt alive whilst the philosopher Maximus was decapitated. In 372, Emperor Valens ordered the governor of Asia Minor to exterminate the Hellenes and all documents of their wisdom.
In 373, there was a new prohibition on Divination and the introduction by Christians of the slang term “Pagan” (from the Late Latin word pagani, meaning “peasants,” by extension as “rustic,” “unlearned,” “yokel,” or “bumpkin.”) The Greco-Roman polytheists did not refer to themselves as Pagans. The ‘Pagans,’ driven from their places of learning and religious practice and fearing for their lives, had become increasingly rural and provincial relative to the Christian population. Subsequently, Christians denigrated Paganism as “the religion of the peasantry.”
In 375, the Temple of God Asclepius in Epidaurus in Greece was closed. Again in 380, an edict of Emperor Flavius Theodosius decreed Christianity the exclusive religion of the Roman Empire, requiring that “all the various nations, which are subject to our clemency and moderation, should continue in the practice of that religion, which was delivered to the Romans by the divine Apostle Peter.” Non-Christians were referred to as “loathsome, heretics, stupid and blind,” and in another edict, he referred to all those who did not believe in the Christian god as “insane” and outlawed all disagreements with the Church dogmas. Ambrosius, the Bishop of Milan, began to destroy all the Temples in his area, and Christian priests led the mob against the Temple of Goddess Demeter in Eleusis and tried to lynch the hierophants Nestorius and Priskus. The 95-year-old Nestorius ended the Eleusinian Mysteries and announced a predominance of mental darkness over the race.
In 381, Emperor Theodosius removed all rights from any Christians who returned to the Greco-Roman religion. Throughout the Eastern Empire, more Temples and libraries were looted and burned down. Even simple visits to the Hellenic Temples were banned. In Constantinople, the Temple of Goddess Aphrodite was turned into a brothel, and the Temple of Sun and the Temple of Artemis were turned into stables.
Then, in 384, Theodosius ordered the devout Christian Praetorian Prefect, Maternus Cynegius, to cooperate with the local bishops of Northern Greece and Asia Minor to destroy more Hellenic Temples. From 385 to 388, “Saint” Marcellus and his armed gangs scoured the countryside, sacking and destroying hundreds of Hellenic Temples, shrines, and altars, including the Temple of Edessa, the Cabeireion of Imbros, the Temple of Zeus in Apamea, the Temple of Apollo in Dydima, and all the Temples of Palmyra. Many thousands more Gentiles were rounded up and sent to the Skythopolis death camps to be executed.
In 386, Theodosius outlawed the care of sacked Temples, and in 388 outlawed public talks on religious subjects. In 389 and 390, all non-Christian calendar systems were outlawed, and hordes of emboldened desert hermit fanatics flooded into the Middle Eastern and Egyptian cities, destroying statues, altars, libraries, and Temples and lynching the Gentile inhabitants. Theophilus, the Patriarch of Alexandria, began a heavy persecution of Gentiles and turned the Temple of Dionysos into a church, burnt down the city’s Mithraic Temple and then destroyed the Temple of Zeus, and mocked the priests as ludicrous before the laughter of the Christian crowd, before stoning them to death as the mob profaned their sacred images.
In 391, a new edict of Theodosius prohibited visits to Temples and the crime of merely looking at vandalised statues. In Alexandria, Gentiles led by the philosopher Olympius revolted, and street fights broke out before they locked themselves inside the fortified Temple of the God Serapis. Following a violent siege, the Christians occupied the building, demolished it, burnt its famous library, and profaned the Greco-Roman cult images.
In 392, Theodosius outlawed all non-Christian rituals as “Gentile superstitions.” The Mysteries of Samothrace were ended, and their priests slaughtered. In Cyprus, “Saint” Epiphanius and “Saint” Tychon destroyed almost all the Temples of the island and exterminated thousands more Gentiles. The local Mysteries of Goddess Aphrodite were ended. An edict by Theodosius declared, “The ones that won’t obey Pater Epiphanius have no right to keep living on the island.”
In 393, the Pythian Games at Delphi, the Aktia of Nikopolis, and the Olympic Games were outlawed as “idolatry,” and Christians sacked the Temples of Olympia. In 395, two new edicts led to the persecution of Gentiles. The Emperor Flavius Arcadius directed hordes of baptised Goths led by Alaric and the Christian monks to sack and burn the Hellenic cities, including, among others, Dion, Delphi, Megara, Corinth, Pheneos, Argos, Nemea, Lycosoura, Sparta, Messene, Phigaleia and Olympia, and then slaughtered and enslaved the inhabitants, burning all Temples. They burnt down the Eleusinian Sanctuary and had all its priests burnt alive, including the hierophant Mithras Hilarius. In 396, Flavius Arcadius declared Paganism to be treated as high treason, and the few remaining priests and hierophants were imprisoned. Then, in 397, Flavius Arcadius ordered all Temples still erect to be demolished.
In 398, the Fourth Church Council of Carthage prohibited the study of Gentile books by all citizens, their bishops included. Porphyrius, the bishop of Gaza, demolished almost all Temples in his city, leaving only nine to continue functioning. In 399, a new edict from Flavius Arcadius ordered the last of the Temples, almost exclusive now to the depths of the countryside, to be immediately demolished, and, in 400, bishop Nicetas destroyed the oracle of God Dionysus in Vesai and baptised all Gentiles living in the area. In 401, the Christian mob of Carthage lynched Gentiles and destroyed “idols.” In Gaza, the new “Saint” Porphyrius sent his followers to lynch Gentiles and destroyed the remaining nine Temples still active in the city. The Fifteenth Council of Chalcedon ordered all Christians who still retained good family relations with their Gentile relatives to be excommunicated (even after the death of these relatives).
In 405, John Chrysostom sent hordes of grey-clad monks armed with iron bars and clubs to destroy the “idols” in all the cities of Palestine and, in 406, collected funds from rich Christian women to financially support the demolishment of Hellenic Temples. The Temple of Goddess Artemis was destroyed in Ephesus, and in Salamis in Cyprus, “Saint” Epiphanius and “Saint” Eutychius continued the total destruction of Temples and sanctuaries and the persecution of Gentiles. A new edict in 407 once more outlawed all non-Christian acts of worship.
In 408, the Emperor Honorius of the Western Empire and the Emperor Flavius Arcadius of the Eastern Empire came together and ordered all Temple sculptures destroyed or confiscated. Private ownership of the statues was outlawed. The local bishops led new book-burning persecutions, and any judges showing pity for Gentiles were also persecuted. In Alexandria, a few days before the Judaeo-Christian festival of Pascha-Easter, bishop Cyrillis ordered the mob to attack and hack down the beautiful Neoplatonist philosopher Hypatia. The Christians paraded pieces of her body through the city and burnt them together with her books at a place called Cynaron. A fresh persecution started, and all Hellenic priests in North Africa were crucified or burnt alive.
In 416, the inquisitor Hypatius, “The Sword of God,” exterminated the last Gentiles of Bithynia. In Constantinople, all non-Christian army officers, public employees, and judges were dismissed. In 423, Emperor Theodosius II declared that all Gentile religion was nothing more than “demon worship” and ordered those who persisted in practicing it to be imprisoned and then tortured. In 429, the Parthenon on the Acropolis of Athens, holding the Temple of Goddess Athena, was sacked.
Then, in 435, a new edict of Emperor Theodosius II ordered the death penalty for all “heretics.” Judaism was considered the only legal and non-heretical non-Christian religion. In 438, Theodosius II’s new edict incriminated Gentile “idolatry” as the reason for a recent plague. Between 440 and 450, the Christians succeeded in demolishing all Temples, altars, and monuments in Athens and Olympia, and Theodosius II ordered all non-Christian books burned, and all the Temples of the city of Aphrodisias (the city dedicated to Goddess Aphrodite) were demolished. All libraries were burnt down, and the city was renamed Stauroupolis, “City of the Cross.”
Between 457 and 491, among others, the physician Jacobus and the philosopher Gessius of Petra were executed, whilst the Roman politician Severianus of Damascus, the Greek historian Zosimus, and the Greek mathematician and architect Isidorus of Miletus were tortured and imprisoned. The proselytiser Conon and his followers exterminated the last Gentiles on the island of Imbros in the North-East Aegean. The last worshippers of Lavranius Zeus were exterminated in Cyprus. The majority of the Gentiles of Asia Minor were exterminated, despite a desperate revolt against the Emperor and the Church between 482 and 488, and more Hellenic priests hiding ‘underground’ were arrested, publicly humiliated, and tortured, then executed.
By 515, baptisms had become obligatory, even among those who professed to already be Christian. The Emperor Anastasius of Constantinople ordered the massacre of Gentiles in the Arabian city of Zoara and the demolishing of the Temple of the local God Theandrites. In 528, Emperor Jutprada outlawed the alternative Olympian Games of Antioch and ordered the execution by fire, crucifixion, tearing to pieces by wild beasts, or cutting by iron nails of all who practiced “sorcery, divination, magic, or idolatry” and prohibited all teachings by “…the ones suffering from the blasphemous idolatry of the Hellenes”, then, in 529, he outlawed the Athenian Philosophical Academy and had all its property confiscated.
In 532, the fanatical inquisitor-monk Ioannis Asiacus led a crusade against the Gentiles of Asia Minor, put hundreds of Gentiles to death in Constantinople, and bloodily converted them to Christianity in Phrygia, Caria, and Lydia and in 556, inquisitor the Emperor Jutprada ordered Amantius to go to Antioch, to find, arrest, torture, and execute the last Gentiles and to burn all private libraries down. In 562, mass arrests, public humiliations, tortures, imprisonments, and executions were conducted in Athens, Antioch, Palmyra, and Constantinople. Within 35 years of Asiacus’ crusade, 99 churches and 12 monasteries had been built on the sites of demolished Temples.
Between 578 and 582, Christians tortured and crucified almost all the Gentiles around the Eastern Empire and exterminated the last Hellenes of Baalbek, now named Heliopolis. In Antioch, a secret Temple of Zeus was discovered and attacked, causing the priests to commit suicide. The captured Gentiles, including Vice Governor Anatolius, were tortured and sent to Constantinople to be fed to wild beasts and crucified when they were not devoured alive, their mutilated corpses dragged through the streets by Christians, and then thrown unburied in the city dump. Emperor Mauricius conducted further persecutions in 583, and in 590, Christian accusers ‘discovered Pagan conspiracies’ throughout the Eastern Empire, and a new wave of torture and executions erupted.
In 692, the Penthekte Council of Constantinople prohibited the last remains of Calends, Brumalia, Anthesteria, and other Hellenic Dionysian festivals. By 804, the last Gentiles living in Laconia in Greece had still resisted all attempts by Tarasius, the patriarch of Constantinople, to convert them, but they were, in the end, violently converted between 950 and 988 by the Armenian “Saint” Nikon.
This piece from a statue of Emperor Hadrian, which must have measured around 5 meters, was found in present-day south-central Turkey, where Christianity took root early.
There are many more examples of this barbarity, but this provides a basic overview of why I hold my perspectives. The most important factor, beyond the beautiful architectural physicality of their Temples and statues being defiled and destroyed, and the amassed wisdom of their many libraries lost forever, is that the Europeans referred to as “Gentiles”, those massacred throughout this violent centuries-long campaign of anti-European terror—conducted by their fellow European citizens and their leaders from within the same civilisation under the same race of people—methodically severed the European citizens from their Aryan Gods and instead subjected them to a forced conversion to this god of a foreign enemy, and the holy teachings and writings originally compiled by that enemy.
The gospels were originally written by Jews after all, much as the entire Old Testament is a Jewish mythology, that Judaic archetype of Jesus subversively inverting the European values to the values of their racial enemy, and the additional values they designed ‘for export only’, so the newly radicalized cult of Europeans could further impose these alien values among their own race by obscene brutality and blind torments and misery, these traitorous egalitarian submission and pacifism values held now near-unanimously by Europeans in the 21st Century, and held subconsciously, unaware that, though they have—in the general public understanding—dropped that god for atheism, their unthinking moral axiology and puritanism is still entirely Christian (and it certainly is unthinking beyond any rationalizations they can attribute in aftermath), an ethical framework of far more profound significance than the standard assumption by atheist progressives that by Christian ethics we mean merely an organised opposition to pornography, abortion and homosexuality as displayed by American conservative evangelicals, and irrespective of a liberal humanist’s scepticism over the existence of the supernatural and of the divine aspects of Christian monotheism.
The arbitrary value shift has been subsumed, and now, when one talks of being ‘good,’ or ‘moral’—or specifically obsesses over the moral value of an act at all, as Friedrich Nietzsche reminded us in his Twilight of the Idols—we can take it as read that they are in alignment with the morals presented to us in the Ten Commandments, and by the incoherent single-source literary subversions of a radical millenarian cult-leader archetype, the inverse of an Eliot Goldstein creation, this revolutionary fiction—as if morality had no other value-system, and as if nothing worthy had come before, or had been a mere barbarity of its own!—with us only able to view the pre-Christian Greco-Roman civilisation’s societal codes and cultural drives through a 2000-year post-revolutionary Christian moral lens, in unthinking retroprojection—our definitive modern paradigm—the Greco-Roman world now appearing alien to us, or somehow cruel.
As with the writings of Richard Carrier, David Fitzgerald, and David Skrbina, I am convinced that the character of Jesus is mythological, a subversive creation of Paul—and otherwise missing from the historical record (one cannot trust Flavius Josephus as a single external to the Bible source due to the likelihood of forgery)—invented for the purposes of irreversibly undermining an already weakened Roman Empire and to impede the maintenance of its grasp on Judea, manipulating the fundamental attitudes of his hated enemy to the point that their society would fall apart in revolution from the ground up, the universal egalitarianism of the Judaic doctrine of Christianity moulding the slave-classes into furious zealots, violently intolerant of the ‘paganism’ of the Greco-Roman tradition and the accepting pluralism of Roman religious belief, and their centuries of rational philosophy, mathematics, and analytical science, with their statues and sculptures vandalized and smashed, their ancient temples and monuments looted and destroyed, and their vast libraries holding centuries of accumulated wisdom and knowledge burnt to the ground, the precious works and advancements contained in them lost to history, and the people now weakened, tradition and social coherence obliterated, vulnerable to increasing miscegenation and the predations of hostile foreign outsiders, or to Christian-orchestrated purges and bloody mass executions. Ramsey Macmullen and J. N. Hilgarth elaborate on this violent, forced transition of Europeans to Christianity in the fourth to eighth centuries following Emperor Constantine’s proclamation that Christianity was now the one official religion of Rome.
Editor’s note: Below, some excerpts from pages 184-199 of the expanded, August 2024 edition of Benjamin’s The Less Than Jolly Heretic:
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Dear César,
I hope you are well. Congratulations on the completion of the Savitri Devi book project. I’ve already downloaded a digital copy and read through it once. I was wondering if it was now possible to place an order for one of your home-bound editions? If you could tell me the full costs, I shall put the money through to you. I did not want to contact you until now as I wanted to make sure I was financially secure enough to afford the process and shipping costs…
I’m also aware that, sadly, the vast majority of “right-wing” individuals and the groups they cluster to are extremely hostile to manifestations of psychological pain, and ignorant over trauma, and with a particular recent drive to ridicule mental health for the purposes of ‘defeating’ their political ‘leftist’ rivals. As you wrote before, I consider them to be fakes. To be honest, you’re the only National Socialist I have ever encountered online who is at all understanding of madness…
I see nigh-on all these committed White political activists as just as much of a threat as everyone else. If there ever were to achieve substantial power, I would not expect them to impose an order in any way relatable to the worldview of National Socialism, or of any genuine intrinsic loyalty to the great vision of Adolf Hitler, or indeed the West itself…
Occasionally, I’ll check Counter Currents, maybe once every few months. I always regret it. Of all of them, I had expected more of ‘Morgoth’. I saw this today by Stephen Paul Foster. Immediately I was put off but decided to see what he had to say. I paused on the lines:
My friend, whose name was Bill, was not your typical loser who works himself into a violent temper and up and slays his defenseless girlfriend. This particular slayer turned out to be a man of advanced degrees, sophisticated tastes, serious books, and immense erudition. Fluent in four languages, the range and depth of his knowledge was phenomenal. He could converse insightfully about the influence of Kantian ethics on German legal positivism, help you fathom the aesthetics of Arnold Schoenberg’s atonalism, and substantively compare English translations of the pre-Socratic philosophers.
I knew he was hopelessly lost in relativism, ignorance and Christian moral outrage. Even culturally, we could do better than Schoenberg and Kant. Might as well be Bukowski, or at least their Hemmingway. He wrote:
In his trial for the second murder, to convince the jury that Bill’s torture and killing of his girlfriend was not a first degree (capital) murder, his attorneys summoned as defense witnesses “theorists of the mind”—psychologists—to compound the “assumptions” that would explain Bill’s evil; abstractions conjured out of the black box of “mental health” in the form of “disorders” .
Much as I don’t agree with the orthodox medical system or with the term “disorders” either, it seems like Stephen was unwilling to accept that Bill’s behaviour was in any way explainable beyond him being pure evil. I’m not sure how one could ever satisfactorily attempt to pass that off as an intelligent response. He even wrote immediately afterwards, using Poe as an authority, of all people:
By undue profundity, we perplex and enfeeble thought. — Edgar Allan Poe, The Murders in the Rue Morgue
He goes on:
The trial was a formal ritual of “undue profundity.” It attempted to factor in of all of Bill’s personal paraphernalia that had been relevant to the murder. But pondering his potential, intelligence, educational attainment, cultured charm, and his sick, unhappy childhood with divorced parents and a callous father was worse than useless as an effort to explain the elusive why he did what he did. Some people are just no good. It is that simple. They are unredeemable. They belong in Dante’s tenth and lowest circle of Inferno. The more assumptions introduced to explain it, the more confusing (perplexing) it becomes, and less satisfactory the results.
Considering what I said in my previous email, where I was pondering what the Dissident Right would be like in a position of power, this line troubled me:
Stupidity cannot be fixed; neither can evil. Yet, while everyone concedes that stupidity is impossible to remediate, many think that evil is an accident or a breakdown that can be repaired by “experts.”
Great, so first some people are just evil, fundamentally, and no further questions needed, and then we discover that they are also unable to repair from this. I am left wondering what they would propose to do, given this strange superstition. I can understand Bill’s sentencing, and I am not attempting to excuse the acts. However, I can see Stephen potentially applying this mantra further. He seems to be rationalizing for what is—in the near-synonymous to this wording of his own article—a fear of new knowledge. There is the voice of the Elizabethan witch-hunter in him. At what point does his pathetic Christian moralizing stop? What would prevent him expanding his definition of evil? I shudder to think how he would react to mental health in general. I was thinking of the case of Jeffrey Dahmer at the time, and the pieces you wrote on his case. [Editor's note: See e.g., here and here] It’s terrible, but now understandable. I am able to feel pity and sadness all round, knowing it was not dealt with in time.
After all, in the original entry in the un-updated blog he linked here Stephen wrote:
His personal history was indeed a remarkable departure from that of the typical slayer of ex-girlfriends: marks of social and economic privilege, impressive educational credentials, extraordinary intellectual attainment. Bill’s life had been considerably advantaged. His father was a highly successful attorney, first in St Louis, then in California.
He went on:
This man had been my friend for fifteen years. We met when he was a first year law student at St Louis University in 1982. I was a librarian at the law school, teaching part time and finishing a dissertation for a Ph. D. in philosophy. Bill worked as a student in the law school library and after a couple of initial encounters we became friends. Few friendships in my life formed so quickly and with such intensity, in part because we shared a passion for systematic and voracious historical and philosophical reading.
Additionally, I noted the sentence:
To me Bill had always appeared completely normal, even conservative in his personal habits, orientation and behavior.
Then, tellingly:
How could this extraordinary man I had known for so long and for whom I had so much affection, commit such horrible crimes? … How could I not over the years have seen any indications that he was capable of such murderous fits of rage? Did my friendship mean anything genuine to him, or was I a kind of social prop who served a darker pathological purpose? Was there a flaw in my character not to have recognized the malignancy in his?
I was vindicated when I read the lines:
…the attorneys also painted a picture of Bill for the jury that bore little resemblance to the person I had known for so many years. They said Bill was a socially inept, maladjusted loner, a man who had been irreparably damaged by an indifferent and emotionally distant father. About his upbringing I have no direct knowledge, but I do remember over the years how consistently he spoke with respect and admiration of his father[emphasis by Ed. - cf. the Dahmer case], particularly his basic decency and integrity.
The conclusion I drew from this was that Stephen was awed by Bill’s intelligent and academic nature, which was in fact all that really seems to have interested him, and he did not indeed know Bill that well, or a great deal about Bill’s father either, bar more credentialism, having never had the compassion or emotional intelligence to notice any warning signs of repressed psychological pain. Rather than a fairy-tale “evil,” I am concerned reading that he is so overcome with righteous rage at the crimes against two women that he cannot bear to wonder more about Bill’s childhood experiences with his father.
All he notes is Bill’s successes and erudition. I find the presumption terrible. Given the way you have exposed in your writings and links how much abuse victims idolize their abusive parents, and how the self-repressive mentality of continuing to do so is a sure-fire route to them taking out their rage on others, I thought it was not unbelievable that this indeed was the cause of Bill’s horrific criminal actions.
Rather than soaking up facts about Schoenberg and feeling smug in having a charming token ‘highly intelligent friend,’ perhaps Stephen could have listened to him, or had the perception to see between the lines. Despite his PhD in philosophy, his argument seems to stem more from his livid social embarrassment at having been ‘caught out’, especially on account of the fact that he seems to have considered Bill a good catch, almost as a vicarious academic status booster, basking in the glow of his knowledge, and yet another very able scholar himself, perhaps observable now, given his protestive elucidation, this sounder moral quality, rising.
In a nutshell, this is generally the sort of reason I keep clear of Counter Currents and the Dissident Right. They infuriate me.
Well, I’m off to lift my weights and prepare some soup, I shall look forward to ordering your bound translation next week. I hope you have a good day.
In my case, as I recount in Letter to mom Medusa, shortly after I tried to tell the psychoanalyst in his office what my parents were doing to me at home, Giuseppe Amara prescribed that they bombard my brain with the most incisive neuroleptic (even though I had no psychiatric symptoms)! Although it may seem incredible to unsuspecting readers, this is precisely how psychiatry works: the client, the father or mother, who requests his services is always right, and “he who pays the piper calls the tune” (children can never pay the so-called mental health professional).
