Tag: Degeneracy

Civilisation’s “Man—the Measure of all Things”

Post author By C .T.
Post date April 17, 2012
7 Comments on Civilisation’s “Man—the Measure of all Things”

For an introduction to these series, see here.

Below, some indented excerpts of “Man—the Measure of all Things,” the fourth chapter of Civilisation by Kenneth Clark, after which I offer my comments.

Ellipsis omitted between unquoted passages:

The Pazzi Chapel, built by the great Florentine Brunellesco in about 1430, is in a style that has been called the architecture of humanism. His friend and fellow-architect, Leon Battista Alberti, addressed man in these words: ‘To you is given a body more graceful than other animals.’

There is no better instance of how a burst of civilisation depends on confidence than the Florentine state of mind in the early fifteenth century. For fifty years the fortunes of the republic, which in a material sense had declined, were directed by a group of the most intelligent individuals who have ever been elected to power by a democratic government. From Salutati onwards the Florentine chancellors were scholars, believers in the studia humanitatis, in which learning could be used to achieve a happy life.

In Florence the first thirty years of the fifteenth century were the heroic age of scholarship when new texts were discovered and old texts edited. It was to house these precious texts, any one of which might contain some new revelation that might alter the course of human thought, that Cosimo de Medici built the library of San Marco. It looks to us peaceful and remote—but the first studies that took place there were not remote from life at all. It was the humanist equivalent of the Cavendish Laboratory. The manuscripts unpacked and studied under these harmonious vaults could alter the course of history with an explosion, not of matter, but of mind.

The discipline of trade and banking, in its most austere form, was beginning to be relaxed, and life—a full use of the human faculties—became more important than making money.

The dignity of man. Today these words die on our lips. But in the fifteenth century Florence their meaning was still a fresh and invigorating belief. Gianozzo Manetti, a humanist man of affection, who had seen the seamy side of politics, nevertheless wrote a book entitled On the Dignity and Excellence of Man. And this is the concept that Brunellesco’s friends were making visible.

Gravitas, the heavy tread of moral earnestness, becomes a bore if it is not accompanied by the light step of intelligence. Next to the Pazzi Chapel are the cloisters of Santa Croce, also built by Brunellesco. I said that the Gothic cathedrals were hymns to the divine light. These cloisters happily celebrate the light of human intelligence, and sitting in them I find it quite easy to believe in man. They have the qualities that give distinction to a mathematical theorem: clarity, economy, elegance.

Alberti, in his great book on building, describes the necessity of a public square ‘where young men may be diverted from the mischievousness and folly natural to their age.’ The early Florentine Renaissance was an urban culture, bourgeois properly so-called. Men spent their time in the streets and squares, and in the shops.

Elsewhere I’ve talked about how the modern world of money is inimical to racial interests. As to date, no white nationalist that I know has criticized the barbarous architecture, symptomatic in the worshiping of the new god of capitalism, so well epitomized in both London and New York: the subject of the last episode of Civilisation.

Together with the degenerate music, TV and Hollywood tastes and sexual lifestyles of some nationalists, architecture is another facet where the uncorrupted individual can read the signs of a decadent society; and why he cannot blame non-gentiles for all our problems when even the nationalists themselves are part of this problem.

Remember Clark’s words in the first episode? “If I had to say which was telling the truth about society, a speech by a Minister of Housing or the actual buildings put up in his time, I should believe the buildings.” One only has to contrast the completely soulless edifices we see everyday going to work with Raphael’s town square and see how extremely degraded, Mammonesque in fact our large cities have become.

In the popular imagination, the extreme examples of this degeneracy are the Foundation novels of Asimov and the latest Star Wars films, where a whole planet has become metropolis: the exact opposite of the most humane sci-fi novels by Arthur C. Clarke where, like the Florentines, the white people lived in small Elysian towns. Architecture today is so degenerate that even Roger Scruton in Why Beauty Matters—a 2009 BBC documentary that, unlike Clark’s Civilisation, is marred by the constant presence of non-whites—pays special attention to the sterile architectural forms of today’s world.

I wish young nationalists became believers in the studia humanitatis and familiarise themselves with those intellectuals in the movement that (like Clark) have a much broader sense of European culture than the common white nationalist blogger. I refer to people like Tom Sunic in Europe and Michael O’Meara in America. Both could help us to leave behind the provincial scene so common in the nationalist sphere as well as the simplistic single-cause hypothesis.

It is true that, unlike the Athenians, fifteenth century Florentines were chiefly interested, like contemporary western man, in making money. But like the Athenians the Florentines… loved beauty. Of the landscapes whose beauty mostly caught my attention during a trip through Europe by train, I still remember the Italian, about which Clark said:

Looking at the Tuscan landscape with its terraces of vines and olives and the dark vertical accents of the cypresses, one has the impression of timeless order. There must have been a time when it was all forest and swamp—shapeless, formless; and to bring order out of chaos is a process of civilisation.

Then, in the first years of the sixteenth century, the Venetian painter Giorgione transformed this happy contact with nature into something openly sensual. The ladies who, in the Gothic gardens, had been protected by voluminous draperies, are now naked; and, as a result, his Fête Champêtre opens a new chapter in European art. Giorgione was, indeed, one of the inspired, unpredictable innovators who disturb the course of history; and in this picture he has illustrated one of the comforting illusions of civilised man, the myth of Arcadia, which had been popularised some twenty years earlier by the poet Sannazaro. Of course, it is only a myth. Country life isn’t at all like this, and even on a picnic ants attack the sandwiches and wasps buzz round the wine glasses. But the pastoral fallacy had inspired Theocritus and Virgil, and had not been unknown in the Middle Ages. Giorgione has seen how fundamentally pagan it is.

True, but I don’t believe that the pastoral fallacy is childish. Pace Arthur Clarke, achieving Arcadia is an essentially psychogenic endeavour rather than a technological one. And I sincerely believe that utopia is feasible: only human primitivism, and especially the “monsters from the Id” currently affecting the white peoples, prevent it.

It has long seemed to me wise thinking about an ideal to direct our efforts toward it. It doesn’t matter if the ideal encounters numerous pitfalls: our will should incessantly be directional toward the worlds of the Florentine Fête. If the will of a sufficiently massive amount of white people is noble, the outside world can and will only represent the nobility of that will. Clark said:

With Giorgione’s picnic the balance and enjoyment of our human faculties seems to achieve perfection. But in history all points of supposed perfection have a hint of menace; and Giorgione himself discovers it in that mysterious picture known as the Tempesta.

What on earth is going on? What is the meaning of this half-naked woman suckling a baby, this flash of lightening, this broken column? Nobody knows; nobody has ever known.

To me the meaning is obvious. Even since the Renaissance artists started to see that the cities, more inclined to Mammon than to Raphael’s square, were places of tribulation in contrast to the madonna and her child with the man standing in contrapposto. Broken pillars often symbolize death (that bucolic world was about to die), and the painting’s storm in the background could be interpreted to symbolize urban turmoil.

Tags Degeneracy, Genuine spirituality, History, Italy, Materialism / capitalism, Renaissance

Christendom Judeo-reductionism Kali Yuga

Fascinating Guessedworker / Linder exchange

Post author By C .T.
Post date April 14, 2012
1 Comment on Fascinating Guessedworker / Linder exchange

In 2009 the British Guessedworker interviewed the American Alex Linder. The full interview (here) is 1:17 hrs. I boiled it down to the bare essentials: only 15 minutes.

It touches the subjects discussed in the previous entries: the single-cause hypothesis—i.e., Jews as the basic etiology of Western malaise—versus the more complex models that would involve depth psychology of the white people.

My edited clip also includes other topics discussed here recently, such as Christianity and Anti-christianity, the toxic role played by Hollywood and more:

Tags Christian problem (CP), Degeneracy, Jewish Question (JQ)

Art Civilisation (TV series) Kali Yuga Kenneth Clark

Kenneth Clark’s “Civilisation”

Post author By C .T.
Post date April 11, 2012
6 Comments on Kenneth Clark’s “Civilisation”

The evil that has possessed Western civilization—or perhaps should I write the word with “s,” as the British do: civilisation?—after the Second World War is far more extended than what most white nationalists suspect, even in their wildest dreams. This evil even encompasses many aspects of our culture that white nationalists actively embrace: pop music, degenerate sexual mores, a Christianity taken to its logical conclusion through liberalism, and much, much more.

In the next entries I will try to argue this case through my comments to excerpts of Civilisation: A Personal View by Kenneth Clark (1903–1983), a television documentary series outlining the history of Western art, architecture and philosophy since the Dark Ages.

The series was produced by the BBC and aired in 1969. Both the television material and an accompanying book—a book that, incidentally, I purchased in Houston at the ridiculous price of 50¢ during a garage sell—were written by Clark (photo above), who also presented the series.

The series is considered to be a landmark in British Television’s broadcasting of the visual arts, and was remastered and last year re-broadcasted in the United Kingdom.

Clark’s series inspired both Jacob Bronowski and Carl Sagan to write scripts for their respective personal views, also in thirteen programs of television documentary series, as I said in my last post. However, unlike Bronowski and Sagan I definitively reject the naïve idea that science can save our civilization. I agree with Clark that, in this age of “heroic materialism” or worshiping of Mammon as he put it, we must review our classics to understand us (or as I would say, to understand the West’s darkest hour: a mechanized, dehumanized and soulless age).

Only a revival of the white people’s soul, not of science and technology, will save us.

Tags Degeneracy, History

Civil war

Fuck Hollywood!

Now that we are talking about why overt, out-of-the-closet homos such as James O’Meara (who must not be confused with Michael O’Meara) and Jack Donovan should not be given platforms in white nationalist forums, a recent comment in a previous post moved me to collect the following comments in related threaded discussions.

I refer to Greg Johnson who, under the penname of Trevor Lynch, extraordinarily reviewed Quentin Tarantino’s Pulp Fiction (below I changed textual references to “Lynch” as “Johnson”). Johnson’s review was sectioned in two parts. Let’s start with the second.

For obvious reasons, the first commenters to jump on that thread were O’Meara and Donovan. I was the third one to comment, the dissident voice. Pay special attention to my words way below in this post in the context of what I recently said in Gitone’s magic (“Just compare this homosexual shit [two whites raping a Negro] with the Platonic love for Tadzio in Death in Venice: one inspires the sensitive soul and the other trashes the god Eros”).

After the cheers that Johnson got from O’Meara and Donovan for his favorable review of this filthy film, the most frank criticism I found about Johnson’s bizarre review came out from Howard.

John Norman Howard commenting on Johnson’s review…

“Yes, Pulp Fiction contains interracial couples, villainous bumbling whites, and noble, eloquent blacks. One just has to look beyond the casting to the story itself.” [in Johnson’s review]

The eyes are the window to the soul. The outward appearance of the characters is anything but superficial: one would have to look beyond the casting, the scenes, and the dialog as well. Sorry, but Fail one.

“Pulp Fiction is only superficially anti-white. On a deeper level, it can aid us in rejecting modernity and recovering the spiritual foundations of something better.” [in Johnson’s review]

Fail two. It’s overtly anti-White or at best, pro-diversity: which in the end analysis is White genocide. Big talk of “honor” yet admitting it was merely an opportunistic double-cross in the end? Can’t have it both ways, mate. And the whole “watch in the rectum” thing was just another of Tarantino’s gratuitous homosexual jokes. Just like the whole hillbilly pawnshop luridness. Whether you want to credit him for using Walken in the way Walken seems to work best, well. Funny in the usual South Park manner, but certainly not “genius”.

Greg Johnson said…

Your eyes might be the windows to your soul, which is what that saying means. But it certainly does not mean that your eyes are the windows to other people’s souls, or that they penetrate to the essence of whatever surface they light on.

John Norman Howard said…

I know what the saying means. My point is, the outward appearance of the characters in the movie are said movie’s “eyes”, as it were. Hence, one can readily see the indisputable “soul” of the movie. Leastwise, those of us with eyes to see, and without the scales of our pet theories, notions, and pseudo-intellectual baggage covering them.

I said…

I cannot conceive any good film featuring a black married to a white girl [as in Pulp Fiction] unless the film has an explicitly pro-white message, which obviously every film by this repulsive being [Tarantino] lacks.

The film starts with a white man with his white girlfriend assaulting a restaurant: the opposite of what usually happens in the real world, as revealed by color of crime stats. At the end of the film we see a flashback in that very restaurant with a spiritually powerful black man lecturing the weakling white robbers. Other instances of inverted travesties in Pulp Fiction could be cited, but it is unnecessary.

Art

True filmic art, like Death in Venice or Andrei Rublev inspires people. But in this decadent century only a handful of Hollywood films have inspired me. Ninety-nine per cent of them are so replete with anti-West, multicult messages that almost every time I visit the theaters I feel morally raped.

In the other thread I said that one of my sisters sings classical music hymns. When Pulp Fiction appeared instead of finding inspiration she felt visually raped. My sister is very sensitive, and the scene of the silent masked man referred to as “the gimp” (the one who was awakened up from a S&M dungeon to watch a tied-up Butch) shocked her deeply. Just compare this homosexual shit with the Platonic love for Tadzio in Death in Venice: one inspires the sensitive soul and the other trashes the god Eros. The same with Tarantino’s violence: unlike the gratuitous violence in Pulp Fiction a group of Tatars raid the city of Vladimir in Andrei Rublev: a historically accurate and shocking yet inspiring sequence for white viewers.

It could be argued that art depicting a decadent culture is still art, for instance Polanski’s Bitter Moon; the film by the Mexican director Alfonso Cuarón, Children of Men and, according to Johnson, Pulp Fiction.

My trouble with this approach is that all of these films have contributed to debilitate the spirit of the westerners. Like the character Vincent in Pulp Fiction, Bitter Moon reflects how the extremes of the hedonistic lifestyle in Paris are leading the French to ethnical suicide, literally. Like Pulp Fiction, in Children of Men the message is traitorously inverted: the white hero must save a black baby from extinction in a dying world that is no longer breeding any babies.

Yes: there is art in both Polanski and Cuarón’s films. But since their message hurts the Western soul Howard’s reply to me in the other thread is worth reciting: “Exactly… and kudos on mention The Brigade for its much-needed hammer on Hollywood and how to handle that sewer”.

Johnson deleted this comment by Howard.
In the other thread about the same film,
Part 1 of Johnson’s review:

Joe Owens said…

Whatever moral message Pulp Fiction is supposed to convey is well and truly lost in all the filth it’s wrapped up in. I’m sure we can find some moral reasoning in all this twisted rubbish. Yes, what about Inglourious Basterds or Hostel: Part II by Quentin Jerome Tarantino? Come on, time to leave this filth to the cranks and Jews who produce it!

Uncle Fritz said…

Good heavens: I thought it was just me!! I couldn’t even get through the damned film—after two attempts. Maybe too much philosophical immersion really is a dangerous thing…

John Norman Howard said…

Exactly. Pulp Fiction is the product of an unsound mind, and bestowing it with all this metaphysical mumbo-jumbo accolades is laughable.

It’s natural that a generation raised upon South Park would find it “deep” and “innovative”. But the bottom-line is this: The only thing remarkable about the film is that it marks a true line of demarcation in American culture (such as it is) whereby trash cinema passes as art, and an overt “up yours” to Whitey previously witnessed only in the most prurient blaxploitation junk of the seventies. I’ve always found it serendipitous that this film’s release and subsequent lionization occurred at about the same time as the O.J. murders. Another stark line of demarcation in America’s racial demise.

Iranian for Aryans said…

Amen! The same can be said of everything popular, especially what passes for music.

Joe Owens said…

Why are you spoiling the pages of Counter Currents with this rubbish??? Shabbos Goy movies shouldn’t be praised by white nationalists. Come on, let’s get back to basics, Greg Johnson, I think you’re partying too much!

I said… (responding to Meh)

“Anyone expecting explicitly pro-white movies in this era might just as well stop watching movies.”

Ergo, I have stopped watching films—though as a big fan of the seventh art I still continue to watch the classics. Yesterday for example I saw the original, black-and-white version of The Hunchback of Notre Dame.

“Art, even decadent art, can be worth something…”

Rubbish. Please, see “The Philosophy of Beauty”, a six-video series in the playlist presently featured at The Occidental Observer.

I was born in a family of artists. Real artists I mean. So it’s easy for me to distinguish real art from “decadent art” (an oxymoron).

If I had children I would never allow any of them watching how two white males sodomize a Neanderthalesque nigger [see the Pulp Fiction photo above]. Never. How grotesque! (Not grotesque of the sublime kind, like the shots of Quasimodo at the upper balcony of the cathedral, saying to the gargoyles, “Why was I not made of stone, like thee?”) What a travesty of what is really happening in America (blacks raping whites)!

In The Brigade Covington makes a point: when secession war begins, the only thing that could defeat white revolutionaries is… Hollywood! Actually the climax of the novel is the way the revolutionaries finally hit Hollywood.

I would recommend all nationalists to stop watching modern films and use that time to read The Brigade.

Postscript note:

In Covington’s latest novel about how our new country will look like, all of this Hollywood rape scenes, which can only turn on our decadent nationalists, will be forbidden for our budding families (“The theaters were showing virtually nothing made after 1965 or so”). Instead, inspiring films, the polar opposite of the Tarantino degenerate scum, will be exhibited in the theaters such as Frank Capra’s It’s a Wonderful Life.

Let me finish this post with another comment that Johnson deleted when, last year at Counter Currents, I dared to criticize another silly review of another Hollywood movie.

When Johnson argued that his deep philosophical interpretations of the movies were pertinent, my response was: “I prefer Covington’s approach,” and quoted directly from his last novel:

“The once vibrant city of San Francisco, officially deeded by the Aztlan government to a huge ‘gay community,’ had lost two thirds of its population owing either to death from phosgene and sarin gas, or else through flight away from the V-3s. The section of the white and Jewish entertainment industry that had remained in Hollywood and their mansions in Beverly Hills, Santa Monica and Carmel being sacked and plundered by mobs of campesinos.”

That’s the spirit! That’s the way all true nationalists should handle the Hollywood foe once our nation is established…

Tags Degeneracy

Axiology Christendom Egalitarianism Liberalism Psychiatry Universalism

Fuck Anglo-Saxons!

A recent article about a psychiatric pill in the United Kingdom that “cures racism” elicited some lively comments at The Occidental Observer of which I’ll only reproduce a few:

Fender said…

“Why am I not surprised to see that such a ‘study’ should come out of England?” (Jarvis Dingle-Daden)

The Anglos are natural schemers and utopians, just like the tribe [the Jews]. That’s why they’ve been natural allies for the past four centuries. Along with the tribe, they feel they have a right to “improve” and rule over the world.

This is why I’m starting to believe that the Anglos, and to a lesser extent, the Western Europeans, need to be miscegenated out of existence by the lower races. They’re a downright dangerous race of people—basically the vicious bulldogs of the tribe, attacking anyone who stands up to them.

The Northern and Western European nations are hotbeds of Marxism, “antiracism,” and utopian thought. They’re a threat to Central and Eastern Europe, where many people have been immunized against Judaic nonsense due to their past histories with communism. We never, ever see studies like this [the search of an anti-racist psychiatric drug] coming from Russia, the Czech republic, Ukraine, etc. Estonia recently honored its SS heroes and its government actually prevented the dumb antifa from interfering. Tens of thousands of proud nationalists openly march the streets of Russia and Ukraine. The governments of Belarus and Hungary are explicitly pro-White. These are the governments and nations that the Anglo-Jewish power establishment wants to destroy.

This may offend some, but if the European races hope to survive, its most infected limbs need to be amputated. In my mind, this means the Anglos and Nordics. Both tribes are fiercely Marxist, universalist, and suicidal, and they cannot be allowed to take the rest of Europe down with them.

Bobby said…

Fender, I agree with you completely on the views you hold of the groups you mentioned. I have had a theory about this for quite a while now. Let me try it out on you.

After the disaster for Europe called World War II, most Europeans were devastated in a way that Americans cannot even imagine. War, or any aggression at all, became anathema to them. They became sick and tired of any conflict. So they decided to throw themselves fully into materialism. The factories of Europe started going and because of the Soviet and American distrust of each other a mere two to three years after the war, the U.S. quickly lost any “moralistic” ideas of punishing Germany any longer. Instead some money was pumped into Europe not out of any altruism, but for the practical purpose of helping to defend America’s interests.

So Western Europe experienced a boom in prosperity that it had never known in modern times. You could see this by the increase in car ownership, and the general state of better living. In fact, the German Chancellor Ludwig Erhard, a trained economist, announced that concentrating on economics would be Germany’s salvation. All kinds of frivolous activities were engaged in and it continues. What I’m saying is that Western Europeans, unlike their poor and caged-in relatives in the East, became lazy, supermaterialistic, and confused.

The confusion was the result of the widespread leftist egalitarian teachings in almost every single university in Western Europe. And of course, along with this teaching went the usual guilt-trip that whites were the problem and need to repent and change the world, etc. The Western Eurocrats got away with pushing this stuff, because the economies of Europe were good and no one saw a reason to complain.

So, even though things are rapidly changing in Western Europe, due to economics and the left’s successes in preaching egalitarianism, [what] this sixty-plus year brainwashing and shangrilla Western Europe experienced is still the model in the minds of most Western Europeans, even though the paradigm is changing.

Things are most dangerous when an accepted paradigm no longer has relevance and a new one is about to emerge.

Hasbara Matata said…

Slavic superiority. Right.

The root of the problem with all Whites in this regard—being “liberal” [means] suicide—is Christianity. Like Marxism, which is Christianity’s twin that was born second, Christianity is proxy-Judaism; it makes us self-destructive, since we’ve internalized universalist kosher hokum along with a Jew as the savior and creator of the universe. Unfortunately, after 2000 years of Whites soaking their brains with Jewish myths, there are very few who are psychologically capable of accepting it.

It’s a lesson that even Kevin MacDonald himself needs to learn.

Fender said…

Apartheid was constructed because the WASPs thought that, deep down, blacks are just like them. Same thing with Manifest Destiny and colonialism: these never happened due to racial supremacism, but because WASPs thought savages can be civilized. Now the WASPs think White racialists are the savages, and that they too can be civilized, in their “altruism” they’re going to murder and oppress any Whites in their attempt to improve and civilize the world.

I’ll grant you that Slavs have a grin-and-bear-it mentality, but let’s not forget that the Jews needed to mass murder millions in the East to gain power while they took over the West without firing a shot.

Vened said…

Fender: I have an acquaintance. She and her parents were born in Rhodesia (Zimbabwe). They left Rhodesia long time ago for obvious reasons. She still thinks that giving up that land to blacks was the right thing to do. She is of English descent. I see exactly the same Anglo mindset in the United States of America.

As an Eastern Slav, my blood boils watching Anglos abandoning North America…

Tags Degeneracy, Jewish Question (JQ)

Civil war

“Being a sex trade worker, I am in a politically protected category”

Post author By C .T.
Post date January 3, 2012

The Brigade excerpts, chapter VI

by Harold Covington

The Mami and the Monkey

No ellipsis
added between
unquoted paragraphs:

“You back on the pipe, Kick?” “No, I’m not back on the pipe!” Kristin “Kicky” McGee snapped back. “I’m clean as a whistle, and I been clean for six months now!”

“Yeah, well, I guess I shouldn’t have called the cops on you. That wasn’t, like, playing the game,” muttered Lenny. “Then again, maybe if I wanted to jam you up I should have turned you in for hatecrime. I know you don’t like dark meat, but that’s prejudice, even in a whore.”

“The term is sex trade worker, thank you,” said Kicky primly. “And it’s not prejudice, it’s a preference. Being a sex trade worker, I am in a politically protected category, sort of anyway, and I’m allowed to have preferences. Remember, no means no. Even for hookers.”

While the two of them were haggling, a nondescript older model Ford Explorer pulled up outside Jupiter’s Den. It was a warm summer’s day, and the SUV’s two occupants had the windows rolled down. The driver was a tall and powerful man with a seamed boxer’s face, a shaved head and goatee beard. The pro wrestler look wasn’t Big Jim McCann’s personal choice, since he was a master electrician by profession, but he needed to alter his appearance because his face was on a few too many wanted posters, web sites, and television screens as of late. McCann was quartermaster of the NVA’s First Portland Brigade. His passenger was Jesse “Cat-Eyes” Lockhart, who after much debate amounting to a passionate argument between Tommy Coyle and Zack Hatfield, had been transferred from D Company to First Brigade A Company and put on sniper duty in the big city. As reluctant as Zack had been to let him go, and as reluctant as Lockhart himself had been to leave his old friends and comrades in Clatsop County, the fact was that Cat was running out of major targets in D Company’s area of operation, and he was too valuable a resource to waste out in the sticks plinking away at Mexican dock workers and the local Chamber of Commerce. In the short time he had been in Portland, the Jack of Diamonds had already bagged a city councilman, a U.S. Army colonel, the head of the African-American Democratic Club, another FBI agent, and several police officers. His presence in the city was known, and he was driving the local politically correct establishment into hysterics. “You want me to go in with you?” asked Lockhart.

“Naw,” said McCann. “Gillis is a nervous little cuss, and he might get spooked if he sees somebody he don’t know. I just need to find out from him where he’s got the stuff stashed, and set up a pickup so we can get the gear and pay him. Then we need to get you to the Mayflower Hotel.” It was time for Cat to change safe houses, and McCann had been the only transport available. McCann’s phone beeped. He took it out of his pocket and flipped it open. “Yeah?” He listened for a few moments. “Okay.” He closed the phone. “That was our escort vehicle. Van Gelder says there’s a patrol coming down Sandy Boulevard, two units and an armored car. Unmarked, probably Portland Rapid Response, but maybe BATFE or FBI. They’re cruising slow. The way they’re coming, looks like they’re gonna turn onto 82nd in about a minute.”

“I don’t think they’re looking for us specifically,” said Lockhart. “They’ve been doing that a lot lately, keeping goon squads on the street as rapid response teams, moving around, trying to cover the city so they can move in fast with a lot of firepower on any of our naughty shenanigans. Ace and me got chased by one of those crews last time out.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t want them driving by and looking in here and recognizing you,” said McCann. “You’d better come inside after all. Just hang back at the bar while I have my chat with Lenny, and then we’ll move on after Van tells us they’ve passed.”

Kicky turned around and saw one of the men who looked like a wrestler or a biker walk forward to talk to Gillis. They met at the end of the bar nearest to where Kicky sat in the booth. Reading men was a vital survival skill in Kicky’s lines of work both legitimate and otherwise, and with these two she immediately read muscle of some kind, heavy muscle. There was just something about the way they carried themselves, not with a criminal swagger or thuggish biker lope, but controlled and fast and efficient, no wasted motion.

She got up and went to the ladies’ room, in a small corridor near the bar. After she finished she quietly slipped down to the door of the men’s room at the other end of the short hallway and studied the younger man in the long mirror behind the bar. The bartender brought him a diet soda in a can with a plastic cup, and when he turned to pour it Kicky saw his face and profile clearly. Damn, she thought, I know him from somewhere. Who is he? She ran over her long list of male personal and business acquaintances. No, not one of them. She rummaged through the past few years of her disorderly life. No, nothing. Was he on TV or something? Recognition suddenly slammed into her. Jesus H. Christ! she whistled to herself. It’s him! That sniper every cop and Feebie in the Northwest is looking for! Well, well! Lenny’s coming up in the world, looks like. What the fuck kind of business is he doing with the spuckies? Bet it’s guns.

Kicky left the club and returned to her battered single-wide mobile home in a rundown trailer park about two miles away. She didn’t have a car of her own, the cab company wouldn’t allow her to take her cab home, and the buses were full of Mexicans who always dirty-mouthed her in Spanish and pawed all over her, so she walked. She was so sick inside herself at what she was doing that it was all she could do to go home and not go out hunting the streets for some rock, but she knew full well that if she went back to the drugs as well as back to the sex trade, she would be dead or back in prison within a year, and her daughter would be scooped up by It Takes A Village like a barracuda snapping up a minnow.

The prospect of committing sexual acts with drunken and usually unhygienic strange men, even white men, filled her with such disgust that she wanted to vomit even at the thought, but she understood that she had reached the point in her life where her always limited range of choices had virtually disappeared. Kicky knew that America had one rule above all else. Get money. It didn’t matter how you did it, you got money, end of story, or else you ended up like the white-haired bag women Kicky saw pushing their possessions up and down 82nd Avenue and Sandy Boulevard in shopping carts. No welfare or affirmative action or diversity programs for poor white chicks. Poor white chicks either stole or put out, or they got left behind. If you had a white skin, you got money or you fell below the point of no return. Never mind all that crap you saw on TV, that lovely diverse, racially mixed society where there was still a middle class and still material things and all was jolly. That was television. It wasn’t real. 82nd Avenue was real.

“You goin’ back to whoring?” snorted the old lady.

Kicky didn’t attempt to evade the question. “I got to get money, Mom,” she said simply. “I have to get Ellie out of Oregon, out of Child Protective Services’ reach. Otherwise they’re going to take her and sell her to some rich bastards. I know she’d be better off with them…”

“Mommy!” shouted a small golden-haired personage of eighteen months, wearing nothing but a Pamper, who gallumphed into the room from the bedroom and hugged onto Kicky’s leg. “Up!” she demanded. “Up me!”

“Hi, baby girl,” said Kicky with a smile, picking up the child. “Ooh, pooh, baby made a boo-boo! You need a change! Come on, let’s fix that!” She snagged another Pamper from the torn bag on the cracked Formica kitchen table and headed for the bathroom, trying not to think of what she would be doing later on.

* * *

She was wearing short hot pants and gleaming vinyl boots with elevated although not quite high heels, a low-cut halter top with no bra (she knew a lot of her potential customers found her tattoos erotic), a wide leather belt, and carrying a shoulder bag purse containing such items as extra condom packs and sex toys. It also contained a canister of pepper spray in a special holster sleeve.

Kicky looked around for Lenny Gillis, but couldn’t see him anywhere on the floor. She shoved through a door marked “Employees Only”—well, she was kind of an employee now—and looked in his office, which was also empty. She slipped outside into the alley.

The shouting was coming from just on the other side of a dumpster. Kicky crept up and peeked around the side of the receptacle. Lenny Gillis was being held up against the wall by a large, black, uniformed Portland police officer. Shit! thought Kicky to herself in shock. It’s the Monkey!

Like any street girl, she had immediately recognized Detective Sergeant Jamal Jarvis of the Portland Police Bureau’s Hatecrime and Civil Disobedience Squad, the feared police unit that constituted the muscle arm of Portland’s ultra-liberal and politically correct establishment. The word on the street was clear and unambiguous: black, Mexican, and Asian hookers paid Jarvis off in money or sometimes in drugs, but white girls paid in trade. Kicky was not the only white working girl who still retained some vestige of decency and personal standards, and the fate of those who refused or evaded Jarvis’s demands was not encouraging. Such bigoted ladies of the evening tended to end up facing bogus charges and many years in prison, or getting a coffee cup full of acid in the face, or in some cases their dead and violated bodies were found floating in the Columbia River or jammed into a culvert. No one cared much about a few dead white skanks here and there, but there had eventually been such a rash of that kind of thing that even the politically correct Portland Police Bureau realized that they had to do something to avoid embarrassment.

Jarvis was in the process of assaulting Lenny with a heavy, flat, leather-wrapped implement about a foot long, known in police circles as a slapjack. It was just as heavy and painful, but the flat surface left less telltale bruising than a traditional blackjack. “Whutcha gonna do, Lenny?” Jarvis droned on, slapping Gillis’ head back and forth with the cosh, each blow a dull and sickening thud that sprayed blood from Gillis’s mutilated and bleeding face, his broken nose and bleeding eyes. “Whutcha gonna do, Lenny? Gib Roscoe his money, fukkin cracka, gib Roscoe his money.”

“I haven’t got it!” screamed Lenny hysterically. “I can get it Friday! I can get it Friday! Jesus God!”

“Friday ain’t today, muthafukka!” rumbled Roscoe. “Gimme my props, muthafukka! Gimme my thousand!”

Kicky realized with horror that Jarvis was high, on drugs and on shedding white blood. He didn’t really care about the money. He just liked to beat white boys. She also realized that Lenny had suddenly stopped screaming.

“Aw, shit, Jamal, you a fool!” yelled Roscoe angrily. “We was takin’ a grand a month off this ofay mutthafukka!”

“So we finds us another piece of white trash to pin it on,” said Jarvis carelessly. In her hiding place behind the piled cardboard boxes of trash, Kicky McGee suddenly realized her own deadly peril. She tried to back away quietly, and needless to say she managed to back into another stack of piled boxes and knock it over, the glass and cans and junk inside cascading into the alley floor with a clatter.

Jarvis and Roscoe were calloused and brutal men, but their animal instincts were sharp and when need arose they could both move fast. They were on her before she could get ten feet down the alley in her sprint for the door.

* * *

Kicky was still unconscious when they brought her in. She didn’t even know for sure where she was. It might have been some station house, but most likely she was somewhere in the bowels of the downtown Portland Justice Center on Pioneer Courthouse Square.

Originally built as a modish complex of brick, glass, and concrete to adorn a stylish and politically correct power structure, decorated with murals and sculptures by trendy Portland artists, the Justice Center had taken on a much more grim and stark appearance and function since the Coeur d’Alene rebellion had broken out the previous autumn. Other areas had been slow to realize the danger and had accordingly suffered courthouses and police stations burned, bombed, and invaded by the NVA, who sometimes torched big stacks of legal and law enforcement papers and records on rural courthouse lawns. Not Portland. The multi-structured complex of the Justice Center’s several buildings containing the courtrooms both state and federal, offices, and the headquarters of the Portland Police Bureau, had immediately been transformed at great taxpayers’ expense into a fully fortified and secured Green Zone, based on plans drawn up by consultants from Israel and the United Kingdom.

But the Center had become a place of fear and nightmare not just in its outward appearance. Inside were the headquarters not just of the police, but of the FBI and Department of Homeland Security. These agencies had considered their pre-10/22 offices too exposed, and they had taken over a large portion of the administrative floors of the federal courthouse and sealed it off. There were rumors of excavations being done in secret by specially imported construction crews of Asian and Mexican laborers as more offices, soundproofed interrogation cells, and holding cells were dug deep beneath the complex. Then there were the stories of the torture chambers deep beneath the earth or high in windowless rooms, padded to muffle the screams. It was known that more white prisoners entered the Justice Center than ever emerged. What happened to them no one knew, but it was rumored that there was a covert crematorium in one of the walled-off courtyards of the complex. The Justice Center cast a long shadow over the city of Portland, a warning to any who might dare think of rebelling against the United States, and a source of anger and hatred that glowed secretly in the recesses of men’s hearts and minds, burning steadily brighter as time went on and more and more white people’s family members disappeared into the Green Zone.

It was all gone. She was white, she was poor, and everything she knew from her very birth told her that no one on earth would lift a finger to help her. She had always held the bitter belief that she had nothing, but now that it was all gone she understood how much she’d really had before, the trailer where she could at least lay down her head at night alone if she chose, the sad drunken woman who had borne her but at least had not left her, and above all the little golden child she would never see again except maybe through the glass on visiting day. This couldn’t be happening. It was surely a nightmare. She had them sometimes. Surely she would wake up soon. She closed her eyes and desperately willed herself to wake up, but when she opened her eyes, she was still in the god-awful puce green room with the cloying and overpowering smell of fresh paint, a smell that was making her sick.

Outside, behind the two-way mirror, although Kicky could hear nothing through the soundproofed walls, Jamal Jarvis was having a spirited discussion with his partner, Detective Sergeant Elena Martinez. Lainie Martinez was the Mami half of the Portland detective team commonly known as the Mami and the Monkey. She was a tall, slim, thirty-something woman with clear olive skin, straight black hair, brown eyes and a figure that looked fine indeed in a bathing suit and turned many heads both male and lesbian in the indoor swimming pool in the police gym where she worked out every couple of days and swam 50 laps afterward. Unlike her quondam FBI counterpart, the late and rather unlamented Rabang Miller, Lainie was actually respected, if not liked, by her superiors and her fellow officers in the PB for her competence and her occasionally brilliant detective work. No one remembered ever having seen her smile.

She wasn’t smiling now. “Oh, for God’s sake, Jamal, how many of these messes do you think you can get away with making until Internal Affairs has finally had enough?” she snapped.

“Hey, it ain’t my fault a white boy’s candy ass is so fucking fragile he cain’t take a little beat-down,” muttered Jarvis defensively.

“Look, I know how the game is played,” said Lainie in irritation. “Until police salaries come up to something commensurate with the work we do, and the risks we take, especially now with a bunch of racist crazies gunning for us every time we step outside the door, then every officer with any initiative is going to have something going on the side.”

A Mexican uniformed officer came down the hall toward them, holding a larger manila file folder and handed it to Jarvis. (He had once made the mistake of addressing Sergeant Martinez in Spanish with a flippant “Hola, Mami!” and had almost found himself hauled up on sexual harassment charges.)

“Hey, Jamal, here’s the file on your puta blanca with the tattoos in there,” he said. “Lookin’ good, my man. Seems Lenny Gillis filed a complaint with us a few months back when she assaulted him, hit him in the head with a beer bottle. He dropped the charges, but it’s on record. She’s got priors for solicitation and holding, and she did fourteen months in Coffee Creek on a two to five for larceny and possession of stolen goods.”

Lainie was thoroughly Americanized, and she spoke Spanish only on these occasions when it was required in the line of work. Her one secret neurosis and obsession, not even admitted to the Bureau shrink during her periodic required evaluations, was that she wanted more than anything else to be white. Not just any white; Elena Martinez dreamed of herself as Nordic white, with creamy skin and golden hair. Like the girl in the interrogation room, only without the tattoos. Her unconscious longing had long ago sublimated itself into an almost insane hatred of white people in general, white racialists in particular, and blonde white women even more particularly.

Jamal Jarvis was sharp enough to realize that Lainie was smarter than he was, and he sensed that hers were good coattails for him to ride on, so he generally acted as the brawn of the team while she was the brains. It worked surprisingly well, and their high clearance rate and general rep for getting results in the form of confessions from suspected racists and other thought criminals had done them both good, departmentally speaking. But Jarvis sensed that Lainie was what the Hispanics referred to as a “cocoanut,” brown on the outside and white on the inside.

* * *

Kicky looked up as the door opened and the two detectives entered the room. Jarvis had a thick file in his hand that she presumed were her yellow sheets. She looked at Lainie, Levantine sleek and arrogant and dressed to the nines in a blue serge skirt and jacket like some kind of model in the Lady Cop Chic section of Vogue. She knew full well that any faint hope she had of ever getting out of this depended on her crawling and groveling like a whipped dog to these two, and yet something in her that she didn’t understand seemed to take on a perverse life of its own. “I see the Monkey, so I guess you must be the Mami,” she snarled at them.

Martinez leaned over the table, and like lightning she lashed out in a vicious slap across Kicky’s face, almost knocking her out of the chair. “Inmates in this Justice Center are prohibited from using racial or ethnic slurs, derogatory references to anyone based on race or sexual preference or national origin, or other hateful language, Ms. McGee,” she said. “It’s not only a violation of JC regulations, it’s a violation of the hatespeech section of the penal code. If you do so again you will be charged with felony hatespeech in addition to first degree murder. I suggest you take heed. You’re in trouble enough.”

“Watch yo’ mouf, bitch,” added Jarvis.

Martinez took the file and slammed it onto the desk in front of Kicky. “We’ve got you cold. Your previous assault on your pimp with a blunt instrument is the icing on the cake. You’re gone, girl. I’m offering you one chance for a deal. One only. You will plead guilty to voluntary manslaughter in the death of Leonard Gillis and I can arrange it with the DA so you get twelve to twenty. As an added sweetener, since I’m feeling generous this morning, I can arrange for you to serve your sentence in a medium security facility so you won’t have to go back to Coffee Creek. This is as good as it’s going to get, Kristin. Take it or leave it.”

“They call me Kicky,” said the girl sullenly.

“Of course they do,” sighed Martinez.

Don’t I get a lawyer?” she demanded.

“Technically speaking, since 9/11 the state no longer has to provide you with one, depending on whether we want to file this as a security case under the Patriot Act, but in Portland the powers that be do like to keep up appearances. So yes, if you want I can get you a legal aid attorney,” explained Lainie. “Any such attorney will almost certainly be black, Hispanic, Jewish, gay, female, or some combination of the above, and probably will hold as little brief for white trailer trash crack whores like you as I do, and they will advise you to take the deal I’m offering.”

“I suppose the fact that I didn’t kill Lenny doesn’t have a damned thing to do with anything?” Kicky demanded bitterly.

“No, of course it doesn’t,” responded Lainie with another sigh.

“What about justice?” cried Kicky.

“This is a legal matter. Justice has nothing to do with it,” explained Lainie irritably, irked at the girl’s stubborn stupidity. “I can’t believe you’ve been on the streets as long as you have, and you still don’t know how it works.”

Kicky’s self-control finally snapped. “No!” she screamed in uncontrollable rage. “Fuck you! Fuck both of you! I didn’t do anything, God damn you both to hell! I didn’t do anything! I didn’t kill Lenny, that nigger standing there did! You know it! I didn’t do anything!”

Martinez stood up and slapped Kicky across the face again, but more or less pro forma, without anger or enthusiasm. “Suit yourself, you stupid little twist,” she said in disgust. “Don’t you ever say I didn’t try and help you. First degree murder and a life sentence it is. I suggest you watch your language in Judge Feinstein’s court. He’s not going to believe any wild stories you come up with about a respected and decorated police officer killing your pimp, and if you keep on using racial slurs and try to offer perjured testimony against an African American officer, you need to remember that hatecrime carries life without parole. So go ahead, jump up in court and yell out your stupid lies, and really fuck yourself over forever. Hell, maybe it’s for the best. Wealthy and decent couples all over the U.S.A are going to be lining up around the block for that little girl of yours. Maybe you’re doing the right thing after all by permanently taking yourself out of the picture.” She and Jarvis turned and opened the door to leave.

Kicky stared in horror. She knew that the door wasn’t just closing on the interrogation room. It was closing on her, her whole life, on her daughter. They were going to take Ellie now. She had lost. They were going to take Ellie.

As the door closed, Kicky jumped up and screamed at the top of her lungs, “I can give you the NVA! Fucking spic bitch, you hear me? I can give you NVA! I know where they are! I can give you that sniper, that guy they call the Cat! I can give you two the NVA, you bitch, you baboon! Just let me go! Please, God, I didn’t do anything, please let me go, please don’t take my baby!” She collapsed onto the table top, weeping hysterically.

The door opened.

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Tags Degeneracy

The Kwa

is the distilled essence of Judaism

“The State of the Kwa: Atlantic City” is a short white fiction piece written on 30 April 2004 by William Ventvogel (“Kwa” means “Amerikwa”: the degenerate, Mammon-worship place that America has become):

I accepted my boss’ invitation to go with him to Atlantic City for a day of gambling. I don’t gamble, but it would be interesting to see the changes. I hadn’t been up there in years. But no, the nature of the place had not changed. It was on artificial life support. There were fewer White workers than I remember in 1980. There were more casinos, and the crowd was darker, but the same dreary Kwaness was intact, the grasping, gluttonous, uncivilized hive activity of American society. Perhaps it would have alarmed one of us, but to a Kwan [someone who lives in the Kwa (Amerikwa)] it was all right. It was a place of good times, you see. And Americans are all about having fun, as Celine said. Most of the restaurant and service staff was Mexican. The issue about Atlantic City, New Jersey, is that it still runs despite the majority black, brown and Jew composition of the people.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t think a non-white population can maintain a White civilization. My consideration (as yours), is the strategic one: as the infrastructure ages and the proportion of White to not-white decreases, when does a region become Third World? It will, of course. The day would prompt me to follow this train of speculation. So my boss went off to the poker room for seven hours and I went my way. After paying $15 for a breakfast of sausage and eggs, and after reading the New York Times, I wandered off. Entering that red bag sewer of an ocean was out of the question. (I saw guys surfing it!) The rides were not open for the season yet. All the news stands carried moron picture books and nothing else. The scene outside the casinos is basically one of walking and buying something to eat every 100 yards. You watch the girls for a while. (Five in a hundred were interesting. Far, far too few were White.) The small shops had been taken over by Pakistanis, Indians and Asians. A few very old family pizza businesses carried on, run by Italian or Greek families. But generally it is a place left behind by Whites. It has a run-over, battered feel, like the wake of a glacier. I quickly exhausted the options for diversion, which is a dangerous condition for me. I started thinking.

Atlantic City is a place where everyone thinks that what they want is to be had there. No doubt those with more innate levity and good humor than I possess have fun there. Really, they do. No one I saw appeared to be worried. The Whites had credit cards, the not-whites had credit cards or cash enough. There was no favala-style hardness or predator look, no breadline desperation. The sun was shining and the waves were breaking on the pumped-in sand. The gulls wheeled and screamed in the sunlight. The feral cats that live and breed in serious numbers under the boardwalk were charming the morons. It was a good day to be a Kwan in Atlantic City. But as I stood against the rail there along the boardwalk watching the passers-by, I realized that the basic dynamic of our predicament was to be seen here: there is peace because Whites are yielding. I should point out that any objective survey, cursory or rigorous, of the composition of the mob would reveal it was majority non-white. There were niggers, mestizos and asians and mélanges of all, and these, scaled against the apparently wholly-Whites, outnumbered the Whites. Still, no cause for alarm! There was peace in Atlantic City. Whitey was still running the trains and power stations and giving up his taxes and managing the casinos and motels. He was keeping the books and running the police and fire departments and not overtly resisting, or even objecting, when a nigger or brown thing hits on his daughter.

As I watched that mob of potbellied whiggers, niggers and mélanges pass, I could not avoid speculating how much longer the Kwa can go on, when the center would disintegrate. I am morbid-minded, you see. Like most artists I find the dismal and eccentric more interesting than stock reports and niggerball. I observed the gold chains and backward ball caps, the sneakers, the yo-ball clothing, pierced eyebrows, Neanderthal gaits, the fart machine complex of the under-men doing their mobish thing with instinctual excellence, the way a Jew is instinctually a superb Jew. And I wondered if the cancer would spread into the still-White Kwa interior by the stealthy thoroughness with which it has taken over the northeast coastal region. I would answer yes, but I don’t think the Kwa will last long enough.

The rate of decay is theoretical but still, nothing this stupid can feed itself. Eventually Josefa and Ali, Cho and Shamika and Howard Greenstein are going to look for the White man one day and he will not be there. What then? The White man’s works won’t last forever nor work under all conditions, as they seem to now. The White man makes it all go. Take him away and you have no energy. The White man is fading slowly enough; his parasites are not alarmed.

This is the portal through which anyone who cares to peep might see how it will end. Material systems falter without the hands that created them. Machines require more than rote maintenance. Consider Haiti, a place touched by the White man. The U.S. Marines ran the island of Hispaniola from 1919 to 1933 but they weren’t there only to kick ass for United Fruit and Jew banks. They also made it safe for the uplift crowd, which always follows the ZOG army to improve the lives of the liberated. These are essentially Puritans. They bring democracy and God and women’s rights and other deteriorative voodoo. Yes, the jarheads made it safe for the Puritan uplifters to do their thing. Some good was accomplished: roads, schools, hospitals and power plants were built. The marines built a supposedly legitimate constabulary and army. But hell, that didn’t last long. When Roosevelt pulled the Marines out of the Caribbean in 1933 (his “good neighbor” policy) all of it sank away, of course. Now the Dominican Republic is a shithole, and Haiti is worse than a shithole — it is an abscess. Make no mistake: a people converts its environment into conformity with its instincts. So the animals of Haiti have the land they feel comfortable with. The Dominicans, having more White blood, have not brought their land so low as Haiti but overpopulation and corruption are taking it there. You have noted the ongoing exodus from Hispaniola in vessels of desperate design. Atlantic City would be paradise for them. There they will at least get fed.

And no doubt if they reach “our” shores our corps of uplifters will cover them. The jewsmedia will back the uplifters. The huddled masses win; the tax slaves lose (more). The jewsmedia will form public opinion into demanding services for these people for which the government can’t pay. So the government must borrow the money from Jew York banks — which is the plan. It is a sweet, bombproof strategy for usurers — but one that cannot go on forever. Resources will falter. The average technical and managerial competence will sink. This is ZOG’s Achilles’ heel.

The dynamic is to be seen on the boardwalk and casinos of Atlantic City, New Jersey. The media keep the mob excited — thus diverted. Atlantic City is a break from the mundane pressures, for example the moral peaks, the “personal development” goals. There is also the Big Score by which the gambler hopes to escape “the rat race”. Kwans are conditioned to be perpetually discontent. The media know how and are very good at it. You can detect the method in the casinos, in the slot machines, for example. The machines are digital now, imparting a sense of infinity, derived from the soul of the machines which is circular (circuitry); hence nothing in them really stops. So they emit this sound which affects the senses in this way: it is a crescending sound, tense and always climbing, climbing, like a murder scene in a movie. But it never works out, never ends. It climbs and climbs and the player feeds more quarters, dollars into the mouth of the machine so he will arrive. At what? In a football-field-sized casino several hundreds of these machines make a sound that to a non-gambler is insane. It sounds, brothers, like control. In a casino you might hear for the first time what control sounds like. It is a cacophony that makes slaves.

The only intelligent-looking people I saw were in the Starbucks. What does this mean? It means that practically everyone can be grouped. This is the fact; most of us can be profiled by marketers. All they need is a few weeks of purchase data. Personally I don’t care. They can’t make me spend, so let them watch. The Kwa is, as the kike Zangwill pronounced, “the distilled essence of Judaism.” Hence I turn to the others who feel as I do. Who are the most interesting writers today? White nationalists and (so-called) anarchists. These are the only ones taking on the dynamic of Jew and capitalist herd management. Starbucks has nailed the lit-and-wine set. Starbucks is daylight intelligentsia.

But the market targeting of AmeriKwa is a grand phenomenon, too. It foments sprawl, debt consumer spending and obesity. It is to be seen along most major ZOG interstate highways, for example. Market research offers a theme for every ill-discipline and aspiration. What you are looking for and hope to be can be shopped for at the next strip mall. At night the intensity of the competition is apparent in the banks and banks of lights, like infinite runways. The sheer bigness and complexity of urban/suburban Kwa life must make you wonder what the end will be, and how it will commence. And if you stay in this environment you will go insane. I have concluded that insanity is inevitable. It might be a controlled insanity, a functional insanity, but there is no avoidance of spiritual corruption and identity-death in a high-density aura of AmeriKwa. To survive materially you have only one option: adrenalize or fail. (Hence the need for caffeine.) The pace is accelerating and if you don’t get wired and stay wired (Starbucks) you will be eaten by someone who is.

I saw a lot of “Russians” in Atlantic City. I must say the women were very attractive. They seemed to me to have more easily readable signals and avoidance system than do AmeriKwan women. They were, in short, more feminine. But there are mixed opinions of these “Russians.” Many are zhids [Jews]. Too many had a gaudy and thuggish character. It was new money. The men were wearing gold chains and the women were over-painted and over-dressed. I have Russian friends who would have been embarrassed by the sight of them, I think. And they might have felt a resonance from the Soviet days in the Atlantic City Museum, a small place on the northern end of the boardwalk. There I watched a short film on the history of Atlantic City. It was well done until the end where it described the reasons for Atlantic City’s decline. It commenced in the postwar prosperity when, because people had the money to travel and build backyard pools they stopped coming to Atlantic City. Jet travel to Vegas, my ass! Atlantic City went down the shitter [toilet] because the niggers were growing restive by the desegregation laws the zhids engineered into promulgation in the 1950s and ’60s. The straw(s) that broke Atlantic City’s back were the MLK riots in 1968. Atlantic City had been attracting niggers from the South for decades. They came to work in the service industry; the bonus was that the Whites up north didn’t know niggers like Southerners do. After the defeat of Adolf Hitler’s White revolution and the Jew campaign against Whiteness the niggers lost their fear of the White man, and did their natural bush thing, which is riot, kill, rape and plunder. I don’t know how badly Atlantic City suffered in the King riots but surely the bushmeats [niggers] did bust up the place most splendidly. The human beings were frightened away. The Jews left too.

And so you see the phenomenon that is apparent throughout all of urbanized AmeriKwa: shallow pockets of prosperity, hemmed by a sort of deadline where Whites and niggers don’t mix much. Atlantic City glitters one block deep. Go deeper and you’re in the ghetto, with animal niggers and Whites who act like them. I dared a brief excursion a few blocks in and it was as bad as anywhere I’ve been. I got the feeling that the ‘meats were waiting for the signal. Will you recognize the signal, White man? The well-built old buildings were sinking away; they had that patina of nigger rot. So that’s what basically rules Atlantic City now as it does many, if not most, coastal cities: the brown and black cancer, kept at bay by the Jew media/extortion strategy. It rules the Kwa. In the meantime you may be sure that the kikes have a Rodney King on tape somewhere, ready to deploy at the right time. In the meantime, enjoy what’s left. One day in Atlantic City was enough for me. Maybe the showgirls can draw me back. That’s about it.

Tags Degeneracy, United States

Blacks Feminism Kali Yuga Real men Women

Women & cities

The following essay, “On Cities, Women, and White Survival” by William Ventvogel was published originally in January 3, 2003

Gentlemen, our survival depends on our attitude towards the most damaging set of lies fed to us by America’s Jewish community: the exceptions ploy. These are: “some blacks are okay,” “some homosexuals are okay,” “some career women are okay,” “some Jews are okay,” etc. If you have not learned by now that these are lies, that the presence of these people destroys White identity, we are doomed to fail.

Andrei Kievsky wrote recently that things are falling apart very fast. Yes. Mark the closeness of two milestones in the campaign to destroy Whites: 1) the blonde White woman‐nigger romantic pairing in media, and 2) the establishment of a super GRU murder‐repression agency by FedZOG. The current vogue of the mulatta Halle Berry is prep for White males to get over the color thing. And psycho killers loose in American society are to make us beg for security. The West isn’t doing much about the savages exterminating Whites in Africa and it won’t do much when it starts happening here, either. We’re finished with government. Fuck the government. We’re on our own.

Let’s look at the rest of it. White women are competing with us in the marketplace for money and influence. What sort of women? Those White women whom Jew propaganda has won over, that’s who. They are pro‐ZOG; they are unitarians, although many deny it. The fact is, these women face a bitter end, though most don’t seem to know it, and if they did they would back out. I’ve seen it happen, and they are pathetic at 40 years old, trying to re‐feminize themselves, trying to shuck the traits of competition and hoping a virile man will find them attractive, and perhaps make them mothers.

Taxes fund anti‐white politics—and Jews are superb at creating issues. All women in power today use some degree of government protection. A woman in level competition with men rarely lasts long. All women of influence owe something to the Jew government. Worst of all, most White men take these women seriously and use the Jew political lexicon in their relationship with them. That is, men negotiate with these women. I used to do that. I used to operate by the “some career women are okay” assumption. That’s conditioning; that’s the effect of Jew propaganda. What a mistake! Remember that the next time you see some redhead career cunt pawing a simian at the opera.

Jew corruption and support is concentrated in the cities. Pro‐Jew, unitarian, professional women are concentrated in the cities. The niggerball producers are there; queer power and welfare directorates are there; the corporate capos are there; the breeding and mud hordes and the elite Whites who use them are there. Take any member of these groups for other than what he or she is, and you are losing.

That Sanskrit saying, “From the corruption of women… all evils follow,” is true. But you can undermine the ZOG’s artificial order. Stop taking these women seriously! Women want to be dominated. When I gave up the nice guy crap and dropped the Jew lexicon and started hunting women ’70s style (and before), looking at them first as pussy, it was as if I had quit the Church of Goy Control, and been swept up by the Valhallans. Now I look at women as sources of pleasure and incubators for my children, and that levels everything else. That blows away the ZOG fog. Clarity and focus are mine.

Then I am powerful! If I realize that a certain woman deserves more respect from me, I shall give it. But until I see she is quality, she is my meat. The old “gentleman” and “nice guy” approaches don’t work. They are indicators of defeat and retreat, not civility. Good manners still impress—but not as we expect. There is a new dynamic at work in cities. It is predatory and commercial, cynical and claustrophobic and effete. Cities are no longer tenable for a gentlemanly White man with a touch of honor pulsing in him. Such men wash out. I know. The principal dynamic is, in short, Jewish. White women know something is off with White men. The White men are running away. They can’t handle it. What’s left to White women? That’s why so many White women are hooking up with Jews, niggers and orientals.

I live in the core of a rotting East Coast city. It is architecturally magnificent, the best of 200 years of civilized White men. But these men are all gone, and so is their type. Only the buildings remain of their civilization, in a swamp of nigger predators and parasites (there is plenty of wigger—White nigger—trash, too).

Here in the core, sushi faggots, Jew lawyers and landlords, lesbians and career twats dominate. Rabble makes up the rest of the population. In a city 70 percent nigger you find yourself inevitably in their company. They are everywhere. And, brothers, I was “going along to get along” until a few weeks ago when two niggers pulled a 9mm on me. I got away with my life and wallet, and someone called the cops, but I left before they arrived. I don’t know if they ever showed up and I don’t care. I wouldn’t have called them because I don’t need them. The incident was merely life in a place with Africans roaming at liberty. Niggers feed on Whites. This is the imperative that drives all niggers—the “nice” ones too. They follow the White man to get his standard of living. Or else they live like niggers, i.e., they eat each other and sell their children. A male nigger’s greatest coup is screwing a blonde or redheaded White woman. Any White man who thinks that’s okay is headed for a necktie party. That day is coming.

There is no such thing as an okay nigger. I can’t look at any nigger as I did before. The only “okay” nigger is in Africa, or dead. In the meantime, demographics and economics ensure they’ll continue to feed off us, take us down. That’s the Jew plan for us. I watch every simian now—watch his hands, his eyes. There are too many and I can’t handle it well anymore. Either I kill them or I get out. The Jew problem behind the nigger problem, and the queer problem, and the Ms. MBA‐hole [a feminist who has an advanced university degree and who is a real bitch] problem, is like a leech sucking out the White man’s energy and brains. The ambient stress is always there whether you feel it or not.

The city‐dwelling White man, being strong, ignores or “manages” it in order to survive. No matter, the stress will eventually destroy him, make him do something stupid. In the meantime I imagine with pleasant tones a life without the necessity of casing every nigger male, or every White male who’s friendly. There is too much enemy energy in the cities, too many Jews, too many questionable White women. And a healthy White man wants to clean it out, hunt them down and kill them, kill them all. And if he can’t or won’t, the stress eventually turns him passive—then apathetic—then cowardly—then materialistic. He is caught in the Jew vortex.

The way to handle the effects of cities at this time is to get out. Yes, eventually the Jews and muds will find us no matter where we go. But the cities are finished and there’s nothing to do but let them go down. We can take them back later—if there’s anything left. But a White man cannot keep his integrity in a city. If he thinks he can he is either degenerate or deluded by Jew propaganda. There are no White cities anymore, and the niggers and muds are always sniffing out virgin White territory. The moron Christians and unitarian Whites lick them all over, like a mama dog licks her pups. Only another decade or so will produce World Three urban conglomerations so filthy, dangerous and diseased, so hopelessly repulsive, no healthy White could stand them.

What will getting out of the city do for me? It will let me be White. It will give my kids a chance to know themselves. It will return my energy and mind to me. A low income is a low price to pay for my dignity and soul. If I stay here I will start hunting down and killing niggers and Jews—and I dare say if you stay, so will you. It would be natural to do it, but it isn’t the answer—yet. If I stay, corrupted White women will continue to remind me that the White man has shockingly turned away from himself. If I stay, I will witness more and more White people drifting into self‐destruction. We need a new and dangerous wilderness. The White man is his whitest in such places. No wonder we’re going down—there’s no wilderness left. Let’s step back and let them develop.

Sharpen your knives, White man. Breathe clean and wait for The Day.

Tags Degeneracy, Feminized western males

Justice / revenge Rape of the Sabine Women

Lycanthropy

How will the Castilian Wolf deal
with Little Red Riding Hoods
after the crash

The most paradoxical thing about women is that, while the fairest specimens of Aryan females look indeed like the crown of the evolution, if you empower them the race goes extinct. They’ll simply refuse to reproduce. In fact, all of the present demographic winter looks like a typical women’s shit test writ large:

If you let my whims run amok with runaway feminism your little genes are going extinct. Have a little respect of yourself, you pathetic eunuch. Take heed of how nymphs and nymphets were fair game when the first Romans faced extinction and resorted to the abduction of the Sabine women. After the racial wars in a Mad Max-like world, will you have the balls to abduct me and convert me into your legit wife, with lots and lots of kids you pussycat, or will you let the niggers do the job and turn America into Northern Brazil?

Every time I watch how a drunk Clarke Gable handled Vivien Leigh during that famous scene of Gone with the Wind, carrying her up the large stairs in his arms and telling her, “This is one night you’re not turning me out,” I shake my head imagining the non-lycanthrope gentlemen, the AltRight types. (For the interregnum they’re ok, but during and after the racial wars we’ll need real wolves chasing after Little Reds.)

Gable passed the test. Leigh awakened the next morning with a look of pleasure for having been “raped” and being put, on the marital bed, in her rightful place. But it makes me wonder. Like the ancient Romans seeking wives (after being fed by a she-wolf) in order to found families, will 21st century nationalists pass the test after the rule of law collapses?

An ongoing discussion at Counter-Currents moves me to reproduce the following article, “The Future of White Women: A Speculation” written by William Ventvogel eight years ago. However radical they may appear to conservatives, present-day white nationalists are still trapped in the non-lycanthropic, bourgeoisie box, and unlike Ventvogel very few are willing to think outside the conservative box. Fortunately, the dollar is going to crash in the near future. You better be prepared psychologically to receive our unwelcome bite, turning yourself into Canis lupus with regard to the coming treatment of women, once the interregnum after 1945 is, finally, over.

Ventvogel wrote:

The ugly fact is that throughout history women have been objects of barter. This is rooted in harsh conditions that abated barely two centuries ago. The women of the West—White women— generally had it better and were the first to be elevated above commodity—and by their own men. Their ascent to their positions of market‐competitor and leader today correlates to technological ascent. By “ascent” I mean the increasing productivity‐per‐unit, and decreasing cost, of technology. Technology has nearly erased harsh conditions in most areas of the West and allowed White women to participate in affairs—even dominate. No longer does a White woman need a male guardian. But the industrialized Western states are complex and in debt. They are disintegrating, and nothing can stop this process. What will the situation of White women be as things turn worse?

Technology also grows human populations beyond safe environmental carrying capacity. By any sane analysis, Earth is overpopulated with low‐intelligence, high‐birthrate problem makers—no matter what the egalitarian lens shows. Technology will falter and down with it will go those populations brought out by hyper‐technology of food and energy production. Barbaric conditions will creep back in, and White women will lose their power. They will become commodities again. How White men handle their women then will be as important as how well they neutralize their racial enemies. It will determine the fate of the White race. White men will face two great problems in their women: 1) the competition for White women, and 2) those White women who demand what no longer exists nor can exist. This, exacerbating the struggles of survival, will make the scene ferocious.

The easy times are ending. They might collapse in our lifetimes, because technology is failing and “American” society is becoming too complex to govern. Dark peoples are streaming into the West to escape their deteriorating homelands. They have infiltrated White homelands by the tens of millions and five billion more are behind them. They are here and will remain until that desperate hour of the wolf when, and if, White warrior action coalesces and drives them out. The darks have their own leaders and White egalitarian scoundrels willing to collaborate with them. And they have White technology and weapons. In the coming war of White survival, White men will be defending not only their sustenance but also their women from dark warlords.

Whites have been besieged in Mother Europe before: by Huns, Moors, Mongols and Turks. But the coming war in North America will be different. The White man will be the obstinate holdout, unsure of himself, and the smaller tribe. And his women will be gold. Blonde and red‐headed women of apparently pure White blood will be highly prized: battled for, murdered for, negotiated for, abducted and bought, acquired by tribute, by black, brown, yellow and Jew warlords. The White warrior aristocracy would develop a creed of fanatical protection of its women—much like the Old South—a Castilian intolerance of dissent, ready to eradicate any hint of threat—and this includes the defection of White women.

It is of course intellectually au courant to think that the White race is history’s most rapacious. This is the product of Jew propaganda. The White man has proven himself the most humane. The dark races, too, have invaded, plundered, razed and enslaved. But it was Euro man who abolished these actions, as the objects in official policy, when he could. He developed the technology and shared it; he possessed the means and the innate sensitivity to attempt it. Even before the Renaissance and Enlightenment, and long before the advent of the steam engine, the White man saw the danger of his love of war. And he was easing up on his women—instinctively knowing that their participation in government would be necessary to rein in his instinct for adventure. Thus, White women were living better, and in the promise of a better future, centuries ago—better than the majority of dark women in their own societies today.

Today Whites everywhere are under siege. Decades of unimpeded Jew propaganda and Jew‐engendered laws meant to destroy Whites have created two White psychologies: the survivalist and the ZOGling. The survivalist psychology will eventually resist; the ZOGling is willing to surrender. The survivalist wants to live White, and wants his children to live White. He knows what White is. The ZOGling is the doomed whiteskin who doesn’t care about whiteness; more concerned is he with physical survival in comfort, and is willing to miscegenate and serve ZOG (often the ZOGling is merely dull; or worse, a “Libertarian”). The ZOGling is a whigger, meat for the dark hordes, a condom on the Jew phallus.

The new breed on the way, the Castilian wolf, will apply a sort of triage towards White women. It will be informal, ad hoc, but will seek to separate healthy White women from the tainted. After having killed off his immediate nigger, brown and Jew competitors; after securing a deep territory, the Castilian warrior must cull the pool of White women. He must discover which has had willing sexual contact with non‐White men, especially niggers. Those who have will be killed, expelled, or sold. Convinced, egalitarian, pro‐mixer White women are likely to be STD‐infected, and must be culled. (The prisoner David Lane has written a novel on this.)

It must be remembered that churches and ZOG propaganda have induced White men also to interracial sex. More powerful than these, however, is the White man’s lust. He takes whatever women it pleases him to take; same as it ever was. The White warrior who wishes to keep his honor must invent a system of honesty and judgment, both to control himself and treat White women fairly. As the time of the wolf draws nearer the White man must watch for other degenerative influences. One that is extremely damaging, but seems innocuous, is the inducement to masturbation—and not for any religious reason. This is facilitated by pornography. Masturbation is emasculation. Take a look around. Only masturbation can account for the slouched, neutered, passive character of so many young White men. The following factors are involved:

1. Images of sexualized females in advertising (soft porn)

2. Copulating females in private media (hard porn)

3. Recourse of females into careerism and as a result removal from the mating pool

4. Psychological warfare against White male identity

5. Elevation de jure and de facto of coloreds and Jews over White males in lucrative professions

All of which invert White males: some into homosexuality, others into a “celibacy” sustained by masturbation and the “wife” of pornographic images.

Retention of sperm increases aggressiveness. George Lincoln Rockwell’s famous dictum, “A man who won’t fuck, won’t fight,” is true. We should see also that a White man who accepts sexual release anywhere but into a worthy White woman is ceding territory to Jew and colored males. One incentive for warfare was the capture of desirable women. And so it shall be again. The White man who fails to establish and protect a pool of choice [for] White females from the coming statistical empire of 15‐20 Jew, nigger, Asian and mongrel men for every single White woman, will effectively fail to secure himself. The simple fact will be this: the strongest warriors will get the best women—same as it ever was. The more technology falters, the greater the danger, and the more intense the competition for White women. The Chinese still practice female infanticide. Within 50 years there will be 200 million Chinese men for whom there won’t be Chinese women. Think about that when the lights go out again. The numbers cannot be avoided.

In A.B. Guthrie’s superb novel The Big Sky (1947), Boone Caudill returns home to Kentucky after 20 years as a White savage in the Shining Mountains. Caudill has killed a dozen men, red and White, with a knife, gun and tomahawk. A pretty young girl, a neighbor of his brother, shows interest in him. Her mind and his can never share the same topography, however. Here in Kentucky he feels trapped and doomed, and knows he can live only in a state of anarchy. He arranges an evening tryst, and rapes her. She is talking of moonlight and flowers, and he only wants her body. Consider this excerpt:

He got up afterward and straightened himself, looking down while she lowered her skirt and curled on her side and lay in the grass, her mouth still a little broken from the feeling in her and her shoulders bucking to her catchy breath.

Her voice was small and jerky but it still spoke as if of something sure. “When’ll we be married, Boone?” He had wanted this woman and now he had her and never wanted her again. In him there was only a deadness, the numb deadness of a man sure enough about dead. He sank down in the grass.

“When, Boone?” It was her hand now that hunted for his and cuddled it in the warm palm as if it was hers for good and all.

“I ain’t thought about that.”

We got to be married,” she said, and he thought he heard the quick sound of scare in her tone. “We just got to be married”…

He had to go. His feet straightened and lifted him up. “I got a woman.”

He left her sobbing in the grass. Once he heard her cry after him and took a glance back and saw her sitting and bowed over. It was too bad she took it so hard, but he had to go. Under him his feet quickened…

He had to go. West again. Somewhere west, as in that far‐off time…

He didn’t realize he was running until he saw Blue trotting to keep up.

This will be the general form of the White man in barbaric conditions. Most will not be this crude, of course. Caudill was not very intelligent. But his character indicates the consequences of pariah‐hood and pent‐up rage.

When the ’Kwa [Amerikwa—a negative word used to describe the degenerate, racially destructive, Jewified, niggrified, pussified, and depressing place that America has become] starts disintegrating Whites will scramble to form communities. Regional conditions will vary according to the infrastructure which blacks and browns prefer—that is, urban. The colder the climate, the better. The more trees and mountains, the better. How many niggers have you seen in the mountains? A picture of the nigger’s sexual nature is to be seen in the areas in which he thrives: the cities. The male nigger, having been loosed by Jews to be what he is, runs about like a hyena. To this sort of nigger, who dominates nigger areas, masturbation is what chumps (pussies) do. And fags. A buck nigger seeks release only in penetration—hence the sexual aggressiveness of niggers and their increasing success with White females as White male sexual energy retreats. When the time comes White males must kill all White pussy‐hound niggers and White women who give themselves to them. They must be hunted down and killed with Castilian ruthlessness. In the coming wars, bourgeois values will be a joke. Any White man who fails to purge miscegenating White women from his community allows poison to fester in it.

The Jew knew exactly what he was about when he caused, over decades of careful undermining, pornography to be decriminalized. Until the Jew snuck out of his ghettoes and into White civilized society, pornography and masturbation were anathema. Our White ancestors crushed pornography and counseled against masturbation—though their reasons for doing so were idiotic religious reasons, ours are for sound biological reasons. In the end, masturbation is cheap and weak. Masturbation is White male control.

After the wars of survival, which will be in effect culling processes, medieval conditions will come. White women will again be traded and sold, or married off, to effect political alliances. There will be no avoidance of this, a necessary step in the evolution of White civilization. The areas bordering Jew, nigger, mestizo and Asian dominions will be raided for plunder and White women. White women must be practically ensconced into harem‐like conditions for their security and to secure a breeding pool. The crimes of the future are inevitable.

The solution to the problem of White women in our time is the same solution for the other problems we have under ZOG. The solution is, abandon the system. Accelerate the rot of ZOG and the ’Kwa by withholding energies that maintain it. White women out of control; White women holding power over White men in corporations, military, government and law enforcement; all this is a condition which will disintegrate when the ZOG does. In a Jew‐free society the balance will be restored. The rage is smoldering and there will be retribution against a certain type, or types, of White women at the proper time. There are many Boone Caudills and there will be many more. They have no use for ’Kwa and will take it down. I have heard them—the exiles, simmering for The Day [of the Rope], tell me of being dumped by arrogant White professional girlfriends for nigger toys; of losing promotions by Affirmative Action; of insults and offenses of every stripe and heat. ZOGtwats are part of the System, allied to the ZOG, and they will receive harsh treatment.

The White man has no enemy who can stand up to him if he decides to quit feeding them. When the Jew‐capitalist machine breaks down, he gets his women back. The start is that simple. The conclusion will not be. How he handles it will decide his fate.

Tags Degeneracy, Feminized western males

Degenerate art Kali Yuga Music Neanderthalism William Pierce

Let’s atone for Gomorrah’s sins through Gomorrahite art!

Post author By C .T.
Post date December 9, 2011
11 Comments on Let’s atone for Gomorrah’s sins through Gomorrahite art!

Criticizing poser metal bands, William Pierce committed the terrible mistake of proposing to use that sort of extremely degenerate music to counterbalance the message of it—through the same musical genre! While Pierce liked classical music and loathed death metal (cf. this video), his situation was so desperate that, like today’s nationalist pundits, he believed that if only the lyrics would be changed, like some rockers who introduce pro-fascist letters in their melodies, that would be a great asset for white nationalism!

Poor Pierce. No wonder why he failed so miserably. As I have implied elsewhere, you are fooling yourself if you believe you can atone for Sodom’s sins through Sodomite art. (The only righteous way is to leave the damned cities and pray for divine, fiery justice.)

Tags Degeneracy