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Tag: Biography

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Sex So-called saints

Augustine, 4

BOOK V: Going to Rome and then to Milan

I want to speak now in the presence of my God of that twenty-ninth year of my life… Night and day my mother offered you for me the sacrifice of her heart, flooded with tears.

My mother, who wept bitterly at my departure and accompanied me to the seashore… wanted me to stay or to take her with me…

What a mother!… You made the rivers of tears that my mother shed for me dry up, watering the earth beneath her face every day. She was reluctant to return home without me, but that very night I hoisted the sails, leaving her alone crying and praying… You didn’t do what she asked of you then, so you could make of me what she always asked of you…

As soon as I arrived in Rome, a bodily illness brought me to the brink of the grave… Had it happened, where would I have gone but to the fire and torments that my deeds deserved according to the justice of your law… My mother would never have recovered from such a wound. I have no words to express the love she had for me.

But that wasn’t healthy love. For those who have read my Letter to mom Medusa, it is like believing that the love my mother felt for me as a teenager was healthy!

That chaste and sober widow, so given to almsgiving, servant of your saints, who never left a day without offering at your altar, went to church twice a day morning and evening, never missing a day.

Pages later Augustine confesses:

I believed that your only-begotten Son and our Saviour was something like the shining body of your substance for our salvation. I felt nothing else of him but what I could imagine in my vanity. I thought that with such a nature he couldn’t be born of the Virgin Mary without mingling with the flesh…

The Manichaeans said that the books of the New Testament had been falsified by persons unknown, who wished to impose the Jewish law on the Christian law…

I arrived in Milan and went to see Bishop Ambrose… I refused to entrust the cure of my soul’s illnesses to these philosophers, in whose books the saving name of Christ didn’t appear. I opted, therefore, to become a catechumen in the Catholic Church.

 

BOOK VI: His mother catches up with him in Milan

By this time my mother had already come to my side. Her piety had given her the strength to follow me over sea and land…

Her heart wasn’t startled or troubled with joy when she heard I had done much of what she tearfully asked me to do. I saw myself free from falsehood, though I hadn’t yet reached the truth. Sure as she was that you would grant her the rest—for you had promised her all—she answered me, full of serenity and with a heart full of confidence, ‘by my faith in Christ, I hope to see you a faithful Catholic before I leave this life’.

This is what she told me. I ran with more solicitude to the church, hanging on Ambrose’s lips. She loved that man as an angel of God… She loved him greatly because he could lead me to salvation. [Ambrose for his part] was full of praise for her when he saw me, congratulating me on having such a mother.

Then Augustine tells us of his new friendships:

I had met Alypius on my arrival in Rome and we became such good friends that he came with me to Milan. He didn’t want to be separated from me… Nebridius too… had come to Milan for the sole purpose of being with me and thus be able to search for truth and wisdom… I was now thirty years old…

I thought I would be very unhappy if I lacked the caresses of a woman… Alypius was not in favour of my marrying… He, for his part, was, in that city very chaste… As for me… I was wounded by the disease of the flesh…

Alypius couldn’t quite understand how I, whom he truly admired, could be so attached to those sexual pleasures… I wanted to marry at all costs… I had already asked for the hand of a girl who was almost two years younger so that she could get married.

A cute nymphet! (today it would be called paedophilia). But Augustine entered into a concubinage with a woman older than the precocious brat:

And she left me the natural son I had had with her… I couldn’t hold out for the two-year term.

An idealised painting of ‘Saint’ Monica and her grandson, Adeodatus: Augustine’s only son.

Categories
Homosexuality So-called saints

Augustine, 3

Roman sculptural group showing Castor and Pollux or, according to other authors, Orestes and Pylades.

BOOK IV: He becomes a teacher of rhetoric at Tagaste

For the space of nine years—from the age of nineteen to the age of twenty-eight—I deceived myself and deceived others… We were after the vanities of popular glory, the applause of the theatre, the public contests, the contests of hay wreaths, the games of spectacles, and the intemperance of concupiscence.

These were times when Augustine made a living by rhetoric, which he himself calls ‘the art of deception’, and lived with a woman; times when he took part in a recital of dramatic verse. Let us remember that the full title of his future magnum opus, unlike the way publishers abbreviate the copies we buy in bookshops, reads De civitate Dei contra pagans. In his Confessions he speaks of

…Venus, Saturn or Mars. We are led to believe that man—who is flesh and blood and proud rottenness—is guiltless.

But in his hometown a great misfortune befell him. His soulmate, a young lad of his age, fell ill and passed away. ‘My soul could not live without him’, Agustín confesses, ‘weeping flooded me’. See image above. Interestingly, Augustine uses Greco-Roman imagery when he writes: ‘Orestes and Payloads, who wanted to die for each other, or both of them together, because they considered it the worst death to live apart from each other’. He adds:

I was his second self. How well the poet expressed it when he said that his friend ‘was half his soul’ [Horace, Odes, I, 3,8]. I felt that my soul and his were but one in two bodies. I was horrified at having to live because I didn’t want to live half-heartedly. And perhaps this was also the reason for my fear of dying, so that the one whom I had loved so much would not die completely.

Was Augustine bisexual? Throughout the centuries Christian commentators don’t want to see it. That is one of the problems not only with biographies from Christian pens, but of history in general: those who write provide us with a Christian or neochristian slant. In my library there came to be three editions of the Confessions but in none of them did the translator, or whoever prefaced the book, suggested that these words of Augustine would evoke the homoeroticism of Orestes and Pylades, or Castor and Pollux.

I carried my soul torn to pieces and dripping with blood, a weight that neither I myself was able to carry, nor did I know where to put it. Neither the charm of the woods, nor the soft perfumes of a garden could soothe it. Nor did I find peace in song, or play, nor in splendid banquets, nor in the delights of bed and home, nor even in books and verses. Even light itself was a horror to me, and everything that wasn’t what he was, was unbearable and hateful. My only rest was moaning and tears, and when I stopped crying, I felt the heavy burden of my misery on my back.

As a defence mechanism a few pages later he confesses: ‘My greatest rest and consolation was to solace myself with the other friends… We all had something to teach the others and each learned from the others… Our souls melted together and into one’.

A pagan of the time might have read between the lines a homosexual relationship in what Augustine just said about his lachrymose agony, but as I wrote above the commentators on the Confessions never suggest it. Even my admired authors Eduardo Velasco and William Pierce did not understand the homoeroticism of ancient Greece and Rome.

Categories
So-called saints Stefan Zweig

Augustine, 1

Augustine (354-430) was not only a man of his time like the previous ones in this series. Of the five mentioned, this African author had the most significant influence on the civilisation of the white man (he was, for example, the most widely read author in Spain). I will not speak here of his magnum opus, The City of God. His infernal doctrine, which wreaked so much havoc in my young life, is already denounced in several parts of my autobiography. I will confine myself to his most popular book.

It will be remembered that in my article on Goethe I said that Zweig had written about Augustine, but I omitted what he wrote about this so-called Father of the Church. Here is the full passage:

Classical antiquity had as yet no inkling of these mysterious paths. Caesar and Plutarch, the ancients who describe themselves, are content to deal with facts, with circumstantial happenings, and never dream of showing more than the surface of their hearts.

Before he can throw light into his soul, a man must be aware of its existence, and this awareness does not begin until after the rise of Christianity. St Augustine’s Confessions breaks a trail for inward contemplation. Yet the gaze of the famous divine was directed, not so much inward, as towards the congregation he hoped to edify by the example of his own conversion. His treatise was a confession to the community, a model Confession; it was purposeful, teleological; it was not an end in itself, comprising its own answer and its own meaning. Many centuries were to pass before Rousseau (that remarkable man who was a pioneer in so many fields) was to draw a self-portrait for its own sake.

But in previous pages Zweig had observed the obvious: Rousseau’s confessions were not honest either, since he never repented of his sin of having thrown all his children into the orphanage. Precisely because of this sort of thing Zweig said that autobiography is the most difficult of literary arts: one must betray oneself if one wants to tell the pure truth about one’s life, a truth that neither Augustine nor Rousseau really confessed for lack of insight, intellectual honesty and nobility of soul.

The biggest problem I see with the editions that have been made of the Confessions is that they have been prefaced by Christians, including Penguin Books. This bias makes the unsuspecting reader unaware that the accepted wisdom about the book is a myth. There was no such thing as his very famous conversion weeping in the garden of his house. He was always a Christian as I will demonstrate in this article divided into more than one blog posts.

By convention, the thirteen chapters of the Confessions are called books instead of chapters by the publishers:
 

BOOK I: Augustine’s childhood

In this first chapter Augustine mentions his wet nurses. It is pertinent to note that, in referring to his whining as an infant, he already sees it as sinful. The white man’s current seemingly terminal sense of guilt is due to having secularised the Christian notion of sin (now at ethnosuicidal levels throughout the West). Augustine speaks of ‘you’ to his god, which all editions capitalise, ‘God’; he doesn’t use the ‘thou’ when referring to this deity in the Confessions: a sort of epistle to the Christian providence by this Punic theologian.

‘Who shall make me understand the sin of my childhood, since before thee no man is without sin, even a child of a single day on earth?’ Three pages later he confesses: ‘I was still a boy when I began to invoke you as my help and refuge…, I was small, I begged you with no small affection that they wouldn’t whip me at school. Sometimes, for my own good, you didn’t listen to me, and I was laughed at not only by my elders but also by my parents’.

Augustine was unaware, as the vast majority of religious people still are, that the idea of ‘God’ is a sublimation of the parental image. In this anecdote we see that the child Augustine was the victim of beatings at school and of mockery of these beatings in his own home. Since the idea of the deity is a projection, it is not surprising that now, talking in written soliloquies to his parental introject, he tells this ‘deity’ that ‘for his own good’ he didn’t listen to his pleas. Alice Miller calls this poisonous pedagogy in one of her books, translated into English under the title For Your Own Good.

And why was he beaten? On the next page he tells us: ‘I was whipped because I played ball…’ Clearly, the teachers were childhood-breakers, but Augustine doesn’t identify with the wounded child inside him but with the perpetrator: ‘I sinned, Lord, by disobeying my parents and teachers’.[1] The religious introjects had begun in his early childhood:

I was still a child when I heard of the eternal life promised to us by our God, who humbled himself and came down to our pride. And from that time I was marked with the sign of the cross, and from my mother’s womb I was given a taste of his salt.

Then he writes: ‘With what fervour of spirit and with what faith I came to my mother and mother of us all, your Church’ (my emphasis: keep in mind that he is always writing to his god in this epistle-book called the Confessions). He continues:

In truth, I already believed, and my mother believed, and all the house believed, except my father, who, however, could never overcome in me the pious right my mother had over me that I shouldn’t cease to believe in Christ, in whom he didn’t yet believe. For my mother wanted you, my God, to be my father more than he did.

The next page already shows the enormous cognitive distortion that Christianity caused him from an early age: ‘Being such a small boy I was already a great sinner’, and shortly afterwards: ‘I still don´t fully understand today why I abhorred Greek literature’. As I read the following pages I couldn’t restrain myself from writing at the bottom of the page, ‘If what Augustine says is a sin, Tubby of Little Lulu is a sinner!’ Even common curiosity in the Greco-Roman world was sinful:

But my sin was to seek in myself and other creatures, not in him, pleasure, beauty, and truth, thus falling into pain, confusion.

 

____________

[1] What healed Alice Miller of her depressions, she confesses, was to identify with the wounded child inside her; not with the perp.

Categories
Autobiography Literature

Goethe

If Cervantes seems to be the central figure of Spanish literature, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe appears to be the central figure of German literature.

Goethe’s most famous work is Faust, one of the great works of world literature. Its plot reminds us of Satan’s wager with the god of the Jews in the Book of Job. In Goethe’s novel, Mephistopheles makes a pact with God: he says he can divert God’s favourite human being (Faust), striving to learn everything that can be known, away from moral purposes. It also reminds me of the plot of Wagner’s Tannhauser. I have already said on this site that when I first saw the opera I was disappointed because it put Christianity triumphing over paganism (the Virgin Mary over the Goddess Venus). Cervantes and Shakespeare didn’t play into the hands of the Church, and neither did Goethe. But it is clear that like Wagner they never escaped Christian mythology.

I would not like to focus on Goethe’s masterpiece but on what was, at the time, the most popular: The Sorrows of Young Werther (Die Leiden des jungen Werthers): a semi-autobiographical epistolary novel. Considered the book that initiated Romanticism, it brought the young Goethe worldwide fame.

The main character of the novel, Werther, is a sensitive and passionate young man who falls madly in love with Charlotte. In real life, Goethe had fallen in love with a young woman named Charlotte (and in real life, in Manchester, I myself fell in love with a Charlotte who never returned my love!).

So influential was that novel, which Goethe had written in his early twenties, that towards the end of his life travelling to Weimar and visiting the master of German literature was a ritual. In one of his writings Goethe himself mentioned that his youthful suffering was partly the inspiration for the creation of the novel, although unlike the novelist Werther takes his own life at the moment when the midnight bells ring in Wahlheim. Most of the visitors he had in his old age had only read this book and only knew the writer from this novel among all those he wrote! It was very clear what a great impact The Sorrows of Young Werther had on young people in love and depressed.

I wonder what subliminal clues Werther had that a whole generation of young Europeans caught that fever to the point of dressing like the character: with a yellow vest, blue jacket and brown boots. Even some two thousand young Europeans took their own lives! ‘The bullet had entered above the right eye, blowing out the brains’ I read on the penultimate page of the copy of the novel I own. So much did the novel in the form of an epistle catch fire to Europe, that the small town where the fictional events took place became a sort of place of pilgrimage. Napoleon himself carried a copy of Werther in his field backpack!

Already in the 20th century my mother confessed to me that in her early teens this book had made a great impression on her. In my previous article I said that almost all the literary content of the Spanish writers of the Golden Age tasted rancid to me. It is curious to mention what I wrote some years ago on the inside back cover of my copy of Werther (my translation):

Wow!

I barely read the first few words of the book and couldn’t continue. I’d have to see a German film of the novel—if there is one. What matters is that they were committing suicide because ‘In those days parents didn´t listen to their children’, [the words of] Mom.

She didn’t tell me that in relation to Werther, but to a bitter experience she had when she was taken as a child to see The Blue Bird on the big screen: the only occasion, in her entire life, when an indirect criticism of either of her parents came out.

To be frank, I don’t think a teenager who has been treated well by his parents would be capable of committing suicide just because of a love setback. There must something wrong in the lad’s psyche, but to find out we have to dynamite the taboos of the age whose Judeo-Christian commandment to honour the parent has deeply permeated the secular world (Alice Miller has written on this secularization in The Body Never Lies).

That’s why this kind of old literature tastes rancid. Unlike not only the times of Goethe, but the times of my mother (who must have been a little girl when the translated The Blue Bird was released in the country), in this era it is already possible to speak crudely about how we were mistreated at home. So, if the least direct criticism of her parents never came out of my mother’s mouth except for the above quote (which came out indirectly when she was already an old woman), we can imagine on whom she unloaded her pent-up anger. All this has to do with Werther precisely because of the literary genre that I would like people like Benjamin Power and myself to inaugurate.

The following seven paragraphs I had already posted on this site in January 2015 under the heading ‘New Literary Genre’, but they are worth quoting again:

Stefan Zweig wrote in Adepts in Self-Portraiture that when Western literature began with Hesiod and Heraclitus it was still poetry, and of the inevitability of a decline in the mythopoetic talent of Greece when a more Aristotelian thought evolved. As compensation for this loss, says Zweig, modern man obtained with the novel an approach to a science of the mind. But the novel genre doesn’t represent the ultimate degree of self-knowledge:

Autobiography is the hardest of all forms of literary art. Why, then, do new aspirants, generation after generation, try to solve this almost insoluble problem?

[For a] honest autobiography […] he must have a combination of qualities which will hardly be found once in a million instances. To expect perfect sincerity on self-portraiture would be as absurd as to expect absolute justice, freedom, and perfection here on earth. No doubt the pseudo-confession, as Goethe called it, confession under the rose, in the diaphanous veil of novel or poem, is much easier, and is often far more convincing from the artistic point of view, than an account with no assumption of reserve. Autobiography, precisely because it requires not truth alone, but naked truth, demands from the artist an act of peculiar heroism; for the autobiographer must play the traitor to himself.

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. Classical antiquity had as yet no inkling of these mysterious paths. Caesar and Plutarch, the ancients who describe themselves, are content to deal with facts, with circumstantial happenings, and never dream of showing more than the surface of their hearts.

Zweig then devotes a long paragraph to St Augustine’s Confessions, the thinker I abhor the most of all Western tradition and whose theology about Hell caused massive psychological damage in my own life (see Hojas Susurrantes). Then he wrote:

Many centuries were to pass before Rousseau (that remarkable man who was a pioneer in so many fields) was to draw a self-portrait for its own sake, and was to be amazed and startled at the novelty of his enterprise. Stendhal, Hebbel, Kierkegaard, Tolstoy, Amiel, the intrepid Hans Jaeger, have disclosed unsuspected realms of self-knowledge by self-portraiture. Their successors, provided with more delicate implements of research, will be able to penetrate stratum by stratum, room by room, farther and yet farther into our new universe, into the depths of the human mind.

This quote explains why I decided to devise a hybrid genre between the self-portraiture that betrays the author and thus penetrates beyond the strata pondered by Romantic autobiographers. And it is precisely because of this that, if we have tried to reach this level, the previous stages of confessional literature already seem rancid to us, Werther included: they don’t get to the heart of the matter.

That said, there are a few biographical vignettes about Goethe that I wouldn’t want to overlook. For example, he dearly loved his sister Cornelia, the only surviving of his siblings (I will allude to this below in the context of Goethe’s own children).

Johann Kaspar, Goethe’s father had been a well-to-do scholar, and the letters of Katharina Elizabeth, his mother are quite readable. Goethe studied in Leipzig in enviable times when machine noises weren’t yet audible (I write this over the intolerable sound of air conditioning given the temperature outside my study):

A similar image could be added about Weimar, where Goethe took up residence after the publication of Werther. It was in the old Weimar court theatre that the first Goethean dramas, that he directed for a quarter of a century, were presented.

The trip to beautiful Italy had been pivotal in Goethe’s education. In the image above we see Goethe at the window of his home in Rome, a drawing by Tischbein. It was a time when St. Peter’s stood as the tallest building in the city. As I have said, it is impossible for a ‘man of his time’ not to be influenced by these architectural realities. And Goethe was, like Dante, Cervantes and Shakespeare, a man of his time. Only Nietzsche would rebel against the Christian era, but this is another matter altogether.

Goethe even visited Sicily. I, who like Nietzsche am a premature birth of a future not yet verified, when I travel to Europe I notice the purity of the Aryan in the faces (let’s say: the difference between the Italian near Switzerland and the Sicilian). As a man of his time Goethe noticed other things. On January 25, 1788 he wrote to a duke: ‘The great scenes of nature opened my mind and took away my wrinkles; I created for myself an opinion on the value of landscape painting, and saw Claude Lorrain and Poussin with different eyes; with Hackert, who came to Rome, I spent fourteen days in Tivoli’.

I am intrigued that Goethe’s wife Christiane, whom he had married in 1806, had five children with him of whom only the first survived. It reminds me of what Lloyd deMause wrote in several of his books: at that time babies died mainly from maternal neglect.

The surviving August not only had to live in his father’s shadow, but he died two years before Goethe did! I wonder how he was treated by his father: a kind of question that conventional biographers would never ask. From my point of view, that of the new literary genre, that question is more vital than, say, writing about the friendship between Goethe and the poet Schiller (when the latter died, Goethe felt deprived of the one person to whom he had recognised equal intellectual value). I would prefer to know, of the four children who died of undetermined causes a few days after their births, which reminds me of Goethe’s missing siblings, how were those babies treated?

Another fact that reflects that I am not a man of my time is that one of Goethe’s late inspirational women was the nineteen-year-old Ulrike, who was so afraid of sexual intercourse that she would become canonical: something unthinkable in the Aryan state I imagine, where women will have as much obligation to procreate as men to fight ethnocidal wars (like Hitler’s Master Plan East).

Incidentally, it was some words from Faust that inspired me in a phrase that in years past I have posted on this site: Only the eternal feminine leads to the Absolute.

Categories
Axiology Inquisition Literature

Cervantes

I wouldn’t like to start talking about Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra without saying something about my previous post, ‘Lebensborn’.

See my recent exchange with Greg Johnson (screenshot here). In his podcast with Joel Davis, Johnson mentioned the term ‘unnecessary suffering’ to substantiate why he rejects Nazism. Since my sacred words are Eliminate all unnecessary suffering, as can be seen in my latest books which I will translate, I feel compelled to clarify this point.

The sufferings that the Third Reich inflicted on many Caucasoids were necessary, not unnecessary. It is impossible to conquer an entire continent for the pure Aryan—think of Eduardo Velasco’s essay on the Heartland—without inflicting suffering on the ancient aborigines. If the normie Matt Walsh was recently able to glorify the Anglo-Saxon conquest of America to the detriment of the indigenous, why not also glorify the plans to conquer the Heartland for the pure Aryan? If the sufferings of the Amerindians were necessary for the creation of the US, why not see that the sufferings of the ‘half-gook’, as Maurice calls them, were also necessary? After all, the Anglo-Saxon’s intervention to abort Hitler’s Master Plan East has been so catastrophic that the white man is likely to become extinct!

As my books have yet to be translated, the distinction between necessary suffering and unnecessary suffering is unclear. But the axiological gulf that separates me from white nationalists might be better understood if I were to begin to offer my views on the protagonists of Christian civilisation. And since I have dedicated myself to writing in Spanish, what better than to begin with the author of Don Quixote?

Cervantes at the battle of Lepanto, by Augusto Ferrer-Dalmau.

Unlike me—an obscure writer who except for the warm opinions of some visitors living in other countries lives in almost absolute isolation—, Cervantes was a man of his time; so much so that in the neighbourhood of Madrid where he lived other great writers of the time such as Lope de Vega and Quevedo resided. But to understand the writers of the so-called golden age of Spanish literature, it is necessary to contextualize them in their historical moment.

The maximum aspiration of Charles V was to create a Catholic empire: a dream that could never be fulfilled because in his dominions the germ of the Protestant rupture was born. And something similar could be said of Philip II, who tried to make England bend the knee before Rome.

Although of my middle and high school teachers, the only one I remember with respect is Soledad Anaya Solórzano, my literature teacher (who was also the teacher of Octavio Paz, Nobel Prize winner in literature), I confess that despite being high culture, I reject Spanish literature including its classics.

The reason is simple. No one in Spanish literature has challenged the dogma. Exceptions like Eduardo Velasco are exceptions that confirm the rule (and had it not been for me, his work in the blogosphere would have been lost after his death). Why should we admire a literature that, although magnificent in form, has been unable to escape the Christian / neochristian matrix? Let’s recall one of the essays on this site in which the German Albus said that the first great genius to compose degenerate music was Johann Sebastian Bach (see e.g., pages 149-155 of Daybreak). Of course, this criticism could be extended to many other protagonists of Christian civilisation: since it was written by ‘men of their time’, the most popular European and Western literature never question the paradigm in turn.

It is true that, like Shakespeare, Cervantes didn’t play into the hands of the Church and from that point of view their secularized literary output in an era of religious intolerance had its value. But in this age, which requires fanatic priests to unplug whites from the matrix that destroys them, it is literature that already tastes rancid to us. Moreover, there were contemporaries of Cervantes who did play into the hands of the Church. The moralizing content of Mateo Alemán’s work, for example, was ideologically in line with the spirit of the Counter-Reformation; and let’s not even talk about the mystical painting of El Greco.

To give a very obvious example. Neither Cervantes nor other so-called giants of the Spanish Golden Age could have criticised the Church in times when it was celebrating autos de Fe. Throughout the 16th century the Inquisition acted with increasing harshness to repress any outbreak of the so-called Protestant heresy. Those condemned to death were publicly burned alive in an auto de Fe, and there was clemency only in case of recantation, when they were executed by garrote before being burned.

From the POV of the sacred words, which includes not only the 4 words but the 14 words, what real value can literature from ‘men of their time’ have, to use Savitri Devi’s expression?

Philip II, King of Spain when Cervantes was alive, with his son contemplating an auto de Fe in Valladolid in which members of the newly discovered Protestant communities of Seville and Valladolid were burned.

What do I gain by reading Lope de Vega, the ‘monster of nature’ as Cervantes called him due to his abundant literary production, if due to circumstances he was unable to criticise the burning of Protestants in Valladolid? In other words: if someone fights the current paradigm, he also fights his art, be it Lope’s or Bach’s. Although we cannot blame the artist for his circumstances—in the 1590 edition of Cervantes’ first novel we can read on the title page Impresa con licencia de la Santa Inquisición (Printed with license from the Holy Inquisition)—the priest of the sacred words sees little, if any, value coming from the pens of artists whose minds were chained to the worldview of the time.

The Spanish Visigoths had begun to interbreed since the 7th century (see William Pierce’s Who We Are). Compared to the already mixed ethnicity of the Spanish a thousand years later, only the defeat of the Invincible Armada by Elizabeth’s England tipped the balance to a more Aryan side of Europe. Although the English were also infected with Christian ethics and capable of bringing mixed couples to the marriage altar, by the time of Cervantes and Shakespeare their ‘ethics’ hadn’t metastasized to the incredible anti-white levels we see in today’s UK.

In this new series I will be talking about other protagonists of the Christian civilisation from the point of view of the contemporary priest of the sacred words (in plain English, National Socialism after 1945).

Categories
Art Aryan beauty Music

Tchaikovsky

A brief word about Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky.

In the comments section, the day before yesterday I spoke of the need to ban all kinds of dances in vogue in the Gomorrah world, even if they are heterosexual Gomorrahites: dances that involve such degenerate music that they make one want to flee the West as much as Lot fled from Gomorrah.

To understand a contemporary Lot it is necessary to be musically educated from early childhood. Since I was a very small child my father, a composer, put on the record player so I could listen to works by Mussorgsky and Stravinsky. So Russian orchestral music was my first love. Already at the age of six, I went with my mother to see Sleeping Beauty on the big screen, whose musical score, in which Walt Disney used Tchaikovsky, is magnificent. Thus I would like to say a few words about this composer.

What is most striking is that in 1854 his mother died during a cholera epidemic: a brutal blow when Tchaikovsky was fourteen years old. Almost forty years later, it is rumoured, Tchaikovsky drank water during another cholera epidemic without boiling it, knowing it was forbidden. How he was treated as a child we will not know, although I would like to know if any biographies speak of what his early years at home were like. All I know is that, according to a booklet by Javier Alfaya, Tchaikovsky ‘always kept open the wounds of his childhood and adolescence’. The fact that his brother Modest also became a homosexual makes me suspect some toxic atmosphere in the family dynamics of his childhood and adolescence.

But the current era that inverts values to the extent of glorifying Gomorrah, when speaking of Tchaikovsky omits extremely important data, such as the fact that in 1867 he fell in love with a woman, the singer Désirée Artôt, whom he wanted to marry. This fact belies the fashion of calling Tchaikovsky ‘homosexual’ in this era of glorification of inverts. Considering this simple fact he was bisexual.

True, Tchaikovsky didn’t understand the music of Wagner, who was my favourite composer even when I was an anti-Nazi normie. But he loved Italy and especially Florence, which I have visited. I like that Tchaikovsky rejected Brahms’ music: ‘His music doesn´t burn with the fire of genuine feeling, it lacks poetry’ and is ‘just empty space’. And I am also pleased that he despaired of Beethoven’s quartets (well into the 1970s I made an enormous effort to understand them but even now I find them very depressing). Of Bach, Tchaikovsky simply said that he was interested in him but didn’t consider him a great genius; once again, just what I feel.

I don’t want to say much in a very brief note except to add that my favourites of Tchaikovsky’s are the Nutcracker Suite, the Fourth Symphony and the first movement of his Piano Concerto No. 1.

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'Hitler' (book by Brendan Simms) Mein Kampf (book)

Hitler, 51

The principal method through which Hitler sought to re­establish control over the party was through ideological purity and coherence. He did this the hard way, seeking to achieve uniformity across a range of highly contentious issues. Hitler could not simply impose his views: he had to cajole and persuade. This was done through speeches, declarations, debates and, from the end of 1925, through the publication in succession of the two volumes of Mein Kampf. These were only partly written from scratch at Landsberg and after his release, the rest being cobbled together from various articles and instructions, and even from drafts dating back to before the Putsch. Much of Mein Kampf originated as a direct response to the political events of 1925-6, and Hitler used the text to lay down the law, at least implicitly, not just to the membership but also to his internal critics. For this reason the book needs to be seen in the context of the many contemporaneous statements he made before and after publication…

Much of what Hitler said in Mein Kampf and his various speeches rehearsed familiar themes from the time before the Putsch. There was the same focus on the forces of domestic fragmentation. Hitler inveighed once more against the ‘mendacity of these so-called federalist circles’ who were only promoting their ‘dirty’ party interest. He continued to fulminate about the disintegrative effect of Marxism, and to lament the alienation of German workers. Hitler rose to new heights of invective against the German middle class, whom he dismissed as ‘philistines’, ‘bourgeois boobies’, who were so befuddled by the ‘fug of associational meetings’ that they were unable to transcend the ‘usual jingoism of our bourgeois world of today’. He contrasted the robustness of the SA, who knew that ‘terror can only be broken by terror’, with ‘bourgeois wimpishness’. Hitler also trenchantly restated his objections to parliamentarism and electoral politics, and western democracy in general, concluding that the ‘majority principle’ amounted to ‘the demolition of the Führer idea as such’.
 

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Editor’s note: In the American racial right I have never seen a critical attitude to democracy, which we could define as the secular religion of the ‘divine right of the people’. Nor do we know a critique of the bourgeoisie. Fortunately, today’s progressive religion is so delusional that even the rich of Pacific Palisades in California are, at this very hour, being punished by the loss of their mansions. The time will come when the whole American nation will go up in flames, when its precious dollar will collapse (a crisis that, fortunately, will also affect the rest of the degenerate, Mammon-worshipping West)…
 

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The main danger of Germany’s internal weakness was that it made her vulnerable to external attack, especially from the enemies that Hitler feared most: international capitalism, Anglo-America and the associated forces of world Jewry. Hitler critiqued the economics of inequality and exploitation, the ‘jarring juxtaposition of poor and rich so close to each other’, the ‘role of money’, in which ‘money [became] God’ and ‘the false God of Mammon was offered incense’. He became increasingly convinced that ‘the heaviest battle to be fought was no longer against enemy peoples but against international capital’. Here Hitler insisted more than ever on his earlier distinction between national capital, which the state could control, and pernicious international capital, which controlled states or sought to do so. One of its principal instruments of subjugation was revolutionary Marxism, which undermined national economies, societies and governments. Others were economic immiseration and racial contamination, both of which also reduced the capacity of nations to resist international takeover. For Hitler, maintaining an independent national economy was therefore absolutely central to the defence of national identity, sovereignty and racial purity. Hitler violently objected to international capitalism even when it was not Jewish, but he assigned the Jews a particularly malevolent role within the global capitalist system; this remained the principal root of his anti­semitism. In Mein Kampf, as in his earlier rhetoric, Jews were inseparably linked with money and the whole capitalist system as ‘traders’, as ‘middlemen’, who levied an ‘extortionate rate of interest’ for their ‘financial deals’. Jewry, he claimed, aimed at nothing less that the ‘financial domination of the entire economy’. Yet because ‘a Bolshevized world can only survive if it encompasses everything’, a ‘single independent state’—such as a revived Germany—could bring the whole juggernaut to a standstill…

Hitler returned to this theme in Mein Kampf, when he said that ‘for purely emotional reasons one should not show the masses two or more enemies, because this would otherwise lead to a complete fragmentation of their striking power’…

Hitler’s rhetoric was thus far more anti-capitalist than anti-communist: references to Dawes in his speeches dwarfed those to Lenin at this time. He continued to fear Bolshevism, not in the form of the Red Army, but principally as a virus which would render Germany ripe for takeover by the forces of international capitalism.

Worse still, Hitler claimed, international capitalism sought to destroy the German bloodline by ‘contamination through Negro blood on the Rhine’ (an allusion to colonial soldiers in the French forces of occupation) in order to ‘begin the bastardization of the European continent from its central point’. Contamination of the blood, he warned, could only be removed in the course of ‘centuries, if at all’. In this narrative, German mass emigration took on a particular importance. Hitler saw it as part of a concerted plan to destroy the biological substance of German people going back centuries. ‘The German people had to send out their sons,’ Hitler lamented, with the result that for some three hundred years, Germans had served as ‘beasts of burden for other nations’ and had moved to ‘Australia, Central America and South America’. He would return to this theme over and over in the years to come.

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David Irving Heinrich Himmler

True Himmler, 10

Early photo of Heinrich Himmler with his two brothers.

HUMBLED BY DEFEAT, RUINED BY REPARATIONS, the future for Germany looked bleak. A nameless gloom assailed Himmler, the military reservist. On November 7, 1919 he and Lou fetched helmets; he already had ‘the King’s tunic,’ as he called it, explaining, I’m a soldier and always will be.’ ‘Gebhard, Lou, and I talked some more,’ he wrote, ‘about how fine it would have been to go off to war together. Perhaps then I wouldn’t be here today – one fighting heart fewer… In a few years’ time I may yet go off to war and do battle. I’m looking forward to the war of liberation,’ he hinted, ‘and if there’s still a sound limb left on me I’ll be there.’ ‘Today,’ he wrote on December 1, 1919, ‘I’ve got a uniform on again. It’s the only suit I love to wear…’

Now nineteen, he began thinking of emigrating – to Russia. Back in Ingolstadt for a day, he talked it over with his parents. ‘There’s no place like home,’ he wrote. ‘Went for an evening stroll and a long chat – with Papa about Louisa, with Mama about the Russia thing mostly, and about the political and economic future. I prayed in the evening and was in bed by ten-thirty already.’ He missed his mother’s at-chocolate comforts: ‘It’s nice to be back home again,’ he wrote a few days before Christmas, ‘then you can be a child again.’

Louisa or Maja? ‘How happy could I be with either,’ John Gay had written in The Beggar’s Opera, ‘Were t’other dear charmer away.’ On the eve of St Nicholas, December 6, Heini found a mystery present, a gift hamper; from a blonde hair which his careful search discovered on it, he deduced that it was from Maja. On the way to the ice rink with Ludwig on the eighth, they talked about Maja, Kathe, and Gebhard, but at the ice rink Maja was downright obnoxious. The gift was from another blonde. ‘Just shows how stupid a man in love can be.’ He decided, ‘If l don’t find the girl who loves me, then I’ll head off to Russia alone. If Maja is still in love with me, then I’m glad for her because it’s great to love and be loved.’ A few days later, he summed up: ‘Maja is ignoring me. With her and Louisa I have learned one lesson: “There’s none so cruel as girls who have once loved you”.’

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David Irving’s book can be purchased on his website.

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'Hitler' (book by Brendan Simms)

Hitler, 50

Despite the bravado, Hitler trod very carefully. Shortly after his release, Hitler had two meetings with the Bavarian minister president, Heinrich Held, at which he assured him that he would not attempt another putsch. He toned down some of the rhetoric in Mein Kampf, the second volume of which he was writing in the calm of his mountain retreat at Berchtesgaden, the use of which had been given to him by a well-wisher.

Hitler also moved to sort out his national status, which acquired renewed importance after the speaking ban. In early April 1925, he wrote to the authorities in Linz requesting his ‘release from Austrian citizenship’. Hitler also had a long discussion with the Austrian consul in Munich and expressed his desire to surrender his nationality. On 30 April 19 25, the Austrian authorities finally stripped him of the citizenship he had never accepted. This did not mean that Hitler had established his right to stay in Germany beyond all doubt—he was now formally ‘stateless’—but he had at least ensured that it would be more difficult to deport him somewhere else. The threat of removal, however, remained, and the Bavarian authorities reminded him of it from time to time…

Hitler avoided confrontation, partly in order to concentrate on the completion of Mein Kampf. ‘Not a word from Hitler,’ Goebbels noted right at the end of 1924, ‘Oh this sly fox with the political instinct.’ A fortnight later, he asked anxiously, ‘What will Hitler do? That is the anxious question every day. Hopefully he will not go over to the camp of reaction.’ Hitler’s reticence annoyed some of the rank and file, who complained that it would be better for him to sort out the ‘problems’ in the movement than to work on a ‘high political work’. The Bavarian police, which kept a close eye on Hitler after his release, also reported that he seemed to be absorbed by Mein Kampf, which was concerned ‘exclusively with Marxism and Jewry’. This was, as we shall see, by no means a completely accurate summary…

Hitler gave thirty-eight speeches in 1925, and fifty-two in the following year. This gave him limited traction, however, partly because the numbers attending were substantially lower than during his heyday in 1923, and partly because he was still banned from appearing in public in much of Germany. Hitler was thus forced to speak to closed party meetings, in salons, or at private events. Nor could he put too much reliance on his personal magnetism…

Hitler would have to work with the people he had rather than the people he would like to have had. He knew that the party needed to transcend his own person. Personal loyalty was not enough; he needed party cadres to obey not just him but their immediate superiors. The Führer principle was thus extended beyond the Fuhrer himself. More talented and trained speakers were needed, so that the entire strain of communicating the message did not fall on him and a few others. ‘We need speaker schools,’ he announced in March 1925, ‘because to this day this mass movement has only 10-12 good speakers.’ In other words, Hitler was learning not to hog his charisma, but to spread it around. His speeches and instructions increasingly referred not just to the Führer in the singular, but to the plural Führers upon whom the leadership of the movement depended.

Central to this was the establishment of a proper party bureaucracy. Here the Social Democrats explicitly served as a model. Hitler spoke grudgingly of the SPD as a party ‘organized like the SA’. Despite shortage of funds, the NSDAP moved to new premises in the Schellingstrasse in Munich in the summer of 1925, and Hitler signalled his plan to build a dedicated ‘Party Headquarters’ in Munich paid for by the membership…

Hitler also resurrected the Sturmabteilungen, not as a paramilitary formation, as it had developed in the months preceding the Putsch, but as an organization dedicated to ‘strengthening of the bodies of our youth, bringing them up on discipline and dedication to the common great ideal [and] training in the marshalling and reconnaissance service of the movement’.There should be no weapons, either carried openly or stored in depots. Anybody who violated that rule was to be expelled. Hitler’s concern here was to avoid being dragged into illegality by armed hotheads. The immediate effect of this ruling was to precipitate a breach with Röhm, for whom the paramilitary aspects of the SA remained central. He resigned and eventually emigrated to South America . That same month Hitler created the ‘Protective Squadron’ soon known simply as the SS, a personal protection squad whose first leader, Josef Berchtold, placed particular stress on ideological purity. In a critical assertion of authority, Hitler had established a monopoly of violence within the movement.

Categories
David Irving Heinrich Himmler

True Himmler, 9

HE DID NOT UNDERSTAND WOMEN at all. After supper one evening he and Maja played the piano. ‘I think we see eye to eye. By God´s grace!’ He hurried home and worked some more on his Russian, a language he had started to learn. They held hands a lot that winter, or read books together, like the 1911 love story by Richard Voss, Zwei Menschen, Two People: the hero’s mother, a religious fanatic, dies of grief when he fails to take orders as a priest; guilt-stricken, he dumps his girl, whereupon she too kills herself, and he officiates at her funeral. Yes, women were odd creatures, and he spent a lot of his time feeling sorry for them. Maja performed more student chores for him, and he felt guilty about Louisa: ‘Over at four p.m. to the Hagers,’ he wrote: ‘I feel sorry for Louisa but there´s not much I can do. Perhaps this first big episode in her life will help her grow up.’ With Louisa he talked about everything under the sun, but then it was back to Maja. They kissed goodnight, and on Odeon Square afterwards a hooker caught up with him. ‘Obviously without scoring,’ he virtuously recorded. ‘But interesting all the same.’

With Maja, the girl with the flaxen hair, came the inevitable denouement. It was the last day of November 1919. ‘I don´t know if I´m imagining it, but Maja is not the same toward me as she used to be.’ He took her skating the next day. The ticket is still tucked into his diary today, together with five snapshots of a young girl.

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Irving’s book can be purchased on his website.