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Tag: Solitude

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Souvenirs et réflexions d'une aryenne (book) Third Reich

Reflections of an Aryan woman, 30

He who has risen above time and who, in spite of this (or even because of it) has a mission to accomplish, sees fit to act in time, acts with the certainty of beings who do not choose; with that of the plant that grows towards the sun—what shall I say?, he acts as the magnet that attracts iron, or the elements that combine to yield the compounds that chemistry studies. With consciousness, certainly; but without deliberation or choice, since he clearly ‘knows’ and there is no choice except for the consciousness that doesn’t know, or that knows only imperfectly. (One doesn’t ‘choose’ between the two propositions ‘Two and two make four’ and ‘Two and two make five’. We know that the first is true, the second false. Nor do we ‘choose’ to think that an object is white, if we see it as such. We feel unable to make any judgement about it that would exclude its ‘whiteness’).

What can encourage a decision by someone who is still a prisoner of time—who doesn’t ‘know’, who doesn’t ‘see’, what the future will be to which he contributes, and who has the impression that he can ‘choose’ his action? What could motivate him, especially if he is ignorant of the whole future yet knows that it will go against him, what is dearest to him in the world, and that his action is, on a practical level, perfectly useless? What could sustain the attitude of men like Teia, last king of the Goths in Italy? Or like the Amerindian princes and warriors, who, in spite of the decree of their own gods, deciphered in the heaven by the sages of their lands, fought all the same, albeit too late—and with desperate heroism—against the Spaniards? Or, closer to us, like those thousands of Germans and Aryans from all over the world who, even though they knew that all was lost, even though there were only a few square metres left of the great National Socialist Reich that had been shelled by Russian artillery, continued to fight, one against five hundred, like lions? [1]

What can sustain them in their action, in their refusal to give in, in their defiance, in their useless attitude—not a martyr who foresees, beyond death, a future of beatitude which will compensate him for the worst torments in this world, but these iron winds of all lost causes which, who have no hope either in this world or in any other—who are not even enlightened enough to imagine the triumph of their truth at the dawn of a future time cycle and who, humanly speaking, should feel that they fight, suffer and die for nothing? What can they oppose to this nothingness that is worth all the sacrifices?

They can—and do, no doubt, if only in their subconscious—oppose it with the only certainty that remains when all else collapses: that of the irrevocability of the past.

For them, it is no longer a question of the future of their people and of the world, over which they will have no influence. It is even less about their personal future, which has long ceased to interest them. It is about the beauty of the moment they are going to live, right now, in a second, in an hour, whenever; it is about the beauty of that moment which represents, in endless time, the last scene of their struggle, a moment which, as soon as it has been lived, will take on that unshakeable stability which is the very essence of the past; which will still ‘exist’, in the manner of the whole past, millions and billions of years hence, when there will be no memory of it on earth for a long time to come: when there will be no more earth; no more solar system; when all the visible worlds of today will have ceased to exist materially.

They feel that this moment is all that still depends on them; all that is yet given to them to create. They feel that it is in their power to make it beautiful, or ugly: beautiful, if it fits into the very structure of their being, like the perfect detail that crowns a work of art, the last perfect phrase of a musical composition. Ugly, if it contradicts it, if it betrays it; if, far from completing and crowning it, it robs it of its value; if it destroys it, just as a last brushstroke can turn a smile into a grimace, or a drop of impure liquid can stain, destroy forever, the most exalting of perfumes.

They feel—they know—that it depends on them to make it beautiful or ugly, depending on whether they proclaim, and proclaim for eternity, their honour or their shame; their fidelity to their true raison d’être, or their disavowal. For what is it to disavow, as soon as they become unpopular, the principles that one has professed, a king or a leader whom one has pretended to love and serve as long as there was some tangible advantage in doing so? This is not to prove that one ‘took the wrong path’—otherwise one would have changed it sooner—but it shows that one values effort only for attaining purchasable comfort and pleasures, and that one is incapable of disinterested allegiance, not only to the leaders one has betrayed, but to anyone else; that one has neither honour nor courage, in other words, that one is not ‘a man’ even if one has human form. For a coward is not a man.

The horror of an eternity of ugliness—for the revulsion of a man of honour before a degrading action or attitude is nothing else— is perhaps more decisive even than the aspiration of the faithful one, vanquished on the material plan, to remain himself after the defeat. In fact, if it is rare that a man who knows himself before circumstances reveal his true scale of values, he at least knows himself, to a certain extent, negatively.

If he doesn’t know, in general, what he is capable of, at least he has—and this, apparently, from the moment of the awakening of his self-consciousness—a fairly clear idea or feeling of things that he would never do; of some attitudes that could never be his, whatever the circumstances. The man of good breeding spontaneously shrinks before a degrading action or attitude. He feels that once it has been done, or taken—once it has become part of the past, henceforth unchangeable feeling—it would mark him for eternity, in other words, it would sully him and scar him irreparably. And it is against this projection of his degraded ‘self’—against this contrast between the nobility, the beauty he feels in himself, and the image he has of the ugliness, inseparable from all cowardice, that his fallen being would put on—that he revolts. Anything, rather than this! Anything rather than to become so repellent!—and that forever, for no contrition can erase what once was; no forgiveness can change the past.

And what can be said of the vanquished of this world who act ‘against Time’—that is to say, futilely, from viewpoint of his hostile surroundings—is also true of those to whom all action properly speaking is forbidden, even though they have not necessarily transcended the temporal realm, and who continue to live, day after day, for years and decades, in the spirit of a doctrine that is against the current of Time.

They leave, by the mere unfolding of their existence, with their increasingly impeded expression, an unwritten page of History. The humblest of them could claim a spiritual kinship, distant, no doubt, but undeniable, with certain illustrious figures: with a Hypatia, in the Alexandria of the 4th and 5th centuries, increasingly controlled by Christianity; with a Pletho, in the 15th century, in the atmosphere of Byzantine Hellenism, all steeped in Christian theology.

He could, in his moments of depression, think of all those who, in a forced, almost complete inactivity—or a phantom of activity, that their persecutors try to render useless—continue, in an indefinite captivity, to be the most eloquent witnesses of their faith. (As I write these lines I am thinking of Rudolf Hess and Walter Reder, the former locked up for thirty years, the latter for twenty-seven, behind prison bars.)[2] He could rightly say to himself that he is, that his brothers in the faith are, and that forever; that everything they represent is extended in them, already in our visible and tangible world.

Ancient Hellenism lives on in Pletho, as well as in some other men of the 15th century, insofar as they preserved its spirit. In the same way, the ‘real Germany’, that is to say, the Germany which has, in Hitlerism, rediscovered its original spirit, lives in the cell of Rudolf Hess—and more invincibly than anywhere else, certainly, since the captive of Spandau is one of the spiritual initiators of the more-than-political movement that the ‘Party’ represented in its origins, and probably one of the Führer’s co-initiates.

It also lives on—their truth and vision—in Walter Reder and in all the faithful Germans still in captivity, if there are any, as well as in the immortal figures of the irrevocable past, such as Dr. Joseph Goebbels and his wife, who in their spectacular demise carried along the six children that they had given to the Third Reich rather than letting them survive it. Not to mention the Führer himself, whose whole life is that of Man both ‘out of Time’ and ‘against Time’—out of Time if we consider him from the viewponut of knowledge, against Time (against the current of universal decadence, which is increasingly evident at the end of our cycle), if we speak of him from the point of view of action. But I would add that unless one has transcended Time through direct awareness of ‘the original meaning of things’[3] it is impossible to draw millions of people, even for a few short years, into a struggle against the general trend of temporal manifestation, especially near the end of a cycle.
 

______ 卐 ______

 
Editor’s Note: This perfectly explains my loneliness in the raven cave behind the Wall during Westeros’ darkest hour.
 

______ 卐 ______

 
He who, still trapped in the ‘before’ and ‘after’, cannot objectively relate his action or attitude to the ‘original meaning of things’, can only justify himself by the beauty of that episode of unwritten history that is, and will remain, even if unknown forever, his own history. The awareness of this beauty of something that nothing can destroy is the most exhilarating thing for the individual—all the more so because all beauty is, even if he doesn’t realise it, the radiation of a hidden truth.

But as a lived experience, it concerns only him and those who accept the same values. It may be enough for him. For many of them, this immutably beautiful past will soon be only a past. Only he who, having risen out of Time, knows that his action ‘against Time’ reflects the truth of all time—the truth, whose Source is the divine order—can transmit to multitudes not this truth (which is incommunicable and moreover would not interest them) but his faith in the necessary action; his conviction that his fight against the inverted values long preached and accepted, against erroneous ideas, against the reversal of the natural hierarchies, is the only one worthy of all sacrifice.

Only he can do this because he has, at the same time as the joy of the fight, even if practically useless, on behalf of a true idea, the vision of our historical cycle in its place in the indefinite rhythmic unfolding of all cycles, in the ‘eternal Present’; because there is, in the objectivity of this vision, a light capable of being projecting, be it only for an instant—a few years—onto our world, like a glimmer heralding the dawn of the next cycle; a force capable for an instant of holding it back in its race toward disintegration.

The multitudes are seduced by this light, and feel this force—but not for long. Every mass is, by nature, inert. The man of vision, Adolf Hitler, for a time drew the privileged crowds to him, as a magnet draws iron. They felt that they had a God as their leader: a man in touch with the ‘original’ (eternal) ‘meaning of things’. But they didn’t understand him. With him gone, they became modern crowds again. They remained, however, marked in their substance by the memory of a unique experience, and imbued with an immense nostalgia: a nostalgia that the whirlwind of life haunted by the idea of money, production, comfort and over-saturated with purchasable pleasures cannot dispel. I have been told that more than thirteen thousand young people commit suicide every year in western Germany alone.

Fortunately, there are also young people who, knowing full well that they will never see the equivalent of what the Third Reich was, live with courage and conviction the faith against the tide of time—the faith in the eternity of the Race, the concrete symbol of the eternal beyond the visible and transcendent world—that the Führer left to them in his so-called ‘political’ testament. They live it with courage and without hope, in the manner of the Strong who need neither support nor consolation. When these young people, who are now twelve, fifteen or eighteen years old, have become old men and women, those of them who will have remained unwaveringly faithful all the days of their existence—in thought, in their silence, in their speech, whenever possible by their behaviour in the ‘little things’ as well as in the big ones—those, I say, will be able, even without ever rising above the ‘before’ and the ‘after’, to look at this page of unwritten history which their life will represent, and to be satisfied with it as with a work of beauty. To this page, their children will add another. And the faith will be passed on.

There are, finally, some very few faithful ones who, sensing in the Führer’s teaching a more-than-political doctrine, devote themselves to its study in order to discover what makes its unshakeable value independently of the lost war and the tenacious hostility of the whole world, conditioned by the enemy. They gradually realise that Hitlerism—Aryan racism in its past and present expression—is, stripped of the contingencies that marked its birth, nothing other than a path, which implies in its Founder the vision, in all those who follow him in spirit, the acceptance of the metaphysical truths at the basis of all ancient traditions, in other words, of the supreme truth.

And they strive to come closer to the departed Leader, by coming closer to the One he was indeed: to the One who, in the Bhagawad-Gita, teaches the Aryan Warrior the mystery of union with the infinite Self through violent action, freed of any attachment; to the One who returns from age to age to fight ‘for Justice’, i.e., for the restoration of the divine order against the tide of Time. In other words, they seek the eternal, certain that only they will find it.

_________

[1] Among others, the French members of the Waffen S.S., who defended Berlin to the end.

[2] This sentence was written in December 1970.

[3] ‘der Ursinn der Dinge’ (Mein Kampf, ed. 1935 p. 440).

Categories
Friedrich Nietzsche Hate

The philosopher of Sils-Maria

Now that I’ve asked that only those who are ideologically similar to Himmler’s willing executioners comment here, I think I should say a couple of things.

The first, the most important, is that I cannot tolerate talking to people who do not hate to the point of wanting to blow up the ethnocidal System throughout all Western countries. If there is no infinite hatred like the one I feel, there cannot be an authentic dialogue.

On the other hand I am pleased that, since I linked my excerpts from a psychobiographical study of Nietzsche, apparently twenty-nine visitors have clicked on the link, although I don’t know if they reached the following passage:

During all the years of his pilgrimage he never once put up in friendly and cheerful surroundings, never at night felt the warm body of a woman pressing against him; never did the sun rise to see him famous, after a thousand nights of dark and silent labour. How immeasurably vaster was Nietzsche’s loneliness than is the picturesque highland of Sils-Maria where between luncheon and tea our tourists wander in the hope of capturing some of the glamour that clings to a spot sanctified by his presence. Nietzsche’s solitude was as wide as the world; it spread over the whole of his life until the very end. Conversation wearied and irritated him who constantly gnawed at his own vitals and whose hunger for himself, and himself alone, was never satiated.

Sometimes only in the most terrible, and even maddening solitude, is it possible to see the great truths that plague the white man: like what Nietzsche saw and we quote at the end of the masthead of this site, the essay on the surreptitious war of Judea against Rome. But I am glad that, apparently, I’m no longer as lonely as Sils-Maria’s philosopher because of what some people have told me and I recently reproduced.

Nevertheless, I am still a voice crying out in the desert as a commenter put it the day before yesterday on The Unz Review.

Categories
Arthur Schopenhauer Technology

Society or our inner ‘daimon’?

Just today I was thinking about some words of Octavio Paz, who lived very close to where I used to live when he died, about a writer whose name I don’t remember.

Paz said that the archetype of that writer was Satan: as he preferred himself to society. The poet obviously referred to what the Greeks called the daimon, in the sense of the voice of conscience with which one internally dialogues; not the diabolized ‘Satan’ of Christians.

Today Robert Morgan commented something that reminded me of my soliloquy this morning:

 

______ 卐 ______

 

In my experience, people who find excessive pleasure in associating with others tend to be shallow sorts. They always seemed to me to be suffering from a kind of pathology, though perhaps, since shallow people are many times more numerous than those who take readily to solitude, the reverse is true. Schopenhauer shared my view though:

“And, as a rule, it will be found that a man is sociable just in the degree in which he is intellectually poor and generally vulgar. For one’s choice in this world does not go much beyond solitude on one side and vulgarity on the other. It is said that the most sociable of all people are the negroes; and they are at the bottom of the scale in intellect. I remember reading once in a French paper that the blacks in North America, whether free or enslaved, are fond of shutting themselves up in large numbers in the smallest space, because they cannot have too much of one another’s snub-nosed company.” – The Wisdom of Life

Above the opinion is also ventured by Mr. Dinh and a few commenters that the advance of technology has had a hand in destroying human sociality, and perhaps this is true to an extent. But being preoccupied with gazing into a screen on a device so you can keep up with social media and communicate with others isn’t really being alone, is it? The paradox is that in many ways such technology pulls people closer together and leads to an even greater mental conformity, as is currently being demonstrated by the wave of deplatformings and social justice warrior doxings of dissidents.

Categories
Kriminalgeschichte des Christentums (books)

Talking to myself

More and more The West’s Darkest Hour is resembling my racist blog in Spanish La Hora Más Oscura: where I basically have almost no feedback in the comments section. My position is so radical that in Spanish I ended up talking to myself to the point that I switched languages and started to blog in English some years ago.
Even the big intellects in the Alt-Right are not valiant enough when approaching the subject of the religion of our parents. For example, last year Andrew Joyce wrote a decent piece about the ethnosuicidal problems in Christianity (here). But in yesterday’s audio interview he says that Christianity is not for cucks when directly asked (here).

So the elephants in the room—the Holocaust that the Allies perpetrated on the Germans and ethnosuicidal Christianity—are almost taboo in white nationalism.

I can do nothing to break the taboos. I don’t have the economic resources to move to a first world country with good libraries and expand Tom Goodrich’s Hellstorm into something quantitatively more ambitious as for the number of pages, e.g. like The Gulag Archipelago. But at least I can continue to add excerpts from Karlheinz Deschner’s maximum opus: a series of books that have yet to be translated to English by a publishing house.

Kriminalgeschichte des Christentums is the first massive, comprehensive exposé of the real history of Christianity. English-speaking houses are so cucked that they have not even translated Solzhenitsyn’s second non-fictional book…

Categories
Racial right WDH radio show

Second thoughts

I’ve been thinking about the relevance of the WDH Radio Show and what I’ve been doing on Saturdays: adding translations of Karlheinz Deschner’s first book on the criminal history of Christianity.

Regarding the radio show, I must confess that I do not recognize myself in what has been said in the four episodes. The reason is obvious. As I have already confessed, my knowledge of English comes basically from reading (on the sidebar, see the photograph of this year of me in my home library). Speaking a language is something entirely different from reading or writing it, and involves even another area of the brain.

I have done inquiries to correct the problem and to be able to speak well in the radio shows. If I wanted to make myself understood immediately, I would have to pay for the services of a simultaneous translator, who would charge me approximately $315 dollars for each episode. But that would only solve the problem artificially. A better solution would require intensive training to get my tongue out in English. Last week I made an appointment with an Aryan woman who in Mexico City presides over the offices of the Berlitz Corporation. The “Private Program,” that is an individualised and intensive program that lets me loose my tongue in three weeks costs $ 1,180 dollars.

The alternative for free would be to find a native English-speaker who is going to study to Spain and desperately needs one of these courses in reverse: to speak fluent Spanish. Through Skype we would train with each other: I trying to speak in English and he or she in Spanish until we both correct the pronunciation to the degree of speaking fluently. But that’s not going to be easy to find. That’s why people usually pay the amounts I quote above when they have the need to do so.

In the radio programs I would like not only arguing, but also making long and elaborate speeches. It is very frustrating not to be able to do it, especially since the voices that have been heard in the four episodes, even those of our guests, do not reflect my ideas. Not being able to argue with them, or with my co-hosts Joseph and Jake, is very frustrating.

What I said in the hatnote of yesterday’s entry on Yeats goes to the heart of the matter. I do not believe that Jewry is the primary factor of white decline. I think it’s the swamps of Aryan sin what have caused the tremendous proliferation of mosquitoes. These must be killed off, of course: but I don’t believe in the “spontaneous generation” of mosquitoes. (For those who have not gotten the memo, this is the Aryan Problem in a nutshell: “A country has the Jews it deserves. Just as mosquitoes can thrive and settle only in swamps, likewise the former can only thrive in the swamps of our sins” —Codreanu.)

And here is where it is clearly seen why I no longer want to prolong the radio episodes indefinitely. If Alex Linder accepts our invitation, the fifth episode will be the last (unless, very unlikely, a sponsor to fund my simultaneous translation for a sixth episode appears). I do not object to the Linderite idea of eliminating mosquitoes, the proposed topic for the next episode. I partly agree with his medicine, but not with the diagnosis. (“Partly” I say because I’m not only an exterminationist of our obvious enemies, but of the greater part of humanity as proposed by Pierce in his immortal novel.) My diagnosis, and here I differ not only from Linder but from almost everyone that I know (with the exception of Tom Sunic), are the swamps of capitalism and Christianity.

Gold over blood is only the most conspicuous sin (read the stories of Pierce and Kemp on the white race to understand this subject in depth). An equally mortal sin, though not as historically old as using non-white labour, is the religion of our parents. And here is where I have second thoughts on the pertinence of continuing to add Saturday translations from Deschner’s books.

It is clear that on Saturdays I am talking to myself! It is assumed that the purpose of blogging is to communicate with others. But even my friends do not seem to be B-type bicausalists; like many they lean toward bicausalism A.

If I believe that Aryan sins—materialism and Christian ethics—engender mosquitoes, and if this bicausalism B is not part of your accepted wisdom (there are even monocausalists in the movement), continuing this Deschner adventure becomes soliloquy. I am not motivated to continue these monologues. Having said that, I would like to confess what I liked about the three volumes of Deschner’s “criminal history” I purchased in 2002.

The late historian showed that most of the Christian martyrs’ stories are legendary. Before reading his books, I already knew that the New Testament is full of internal contradictions; for example, what the Synoptics say compared to John’s gospel. (On the discipline of studying the NT from the secular POV see: here.) But what impressed me greatly in discovering Deschner is that, in later centuries, the church was dedicated to inventing a rosary of martyrs and saints, of which there is very little if any historical evidence! As someone deeply educated in Roman Catholicism, this surprised me because, as a good German scholar, Deschner’s books are full of bibliographical references in several languages, and as far as I know he has not been rebutted on this point.

The making of saints and martyrs is one aspect of the religion of my Catholic parents that I would have loved to expose on this site. Instead, what I have decided is adding other titles of interest to my Daybreak Press. Although I will no longer add translations of Deschner on Saturdays, or Sunday passages from the novel Julian, next Monday I will continue to reproduce those passages that I consider important of Eugenics and Race by Roger Pearson. Pearson was a real catch. His Darwinian science almost reaches my exterminationist POV of the inferior races, going beyond the political correctness of American race realists.

If any of the visitors to this blog, or if my friends Joseph and Jake, do not agree with what I say above do not hesitate to express your criticism below.

Categories
Friedrich Nietzsche

Solitude

Below, my comments of the ten threads about Nietzsche’s
prologue to Thus Spoke Zarathustra in a single entry:


1

Visitors will be surprised to learn that a Spanish edition has more detailed endnotes than the academic English translation of Nietzsche’s magnum opus.

This is because Spaniards are fed up of Catholicism. North Americans have a few centuries experimenting with Christianity. Spain has more than a millennium and a half, and our parents’ religion is on its last dying breaths there.

Andrés Sánchez-Pascual’s scholarly translation of Nietzsche’s books since the early 1970s became so popular that over the decades he has received hundreds of letters from his Spanish-speaking readers. The book’s edition of Así Habló Zaratustra that I purchased this month for example (I lost the old copies that I used to read sporadically in the 1970s and 80s) is its twentieth edition.

So fed up of Catholicism are Spain’s thinking classes that, again, the copies I bought of Karlheinz Deschner’s Kriminalgeschichte des Christentums which introduction appears in my compilation The Fair Race’s Darkest Hour, were translated to Spanish for an audience unexpectedly avid of this sort of extraordinarily scholarly material (Deschner’s maximum opus has yet to be translated to English).

Another example. Manu Rodríguez, who has had a place of high honor in this site and in The Fair Race, is also an avid reader of Sánchez-Pascual’s translations of Nietzsche. Thanks to his revaluation of Christian values, Rodríguez overcame his original prejudice against National Socialism in his later posts of La Respuesta de Europa. With the exception of non-Christian geniuses like Revilo Oliver and William Pierce, I have not seen such a metamorphosis of the mind in most of the English-speaking racialists.
 

2

“Could it be possible! This old saint in his woods has not yet heard the news that God is dead!”

This is one of the most quoted passages of Nietzsche’s literature. I abandoned theism long ago. Presently I don’t believe in the existence of a personal god, let alone in the existence of the Jewish god (which would be absolutely dead in the heart of any fanatic of the 14 words if the white nationalist “movement” was not all bluff). That doesn’t mean that I’m an atheist, as Hegel and other philosophers of Classic German Idealism developed a new understanding of God: panentheistic views that I am not prepared to dismiss.

The theological issues of Zarathustra’s encounter with the old hermit aside, I’d rather say something about the soliloquy in the previous post of this fictional character, something related to the very meaning of this blogsite.

The darkest hour is just before the dawn. In the endnotes about the opening soliloquy in Nietzsche’s book, Andrés Sánchez-Pascual interpreted the term Untergehen as follows: “By sinking into his decline, like the sun, Zarathustra moves to the other side. ‘Passing to the other side’ means surpassing oneself and becoming the Overman.”

This is what nationalists have failed to do, and was the message of the last pages of my compilation The Fair Race’s Darkest Hour: white nationalism as a stepping stone at the middle of a river, not as the promised land itself which is beyond the rapid waters.

That was my metaphor.

As to Nietzsche’s metaphor, we could say that today’s whites, including Christian and libertarian white nationalists, have yet to “sink themselves into their sunsets.” Some force may be with them but they’re not overmen yet; they have not surpassed themselves as Hitler’s SS men did (always keep in mind my “Where are the Syssitias?”).

The purpose of this blogsite is to prepare a few metamorphosing men, those in the process of “passing to the other side” (Übergang) from the soul’s darkest night into the coming dawn of the fair race.
 

3

I don’t claim to have reread the Zarathustra since my adolescent infatuation with Nietzsche. But these are surely the words that made a very powerful impression in my mind since my first reading:

“I teach you the Overman. Human being is something that must be overcome. What have you done to overcome him?

What is the ape to a human? A laughing stock or a painful embarrassment. And that is precisely what the human shall be to the Overman: a laughing stock or a painful embarrassment.

You have made your way from worm to human, and much in you is still worm. Once you were apes, and even now a human is still more ape than any ape.

Behold, I teach you the Overman!

The Overman is the meaning of the earth. Let your will say: the Overman shall be the meaning of the earth!”

The passage “…and you want to be the ebb of this great flood and would even rather go back to animals than overcome humans?” nails perfectly contemporary whites.

This is exactly what they are doing to themselves—white nationalists included, so reluctant to fight (or preparing to fight by saving precious metals before the dollar crashes). As Jack Frost has asked the clueless, feminized males of The Occidental Observer more than once, “Where’s the resistance?” to the anti-white, exterminationist System. Where are the cells for would-be soldiers that treasure William Pierce’s three books as their New Tablets?

I see none of it. And many Jew-wise nationalists are themselves etnosuicidal because they simply ignore that Christianity inverted healthy values—negative values that they themselves subscribe! Cowardice similar to this in the 19th century explains why Nietzsche’s Zarathustra gives the biblical verse an antithetical sense from the original.
 

4

Now Zarathustra looked at the people and he was amazed. Then he spoke thus: “Mankind is a rope fastened between animal and Overman – a rope over an abyss. What is great about human beings is that they are a bridge and not a purpose: what is lovable about human beings is that they are a crossing over and a going under.”

Again, this brings in mind my metaphor of the bridge. This is what I wrote in the final essay of The Fair Race: “White nationalism is only a stone at the middle of the rapid-flowing waters of a dangerous river; a stepping stone that can help us in our endeavor to jump to the other side. I myself used that stone during my crossing from Christianity and Liberalism to National Socialism. In fact, I could even write such a spiritual odyssey in a text that might be titled ‘From St Francis to Himmler’.” But no American white nationalist today is prepared to wear a T-shirt of Herr Himmler, not even in the privacy of their homes.

“I love the great despisers, because they are the great venerators and arrows of longing for the other shore. I love those who do not first seek behind the stars for a reason to go under and be a sacrifice, who instead sacrifice themselves for the earth, so that the earth may one day become the Overman’s. I love the one who lives in order to know, and who wants to know so that one day the Overman may live. And so he wants his going under.” [sinking in his sunset according to Sánchez-Pascual]

This cannot contrast more with today’s white nationalists, so reluctant to sacrifice themselves as Rockwell did. They want it both ways: enjoy their homely comfort zones and try to “save” the race from the ongoing extermination.
 

5

In Ecce Homo Nietzsche wrote:

In this sense Zarathustra first calls the good “the last men”… He finds them the most harmful kind of man, because they secure their existence at the expense of truth just as they do at the expense of the future.

Do “the last men” sound like contemporary whites overwhelmed with guilt? But white nationalists are the Overman’s “last men” too. Think for example of the voices from those self-righteous, Christian and atheist nationalists who recently called a lone wolf “an evil sociopath” in Dixie, basically subscribing the meme “black lives matter.”

White- or Southern nationalism is phony, was phony and will be phony until societal collapse forces the survivors to grow a hairy pair. This is Pierce’s Diaries: “His forehead was then marked with an indelible dye, and he was turned out and could be readmitted permanently only by bringing back the head of a freshly killed Black or other non-White.”
 

6

Just for the record, about 150,000 copies of a specially durable wartime Zarathustra were distributed to the German troops during the First World War.
 

7

“A nice catch of fish Zarathustra has today! No human being did he catch, but a corpse instead!” looks like me trying to convey Nietzsche’s message to a dead race!
 

8

“I want to teach humans the meaning of their being, which is the Overman, the lightning from the dark cloud ‘human being’.”

For some unfathomable causes, this sentence from the previous section, Prologue §7, reminded me my identification with the art of the pre-Raphaelites and Maxfield Parrish. One of the inner realities that distances me from white nationalists is that they don’t seem to love this 14-words art (“That the beauty of…”) as much as I do.
 

9

“It dawned on me: I need companions, and living ones – not dead companions and corpses that I carry with me wherever I want.”

Just what happened to me during my experience in counter-jihad: after these guys didn’t want to hear about the Jewish problem it was like I had to get rid of their corpses—dead companions. But it also happened to me in white nationalism! After these guys didn’t want to hear about the Christian problem it was like I had to get rid of their corpses.

“It dawned on me: let Zarathustra speak not to the people, but instead to companions!”

Pierce did something similar after the calamity of Rockwell’s murder: instead of speaking to the masses he predicated to a smaller group of companions.

“Look at the good and the just! Whom do they hate most? The one who breaks their tablets of values, the breaker, the lawbreaker – but he is the creative one.”

Hitler was the creative one. Read his table talks.

“Companions the creative one seeks and not corpses, nor herds and believers. Fellow creators the creative one seeks, who will write new values on new tablets.”

Less than a handful visitors of this blog share the moral grammar on my New Tablets…

“Fellow creators seeks Zarathustra, fellow harvesters and fellow celebrators Zarathustra seeks: what need does he have of herds and shepherds and corpses!”

…but still no one wants to become a priest of the 14 words in a latter-day “Syssitia” (like the one Rockwell had).

“I do not want to even speak again with the people – for the last time have I spoken to a dead person.”

Occasionally I still comment at The Occidental Observer but even that has to end—the commentariat and even the authors are clueless that Christian axiology enabled the Jewish problem and the Negro problem and the Mestizo problem and even the more recent empowerment of Asia.

“I shall join the creators, the harvesters, the celebrators: I shall show them the rainbow and all the steps to the Overman.”

Hitler and Pierce showed this rainbow but who among us really follows their revaluated axiology? Most white nationalists follow the Old Tablets; atheist nationalists share also the Christian moral grammar and even the neonazis have not really broken the Tablets.

“I want to go to my goal, and I go my own way; over the hesitating and dawdling I shall leap. Thus let my going be their going under!”

This describes me…
 

10

And so Nietzsche’s lyric prologue ends. Below, some snippets from the Cambridge introduction by Robert B. Pippin:

Zarathustra leaves his cave to revisit the human world because he wants both to prophesy and help hasten the advent of something like a new “attempt” on the part of mankind, a post “beyond” or “over the human” (Übermensch) aspiration. Such a goal would be free of the psychological dimensions that have led the human type into a state of some crisis (made worse by the fact that most do not think a crisis has occurred or that any new attempt is necessary).

The problem, then, that Zarathustra must address, the problem of “nihilism,” is a kind of collective failure of desire…

Nietzsche clearly thinks we cannot understand such a possibility, much less be both shamed and inspired by it, except by a literary and so “living” treatment of such an existential possibility. And Nietzsche clearly thinks he has such a chance, in the current historical context of crisis, collapse, boredom, and confusion, a chance of shaming and cajoling us away from commitments that will condemn us to a “last man” or “pale atheist” sort of existence, and of inspiring a new desire, a new “tension” of the spirit…

As noted, the problem Zarathustra confronts seems to be a failure of desire; nobody wants what he is offering, and they seem to want very little other than a rather bovine version of happiness. It is that sort of failure that proves particularly difficult to address, and that cannot be corrected by thinking up a “better argument” against such a failure.

The events that are narrated are also clearly tied to the question of what it means for Zarathustra to have a teaching, to try to impart it to an audience suffering in this unusual way, suffering from complacency or dead desire. Only at the very beginning, in the Prologue, does he try to “lecture publicly,” one might say, and this is a pretty unambiguous failure.

The reminder here of the Prologue appears to indicate that Zarathustra himself had portrayed his own teaching in a comically inadequate way, preaching to the multitudes as if people could simply begin to overcome themselves by some revolutionary act of will…

He had shifted from market place preaching to conversations with disciples in Part I, and at the end of that Part I he decides to forgo even that and to go back to his cave alone.

rosa_s_pak

Categories
Friedrich Nietzsche Literature New Testament

Zarathustra’s prologue, 1

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Revilo Oliver’s texts on Aryan ethnosuicide and the need to create a religion of hate have moved me to translate some explanatory notes of Thus Spoke Zarathustra at the bottom of this entry (see also my first post in the comments section).

 
 

1[1]

When Zarathustra was thirty years old[2] he left his home and the lake of his home and went into the mountains. Here he enjoyed his spirit and his solitude and for ten years he did not tire of it. But at last his heart transformed, – one morning he arose with the dawn, stepped before the sun and spoke thus to it:

“You great star! What would your happiness be if you had not those for whom you shine![3]

For ten years you have come up here to my cave: you would have tired of your light and of this route without me, my eagle and my snake.[4]

But we awaited you every morning, took your overflow from you and blessed you for it.

Behold! I am weary of my wisdom, like a bee that has gathered too much honey. I need hands that reach out.

I want to bestow and distribute until the wise among human beings have once again enjoyed their folly, and the poor once again their wealth.

For this I must descend into the depths, as you do evenings when you go behind the sea and bring light even to the underworld, you super-rich star!

Like you, I must go down[5] as the human beings say, to whom I want to descend.

So bless me now, you quiet eye that can look upon even an all too great happiness without envy!

Bless the cup that wants to flow over, such that water flows golden from it and everywhere carries the reflection of your bliss!

Behold! This cup wants to become empty again, and Zarathustra wants to become human again.”

– Thus began Zarathustra’s going under.[6]

 

______________________

The above German-English translation by Adrian del Caro is taken from Thus Spoke Zarathustra (Cambridge University Press, 2006). This Cambridge edition lacks the more detailed notes by Andrés Sánchez-Pascual in Así Habló Zaratustra (Madrid: Alianza Editorial, 2014). Thus, I have translated Sánchez-Pascual’s notes to English. Page numbers refer to that edition in Spanish.

Notes:

[1] This § 1 of Thus Spake Zarathustra literally reproduces the aphorism 342 of The Gay Science. Only the “Lake Urmi” that appears there is here replaced by “the lake of his home.” The aforementioned aphorism is entitled “Incipit tragædia” (Tragedy begins) and is the last of the fourth book of The Gay Science, entitled “Sanctus Januarius” (St. January).

[2] This is the age at which Jesus begins his preaching. See the gospel of Luke, 3, 23: “Jesus was about thirty years old when he began his work.” In the sought antagonism between Zarathustra and Jesus, this is the first of the confrontations. As can be seen throughout the work, Zarathustra is partly Jesus’ anti-figure. And so, the age when Jesus begins preaching is the same in which Zarathustra withdrew to the mountains in order to prepare for his task. Immediately after, a second contrast between the two becomes apparent: Jesus spent only forty days in the wilderness; Zarathustra spent ten years in the mountains.

[3] Zarathustra will pronounce the same invocation to the sun at the end of the work. See, in the fourth part, “The Sign.” [Note of the Ed.: Precisely the chapter mentioned by the end of my 2012 essay, “Dies irae”]

[4] The two heraldic animals of Zarathustra respectively represent his will and his wit. They will provide company on numerous occasions and even act as his conversational partners, especially in the very important chapter of the third part entitled, “The Convalescent.”

[5] “Untergehen.” It is one of the key words that illustrate the figure of Zarathustra. This German verb contains several nuances that hardly may be held simultaneously in the Spanish translation. Untergehen is primarily, and literally, “walk (gehen) down (unter).” Zarathustra, in effect, gets down from the mountains. Secondly the term usually designate the “sunset,” and Zarathustra makes it clear that he wants to act like the sun at sunset. Thirdly, Untergehen and the substantive Untergang are used to mean sinking, destruction, decay; thus the title of the famous work of Spengler’s, Der Untergang des Abendlandes (translated as The Decline of the West). Zarathustra also declines in his task and fails. His task, he says several times, destroys him. As a Castilian terminus technicus of Untergehen, here it has been adopted “hundirse en su ocaso” [Note of the Ed.: literally, “sinking into his sunset”—contrast it with the Cambdridge translation, “go down”] which seems to retain the three senses. However, Nietzsche plays countless times with this German compound word and also in contrast to other compounds. For example, he contrasts and joins Untergang and Übergang. Übergang is “passing to the other side” over something, but it also means “transition.” Man, Zarathustra would say, is “a transit and a sunset.” That is, by sinking into his decline, like the sun, he moves to the other side (of the earth, it is understood, according to the old belief). And “passing to the other side” means surpassing oneself and becoming the Overman.

[6] This same phrase is repeated later, on page 62. The “sunset” of Zarathustra ends towards the end of the third part, in the chapter entitled “The Convalescent” which states: “Thus – ends Zarathustra’s going under!”

Categories
Friedrich Nietzsche Stefan Zweig

The seventh solitude

der_kampf_mit_dem_daemon

A great man is pushed and hustled and
martyrized until he withdraws into solitude.

 

Nietzsche lived in many different towns; he travelled into countless realms of the mind; frequently he endeavoured to escape from solitude by crossing a frontier into a foreign land; but always his journeyings brought him back to solitude, heartsore, weary, disillusioned.

His solitude had become complete isolation, the final, the seventh, solitude, wherein one is not merely alone but also forsaken. A void surrounded him, an awe-inspiring silence; no hermit or anchorite in the desert was ever more abandoned. They, at least, still had their God whose shade dwelt in their huts. But he, “the murderer of God,” had neither God nor man to companion him. To the extent that he drew nearer to himself, he receded from the world; and, as his voyages extended, “the desert widened” around him.

Generally the works conceived and written in loneliness gain more and more ascendancy upon the minds of men; by a magnetic force they attract increasing numbers of admirers into the invisible circle of their influence. But Nietzsche’s books alienated even his friends. In Germany no publisher would any longer accept his manuscripts. During his twenty years of production, his manuscripts accumulated in a cellar and came to weigh many hundredweight. He had to draw upon his own slender resources in order to get his books printed. Not only did nobody buy the few volumes that were issued, but he found no readers when he gave them away. So vast was the chasm between this man’s genius and the pettiness of the time.

Practically no reviewer or critic took the slightest notice of Zarathustra, which the author described as “the greatest gift ever bestowed upon men.” One day he lamented: “After such an appeal as my Zarathustra, a cry that came from my heart, it is terrible not to hear a responsive word, to hear nothing, absolutely nothing, to be surrounded by silence, to be a thousand times more isolated than heretofore. This is a situation exceeding all others in horror; even the strongest might die under the strain… And I am far from being the strongest. Sometimes it seems to me as though I were indeed wounded unto death.” This gnawed at his vitals, undermining his proper pride, inflaming his self-assertive impulse, consuming his soul. Lack of recognition was the shaft which poisoned his isolation, and raised his temper to fever-heat.

“Prolonged silence has exasperated my pride.” At all costs he wanted response, sending letter upon letter, telegram upon telegram. Blindly and wildly he flung his missiles far and wide, never looking to see if they hit the mark. Since he had slain the gods, he set himself up as a divinity. “Must we not become gods if we are to be worthy of such deeds?” Having overthrown all the altars, he built an altar for himself in order to praise himself, seeing that no one else would acknowledge him. He chanted his own dirge with enthusiasm and exultation, mingling it with songs celebrating his deeds and his victories. To begin with, a twilight covered the landscape of his mind as when black clouds stalk up from the horizon and distant thunder growls; then a strident laugh rent the sultry air, a mad, violent, and wicked laugh full of despair, heartbreaking: this was the pæan of Ecce Homo.

As the book develops, its cadences become increasingly spasmodic, the yells of laughter are more shrill amid the glacial silence; he is, as it were, outside himself. His hands are raised, his feet stamp rhythmically; he breaks into a dance, a dance over the abyss, the abyss of his own annihilation.

Categories
Friedrich Nietzsche Stefan Zweig

Transformation in search of the true self

A snake which cannot slough its skin is
doomed to perish. So likewise, a mind
which is prevented from changing its
opinion ceases to be a mind.


der_kampf_mit_dem_daemonGoethe’s life expanded around a fixed point, just as year by year a circle invisible to the outer world is added to the trunk of a tree. Patiently, thanks to an active though stubborn concentration of his energies, Goethe attained his maturity; he resolutely guarded his ego while defending his proper growth.

Nietzsche, the changeable, was perpetually obliged to destroy himself that he might reconstruct himself wholly.

Each of Nietzsche’s spiritual earthquakes destroyed the whole edifice of his convictions, and the philosopher was obliged to start building anew from the foundations. Nothing even grew quietly and imperceptibly and naturally with him; his inner being was never given a chance to develop and extend by a process of stealthy labor. Invariably he is struck “as if by lightning”; always his universe must be annihilated in order that the new cosmos may emerge.

“My books tell the story of the victories I have gained over myself.” They relate his manifold transformation, his spiritual pregnancies and lyings-in, his deaths and resurrections; they are tales of the merciless warfare he carried on against himself, the punishments and summary executions he inflicted upon his own being; they are the biographies of all the creatures Nietzsche impersonated during the twenty years of his mental existence.

What makes Nietzsche’s transformations so peculiar is that they seem retrogressive. If we take Goethe as the prototype of an organic nature in harmony with the forward march of the universe, we perceive that this development is symbolical of the various ages of life. In youth he was fiery and enthusiastic; as a man in his prime he was actively reflective; age brought him the utmost lucidity of mind. His mental rhythm corresponded in every point with the temperature of his blood. As with most young men, he began in chaos and ended his career in orderly fashion, as is seemly with the old. After going through a revolutionary period he turned conservative, after a phase of lyricism he became a man of science, after being prodigal of himself he learned how to be reserved.

Nietzsche took the opposite course. Instead of aspiring to an even more complete integration of his ego, he desired complete disintegration. As he advanced in years he became increasingly impatient, vehement, revolutionary, and chaotic. His outward aspect was in strident opposition to the customary evolution of a man.

While his university companions were still delighting in the usual horseplay of undergraduates, Nietzsche, though but twenty-four years old, was already a professor, aspirant to the chair of philology at Basel, that famous seat of learning. At twenty-four, Nietzsche’s intimates were men of fifty and sixty years of age, sages such as Jakob Burckhardt and Ritschl, while his closest friend was the most celebrated artist of the day—Richard Wagner. He deliberately put the brake upon his poetical aspirations and upon his love of music. Like any other pedant, he sat over his Greek texts, revising pandects, and compiling erudite indexes. From the outset, Nietzsche’s eyes were turned towards the dead past. Old before his time, a confirmed bachelor, he had no true joy in life. Professorial dignity swamped his cheerfulness, dimming what should have been his natural exuberance. He was wholly immersed in printed texts and in dryasdust problems.

His first book, The Birth of Tragedy, was completed when he was twenty-seven. Herein he breached into the present, though his face was still wearing the mask of a philologist.

At the age of thirty, when most men are starting life, when Goethe became a minister of the State, and when Kant and Schiller were full-fledged professors, Nietzsche had kicked over the traces of his official duties and, with a sigh of relief, had quitted the chair of philology at Basel University. Now at last he came to grips with himself, seeking to penetrate into his personal universe, undergoing an initial transformation, rupturing old ties, and making his début as an artist. This initial step into the realm of the present was the moment when the real Nietzsche was born.

By the time he had reached his thirty-six year, Nietzsche had become an outlaw, an amoralist, a sceptic, a poet, a musician. He had regained “a better youth.” Such a course of rejuvenation is almost unprecedented. Having reached his fourth decade, Nietzsche’s language and his thoughts, his whole being, indeed, possess a freshness, a colour, a fearlessness, a passion, and a music he had never known as a lad of seventeen. The recluse of Sils-Maria had a lighter touch, his words soared on freer opinions, his feet danced more joyously through his works than had those of the prematurely old professor of twenty-four summers.

He could find no halting-place for his restless mind. Hardly had he settled down somewhere when he felt his “skin chapped and rent.” He himself felt as if he were confronting a ghost when someone referred to “Professor Friedrich Nietzsche of Basel”; it was hard enough even to remember that he had been such a person twenty years before. Has any human being, before him, made so trenchant a cleavage between past and present? Does not this severance account for the terrible solitude of his latter days? He had broken all the links which attached him to the past, and the furious rhythm of his life and of his ultimate transformations was too ardent for him to create new ties.

His ruthless amputation of the Wagner complex proved to be an extremely perilous surgical intervention, one that was almost fatal, because it came so very close to the heart. For, precisely at the moment when the form of his being was stretched to the utmost, his mental tensions culminated in disruption. The primitive and daimonic power exploded, annihilating the superb series of incorporations which he had created form his own blood and out of his own life while storming the hidden battlements of the infinite.

Categories
Friedrich Nietzsche Psychology Stefan Zweig

A one-man drama

der_kampf_mit_dem_daemon

The tragedy of Friedrich Nietzsche’s life was that it happened to be a one-man show, a monodrama wherein no other actor entered upon the stage: not a soul is at his side to succour him; no woman is there to soften by her ever-present sympathy the stresses of the atmosphere. Every action takes its birth in him, and its repercussions are felt by him alone. Not one person ventures to enter wholeheartedly into the innermost sanctum of Nietzsche’s destiny; the poet-philosopher is doomed to speak, to struggle, to suffer alone. He converses with no one, and no one has anything to say to him. What is even more terrible is that none hearken to his voice.

In this unique tragedy, Friedrich Nietzsche had neither fellow-actors nor audience, neither stage nor scenery nor costume; the drama ran its course in a spaceless realm of thought. Basel, Naumburg, Nice, Sorrento, Sils-Maria, Genoa, and so forth are so many names serving as milestones on his life’s road; they were never abiding-places, never a home. The scene having once been set, it remained the same till the curtain was rung down; it was composed of isolation, of solitude, of that agonizing loneliness which Nietzsche’s own thoughts gathered around him and with which he was entrapped as by an impenetrable bell-glass, a solitude wherein there were no flowers or colours or music or beasts or men, a solitude whence even God was excluded, the dead and petrified solitude of some primeval world which existed long ago or may come into being æons hence.

At first, while he was professor of Basel University and could speak his mind from the professorial chair, and while Wagner’s friendship thrust him into the limelight, Nietzsche’s words drew attentive listeners; but the more he delved into his own mind, the more he plunged into the depths of time, the less did he find responsive echoes. One by one his friends, and even strangers, rose to their feet and withdrew affrighted at the sound of his monologue, which became wilder and more ecstatic as the philosopher warmed to his task. Thus was he left terribly alone, upon the stage of his fate. Gradually the solitary actor grew disquieted by the fact that he was talking into the void; he raised his voice, shouted, gesticulated, hoping to find a response even if it were no better than a contradiction.

Thus the drama was played to a finish before empty seats, and no one guessed that the mightiest tragedy of the nineteenth century was unrolling itself before men’s eyes. Such was Friedrich Nietzsche’s tragedy, and it had its roots in his utter loneliness. Unexampled was the way in which an inordinate wealth of thought and feeling confronted a world monstrously void and impenetrably silent. The daimon within him hounded him out of his world and his day, chasing him to the uttermost marge of his own being.

Nietzsche never tried to evade the demands of the monster whose grip he felt. The harder the blows, the more resonantly did the unflawed metal of his will respond. And upon this anvil, brought to red heat by passion, the hammer descended with increased vigour, forging the slogan which was ultimately to steel his mind to every attack. “The greatness of man; amor fati; never desiring to change what has happened in the past; what will happen in the future and throughout eternity; not merely to bear the inevitable, still less to mask it, but to love it.”

This fervent love-song to the Powers smothers the cry of his heart. Thrown to earth, oppressed by the mutism of the world, gnawed by the bitterness and sorrow, he never once raised his hands to implore a respite. Quite otherwise! He demanded to be yet further tortured, to become yet more isolated, to be granted yet deeper trials; the greatest to which mortal man can be put. “O will of my soul that I call fate, thou who art in me and above me, take care of me and preserve me for a great destiny.”