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Tag: Savitri Devi

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Kenneth Clark Souvenirs et réflexions d'une aryenne (book) Technology

Reflections of an Aryan woman, 26

It should be noted that nostalgia is almost universal—not nostalgia for the same epoch, no doubt; and not necessarily nostalgia for a historical past, that the individual has learned to admire only by the testimony of other men. Some people would gladly sacrifice three-quarters of their hard-won experience to become young again, beautiful and healthy; full of enthusiasm too, in the ignorance of all that human society has reserved for them. Most of them would like to be able, without artifice, to keep the body and face of their twenties—or eighteen—and the joyous strength of youth, without having to pay for these treasures with the loss of their experience; to be able to retain both the wisdom of age and the freshness, health and strength of youth. But everyone knows that this is impossible—as impossible as actually placing oneself in a given historical epoch.

On the whole, it is doubtful that there would be any advantage in becoming young again at the cost of losing accumulated experience: he would make the same mistakes, commit the same errors, having become again what he had been and he would not enjoy the comparison between the two ages, having lost all consciousness of the state of old age.

It is certain, too, that ‘to return to Thebes in the time of Thutmose III’ would be to become an Egyptian, or even a foreign in Egypt, unable to appreciate the privilege of being there, and probably nostalgic of the time of the great Pharaohs who built the pyramids. What all those who aspire to return to the past really want is to go back without losing their current mentality and the memory of our time, without which no comparison is conceivable and no ‘return to the past’ is, consequently, of any interest. But then their aspiration seems absurd. Is it indeed absurd if, instead of looking at its content, we consider what I will call its meaning?

Apart from the 19th century—the 19th century minus those ‘dissidents’ of genius who are Nietzsche, Richard Wagner and, in France, Leconte de Lisle and perhaps a few others—there are, I believe, few eras as self-inflated as ours regarding their science and especially their technical achievements. There are two areas to which intense propaganda, on a world scale, draws the attention of the masses, to instil in them the pride of the present: that of the ‘conquests of space’ and the progress of medicine and surgery, the latter, perhaps even more than the former. The aim is apparently to make all the citizens of the ‘consumer societies’ proud, as far as possible, of being both ‘sicker and better cared for’, and to make the ‘intellectuals’ of the so-called underdeveloped countries adopt the humanitarian and utilitarian ideal of the consumer societies, as well as their preoccupation with the present and a future oriented in the same direction as the present.

Well, despite this propaganda which, in Europe, starts in primary school, what do we find if we ask fourteen or fifteen-year-old pupils, as the subject of French composition, the question: ‘In what era and where would you like to live, if you had the choice?

Three-quarters of the class declare that they prefer some past era to their own. I know, having made the experiment many times. And the responses would be just as conclusive, if not more so, if one addresses not young people, but to adults.

There is almost always a past that each person, from his viewpoint, considers better than the century in which he lives. Since the viewpoints are different, the periods chosen are not the same for everyone. But they all, or almost all, belong to the past. Despite the amazing achievements of our time in the field of technology (and in that of pure science, it must be said), and despite the enormous publicity given to this progress, there remains everywhere an immense nostalgia for what cannot return and an insurmountable sadness, that tedium does not suffice to explain, hangs over the world. And, what is more, it also seems that as far back as one can think, it has always been so.

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Editor’s Note: Italics in the last paragraph are mine. Melencolia is a large 1514 engraving by the German Renaissance artist Albrecht Dürer, about which Kenneth Clark said:

But if Dürer did not try to peer so deeply into the inner life of nature, as Leonardo did, nor feel its appalling independence, he was deeply engaged by the mystery of the human psyche. His obsession with his personality was part of a passionate interest in psychology in general; and this led him to produce one of the great prophetic documents of western man, the engraving he entitled Melancholia I.

In the Middle Ages melancholia meant a simple combination of sloth, boredom and despondency that must have been common in an illiterate society. But Dürer’s application is far from simple. This figure is humanity at its most evolved, with wings to carry her upwards. She sits in the attitude of Rodin’s Penseur, and still holds in her hands compasses, symbols of measurement by which science will conquer the world. Around her are all the emblems of constructive action: a saw, a plane, pincers, scales, a hammer, a melting pot, and two elements in solid geometry, a polyhedron and sphere. Yet all these aids to construction are discarded and she sits there brooding on the futility of human effort. Her obsessive stare reflects some deep psychic disturbance. The German mind that produced Dürer and the Reformation also produced psychoanalysis. I began by mentioning the enemies of civilisation: well, here, in Dürer’s prophetic vision, is one more way in which it can be destroyed, from within.

As he sailed for America, Freud said ‘We are bringing them the plague, and they don’t even know it’. Regarding technology, in Neanderthal hands it creates melancholy on a massive scale. Never have the masses of whites suffered as many mental disorders as they do in our empty, technological civilisation.

Technology only makes sense when overmen have political power. In the hands of the Germans of the previous century, atomic weapons would have produced a paradise for whites. But in our darkest hour Sauron found his ring—tec at the service of money—and the Shire’s fate is sealed. What white nationalists fail to understand, and I mean the dudes who run the main racialist forums, is that they didn’t choose Hitler but hell, as Savitri noted. She continues:

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As I said before, the Egyptian of the time of Thutmose III, that is to say, of the time when his country was at the height of glory, probably regretted the time when the Great Pyramids were built, and the time when the gods themselves governed the Nile Valley. All the ancient peoples, among whom Tradition was still alive—Germans, Celts, Hellenes, Latins, Chinese, Japanese, Amerindians—have longed for the reign of the Gods, in other words, for the dawn of the temporal cycle near the end of which we live today. And the younger peoples, even if they have forgotten the teachings of the sages and no longer believe in anything besides the power of human science, a source of indefinitely increased progress, cannot avoid the consciousness of a lack, impossible to explain, a lack that no material well-being, nor any improvement in the techniques of pleasure, can fill.

From time to time—and increasingly rare, moreover, as the world succumbs to the grip of consumer ‘civilisations’—a wise man (such as René Guénon or Julius Evola) denounce in his writings the true nature of universal dissatisfaction, or a poet (such as Leconte de Lisle, a few decades earlier), who reminds us of it by putting into the mouth of a character words with magical resonances that seem to come from the depths of the ages:

Silence! I see again the innocence of the world,
I will sing again with the harmonious winds
The forest spreads out under the glory of the skies;
The force and the beauty of the fertile earth
In a sublime dream live in my eyes.

The quiet evening unites, with the sighs of the doves,
In the golden mist which bathes the thickets,
The soft roars of friendly lions;
The Terrestrial Garden smiles, free of tombs,
With angels sleeping in the shade of palms.

and further on, in the same poem: [1]

Eden, O the dearest and most sweet of dreams,
You towards whom I heaved useless sobs…

It is the evocation of the inconceivable Golden Age of all the ancient traditions—and of those that derive from it—the remainder of the time when the visible order reflected the eternal order, without distortion or error, in the manner of a perfect mirror. And it is also the cry of despair of he who feels carried away in spite further from this ideal world, but inaccessible because it is past; who knows that no fight ‘against Time’ will return it to him. It is the expression of the universal nostalgia for the glorious dawn of our cycle, and that of all cycles: a nostalgia which is expressed in everyday life by the tendency of all men, or almost all of them, including most of the young themselves, to prefer at least one aspect of the past to the increasingly disappointing present.

He who declares that he would have liked to live in another time than his own doesn’t know what he is saying. It is probable that if he could (even while retaining his present personality and the memory of the ugliness of his time) transport himself into a past of his choosing, he would soon be disappointed. Once the effect of the contrast is tempered, he would begin to notice everything that, seen up close, would shock him in that past, which the distance allowed him to idealise. What he is really looking for, what he aspires to without knowing it, is that one age of our cycle (as of all cycles) that, being the faithful image of the divine order, visible perfection reflecting invisible perfection, could be idealised without any flattering perspective; the only one which cannot disappoint.

All individual nostalgia for the past encompasses and expresses the immense universal longing for the Golden Age, or Age of Truth (the Satya Yuga of the Sanskrit scriptures). Every melancholy of the mature man or the old man at the thought of his youth also symbolises, to a slight degree, the nostalgia for the youth of the world, latent in all living things, and more and more intense in some men, as soon as a temporal cycle approaches its end.

___________

[1] Leconte de Lisle, in the poem ‘Qaïn’ of the Poèmes Barbares.

Categories
3-eyed crow Ancient Greece Ancient Rome Philosophy of history Souvenirs et réflexions d'une aryenne (book) Tree

Reflections of an Aryan woman, 25

Perhaps the notion of the irrevocable ‘existence’ of the past is of little consolation to those tormented by nostalgia for happy times, lived or imagined. Time refuses to suspend its flight at the plea of the poet enamoured of fleeting beauty—whether it be an hour of silent communion with the beloved woman (and, through her, and beyond her, with the harmony of the spheres), or an hour of glory, i.e. communion, in the glare of fanfares or the thunder of arms, or the roar of frenzied crowds, with the soul of a whole people and, through it and beyond it, again and again, with the Divine: another aspect of the Divine.

It is possible, sometimes, and usually without any special effort of memory, to relive, as if in a flash, a moment of one’s own past and with incredible intensity, as if one’s self-consciousness were suddenly hallucinated without the senses being the least bit affected. A small thing—a taste, very present, like that of the petite Madeleine cited by Proust in his famous analysis of reliving; a furtive odour, once breathed in; a melody that one had thought forgotten, a simple sound like that of water falling drop by drop—is enough to put, for an instant, the consciousness in a state that it ‘knows’ to be the same as the one it knew, years and sometimes decades, more than half a century earlier; a state of euphoria or anxiety, or even anguish, depending on the moment that has miraculously re-emerged from the mist of the past: a moment that had not ceased to ‘exist’ in the manner of things past, but which suddenly takes on the sharpness and relief of the present, as if a mysterious spotlight directed the daylight of the living actuality.

But these experiences are rare. And if it is possible to evoke them, they do not last long, even in very capable people of evoking their memories. Moreover, they only concern—except in very exceptional cases—the personal past of the person who ‘revives’ such a state or such an episode, not the historical past.

Yet there are people who are much more interested in the history of their people—or even that of other people—than in their own past. And although scholars, whose job it is to do so, succeed in reconstructing as best they can, from relics and documents, what at first sight appears to be the ‘essentials’ of history, and although some scholars sometimes astonish their readers or listeners by the number and thoroughness of the details they know about the habits of a particular character, the intrigues of a particular chancellery, or the daily life of such and such a vanished people, it is no less certain that the past of the civilised world—the easiest to grasp, however, since it has left visible traces—escapes us.

We know it indirectly and in bits and pieces, that our investigators try to put together, like a game of patience in which half or three-quarters of the puzzle are missing. And even if we possessed all the elements, we would still not know it, because to know is to live, or re-live, and no individual subjected to the category of Time can live history. What this individual can, at most, know directly, that is to say, live, and what he can then remember, sometimes with incredible clarity, is the history of his time insofar as he himself has contributed to making it; in other words, his own history, situated in a whole that exceeds it and often crushes it.

This is undoubtedly a truer story than the one that scholars will one day reconstruct. For what appears to be the ‘essence’ of an epoch, studied through documents and remains, is not. What is essential is the atmosphere of an epoch, or a moment within it: the atmosphere that can only be grasped through the direct experience of someone who lived it: one whose personal history is steeped in it. Guy Sajer, in his admirable book The Forgotten Soldier, has given us the essence of the Russian campaign from 1941 to 1945.

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Editor’s Note: This is absolutely true. One of the reasons why I prefer lucid essays like the one by Evropa Soberana on the Judean war against Rome (the masthead of this site) to the scholarly book that Karlheinz Deschner wrote about that epoch, is that Soberana transports us to that world—as in another literary genre Gore Vidal’s Julian has transported us to 4th-century Rome. Academic books are extremely misleading in that they don’t transport us back in time. We desperately need the visuals of what happened. That’s why I like the metaphor of the last greenseer, Bloodraven: the man fused to a tree that could see the past.
 

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He was able to put in his pages such a force of suggestion, precisely because, along with thousands of others in this campaign of Russia in the ranks of the Wehrmacht, then in the elite Grossdeutschland Division, it represents a slice of his own life.

When, three thousand years from now, historians want to have an idea of what the Second World War was like on this particular front, they will get a much better idea by reading Sajer’s book (which deserves to survive) than by trying to reconstruct, with the help of sporadic impersonal documents, the advance and retreat of the Reich’s armies. But, I repeat, they will acquire an idea of it, not a knowledge, much in the way we have one today of the decline of Egypt on the international scene at the end of the 20th Dynasty, through what remains of the juicy report of Wenamon, special envoy of Ramses XI (or rather of the high priest Herihor) to Zakarbaal, king of Gebal, or Gubla, which the Greeks call Byblos, in 1117 BC.

Nothing gives us a more intense experience of what I have called in other writings the ‘bondage of Time’ than this impossibility of letting our ‘self’ travel in the historical past that we have not lived, and of which we cannot therefore ‘remember’. Nothing makes us feel our isolation within our own epoch like our inability to live directly, at will, in some other time, in some other country; to travel in time as we travel in space.

We can visit the whole earth as it is today, but not see it as it once was. We cannot, for instance, actually immerse ourselves in the atmosphere of the temple of Karnak—or even only one street in Thebes—under Themose III; to find ourselves in Babylon at the time of Hammurabi, or with the Aryas before they left the old Arctic homeland; or among the artists painting the frescoes in the caves of Lascaux or Altamira, as we have somewhere in the world in our own epoch, having travelled there on foot or by car, by train, by boat or by plane.

And this impression of a definitive barrier—which lets us divine some outlines but prohibits us forever a more precise vision—is all the more painful, perhaps, because the civilisation we would like to know directly is chronologically closer to us, while being qualitatively more different from the one in whose midst we are forced to remain.

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Editor’s Note: In my fantasy that such a thing as the Wall existed, and have the last greenseer as our tutor, I imagine that I would spend an inordinate amount of time visiting ancient Sparta, and other cities where the Norse race remained unpolluted for centuries. I would visit all the temples of classical religion not only in Greece but in Rome, trying to capture through their art the Aryan spirit in its noblest expression.

But above all I would pay close attention to the human physiognomy of living characters before they mixed their blood with mudbloods.

Only he who actually sees the past as it was, has a good grasp of History.

The saddest thing of all is that pure Nordids still exist, but the current System is doing everything possible to exterminate them (as in Song of Ice and Fire the children of the forest was a species on the verge of extinction).

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History has always fascinated me: the history of the whole world, in all its richness. But it is particularly painful for me to know that I’ll never be able to know pre-Columbian America directly… by going to live there for a while; that it will never again be possible to see Tenochtitlan, or Cuzco, as the Spaniards first saw them, four hundred and fifty years ago, or less, that is to say yesterday. As a teenager, I cursed the conquerors who changed the face of the New World. I wished that no one had discovered it so that it would remain intact. Then we could have known it without going back in time; we could have known it as it was on the eve of the conquest, or rather as a natural evolution would have modified it little by little over four or five centuries, without destroying its characteristic traits.

But it goes without saying that my real torment, since the disaster of 1945, has been the knowledge that it is now impossible for me to have any direct experience of the atmosphere of the German Third Reich, in which I did not, alas, live.

Believing that it was to last indefinitely—that there would be no war or that, if there were, Hitlerian Germany would emerge victorious—I had the false impression that there was no hurry to return to Europe and that, moreover, I was useful to the Aryan cause where I was.

Now that it is all over, I think with bitterness that only thirty years ago[1] one could immerse oneself immediately, without the intermediary of texts, pictures, records, or comrades’ stories, in that atmosphere of fervour and order, of power and manly beauty, that of Hitlerian civilisation. Thirty years! It is not ‘yesterday’, it is today: a few minutes ago. And I have the feeling that I have missed very closely both the life and the death—the glorious death, in the service of our Führer—that should have been mine.

But one cannot ‘go back’ five minutes, let alone 1500 years or 500 million years, into the unalterable past, now transformed into ‘eternity’—timeless existence. And it is as impossible to attend the National Socialist Party Congress of September 1935 today as it is to walk the earth at the time when it seemed to have become forever the domain of the dinosaurs… except for one of those very few sages who have, through asceticism and the transposition of consciousness, freed themselves from the bonds of time.
 

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Editor’s Note: ‘I saw your birth, and that of your lord father before you. I saw your first step, heard your first word, was part of your first dream. I was watching when you fell. And now you are come to me at last, Brandon Stark, though the hour is late’…

‘Time is different for a tree than for a man. Sun and soil and water, these are the things a weirwood understands, not days and years and centuries. For men, time is a river. We are trapped in its flow, hurtling from past to present, always in the same direction. The lives of trees are different. They root and grow and die in one place, and that river does not move them. The oak is the acorn, the acorn is the oak’ (Boodraven to his pupil in George R.R. Martin’s A Dance with Dragons).

[1] This was written in 1969 or 1970.

Categories
3-eyed crow Philosophy of history Souvenirs et réflexions d'une aryenne (book)

Reflections of an Aryan woman, 24

 

Chapter V

History, Action and the Timeless

‘Time, Space and Number
Fell from the black firmament,
Into the still and sombre sea.
Shroud of silence and shade,
The night erases absolutely
Time, Space and Number’.

—Leconte de Lisle (‘Villanelle’, Poèmes Tragiques)

Have you ever worried about the irremediable flight of hours, and the impossibility of going back in time? And have you felt how we are prisoners of time, in all that concerns our sensitive experience? Prisoners of space, certainly, since we are material bodies, even if we are not only that, and a body cannot be conceived independently of its position concerning reference points—but even more so prisoners of time, since a temporal succession is necessarily oriented, and can only be experienced in a direction from the past, frozen in its irrevocability, towards the future, perhaps just as irrevocable but apprehended as an indefinity of possible situations (of more or less probable virtualities) as long as it has not become ‘present’, that is to say, definitive history?

There is, of course, a limit to the possibilities that a body of flesh, blood and nerves such as ours can travel through space. Men have managed, at the price, it is true, of enormous inconvenience, but they have finally managed, to leave the field of attraction of the Earth, of which they had hitherto been the captives, and to launch themselves beyond it. Oh, not very far! Only as far as the Moon, the immediate vicinity of our planet. (It should be said in passing that it was Aryans, one Aryan especially, the mathematician von Braun, who made this feat possible, and other Aryans who achieved it.) This is only the beginning. But this ‘first step’ allows ‘all hopes’ say the experts who have studied the question. What they pompously call ‘the conquest of space’ would only be a matter of technical progress, thus of study and patience.

There is, however, a limit, it seems. For if technical progress is indefinite, so is physical space. It is unwise to make predictions in this area. Who could have said, only a few decades ago, that men would one day actually see our Earth rising and setting: a huge luminous disc, blue and white, against a black background on the lunar horizon? It seems very unlikely to me that man will ever venture outside our solar system, which is so vast on our scale, and so infinitesimal on the cosmic scale. But it remains certain that, even if it remains forever impossible in practice to cross a limit (of which we are still unaware), we can nevertheless imagine an indefinite expansion in this direction.

Beyond the last limit reached, whether within the solar system or further away, there will always be ‘room’: an untravelled distance that we could travel if we had more powerful means. There is no theoretical limit. Space is essentially what can be travelled in every direction. In fact, there would be no practical limit for a hypothetical explorer who wouldn’t need to eat, sleep and wear out and who operated a transport device capable of renewing its driving energy. And even if it can never be materially realised, one can imagine such a journey lasting forever, through space.

On the other hand, we know that, even with the help of the most excellent memory, it is impossible to go back in time and, even with the help of a lot of political intuition and individual and collective psychology, to follow the course of time beyond tomorrow, or even ‘tonight’. I mentioned above the irrevocability of the past, which can be forgotten or distorted—which is bound to be distorted, even when we try to reconstruct it impartially—but that one cannot change; which is now out of reach, as if printed forever in an immense impersonal and infallible memory: the memory of the Universe out of our reach, but also out of range, unknowable, because not directly relivable.

We often hear it said that ‘the past is nothing’, that ‘what is no longer is as if it had never been’.

I, for one, have never been able to understand this assimilation of the living data of yesterday and the day before yesterday, to pure nothingness. Perhaps I have too much memory. It is not the absence of the past—the impossibility of ‘recapturing’ it—that strikes me most, but on the contrary its eternal presence: the impossibility of altering the slightest detail of it. What is done, or said or thought has been done, said, thought. One can do something else, say something else, direct one’s thoughts in a completely different direction. But this ‘other thing’, this ‘converted’ thought (turned in another direction) are new irrevocable things, which are superimposed on the first without destroying them. I have, as far back as I can remember, always felt this.

As a child, I attended a free school, a Catholic school, and took catechism lessons with the other little girls. We were told, among other things, that ‘God can do anything’. Having each time reflected on such a statement, I ventured one day to ask for the floor, and said, as soon as I was free to speak: ‘I came to class today at eight o’clock in the morning, Lyon time. Can ‘God’ make it so that this is no longer true, but that I came, let us say, at half-past eight, still Lyon time? Can he change the past?
 

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Editor’s Note. There is a saying in the language of Cervantes: “Palo dado ¡ni Dios lo quita!”, literally, ‘Hit given [a blow with a stick] not even God takes it away!’ (i.e., what’s done is done. The closest English idiom is ‘A bell can’t be unrung’).

Like Savitri, I am infinitely passionate about the past, as can be seen in the image at the bottom of this site: the child Bran would learn how to retrocognitively see our historical past thanks to the heart tree. That image became the logo of this site: one of the mysteries to most visitors.

The past is the present: If Columbus’s caravels had sunk in an Atlantic storm, we wouldn’t be here.

When I say the historical past I mean the real past, which Bran has access to through magic north of the Wall. I am not referring to the history books written by Christians and neochristians (that is, secular liberals). They lie about what really happened.
 

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Since the teacher was unable to answer my question in a way that satisfied my young mind, I detached myself a little more from the idea of this all-too-human ‘God’ that was being presented to me: the god whose shocking partiality towards ‘man’ had begun, at the dawn of my life, to repulse me. And the irrevocability of the past, of the present moment as soon as it fell into the past, always haunted me: a source of joy, a source of anxiety, a precious knowledge since it dominated the conduct of my life.

More than forty years later, in 1953, I was to write a prose poem, each stanza of which ends with the words: ‘While we never forget, never forgive’. I evoked there the memory of the glory that was the Third German Reich, and also of my bitterness (and that of my comrades) at the thought of the relentless persecution of our people, and of all the efforts made after the Second World War to kill our Hitlerian faith.

This attitude was not, for me, new. At the age of eight, only a few months before the First World War, had I not once declared that I ‘hated Christianity because it makes it a duty of the faithful to forgive’, revolted as I was at the idea of ‘forgiveness’ granted to children guilty of torturing insects or other defenceless animals, as well as to grown-ups who have committed gratuitous atrocities at any time, provided that the cowardly, and therefore degrading act is followed by repentance, however tardy?

Forgiveness or forgetting can completely change the relationship between people, as long as it is given wholeheartedly. It cannot change what is once and for all stereotyped in the past. It is not even certain that the relationship between individuals and entire peoples would improve much, if the former began to practice forgiveness of offences, trivial and serious, and if the latter suppressed, suddenly, the teaching of history among their young people. They would stop hating each other for the reasons they are despised, or at least opposed, today. But given human nature with its lusts, vanity and selfishness they would soon discover other pretexts for enmity.

Animals have short memories, and how! Each generation, unaware of man’s repeated cruelties, is ready to trust him again, and in the case of domesticated animals to give him the unconditional love of which only unreasoning beings are capable. And yet… this total oblivion doesn’t improve at all the conduct of men towards the rest of creation. Wouldn’t the forgetting of history have, between men this time, a similar result or rather a similar lack of result?

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Editor’s Note: This is exactly why the entire contemporary white nationalist movement is animal quackery. If they had a noble heart, the first thing they would do is denounce the Hellstorm Holocaust with the same mania as the media at the hands of Jews speak of their Shoah. But it should come as no surprise if we take into account that the majority of white nationalists are Christian or neochristian.

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In any case, no ‘new beginning’, however happy, can obscure what once happened. To have been, even once, is, in a way, to be forever. Neither forgetting nor forgiveness, nor even the indefinite succession of millennia, can do anything about it. And the smallest events, the smallest on our scale, are as indelible as those we consider the most important. Everything ‘exists’ in the manner of things ‘past’: past in the eyes of individuals who can only live their experience according to a ‘before’ and an ‘after’.

Categories
Conservatism Racial right

American Gothic

Now that we have been translating Savitri’s book, the first thing that comes to mind is her admiration for Hitler’s Germany: something that the mainstream sites of American racialism lack. We also see that she had an exact understanding of the role that the Christian Weltanschauung played in putting what we call Neanderthals (see previous entry) on the pedestal: an aberration that has culminated in the Woke movement (see ‘Terminal Stage’, pages 190-192 of Daybreak, translated this year into German).

Recently one of these American racialists began to write apologetic entries for Christianity in the face of attacks from other racialists who have spoken about the Christian question (CQ). But as always, this American ignores the in-depth criticism we’ve been drawing on this site, including that of Savitri. As a typical American racialist, he focuses on the history of his country, seeing only his navel and ignoring for the umpteenth time what we have said about how the Iberian Europeans ruined their blood, both on the peninsula and this continent, because of their universal Catholicism.

‘Chess is a matter of vanity’, said world champion Alexander Alekhine. And in the battle of ideas there is much vanity among American white nationalists. And there will continue to be, as long as they don’t answer what we say, or what the Spaniard who wrote the masthead of this site said about what happened in the 4th and 5th centuries of our era.

I don’t even want to mention the name of the American racialist who has started his apologetic series. I have mentioned him many times, linking to his site, and he has never responded to any criticism. In the discussion threads on that site, the profound criticism of the CQ is also unmentioned.

So let’s leave the American Goths alone, ignore them from now on, and keep working on the book by our priestess of the fourteen words…

Update of 6:30 pm

The American Robert Morgan has replied to my quest about the racialist dude I didn’t dare to mention above.

Categories
Holocaust Neanderthalism Souvenirs et réflexions d'une aryenne (book)

Reflections of an Aryan woman, 23

In my first new contact with Europe, after the disaster of 1945, I wrote to a Hindu correspondent, after quoting Nietzsche’s phrase on the intermediate character of man, ‘a rope stretched between animality and superhumanity’. ‘The rope is now broken. There are no more men on this godforsaken continent; there is only a superhuman minority of true Hitlerians, and… an immense majority of apes’.

______ 卐 ______

Editor’s Note: What I call ‘the Neanderthals’.

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Such then was the contrast between the dazzling elite of the faithful, whom I exalted in the first of my post-war books[1]: ‘those men of gold and steel, whom defeat cannot deter, whom terror and torture cannot break, whom money cannot buy’—and the rest of the Europeans.

Since then, I have seen this precious minority gradually renew itself, while remaining profoundly the same—like the waters of a lake fed by a river. Many of the Alten Kämpfer (old militants) of the glorious years have died, and more than grew weary of waiting for the impossible return of the dawn—or of what they had so long taken to be ‘a dawn’—of the Aryan renaissance, and, without having died in the flesh, have sunk into the apathy of those who no longer hope, even though hope was indispensable to them. Only the Strong remained who had no use for hope because, while contributing through their activity (and by the magical fervour of their thought, when all action is forbidden to them) to the immemorial struggle against the Powers of disintegration, they have transcended Time. Only those who do not need to ‘believe’, because they know, are left standing.

And around these few survivors of the wreckage of the most beautiful of races, I have seen, in the course of this quarter of a century, a hard and silent elite of young people grouping—consciously known to each of them or not, it does not matter—an elite very few in number, no doubt, but oh joy! of a quality which the vast hostile world doesn’t suspect (and which it could not alter even if, one day, it suddenly imposed itself upon it). I have seen growing here and there, outside of what may seem to the historian our definitive ruin, the miraculous fruits of the unparalleled ordeal of boys and girls of twenty strong enough, already, to do without hope as well as success; intelligent enough to understand once and for all that Truth does not depend on the visible.

One of them[2] said to me in 1956, and others have repeated to me more than ten years later: ‘I oppose and will continue all my life to oppose the current of decadence, convinced as I am of the eternity of the Hitlerian ideal, although I know that we will not see, until the end of time, the equivalent of the Third German Reich. We must fight ceaselessly and without fail, even knowing in advance that we are overwhelmed; one must fight, because this is the duty—the function—of the Aryan of our time, and of all times to come’.

I then thought of Goebbels’ words uttered amidst all the horror of the disaster: ‘After the flood, us!’ Was it the nature of this disaster to bring forth to the continent for which the false civilisation is destined—and how precisely!—to be swept away, a few young people (mostly Germans, but not necessarily) whose spontaneous mentality, corresponding exactly to the teachings of the Bhagawad-Gita, matches that of the very prototype of the Arya of old? And was the resurrection, in our time, of the ethic of imperturbable serenity within untiring action—the wisdom of the Divine Warrior—to be the result of the Passion of Germany?

Perhaps. If so, it was worth surviving the disaster to witness this resurrection. It was worth wandering from year to year among all the apes of the ‘consumer societies’ to make sure, finally, that the spirit of the Leader and the Master would not disappear with the death of the last of the militants of the old guard, but would continue to animate, in its hardness and its purity, a spiritual as well as racial aristocracy, which had not been born in 1945.

This spiritual as well as racial aristocracy—this elite, conscious of the eternity of the basic principles of Adolf Hitler’s doctrine, and living according to them in all simplicity—is, for us, the true ‘man’: the man who strives for superhumanity through personal and collective discipline, through the selection of blood, through the cultivation of ancestral honour and divine indifference to all that is not essential; through the humility of the individual before the Race and before the eternity it reflects; through the contempt for all cowardice, all lies and all weakness.

And I repeat: if we find any of these characteristics elsewhere than in those who openly or secretly confess the same doctrine as we do; if we even find it in people who fight us and hate us, or think they hate us because they don’t know us, we salute, in those who have them, beings worthy of respect. They have in them the stuff of what they could and should be, but they don’t use it or misuse it. They are, in most cases, our own brothers of the race, or men of other races, among the most gifted. Something in them redeems them before the immanent and impersonal Justice which sends every being who, rightly or wrongly, professes to think, where he deserves to go, and which has hitherto prevented them—and will always prevent many of them—from slipping and sinking into that mass which neither feels nor thinks according to its law; the simian majority of mankind, which, like liquids or pasty substances, takes on the shape of the vessels that contain it, or the mark of the seal that has, once and for all, struck it.

During this quarter of a century, I have gradually rediscovered this category of people whom my atrocious shock with post-war Europe had at first withdrawn from my attention: the men of goodwill, the good people who keep their word and are capable of a good deed that brings them no profit; who, for example, would go out of their way to rescue an animal without, however, being capable of extreme sacrifice, even of sustained, daily, total action for the benefit of anyone.

They are not the Strong, and certainly not us. But they are not apes. In an intelligent sorting, they should be spared. Among their children, there could be future militants of Hitlerism—as their opposite. A reading, a conversation at the crucial moment, a small thing, can decide the evolution of each of them. One must be careful: not to despise what is healthy, but not to waste one’s time and energy in trying to hold back on the slope what, in any case, is predestined—condemned by nature—to sink into the mass of non-thinkers; a mass that is sometimes usable but never respectable and a fortiori never likeable.

He is not ‘man’ in the sense that we understand it, man, a valid candidate for true superhumanity; nor is he the ‘good man’, sound in body and soul, fundamentally honest and kind, well disposed towards all that lives, whom we ‘deny’. In other words, it is not to him that we deny more ‘dignity’ and hence more consideration than a simple thing; not to him, but to this caricature of man, increasingly common in the world in which we live. It is this that we refuse to include in the denotation of the concept of ‘man’, for the simple reason that it does not have the connotation, that is to say, it does not possess the essential qualities and capacities that quite naturally serve as attributes in possible judgements where the word ‘man’ is used as a subject.

Any judgment in which a concept is used as a subject is necessarily a hypothetical judgment. To say that ‘man thinks’, or that he is a ‘thinking being’, is to say that if any individual is ‘a man’—if he possesses upright posture, speech—it follows that he is also capable of thinking. In case he is not able to do so, the upright posture and the articulate word, and the other features which accompany these, are insufficient to define him—and do not oblige anyone to treat him as ‘a man’.

Now, a person does not think if he tells you, in all seriousness, that a piece of information is ‘certainly correct’ because it was transmitted to him by his television set, or especially that a value judgement must ‘certainly’ be accepted because he has read the statement in a newspaper, magazine book, or on a poster, wherever it is printed. It does not ‘think’ any more than does a gramophone whose needle faithfully follows record grooves. Change the record, and the machine will change its language or its music.

In the same way, change the television broadcasts, which millions of families watch every night with ear and eye; change the radio programs; pay the press to print other propaganda, and encourage the publication of other magazines and books, and in three months you will change the reactions of a people—of all peoples—to the same events, to the same political or literary figures, to the same ideas. Why, great Gods, should we treat as ‘men’ those millions of gramophones of flesh and blood who do not ‘think’ any more than their metal and Bakelite colleagues?

The latter cannot think, and it would be absurd to ask them to. They have neither brains nor nerves. They are objects. The individual—the two-legged mammal—who comes to me and insists that ‘six million’ Jews, men, women and children, died in the gas chambers of the German concentration camps, and who gets angry if I show him that this number has one (or perhaps two) extra zeros, is worse than an object.
 

______ 卐 ______

 
Editor’s Note: Today the internet exists, and we can see images that from 1915 to 1938 (before the so-called Jewish holocaust began), the Jewish press was already talking about 6 million dead Jews!
 

______ 卐 ______

 
He has a brain, but does not use it, or uses it only to dumb himself down more and more, refusing any opportunity to exercise what little critical thinking he still possesses after more than forty years of anti-Hitler conditioning. This kind of propaganda started already before 1933: between 1920 and 1930. I was in Europe then and remember it—and how!

Moreover, he dares to find in others, or in the men of old, blind faith, absolute trust in a teaching or a teacher. He blames (or mocks) the people of the Middle Ages for believing without question everything the Church told them and everything written in the Gospels, as if the authority of the Church and the Gospels were not equal to that of television or the magazine. He refuses to admit, because the propaganda he has ingested has told him otherwise, that we are not and have never been ‘conditioned’—at least, those of us who count.

Why, then, should I give him more ‘respect’ than to an object—especially since, precisely because of his nearly perfect indoctrination, he has become for me, for the cause I serve, totally useless? What if, moreover, he is not even good?—if I know, having seen him in action, that he would not hesitate to tear off a tree branch that is in his way, or to throw a stone at a dog? Why—in the name of what—should I feel obliged to prefer him to the dog he once injured, or the tree he mutilated in passing? In the name of his ‘human dignity’?

What dignity is that of a living, evil, dangerous gramophone, capable of inflicting gratuitous suffering and creating ugliness! I deny this ‘dignity’ there. Should I love him ‘because he is my brother’? The tree and the dog and all living beings, beautiful and innocent, who at least have no ideas, neither their own nor those of television, are my brothers. I do not, in any way, sense that this individual is more my brother than any of them. Why should I give him priority over them? Because he walks, like me, on his hind legs?

I don’t think that’s a good reason. I don’t care about standing upright when it doesn’t go hand in hand with real thought and a superior man’s character: a character from which all meanness, all smallness is excluded. And when the articulated word serves only to express ideas which had not been created by the one who thinks he has them, but merely received them—and false ideas to boot—, I prefer, by far, the silence of animals and trees.
 

______ 卐 ______

 
Editor’s Note: I find it impressive that what Savitri wrote when I was a child resonates so strongly with my own philosophy. That’s why I am now calling myself a priest and Savitri a priestess…

__________

[1] Gold in the Furnace, written in 1948-1949.

[2] Uwe G., born on 21 July 1935.

Categories
Eugenics Israel / Palestine Neanderthalism Souvenirs et réflexions d'une aryenne (book)

Reflections of an Aryan woman, 22

We are accused of ‘denying man’ by placing the last of the healthy animals, the smallest healthy plant—the last of the dandelions, perfect on its level—above the human waste, the mentally retarded, let alone the idiot, and the animal or plant aristocracy, above the Untermensch, even the apparently ‘normal’; the raceless and characterless human being, smug and cowardly; petty; incapable of thinking for himself, and essentially selfish.

We are reproached for advocating the physical suppression of the demented, the profoundly retarded, the idiots and monsters who, at taxpayers’ expense, clutter up the asylums of ‘civilised’ countries, and the sterilisation of people afflicted with dangerous heredity.

We are reproached, perhaps more than anything else, for having allowed German physiologists and doctors to experiment on human enemies of the Reich, taken from the concentration camps, even though they were forbidden to use animals; in other words, for having shown more consideration for the animal than for the actual or even potential ideological enemy. Above all, this is what most of our adversaries, stuffed with ‘denazifying’ propaganda for more than twenty-five years, have in mind when they declare that we ‘deny man’.

______ 卐 ______

 
Editor’s Note: Anti-Nazi chutzpa has no limits. The so-called Ringworm affair was a scandal involving approximately twenty thousand immigrated Jews who were mistreated between 1948 and 1960 with ionizing radiation on the head and neck area in Israel.

The idea was to poison and eventually dispatch Sephardic children, considered inferior by the Ashkenazi caste at the founding of their New Jerusalem. Israeli activists in our century consider the X-rays that these children suffered to the point of sterilisation as the most prominent example of injustices in the 1950s. But I don’t even blame them: I blame an astronomically imbecile US whose evangelicals believe they are the chosen people.

______ 卐 ______

 
The first step would be to agree on the connotation (and hence the denotation) of this concept of ‘man’, of which so much is made. It is, apparently, the connotation they give it that interests our detractors the most. They call ‘man’ any upright primate capable of articulate speech, to whom they automatically attribute ‘reason’ and, if they are Christians, an immortal soul created in the image of god. But it is the upright posture and the articulate language, traits that are obvious, that inform these friends of man, about the (less obvious) presence of other characteristics. What they do with all living things that exhibit these two distinctive features—what am I saying?—even of those who are completely deprived of them but who possess the human form… because our adversaries place the idiot above the most beautiful of beasts!

Here we see, once again, how true it is that the denotation of a concept is in inverse proportion to its connotation. What gives our opponents the persistent impression that we ‘deny man’ is that we are much more demanding than they are concerning the connotation of this term, and that, consequently, its denotation, in our eyes, narrows accordingly.

It is not enough for us to grant a primate the name of man, and the respect that is attached to it in cultivated languages, that this creature stands preferably on its hind legs, and is capable of emitting articulated sounds that have, for it and others, a meaning. It is not enough for us, all the more so, that it should have, without even presenting these two characters, a silhouette vaguely similar to that of one of us.

We want him to possess that minimum of intelligence which will enable him to think for himself, and that minimum of nobility will make him incapable of certain reactions to obstacles, inaccessible to certain ‘temptations’, impervious to certain debasing influences, and a fortiori incapable of petty or cowardly acts, ugly acts. We do want, if not to ‘love’, at least to respect ‘all men’ in the same way as we respect all beautiful living beings, animals and plants, in which we feel more or less attenuated reflections of the divine, the eternal.

But for this to happen they must be ‘men’ in the strongest sense of the word. We are ready to respect, as individuals, even the people, ideological adversaries, even racial enemies, whom we fought collectively yesterday, and whom we will fight again tomorrow—to respect them if, taken separately, they respond to what we expect of ‘man’: if they combine, with a non-enslaved intelligence, the qualities of character which (statistically) distinguish the races I call superior—and first of all, of course, our Aryan race and even the exceptionally noble individual from the statistically inferior races.

This will not prevent us from fighting them, if they are ideologically dangerous; all the more dangerous because they have more intrinsic value. In other words, we respect as ‘men’ those who, if they are not already ideologically ours, would be worthy of becoming so in our eyes.

Categories
Exterminationism Souvenirs et réflexions d'une aryenne (book) Welfare of animals

Reflections of an Aryan woman, 21

Now, as I said above, man is the only living being on earth who has, even within the same race, elites, and physical, mental and moral dregs; the only one who, not being strictly defined by his species, can rise (and sometimes does rise) above it, to the point of merging (or almost merging) with the ideal archetype that transcends it: the overman. But he can also stoop (and does stoop, in fact, more and more, in the age in which we live) below, not only the minimum level of value that one would hope to find in his race, but below all animate creatures: those who, prisoners of a sure instinct and a practical intelligence placed entirely at the service of this instinct, are incapable of revolt against the unwritten laws of their being, in other words, of sin.
 

______ 卐 ______

 
Editor’s Note: This is extremely important. A group of killer whales that play with a bloody seal as if it were a ball, or an ugly monkey eating a little gazelle alive in front of her mother, probably cannot help but ‘sin’ because of their biological prison. But white Christians, like the idiot who recently argued with Jared Taylor, sin by proclaiming themselves Jew-wise and following, at the same time, the commandments that the bully called Yahweh ordered for them: not to distinguish between races, as that famous verse by Paul says. See what I said this morning about how I immediately lose love to one of these, be they Christian or atheist.
 

______ 卐 ______

 
We are reproached for preferring the healthy and beautiful beast—what am I saying?—the healthy and beautiful tree to the fallen man whether it is one who, born in an inferior race in the process of approaching more and more the monkey, has no chance of ascending to superhumanity, either for himself or his descendants; or whether it is about individuals or groups of individuals of a superior race, but to whom any possibility of such an ascension is prohibited, because of physical, psychic or mental corruption, or all three at once, which they have inherited from degenerate ancestors, or acquired as a result of the life they have led.

In the preface he wrote for the first French edition of the Tischgespräche attributed to Adolf Hitler, and published under the title of Libres propos sur la Guerre et la Paix (Free remarks on war and peace), Count Robert d’Harcourt recalls that the Führer ‘loved animals’ and that he, in particular, wrote pages of charming freshness about dogs.[1] The French academician compares this with the cynicism of the Head of State, in whose eyes political wisdom was ‘in inverse ratio to humanity’.[2] ‘Humanity towards beasts’, he says, ‘bestiality towards men: we have known this mystery of coexistence’. And he adds that those who, in the German concentration camps, sent their victims to the gas chambers ‘were the same ones who bandaged, with a nurse’s delicacy, the leg of a wounded dog’.

To these remarks of an opponent of Hitlerism I would add all that the Führer did for the animal (and the tree itself) in the spirit of the immemorial Aryan conception of the world: the banning of traps, as well as of hunting with hounds, and the restriction of hunting of any kind, as far as this was still possible in German society; the suppression of vivisection—that disgrace to man—as well as of all the atrocities connected with the slaughter of animals.[3]

The use of the automatic pistol was compulsory in all cases, including that of pigs, and I met a peasant woman in Germany who assured me that she had served a four-year sentence in a concentration camp for having killed a pig with a knife (out of treachery, so as not to have to pay the man to whom she should have entrusted the painless slaughter of the animal). I would add that Adolf Hitler, himself a vegetarian, dreamed of completely eliminating the horrible slaughterhouse industry, even if it was to be ‘humanised’, step by step ‘after the war’, as he declared to Goebbels on 26 April 1942.

Nonetheles, far from shocking me by their contrast with all the exceptional measures taken against human beings currently or potentially dangerous, these laws and projects appear, to me, as one of the glories of the Third Reich: and one more reason to be proud of my Hitlerian faith.

Count Robert d’Harcourt represents the public opinion of the West in general, both Christian and rationalist. His point of view is that of all those who fought against us, and even of a part of those who collaborated with us, collaborated for strictly political reasons despite our ‘negation of man’, not because of it, in the name of a common scale of values.

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[1] Libres propos sur la Guerre et la Paix, 1952 edition, Preface, p. xxiii.

[2] Ibid.

[3] Reichsjagdgesetz: the complete collection of laws enacted under the Third Reich concerning hunting.

Categories
Autobiography Christian art Racial right Welfare of animals

The painter and my sister

The wife of the Catholic painter Jorge Sánchez (1926-2016) was my mother’s primary classmate. From his work I remember the series of several oil paintings about passages from the life of Jesus, but he also made baroque paintings of crowned nuns, and I remember a collection of twenty-one oil paintings about the life of the nun, poet and writer Juana Inés de la Cruz.

For the collection on the occasion of the 450th anniversary of the myth of the apparitions of the Virgin of Guadalupe, Jorge Sánchez presented his collection in eighteen oils, using my sister (who died the same year as him) as a model for the Virgin.

On one occasion when my mother invited him to dinner, Jorge sat next to me and I remember a conversation so incredibly surreal that I feel the duty to rescue my memory.

He confessed to me that he didn’t understand why animals still exist!

Although much has been written about Protestant fundamentalism in the neighbouring country to the north, they rarely speak of Catholic fundamentalism south of the Rio Grande.

The sky under which Sánchez lived was, like his paintings, that of a New Spaniard. Talking to him was like entering a time warp and conversing with a criollo from New Spain. Someone who sincerely believes everything the Church of Rome has been teaching sees the world from a strictly anthropocentric point of view. What Jorge Sánchez wanted to tell me must be understood from the Christian theodicy. In short, the god of the Jews created man and when he sinned he had to send his son into the world to redeem him. In this scenario, the Earth as a theatre of human actors to see who will be saved after the Fall, the animals are already obsolete.

I couldn’t believe what Jorge was telling me, who was a very kind person. Over the years, every time he came to my parents’ house and greeted me, he said in a friendly way, “¿Cómo está el joven ilustre?” (‘How is the illustrious young man doing?’).

In my post yesterday morning I quoted these words from Savitri: ‘So what are these values that make Hitlerism a “negation of man” in the eyes of almost all our contemporaries? For it is, indeed, a negation of man as Christianity and Descartes and the French Revolution have taught us to conceive him’.

The secular humanists of today don’t have the faintest idea that the mind is a structure, and that these things that come to us from Christian theology were transfigured into that absolute lunacy that Descartes said, that animals were ‘automatons’ (or the French revolutionaries, who proclaimed ‘human rights’ as if other mammals didn’t count).

Even those who today claim to defend the Aryan race suffer from a strictly anthropocentric vision of good and evil, so unlike our Führer they never question their abject carnivorism or experimentation with animals. They haven’t realised that this anthropocentrism has been poison for the original Nordic spirit, or that it’s a residue of a Judean ideology for Aryan consumption.

From the point of view of crossing the psychological Rubicon, they are closer to the old-fashioned Jorge than to me.

Categories
Neanderthalism Nordicism Souvenirs et réflexions d'une aryenne (book) Tree Welfare of animals

Reflections of an Aryan woman, 20

This is not to say that, statistically, the Aryan is not closer to the ‘idea of the perfect man’ than the man of the other races, even the noble ones, just as within the Aryan race itself the Nordic is statistically closest to the same ‘idea’, in the Platonic sense of the word. Warrior courage is perhaps one of the virtues most equally prevalent in both the purebred (or nearly purebred) Aryan and the non-Aryan.

But there are traits which, while not exclusive to the Aryan or more particularly to the Nordic, are undoubtedly more common in the latter than elsewhere. I will mention three of them: physical beauty, which counts as soon as one speaks of a visible being; the fact that he can be relied upon, that he doesn’t promise what he cannot give, that he doesn’t lie (or lies less than most nationals of other races) and finally, the fact that he has more respect than they generally have for the animal and the tree, and more kindness than they have towards all living beings.

And this last trait seems to me essential. I cannot, indeed, consider as superior any race—any human community, however outwardly beautiful and gifted it may be—if too large a percentage of the individuals composing it despise and treat ‘like things’ the beautiful living beings who, by nature, cannot take a stand for or against any cause, and whom, therefore, it is impossible to hate.

The superior man—the candidate for superhumanity—can not be the torturer or even the shameless exploiter of living nature. He will be the admirer—I would even say, the adorer; the one who, to use the words of Alfred Rosenberg, ‘sees the Divine in all that lives: in the animal; in the plant’.[1] He can be—indeed, he must be—merciless towards man, the enemy of this natural Order, with which he has identified himself, and whose beauty he is enamoured of.

But far from inflicting pain on an innocent creature, or allowing others to inflict it directly or indirectly, if he can prevent it he will, whatever is in his hands, ensure that every beast he meets lives happily; that every tree that grows in his path escapes, too, from the innate barbarity of the inferior man, ready to sacrifice everything for his own benefit, his own comfort, or for the benefit and comfort of his own, even of ‘humanity’.

Any overestimation of oneself is a sign of stupidity. All anthropocentrism is an overestimation of the collective ‘self’ of the two-legged mammal, all the more blatant as this self doesn’t exist; they are only collective selves each corresponding to more or less extensive and more or less homogeneous human groups. Hence it follows that all anthropocentrism is a sign of double stupidity, and generally of collective stupidity.

What are we reproached with when we say that we ‘deny man’? We are reproached for rejecting anthropocentrism. We are reproached for placing the notion of the elite—living aristocracy, human or non-human—above the notion of any man, and for sacrificing not only the sick to the healthy, the weak to the strong, the deficient to the normal individual or above normal, but also the mass to the elite. We are reproached for taking the elite of our Aryan race as the end, and the mass (all human masses, including those in our Aryan countries) as the means. And when I say ‘mass’ I do not mean people, but average and below-average humanity, not so much as to what its representatives know, but as to what they are: as to their character and their possibilities. Our Führer came from ‘the people’, but did not belong to ‘the mass’.

We are reproached for our disgust with the failed creature who has irrevocably turned his back on the ideal archetype of his race, our horror of the morbid, the quirky, the decadent, of everything that deviates without return from the crystalline simplicity of elementary form, absolute sincerity and deep logic. We are reproached for our militant nostalgia for the time when the visible order of the world faithfully reflected the eternal order, the divine order; for our fight for the reestablishment, at whatever cost, the reign of eternal values—our fight against the tide of Time.

_________

[1] Quoted by Maurice Bardèche in Nuremberg ou les faux-monnayeurs, first edition, p. 88.

Categories
Aztecs Souvenirs et réflexions d'une aryenne (book)

Reflections of an Aryan woman, 19

So what are these values that make Hitlerism a ‘negation of man’ in the eyes of almost all our contemporaries? For it is, indeed, a negation of man as Christianity and Descartes and the French Revolution have taught us to conceive him. But isn’t this, on the other hand, the affirmation of another conception of man?

Philosophically, one could define or describe Hitlerism as the search for the eternal, in and through the love and service of tangible, living perfection. The perfection of a living species is the ‘idea’ of that species, in the Platonic sense of the word; or, if one prefers to use Aristotle’s language, it is its ‘entelechy’: what she ideally tends towards. The more complex a living species is—the more hidden possibilities it has—the more difficult it is to discover individuals, or groups of individuals, that are absolutely faithful to the ‘idea’ of this species, that is, perfect.

Of all the visible beings on our Earth, man is the one with the widest range of possibilities, and it is in him that perfection is the most difficult to find. And the criterion which allows it possible—statistically, of course; in this field all truth is statistical truth—is to speak about a natural hierarchy of human races, the extent to which each race can make the ‘idea of man’ a living reality; to present, in the face and body of its nationals, the harmony which is the very essence of beauty, and in their psyche, the virtues that distinguish the superior man, the one I have sometimes called ‘the candidate for Superhumanity’.

I insist that the idea of a ‘superior race’ is statistical. None of us has ever been so foolish as to believe that all specimens of one human race could be, merely by belonging to that race, necessarily ‘superior’ to all specimens of all other races. Some non-Aryans are clearly superior to some Aryans, even the ‘average’ Aryan. Hindu saints of low caste—such as Tukaram—or even below any caste—like Nandanar—were certainly closer to the eternal than many ‘twice-born’ Aryans, especially those Aryans of today, corrupted by the lust for material goods. Japanese heroes, such as Yamato Dake, or Yoshitsune, and so many others; Mongolian chiefs, such as Genghis Khan, the invincible genius, or his lieutenant, Subodai, the very incarnation of the highest military virtue at the same time as the most modest, the most unselfish of men; Mexican chiefs, such as Nezahualcoyotl, king of Tezcuco, at once warrior, engineer and poet, were also.

And what can we say about Tlahuicol, the Tlascaltec warrior from the middle of the fifteenth century, who, as a prisoner of the Aztecs and destined to be sacrificed during the Festival of Fire, refused the pardon and honours offered to him by Montezuma, who was amazed at the sight of his prowess, and preferred ‘to let the festival go on’, with all the excruciating consequences that it would entail for him, rather than accept to serve alongside the enemy chiefs against Tlascala? Confronted, according to custom, at the beginning of the ritual, alone, and without any other weapon than a wooden sword, with five of the best Aztec warriors, armed with stone swords, he had defeated and killed them—instead of being struck down by them—which had earned him the admiration of the prince and all the nobility of Tenochtitlan, whose welcome he rejected out of loyalty to his people. Was he not clearly superior to certain Christians of Aryan origin, his contemporaries in Europe, to a Commines, for example, a traitor to Charles the Bold, his benefactor?
 

______ 卐 ______

 
Editor’s Note: I can’t be so sure how to see under this light all of the characters Savitri mentions above. But I’ll just disagree with her regarding one of the ones she mentions, and what better way to do that than to quote a passage from my Day of Wrath:

As implied above, my father feels an excessive admiration for the Indian world. On several occasions he has argued that the fact that the poetry of Nezahualcóyotl, the most refined representative of the Nahua culture, is so humane that it refutes the vision of the culture as barbaric. But poetry is no reliable standard. The basic, fundamental principle in psychohistory has childrearing as the relevant factor, and from this point of view even the refined monarch of Texcoco was a barbarian.

In a courtier intrigue Nezahualcóyotl consented using garrote to execute his favorite son, the prince Tetzauhpilzintli. The Nahua characters were seized with fratricide fits. Moctezuma I (not the one who received Cortés) ordered the killing of his brother and something similar did Nezahualcóyotl’s heir, Nezahualpilli: who also used capital punishment with his first born son and heir. Soustelle says that this family tragedy was one of the causes of the fall of the Mexican empire since the blood brothers that rose to the throne flipped to the Spanish side. But Soustelle’s blindness about what he has in front of his nose is amazing. Like León Portilla, for Soustelle ‘there is no doubt that the Mexicans loved their children very much’. But that is not love. Nezahualcóyotl’s mourning after letting his son be killed reminds me the ‘Pietà’ of my first book […].