Civilisation’s “Romance and Reality”

For an introduction to these series, see here.

Below, some indented excerpts of “Romance and Reality,” the third chapter of Civilisation by Kenneth Clark, after which I offer my comments.

Originally I posted this entry on April 15 of the last year, but now that I posted another entry about Spain’s Teresa of Ávila I would like to see some feedback in the comments section about my thoughts on St. Francis from those interested in child abuse as a subject.

Ellipsis omitted between unquoted passages:

I am in the Gothic world, the world of chivalry, courtesy and romance; a world in which serious things were done with a sense of play—where even war and theology could become a sort of game; and when architecture reached a point of extravagance unequalled in history. After all the great unifying convictions of the twelfth century, High Gothic art can look fantastic and luxurious—what Marxists call conspicuous waste. And yet these centuries produced some of the greatest spirits in the human history of man, amongst them St Francis and Dante.

A couple of pages later, Clark says:

Several of the stories depicted in the [Chartres Cathedral] arches concern Old Testament heroines; and at the corner of the portico is one of the first consciously graceful women in western art. Only a very few years before, women were thought of as the squat, bad-tempered viragos that we see on the front of Winchester Cathedral: these were the women who accompanied the Norsemen to Iceland.

Now look at this embodiment of chastity, lifting her mantle, raising her hand, turning her head with a movement of self-conscious refinement that was to become mannered but here is genuinely modest. She might be Dante’s Beatrice.

There, for almost the first time in visual art, one gets a sense of human rapport between man and woman.

About the sentiment of courtly love, on the next page Clark adds that it was entirely unknown to antiquity, and that to the Romans and the Vikings it would have seemed not only absurd but unbelievable.

A ‘love match’ is almost an invention of the late eighteenth century. Medieval marriages were entirely a matter of property, and, as everybody knows, marriage without love means love without marriage.

Then I suppose one must admit that the cult of the Virgin had something to do with it. In this context it sounds rather blasphemous, but the fact remains that one often hardly knows if a medieval love lyric is addresses to the poet’s mistress or to the Virgin Mary.

For all these reasons I think it is permissible to associate the cult of ideal love with the ravishing beauty and delicacy that one finds in the madonnas of the thirteenth century. Were there ever more delicate creatures than the ladies on Gothic ivories? How gross, compared to them, are the great beauties of other woman-worshiping epochs.

When I read these pages for the first time I was surprised to discover that my tastes of women have always been, literally, medieval; especially when I studied closely the face of the woman at the right in the tapestry known as The Lady with the Unicorn, reproduced on a whole page in Clark’s book with more detail than the illustration I’ve just downloaded. I have never fancied the aggressive, Hollywood females whose images are bombarded everywhere through our degenerate media. In fact, what moves me to write are precisely David Lane’s 14 words to preserve the beauty and delicacy of the most spiritual females of the white race.

Alas, it seems that the parents did not treat their delicate daughters well enough during the Middle Ages. Clark said:

So it is all the more surprising to learn that these exquisite creatures got terribly knocked about. It must be true, because there is a manual of how to treat women—actually how to bring up daughters—by a character called the Knight of the Tower of Landry, written in 1370 and so successful that it went on being read as a sort of textbook right up to the sixteenth century—in fact and edition was published with illustrations by Dürer. In it the knight, who is known to have been an exceptionally kind man, describes how disobedient women must be beaten and starved and dragged around by the hair of the head.

And six pages later Clark speaks about the most famous Saint in the High Middle Ages, whose live I would also consider the result of parental abuse:

In the years when the portal of Chartres was being built, a rich young man named Francesco Bernadone suffered a change of heart.

One day when he had fitted himself up in his best clothes in preparation for some chivalrous campaign, he met a poor gentleman whose need seemed to be greater than his own, and gave him his cloak. That night he dreamed that he should rebuild the Celestial City. Later he gave away his possessions so liberally that his father, who was a rich businessman in the Italian town of Assisi, was moved to disown him; whereupon Francesco took off his remaining clothes and said he would possess nothing, absolutely nothing. The Bishop of Assisi hid his nakedness, and afterwards gave him a cloak; and Francesco went off the woods, singing a French song.

The next three years he spent in abject poverty, looking after lepers, who were very much in evidence in the Middle Ages, and rebuilding with his own hands (for he had taken his dream literally) abandoned churches.

He threw away his staff and his sandals and went out bare-foot onto the hills. He said that he had taken poverty for his Lady, partly because he felt that it was discourteous to be in company of anyone poorer than oneself.

From the first everyone recognised that St Francis (as we may now call him) was a religious genius—the greatest, I believe, that Europe has ever produced.

Francis died in 1226 at the age of forty-three worn out by his austerities. On his deathbed he asked forgiveness of ‘poor brother donkey, my body’ for the hardships he had made it suffer.

Those of Francis’s disciples, called Fraticelli, who clung to his doctrine of poverty were denounced as heretics and burnt at the stake. And for seven hundred years capitalism has continued to grow to its present monstrous proportions. It may seem that St Francis has had no influence at all, because even the humane reformers of the nineteenth century who sometimes invoked him did not wish to exalt or sanctify poverty but to abolish it.

St Francis is a figure of the pure Gothic time—the time of crusades and castles and of the great cathedrals. But already during the lifetime of St Francis another world was growing up, which, for better or worse, is the ancestor of our own, the world of trade and of banking, of cities full of hard-headed men whose aim in life was to grow rich without ceasing to appear respectable.

Of course, Clark could not say that Francesco’s life was a classic case of battered child. Profound studies about child abuse would only start years after the Civilisation series. Today I would say that, since Francesco never wrote a vindictive text—something unthinkable in the Middle Ages that would not appear until Kafka’s letter to his father—, he internalized the parental abuse with such violence that his asceticism took his life prematurely.

What is missing in Clark’s account is that Francesco’s father whipped him in front of all the town people after Francesco stole from his shop several rolls of cloth. After the scourging inflicted by his father, with his own hands, and public humiliation, a citizen of Assisi reminded him that the town statutes allowed the father to incarcerate the rebellious son at home. Pedro shut Francesco in a sweltering, dark warehouse where “Francesco languished without seeing the light except when his father opened the door for Pica [the mother] taking a bowl of soup and a piece of bread.” After several weeks of being locked Francesco escaped and, always fearful of his father, hid in a cave. The earliest texts add that in the cave he often wept with great fear.

Francesco then embarked on a spectacular acting out of his emotional issues with his father. He made a big scene by returning to Assisi, undressing in the town’s square in front of Bishop Guido and addressing the crowd: “Hear all ye, and understand. Until now have I called Pedro Bernadone ‘my father’. But I now give back unto him the money, over which he was vexed, and all the clothes that I have had of him, desiring to say only, ‘Our Father, which art in Heaven,’ instead of ‘My father, Pedro Bernadone.’”

To everyone’s surprise Francesco broke with his wealthy parents forever, thus renouncing any possible reconciliation. So resolute was his parental repudiation, writes a Catholic biographer, that from that day on Pedro and Pica disappear from all the biographies of their son. There is no historical evidence of reconciliation, and no information about his parents or the circumstances of their death.

But I don’t want to diminish the figure of St Francis. Quite the contrary: in my middle teens I wanted to emulate him—and precisely as a result of the abuse inflicted by my father on me. And nowadays our world that has Mammon as its real God—trade, banking and dehumanized cities that are rapidly destroying the white race—, this will always remind me what Clark said about St Francis.

Nevertheless, despite my teenage infatuation with the saintly young man of Assisi, I doubt that poor Francesco’s defence mechanism to protect his mind against his father’s betrayal could be of any help now…

The White Queen

Recently I watched the black-and-white 1935 and 1952 film adaptations of Les Misérables. But I also watched the much more recent 1998 color adaptation starring Liam Neeson, Geoffrey Rush, Uma Thurman, and Claire Danes. In Victor Hugo’s novel the revolutionist Enjolras is said to have the appearance of a good-looking ephebe, with “long fair lashes, blue eyes, hair flying in the wind, rosy cheeks, pure lips, and exquisite teeth.” Now, in this politically-correct fin de siècle adaptation, Enjolras is a nigger!

This vindicates what I recently said in “My Fair Lady”: forget recent films and see only the films that our grandparents liked. This said, once in a while there are rare exceptions. The premier episode of the first and only season of The White Queen, which was broadcast last June, is a gem.


You don’t have to watch the entire season since, right on episode 2, the extremely nasty court instigations began—as most of the season is set against the backdrop of the War of the Roses: two royal houses, Lancaster and York, fighting for the throne of England. Backdrop aside, I found the very first episode absolutely inspiring. In fact, that is precisely the world that we must fight for, at least visually!

There’s a scene that lasts less than a minute when, in the gardened path leaving their home, the commoner Rivers family wears white roses to honor Edward IV. The scene, which depicted a beautiful, rather large family, elevated my spirit to the heights of my inner world (so to speak): the world I would like to create on Earth. The blond children together with their elder brothers and beautiful sisters and parents in bucolic England are the perfect embodiment of why the fourteen words must be our creed and religion.

I highly recommend renting the season and watch the very first episode: the series premiere. (The whole season on the other hand will only make you suffer because of the nasty court intrigues of the War of the Roses.)

“Taking the black”


Night’s Watch ascetics vs. today’s degeneracy


After the suffering of decades of violence and oppression, the human soul longs for things higher, warmer, and purer than those offered by today’s mass living habits, introduced as by a calling card by the revolting invasion of commercial advertising, by TV stupor, and by intolerable music.


The sign of the times is degeneracy. This term—degeneracy—sums up all that is happening to the West.

—Iranian for Aryans

The modern European knows no pain, no honor, no blood, no war, no sacrifice, no camaraderie, no respect or combat; and thus he does not know the ancient and gentle goddesses known as Illumination, Gloria or Victoria.

—Evropa Soberana

Basically, the American system simply assumes that people will be self-interested pigs, but through the magical device of checks and balances, no single self-interested pig will gain too much power. While I’m in favor of checks and balances, I think we’ve seen what a culture of self-interested pigs leads to…


Most white nationalists are merely lefties who, understandably, loathe Jews and niggers, etc. They want the 1960s (sex & drugs & rock’n’roll, abortion, absence of any duties, etc.) without the unpleasantness of the aforementioned groups in their midst. The herd needs a great deal of culling.


The problem is not to cull out the mongrels, the Judaized, the degenerates, the moral prostitutes from a healthy mass, so that the cull can be destroyed and the mass saved. The problem is to pick the few who embody the best of what the West once was and to take the necessary measures to see that that which they embody does not perish with the mass.

—William Pierce

Today we need more than morality. We need hypermorality, the Nietzschean ethics of difficult times. When one defends one’s people, i.e., one’s own children, one defends the essential. Then one follows the rule of Agamemnon and Leonidas but also of Charles Martel: what prevails is the law of the sword, whose bronze or steel reflects the glare of the sun.

—Guillaume Faye


Aryan female beauty has been my inspiration to defend the race from the anti-white zeitgeist. However, the blogger Iranian for Aryans is so right—degeneracy sums up all that is happening to the West—that soon I will move the image of Botticelli’s Venus from the sidebar’s top to a secondary place and put, instead, an illustration evoking military Sparta. After all, it was the Spartan males the ones who defended their women with their entire Honor and often even with their lives.

If at least some of us fail to develop such ascetic hypermorality by becoming what might be called military priests of the fourteen words—as Pierce so desperately dreamt in the last chapter of his last book—, the fair race will go extinct.

I wish I could carry the torch originally lit by Pierce and say now something to the effect of, “Contact me, either here or by email” but, alas, in these degenerate times the problem with starting an organization will always be finding a sponsor—at least a single wealthy white man with Honor on the entire planet!

The fourteen words

white kids

“We Must Secure The Existence of Our People
and a Future for White Children.”

Published in: on July 13, 2013 at 11:25 am  Comments (26)  


In Sebastian Ronin’s recent retort to some comments by Matt Parrott here at WDH, this paragraph caught my attention:

Nothing is “free”, not even “virtually free”, especially not energy. No one, absolutely no one, gets to dodge the bullet of Post-Peak Oil energy devolution. A global civilization, to which Murka is the metaphorical Rome, collapses; it comes to an end… In historically relative terms, the current century will make the Black Death seem like a nose bleed.

Why most Murkan White Nationalists cannot see, will not see, or refuse to see how this most devastating of historical events will impact racial politics is simply mind-boggling. Wait! No, it’s not all that mind-boggling at all, but that is another matter, another day.

The reason why most white nationalists don’t want to look at the evidence of both, the coming collapse of the dollar and the apocalyptic energy devolution is easily explained when considering several posts in this blog where I have said that, unlike William Pierce, today’s nationalists still subscribe Christian axiology, even those who claim to be anti-Christian. See for example my extremely provocative entries, “Dies Irae” and its postscript “The depth of evil” linked at the sidebar.

Moderately edited, I would like to repost below a substantial part of what I said in an entry of almost a year ago, “On ostriches and real men”:

I must take issue with Greg Johnson’s “We believe that it can be achieved by peaceful territorial divisions and population transfers.” Besides the fact that lots of Jews were very probably murdered in the Second World War the following is what, like the ostriches, most nationalists are still unwilling to see:

1. The dollar will crash soon

2. With all probability the crash will cause high-rocketing unemployment, riots, and looting in the largest western cities

3. Unlike New Orleans after Katrina, the bullet won’t be dodged after the crash. On the contrary: racial tension in ethnically “enriched” cities will escalate throughout the West, insofar as presently all western currencies are fiat currencies

4. Later these socio-political crises will converge with a peak-oil devolution that, by the end of the century, will kill the surplus of worldwide population created as a result of quixotic Christian ethics (as Søren Renner put it, “Billions will die—we will win!”)

White nationalists’ reactionary, non-revolutionary stance hides the head in the sand. In the coming tribulation very few will care about “totalitarianism, imperialism or genocide” as Greg Johnson, editor-in-chief of Counter-Currents Publishing, cares. With all probability, during the convergence of catastrophes nationalists will be ruthless survivors á la Turner Diaries committed to the fourteen words and no more to Christian ethics. As I put it elsewhere, “the future belongs to the bloodthirsty, not to the Alt Righters.”

Granted: Johnson’s piece is otherwise excellent, a must-read for conservative nationalists who are still struggling with guilt and anti-white sentiments inculcated by the tribe. But unlike Johnson and the other ostriches I agree with Mark that the situation for whites is so dire that, with the help of Mother Nature, only a scorched-Earth policy has any chance of success.

Even those nationalists who very strongly disagree with me on moral grounds, like Franklin Ryckaert, ought to open their minds. You must open your minds about the coming collapse of the dollar and the subsequent energy devolution. Pull your heads off the sand! The convergence of catastrophes will mark “the metamorphic rebirth of Europe or its disappearance and transformation into a cosmopolitan and sterile Luna Park.”

The blogger whose “Red Giant” article is linked above in my words about quixotic Christian ethics once said that the white nationalist movement “is weak.” With the exception of William Pierce’s legacy I tend to agree with that statement. Virtually all of them are like the tender-hearted women who lie weeping and mourning, awaiting the results of the coming bloodshedding in Jacques-Louis David’s Oath of the Horatii:

We on the other hand are like the three brothers expressing loyalty and solidarity with their father and willing to sacrifice our lives, and billions of other lives if necessary, to fulfill the fourteen words.

The Brigade excerpts, chapter XII

by Harold Covington

“Are You In Or Out?”

Covington in uniform
“I’ve been thinking about it since I watched my sister’s coffin lowered into the ground,” said Annette bitterly.

“We both have,” said Eric soberly. “We’re young, but even we can see that things in America can’t go on this way. I laugh when somebody refers to us kids at Ashdown as privileged. Jan’s death showed us that all our so-called privilege won’t protect us against this—this filth, this madness, this—oh, this whole damned mess. We’re living in a toilet and eventually we’re going down the drain, one way or another. I don’t know what else to call it.”

“Don’t worry,” chuckled Wingo. “Greater minds than any of ours have spent their lives trying to describe the world we live in. Our job is to change it. One thing, though. I’m afraid for security reasons, which I’m sure are obvious to you, we need an answer right away. You say you’ve been thinking about it for a while, so you should be able to look into your hearts and know. Are you in or out?”

“I’m in if Eric’s in,” said Annette, looking at him. “I am willing to do whatever I have to do, but not be separated from him. We can’t have one of us in and one of us out.”

“Ditto,” said Eric firmly. “I’m in if Annette’s in, so I guess that means we’re both in.”

“You understand that if you become Volunteers, you may be separated anyway?” asked Wingo gently. “I mean separated bad, separated by death or prison or the just plain chaos and madness of war?”

“I understand,” said Eric with a nod.

“You will be given certain documents to read, and you will begin a training course that will teach you what you will need to know to fight to secure the existence of our people and a future for white children. Do you recognize that phrase?”

“Uh, no,” said Eric, shaking his head.

“Those are the Fourteen Words of David Lane,” said Schumaker gravely. “From now on, for the rest of your lives however long or short they may be, you will live by those words. And possibly die by them.”

Published in: on March 26, 2013 at 4:59 pm  Leave a Comment  

The Brigade excerpts, chapter XXX

by Harold Covington

“Names On The Wall”

Covington in uniform
It was now fifteen years since the bloody morning in Coeur d’Alene, when outraged white men had finally arisen in arms to strike at the bloody claw of Zion that sought the lives of their children. It had been ten years since the Tricolor had gone up over the Longview conference, and the Northwest Republic had proclaimed its independence. Hill still couldn’t quite grasp in his own mind the fantastic changes that had taken place in the Homeland since the Revolution. Wherever he went now, he looked out over a clean, peaceful and prosperous world that had overcome every obstacle to establish a society that was stable, just, compassionate, safe, and fearless, a nation strong with faith in the destiny of this land and her people.

Despite the sanctions and shortages of the early years, despite the monotonous threats of war and invasion from the rest of the world, despite the constant bombardment of screaming hatred from the media and the politicians from what remained of the world’s Judaic liberal democracies, despite all the problems, every year white people Came Home to the Northwest by the hundreds of thousands. They ran the barbed wire and the minefields in Aztlan, Canada, and the United States. They dodged the helicopters and the shoot-to-kill patrols. They snuck in via the cargo holds of blockade-running ships and planes. They used every conceivable subterfuge somehow to bring themselves and their families to this land where their present and their future had been won and secured by the sword, and where they were willing to die if need be to live among their own, and only among their own.

There was a knock on Hill’s door. “Come in,” he said. The door opened and Special Service General William Jackson walked in, wearing full black dress uniform with silver piping, Swastika armband, peaked cap and dagger. He had a paper file folder under his arm. “Hey, Billy. I see you’re all dolled up for your speech,” said Hill.

“Yeah, I have to go in a few minutes,” said Jackson. “NBA [Northwest Broadcasting Authority] is broadcasting it on the Government Channel.”

“And what’s your competition?” asked Hill with a smile. “A 1950s Western on Channel Four and cartoons on the Children’s Channel?”

“Actually, Channel Four is showing Braveheart, like they always do on Independence Day, and some of these new cartoons are actually pretty good,” said Jackson. “You’ve seen Kappy the Kike?”

* * *

Down on the wide green swath of the Capitol Mall, a number of veterans from the newly formed NVA [Northwest Volunteer Army] Old Fighters Association had gathered for the Independence Day holiday. The Memorial Wall stood before them in massive black basalt, bearing the inscribed names of all the NVA and NDF [Northwest Defense Force] personnel who had given their lives during the War of Independence. It had only been unveiled a few months before. A large Tricolor flag of blue, white, and green flew over it, on a stone pillar bearing the seal of the Northwest Volunteer Army. Along the base of the monument, chiseled into the finest Italian marble, were the words: “Beloved kinsmen, from the world of darkness into which we were born, from the time of struggle in which we laid down our lives that you and your children may walk in the light, we greet you.”

Many people were taking sheets of white paper and stubby soft lead pencils from a small kiosk off to one side of the monument. They mounted the steps and walked along the long row of alphabetically listed names, finding and tracing onto the paper in graphite the names of former comrades. Many of them were quietly weeping, men and women alike. In front of the monument dozens of children were running around on the grass, playing and screaming and hollering, mostly oblivious to the solemn adults around them. No one tried to hush them or shoo them off. It was for them that the people on the monument had died, after all.

Ex Gladio Libertas.
Freedom comes from the sword.

Published in: on March 4, 2013 at 6:47 pm  Comments (2)  

Dies Irae

Note of August 7, 2013:

I moved this absolutely important article of mine to the Addenda only because one of its images combines better with the bluish colors of the Addenda than with the reddish background of the main side of my blogging:

At the Gate of the Temple

Painting of the day:

John William Godward
The Priestess of Bacchus
~ 1898

Hylas and the Nymphs

Painting of the day:

John William Waterhouse
Hylas and the Nymphs


Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 202 other followers