“Her little child”

Spanish version of this post: here.

Excerpted from Werner Ross’s Der ängstliche Adler – Friedrich Nietzsches Leben (1980):

Carl_Ludwig_Nietzsche


(Carl Ludwig Nietzsche,
Nietzsche’s father)


The boy does not remember the Röcken home dominated by women, but only the image of the father, idealized on par as it gradually fades out. The pious rural cleric remains completely safe from the uprising against Christianity, which would be the true mission of Nietzsche from his eighteen years. Since then, his father is for him an “ethereal angel.” One of the qualities that he has inherited from him is the kindness, the renunciation of revenge for nobility. So in the late self-portraiture of Ecce homo we read that, in case of offense, Nietzsche prohibits himself “any retaliation, any measure of defense.”

[Chechar’s note: Those who have read the passages of Alice Miller in The Untouched Key as to why Nietzsche went mad—just imagine a self-proclaimed Antichrist who, simultaneously, never defended himself before the father clergyman!—would treasure passages such as these.]

Another inherited quality is the love of music. In a postcard to Peter Gast [Heinrich Köselitz] of the time of Zarathustra an observation is included: “It is raining in torrents, music gets me away. I like that music and the way I like it is something I cannot explain based on my experiences: rather based on my father. And why should not…?”

The phrase is cut, but can be completed with another of Ecce homo in which he says: Why should not I continue to live in him and he in me after his untimely death?

And he was no less mystical in his later years, when he conceived the doctrine of eternal recurrence, so he could skip the generational order to become a descendant of Napoleon, Caesar or Alexander. But the same process also allowed otherwise: the mysterious identification with the father, either in the agonizing fear of premature death and madness, either in the gut, not even confessed to his friend Gast, that having survived the fateful thirty-third year of his life he would merge with his father to form a single figure with him.

The family was assured that Fritz (short for Friedrich) would be clergyman as the father. His mother, who was not limited to accompany him to the bed but every night carried him into it, panting said, “If you continue like this I’ll have to carry you up to bed until you study theology.” Fritz, meanwhile, was a precocious and obedient child; knew by heart passages of the Bible and religious songs so that their local school classmates called him the little shepherd. He was no friend of other children, and in school they laughed at him but then, at home, spoke wonders of the little sage.

Young Nietzsche, whose strange factions made one think of an owl, had an excellent performance. An anecdote belonging to the repertoire of Elisabeth [Nietzsche’s sister] tells us that, at one point, it started raining and as everyone ran from school to their homes, he continued to walk at a leisurely pace with the board over his hat and scarf on the blackboard. When Nietzsche got home was completely soaked. That why he had not run like the others? Well, because the school regulations say that, after school, children should go to their houses quietly and politely. The story seems credible; it was not normal behavior, but a show of obedience directed against his classmates’ behavior.

The little shepherd never tires of reciting pious maxims, edifying virtuous desires and prayers. Words like purpose, wise decision of God, beneficent hand of God, heavenly father come out of his lips with astonishing naturalness.

The strongest impressions were those that religious music gave Nietzsche. In the misty autumn evenings, the boy came sneaking into the cathedral to witness the rehearsals of the Requiem for the day of the dead; he was overwhelmed to hear the Dies irae and was deeply delighted with the Benedictus. It was not just a childish impulse that led him at fourteen, in Schulpforta, to write in all seriousness motets, chorale melodies and fugues and even try a Missa for solo, chorus and orchestra. At sixteen Nietzsche outlined a Miserere for five voices and, finally, began a Christmas oratory on which he worked for two years.

At seventeen, the son of the pastor received confirmation. His classmate Deussen, also a son of pastor says the two maintained a pious attitude, away from the world. They were willing to die immediately to go to meet Jesus. When his friend Wilhelm Pinder received confirmation, Nietzsche wrote: “With the promise you walk into the line of Christian adults who are considered worthy of the most precious legacy of our Savior, and through their enjoyment of life, achieve happiness of the soul.” Not even from the pastor’s pen would have come such pious words.

In High School Nietzsche had an “excellent” in religion. The commentary reports confirm that the student has shown, along with a good understanding of the New Testament, a keen interest in the doctrine of Christian salvation which he has easily and solidly assimilated, and is also able to express himself clearly on the subject.

The above was extracted from one of the first chapters of Ross’ book. Unlike Curt Paul Janz, hundreds of pages later Ross only dedicates a few paragraphs to Nietzsche’s life after his breakdown. He writes:

Nietzsche’s biography ends in the early days of 1889, although his life was extended until August 25, 1900. Paralyzed and demented, he died of pneumonia.

On August 10, 1889 Nietzsche entered the psychiatric clinic of the University of Basel; a week later he is taken to the Jena University Clinic where he remains for about fifteen months, and on March 24, 1890 he is discharged in writing and sent home. Nietzsche remains under the care of his mother until her death in 1897. In July 1897 the sister purchases a Weimar villa, “Silberblick,” for the Nietzsche Archive and in it she installs the patient.

About the demented Nietzsche several persons issued reports: (1) Turin dentist, Dr. Bettmann, who with Overbeck brought Nietzsche to Basel; (2) the diaries of Basel and Jena for the sick by the physician (and later professor) Ziehen; (2) the mother in his letters to Professor Overbeck, and (4) friends and visitors, from Gast to Deussen and from Overbeck to Resa von Schirnhofer.

The extracts that follow from 1889-1892 show on one hand the state of the disorder, but on the other they shed light on the “healthy” Nietzsche, specifically those oppressed and repressed aspects that madness liberated.

Dentist Bettmann’s opinion, in Turin:

The patient is usually excited, he asks much food but is unable to do something and take care of himself. He claims to be a famous man, and constantly asks a woman for him.

Basel journal for the sick, January 1889:

He only answers partially and incompletely or not at all to the questions addressed to him, insisting in his confused verbiage nonstop.

First day at Jena, January 19, 1889:

The patient walks on the department with many bows of courtesy. With majestic step, staring at the ceiling, enters the room and gives thanks for the “great reception.” He doesn’t know where he is.

Extracts from the diary for the sick at Jena, from January to October 1889:

He wants his compositions to be premiered. He has little understanding or memory of ideas or passages from his works. He always identifies the physicians correctly. He proclaims himself now Duke of Cumberland, now Emperor, etc… “At last I have been Frederick William IV,” “My wife Cosima Wagner has brought me here.” “At night they have uttered curses against me, have used the most horrible mechanisms.” “I want a gun if there is any truth in the suspicion that the very Grand Duchess commits these filthy acts and attacks on me.”

At night we always have to isolate him. He often smears himself with excrement. He eats excrements. He urinates in his boot or glass and drinks the urine or smears himself with it. Once he smeared a leg with excrement. He wraps excrements in paper and puts it all in the drawer of a table.

The mother to Overbeck, April 8, 1889:

About an hour ago my son has been taken to the department of the peaceful sick… The greatest joy you can provide is to speak in Italian or French to him… Gone are the ideas of grandeur that initially made him so happy…

On March 24, 1890 the mother takes Nietzsche out of the center to live with him in Jena. On one occasion Nietzsche undresses in public with intent of swimming and a guard is hired, who follows at a distance mother and son when they go for a walk. On June 17, 1890 she writes to Overbeck:

He plays a little of music every day, partly his small compositions or songs of an old book of songs… The religious sentiment is asserted more and more in him. During Pentecost, when we were sitting quietly in the balcony with me holding an old Bible [he says] that in Turin he had studied the whole Bible and taken thousands of notes, when I read this or that psalm; this or that chapter, I expressed surprise that he knew the Bible so thoroughly.

From 1892 Nietzsche can no longer feed himself. He has to be washed and dressed. The walks have to be abandoned because Nietzsche shouts and hits everything on his way. In 1894 Nietzsche recognizes Deussen, but in 1895 he no longer recognizes Overbeck.

In madness it clearly appears a regression to infantile and juvenile stages. In the time of megalomania Dionysus and Zarathustra are totally excluded. Instead it reappears Frederick William IV [discussed in Ross’ earlier chapters], and Nietzsche says to his mother he is twenty-two. The last letter to Jacob Burckhardt is written by a “student.” His fears (the light should remain lit at night, the door must be closed) belong to an early childhood stage, like the “magic of the pieces of glass.” It is also noteworthy the return to the old religion and a fearful, even radical avoidance of everything philosophical. As a sick man Nietzsche is an obedient or uninhibited child.

At the end he completely sinks into apathy.

nietzsche_demented

The mother, fearful, “limited” (as seen in the Basel clinic) was at first mean, although she continued to receive Nietzsche’s pension. But when he was with her she cared for him, protected and looked after him with motherly love. Friedrich then again became what in her opinion should have always been: her little child.

Pinocchio, 2

Spanish version of this article: here, an article originally written on November 2012. Why I am starting this new series is explained: here.

>Pinocho y Alice Miller


Mankind sees things in photographic negative about childrearing: it’s all backwards, and only those who have deeply assimilated Alice Miller’s legacy have noticed it. Perhaps the most splendid paradigm, in stories, of what Miller called poisonous pedagogy or adult-child projection is precisely the original story by Carlo Collodi.

Pinocchio is nothing more than the transformation of the pure feelings of a child into adult madness; for example, by going to schools where children’s souls are murdered and the child is socialized so that he finally sacrifices his sanity in search for the affection of parental figures, symbolized by the carpenter and the Blue Fairy.

Let’s see. The heading of Chapter IV states: “The story of Pinocchio and the Talking Cricket, in which one sees that bad children do not like to be corrected by those who know more than they do.”

Head over heels—everything in photographic negative! How I wish that my Whispering Leaves were sold out so that I could, by now, be writing the book I had dreamt since the beginning: pure narrative without using hundreds of pages to introduce the reader to the legacy of Miller, deMause and the critics of psychiatry.

Here is a passage of the Collodi tale, poisonous pedagogy in its purest form:

“Woe to boys who refuse to obey their parents and run away from home!” [Chapter IV]

The passage obviously presupposes that the parents (who beat their children or torment them emotionally and ocassionally even rape them) are always right and benign with their children: the opposite of what we saw in the previous entry showing the dark side of Geppetto, a side only noticed by the neighbors who knew him in the story. And what is worse, the domestic abuse is often supported by the abuse at school, so Pinocchio says to the cricket:

“If I stay here the same thing will happen to me which happens to all other boys and girls. They are sent to school, and whether they want to or not, they must study…” [Ibid]

To which the voice of the system, symbolized by the cricket who wants to instill a consciousness of black pedagogy into the child, responds:

“If you do not like going to school, why don’t you at least learn a trade…?” [Ibid]

That is a great insult; not bona fide council as adults often utter these sort of words not out of genuine empathy for the kids.

When I was a child I wanted to be a filmmaker. Kubrick, who dropped out from school, was my idol. Alas, in my late teens my parents put me in a medieval school system and I could not become either (1) a filmmaker or (2) get what they wanted: a college degree either. The mandatory school system was the barrier that destroyed my professional life. Unlike Kubrick, no “Uncle Jacob” appeared in my life to sponsor my filming career since Christian families don’t help their relatives as much as kike families do (cf. MacDonald’s first book of his trilogy).

More recently, this year in fact, I heard my brother angrily telling his child that if my nephew did not want to study at a conventional school, he should seek a trade, and mentioned a supermarket boy (something similar to what the Cricket proposed). My brother’s advice was not directed in an empathic way: it was an obvious act of psychological aggression as no one in his right mind wants to be an errand kid that only earns a few cents.

Going back to my life, if my parents had any empathy with the potential filmmaker I was as a kid, they would have supported my immigration to the US, and instead of spending money at a Mexican school, send me those scarce funds to complete my expenses near Hollywood. But no: the unconscious desire of my mother was to destroy the individualistic mind of her firstborn, as I recount in my Leaves.

Disney’s film is nonsense intended to beautify the crudeness of the Italian text. In Collodi’s original story the cricket’s advice was so insulting that Pinocchio grabbed a hammer of Geppetto’s workshop and threw it toward the damned bug, who “stayed stiff and flat against the wall”: precisely what I did as an adolescent.

Pinocchio, 1

Spanish version of this article: here, an article originally written on November 2012. Why I am starting this new series is explained: here.

>Pinocho y Alice Miller


In my blog in Spanish I said that I had recently watched again Spielberg’s Artificial Intelligence. Well, now that I lost my computer for a while, while it is in the shop and still write in a borrowed laptop, I decided to return to my childhood classics. (Sometimes it’s refreshing to forget the net and have direct contact with printed books.)

Artificial Intelligence is clearly a fairy tale inspired, in part, in Pinocchio and set in the future. I would suggest fans of Alice Miller to read the original story in an edition whose drawings respect Carlo Collodi’s tale.

Here is my Spanish-English translation of a passage from the preface of the splendid 1965 edition in Spanish that my father read to me and my brothers when we were little ones:

The error or the superficiality of many editions of Pinocchio lies mainly in the fact that the illustrations give primary attention for graphic designs, but without a clear interlocking with the text. In our edition, by contrast, the drawings have been made expressly in Tuscany, where the author imagined his masterpiece.

I sent the old serial installments of Editorial Codex to be bound by a traditional bookbinder: the very same issues that my father read us decades ago. Here I quote some passages that portray why the original story of Pinocchio is a perfect case of what Alice Miller called poisonous pedagogy:

“Geppetto had a very bad temper.” [Chapter II]

Pinocchio has not yet appeared and the story reveals the personality of its maker. Like many other distortions, the image of Geppetto in the Disney film as a kind old man grossly distorts Collodi’s tale.

But the Collodi tale distorts reality too, reversing colors like a photographic negative of what happens in the real world. Consider for example the following passage of poisonous pedagogy, in the sense of adult projections on a child unsure of himself, represented by the wooden puppet who aspires to become real. Anyone who has assimilated a little psychohistory knows that it is the parents who, over the millennia, have abused their children; not vice versa. As narrated in the birth of Pinocchio:

At that unexpected trick, Geppetto became very sad and downcast, more so than he had ever been before.

“Pinocchio, you wicked boy!” he cried out. “You are not yet finished, and you start out by being impudent to your poor old father. Very bad, my son, very bad!”
And he wiped away a tear. [Chapter III]

Of course: in real life it is parents who abuse the newborns; never, ever the other way. Collodi’s story is fiction, obviously, but in my opinion it perfectly reflects aspects in the dynamics Collodi had to bear with his own mother, with whom he lived all his life. After Pinocchio was “born” and escaped into the streets, the story goes:

“Poor Marionette,” called out a man. “I am not surprised he doesn’t want to go home. Geppetto, no doubt, will beat him unmercifully, he is so mean and cruel!”

“Geppetto looks like a good man,” added another, “but with boys he’s a real tyrant. If we leave that poor Marionette in his hands he may tear him to pieces!” [Chapter III]

He may tear him to pieces! The neighbors knew that this was how an acquaintance of them behaved. Although in that passage Collodi puts Geppetto as the victim, and Pinocchio as a miscreant who despised a loving father, the neighbors knew better. In real life, of course, runaway children do so because of horrific abuse at home. As I have had dealings with these children in Mexico City I have the impression that behind every street child, even those who I haven’t interviewed, there is a horror story at home.

It is very instructive that Collodi inverts reality in a story meant to subjugate the will of the child before the omnipotent adult. That is precisely the reason that his story became a bestseller in a world dominated by parents who want to “educate” their children through poisonous pedagogy.

WDH’s recent focus

I have been asked why the recent focus of The West’s Darkest Hour on Nietzsche. I replied that my intention is to explain (1) the “transvaluation of all values” (Nietzsche’s ultimate philosophy) and (2) “poisonous pedagogy” which goes together with the “trauma model of mental disorders” (illustrated in Nietzsche’s life).

As to #2, I believe that one of the ingredients of the witches’ brew that is killing whites is the toll of child abuse in the adult. In the white nationalist movement no one has suspected this. A few months ago Alex Kurtagic wrote on The Occidental Observer that the engulfing behavior of Jewish mothers towards their male children explained the haughty behavior of the grown-up Jew. But Kurtagic and the rest of writers of the pro-white blogosphere have failed to ask what could the engulfing behavior of white mothers cause on their white children.

I am the only one in the movement who has written on the implications of the trauma model on white pathology. See for example my seminal article, “A body-snatched Spaniard.” I even plan to translate to English the rest of my book Hojas susurrantes, the most didactic and comprehensive explanation of the model under a single cover.

However, since that kind of literature is very strong meat indeed, and since pro-white advocates are uninterested in the subject, I better start introducing it by means of baby steps, like my next series of entries on Carlo Collodi’s novel for children.

Pinocchio

The original Pinocchio tale by Collodi is must reading. A 1880 magazine series (Disney’s 1940 film is a betrayal of the original Italian tale), Collodi projected his feelings for his abusive parents onto the characters of the very manipulative Blue Fairy and Geppetto.

In chapter XV Pinocchio is hanged in front of the Blue Fairy mansion and the motherly Fairy didn’t help him at all. The wooden puppet exclaimed Jesus-like words on the cross:

The editor asked Collodi to rescue Pinocchio in the following issue of the magazine.

As a child Collodi had been tormented in a Jesuit school (incidentally, as a child my father was also tormented in a Jesuit school). Since Collodi (like my father) never settled accounts with the perpetrators, he later identified himself with them; hated the children, illustrated boring school textbooks for them and always lived with his manipulative “Blue Fairy” mother.

The original Le Avventure di Pinocchio is poisonous pedagogy at its worst. The parents and the school system are idealized at the expense of the child’s true self. (Later in my series on Nietzsche you will see the relevance of the Prussian pedagogy applied to the child Nietzsche by his mother and other female figures and his adult breakdown.) A major bestseller, Collodi’s novel was used to manipulate and socialize children in the early 20th century.

In future entries I will show that together with the German biographers of Nietzsche I will be quoting, Alice Miller is the obliged reference to understand “poisonous pedagogy” and ultimately my interpretation of both Pinocchio and many people who have suffered mental breakdowns.

A body-snatched Spaniard

Having in mind the story of snatched Britons I recounted yesterday, today at Occidental Dissent, Lew said:

Given those facts, do you think it’s possible literal, real, metaphysical Satanic influence is guiding the British leaders?

Preposterous! More probably, snatched Britons are merely acting out their emotional issues, as I explained about an adult Spanish woman who transfers the hatred she feels toward her abusive parents toward her parents’ culture.

Below, what I wrote by the end of 2009 when analyzing her. I apologize in advance that, since most of the original entries in Spanish don’t appear below (it would triple the length of this post), my English translation appears disjointed or disconnected at some places:


Today’s suicidal ethos throughout the West is unimaginably deeper than anything that the common Western patriot, or even the most sophisticated intellectual, has ever glimpsed in his wildest dreams. While intellectuals in the white nationalist movement are good in describing the predicament that the West faces today, at the same time they are clueless about the basic etiology of the whys of the ethnic and cultural self-hatred behind some of our people. Why is this so?

I have written a book from the viewpoint of depth psychology and cannot summarize my findings in this entry. Suffice it to say that the most extreme cases of cultural and ethnic self-hatred go back to the way we were raised by our parents, and the defense mechanisms that we unconsciously built in response to the family dynamics. Although I believe this is the universal cause of extreme self-hatred, in the sense of hatred toward our parents’ culture, in this article I will use a single case-study to illustrate why a westerner that I know hates her culture to the point of desiring its destruction. I analyze her not as a personal vendetta, but in the hope that those who defend our culture and ethnicity will become aware of what Alice Miller calls the forbidden knowledge.

Below, my translation of what I wrote in Spanish in several entries elsewhere:


First entry (6 October 2009)

It’s incredible what a broke guy does to get out of poverty. After the tragedy that occurred in my family, the central subject of my series of books Hojas Susurrantes, I ended up without profession or a job. Through the internet I met a woman from Gran Canaria, Teresa, who proposed to marry me so that I may obtain work permit in Spain. Though we never married, and although there was never intimacy between us, Teresa initiated the paperwork as if she was my employer so that, with time, I could obtain the work permit. Since I originally believed that this was altruistic help I accepted in order to break away from my family’s future inheritance and, finally, be free to publish my Hojas Susurrantes about them.

This idealism moved me to embark on a trip to Gran Canaria. Neither Teresa (“Tere”) nor I suspected that the 2009 economic crisis in Spain would severely worsen during the time I stayed there. Thousands of the island’s canary citizens lost their jobs. I was not even a Canarian and under those circumstances I lived ten months in Las Palmas de Gran Canaria

But thanks to the unemployment I educated myself. I used those long months to read lots of articles in the blogosphere about the islamization of Europe, and even about the extinction of the white race (if the present suicidal birth-rate trend among Caucasians continues). Since in good faith I always talk about my projects and readings, I committed the mistake of telling Tere that I was involved in the counter-jihad movement; that is, the movement in the blogosphere concerned about the islamization of the West.

What a blunder… In the following months that I lived in Tere’s flat, unable to get out because of lack of a job, Tere harassed me with phone calls, e-mails and, when she visited Canaria (she works in Madrid), even personally. But I’m getting ahead of our story.

The days in which Tere gave me a tour in her island I witnessed how she approached the employees of the shops with questions in very bad mood. When I confronted her about this sort of behavior she replied that we were too susceptible; that she was a courageous woman and that the people simply misunderstand her passion. In a couple of e-mails she told me that her moods formed part of “her always critical and questioning nature.” She also wrote:

“It’s true that I can be very intense or passionate in discussions, something that some people misinterpret as irritation or anger.”

In these entries we will see what these “misinterpretations” really were, and why I consider her case a perfect paradigm to understand the West’s suicide in general and Europe’s in particular.


Second entry (12 October 2009)

Why do I use my time in something apparently so irrelevant like writing about the hysterias of a leftist woman? Simple reason: because we lack what in The Divided Self Laing called a “science of the persons.”

After Romanticism the genre of confessional autobiography cropped up. Unfortunately, by pretending to approach the subject on the basis of abstract principles, psychoanalysis, academic psychology and psychiatry usurped the study of the inner self and approached our souls from the impossible viewpoint of objectivism. This category error permeates the academia insofar as to understand concrete people it’s necessary a subjective history of these people.

Oliver Sacks recognizes this in his area of expertise, neurology. In a recent entry in another of my blogs in Spanish I refer to Sacks’ Musicophilia. And in another of his very acclaimed books, The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat, Sacks complained that in classical neurology we will find a thousand descriptions of the pathologies that correspond to the left hemisphere of the brain for a single pathology about the right hemisphere. He adds:

And yet, as Luria says, they are of the most fundamental importance. So much so that they may demand a new sort of neurology, a “personalistic,” or (as Luria liked to call it) a “romantic,” science; for the physical foundations of the persona, the self, are here revealed for our study. Luria thought a science of this kind would be best introduced by a story—a detailed case-history.

Sacks approaches the hardware problems of the despised right hemisphere of the brain, the hemisphere of the emotions; Laing and I, on the other hand, approach software problems: the cognitive distorsions through which some see the world. Sacks’ field of study is the damaged brain. Laing’s field, like my own, are the damaged minds. One studies the hardware, the other the software. In another of my blogs I have delved deeper into it.

So why do I post a long entry about a leftist that I met, a woman with no societal influence except her vote to Zapatero’s party? As I said, the reason is simple. The best way to illustrate the failures of judgment should be, according to Laing and Sacks, personalistic. But in the psychology departments I wouldn’t be allowed to enter into this type of incursion about a non-notable person.

I would like to quote Sacks again to illustrate this astronomical mistake in academic psychology. In the chapter about the man who, due to a neurological problem—his eyesight abilities were perfectly OK—mistook his wife for a hat, Sacks wrote:

Neurology and psychology, curiously, though they talk of everything else, almost never talk of “judgment.” And yet, judgment is the most important faculty we have. An animal, or a man, may get on very well without “abstract attitude” but will speedily perish if deprived of judgment. Judgment must be the first faculty of higher life or mind—yet it is ignored, or misinterpreted, by classical (computational) neurology. And if we wonder how such an absurdity can arise, we find it in the assumptions, or the evolution, of neurology itself. For classical neurology (like classical physics) has always been mechanical. Of course, the brain is a machine and a computer—everything in classical neurology is correct. But our mental processes are not just abstract and mechanical, but personal, as well—and, as such, involve not just classifying and categorizing, but continual judging and feeling also. If this is missing, we become computer-like, as Dr P. was.

“Doctor P.” was the curious patient who, due to a neurological problem that made him to forget what human faces were, mistook his wife for a hat. (In the above quotation I didn’t use ellipsis between the unquoted phrases.) What Sacks says after the above quote hits the nail:

By a sort of comic and awful analogy, our current cognitive neurology and psychology resemble nothing so much as poor Dr P.! Our cognitive sciences are themselves suffering from an agnosia essentially similar to Dr P.’s. Dr P. may therefore serve as a warning and parable—of what happens to a science which eschews the judgmental, the particular, the personal, and becomes entirely abstract and computational.

As a remedy to this hemiplegic neurology, Sacks recommends the study of the brain’s right hemisphere. Nevertheless, unlike the left hemisphere, the right one cannot be studied with IQ-like tests, but through personalized case-histories. Sacks thus illustrates the neurological dysfunctions in the diverse areas of the right hemisphere. His work showed me stuff about the mind that I hadn’t fully digested a few years ago when I read another of his books, An Anthropologist on Mars. Incidentally, all of my Sacks books were gifts by Tere! On this one I must be grateful to her…

The above are key quotations to make my point. Just as present-day neurology is hemiplegic, the humanities are hemiplegic too, including almost everything published to date about ethno-masoquism in the West. While a few psycho-biographies about the pathologies of politicians are available, it is considered improper to analyze a casual acquaintance.

I believe that this is a gigantic mistake, as my study of Tere will demonstrate. To analyze a staunch far-leftist woman is, in the “software,” the “hardware” equivalent of analyzing the brain lobe of someone who mistakes his wife for a hat.

The original post was too long. I’ve moved “entries” 3 to 12 (and part of the 14th and last entry). Below I keep what is essential to make my point:



Thirteenth entry (28 October 2009)

I’ve already said that Teresa used my economic dependency to harass me about my political views when I wanted to avoid her as if she was the plague itself. The following e-mail excerpts are examples of such harassment. Angrily she wrote:

19 August 2009

And why do you elude person-to-person confrontation? Do you know what’s the problem with you? You constantly send contradictory messages and the other person doesn’t know how to behave with you.

18 August 2009

But your obsession and visceral hatred that you exude in these [YouTube] videos cannot but confirm the idea, already stated in my previous e-mail, that the subject [my exposé of radical Islam] is no more than a scapegoat for your rages and hard feelings about your family. And it’s a pity that ultimately my efforts to help you to come here, and to spread your ideas about psychiatric coercion, have ended in the promotion of the opposite values of liberty, equality and solidarity which I’ve always struggled for. [In the moved posts omitted here I already talked about Tere’s fallacy of identifying anti-psychiatric activism with the “progressive” policies of the left.]

7:49 A.M.

Incidentally, today I was thinking about one of your videos of the “Alice Miller” series where you bitterly criticize your cousin, the filmmaker, because he didn’t dare to comment anything about your book after you gave it to him.

I don’t know if you noticed it, but you did exactly the same when I recommended you to watch the film that I so much identify with—and that had affected me so much that I wasn’t capable of watching it again with you—, titled The Secret Life of Words. Your only comment was a laconic and brief “Not too bad” and only when I questioned you about it you immediately passed on talking about banal subjects with absolute indifference. How can you demand that others do what you don’t do? [I’ll respond to this hysterical demand, that I should have played the role of Tere’s “Doctor Heart”, below.]

17 August 2009

I’ve just watched one of your videos where you say that you’d like to go to the USA and subscribe the Republican Party. HOW CAN YOU BETRAY YOURSELF AND YOUR IDEAS IN SUCH A WAY? I’d like to know what would those right-wingers of “gates of viena” [sic, a counter-jihad blogsite] say about your ideas about traditional family…

24 June 2009

I’ve glanced through, in leaps and bounds just for a change, your English blog. How obsessive!!!! [in June of 2009 most of my entries were about the islamization of Europe]. Isn’t there any other subject of your interest? And in leaps and bounds, some words catch my attention.

“The Reconquest”? It’s as clear as day that you didn’t suffer the Francoist dictatorship and all of its grandiloquent paraphernalia “for God’s empire”!! [Tere reduces ad absurdum my concern about Europe’s islamization in the 21st century with a 20th century chapter in the history of her country.]

23 June 2009

And it’s a stupidity on your part if you think that in Muslim countries the only schools that the children go are usually the Koranic madrassas. [I never said this] In Morocco, for example, the French lyceums have a great tradition and prestige. [Judge by yourselves my dear readers. In the tone she spoke to me, “stupidity on my part,” Tere demanded at the same time that I played the role of her “Doctor Heart”...]

17 June 2009

“…the social engineers that import millions of Muslims to Europe.” But what paranoid conspiracy nonsense is this? [Tere quotes what I wrote in my blog but omits the context because, as she herself acknowledged, she only “glanced through in leaps and bounds” my entries.]


Teresa ends up in the Fruit Cake Hospital

This is the most important section of my analysis [taking into account the analysis I omitted here because of the length of the original post]. It has to do with my hypothesis that an unprocessed hatred toward the abusive family transmutes into depression, as I explain in my essay “On depression.” Within this framework, suicide or suicidal ideation are perfectly comprehensible. Indeed, suicidal ideation is what at the beginnings of the new century Tere suffered when she was committed in a psychiatry ward of a public hospital of Las Palmas. This is the story:

By the end of 2002 Tere contacted my through internet for the first time. In that year I still didn’t have a webpage. But I had translated to Spanish several anti-psychiatric articles authored by Lawrence Stevens. Tere liked especially one of those articles in which, following Tom Szasz, Stevens said that suicide ought to be “a civil right.”

Tere rarely writes in English. Instead of contacting the author she contacted the translator—me—, and through a series of e-mails she revealed an interesting story that I believed from 2002 to 2009, when my trip to her native island disabused me. I confess that since we met in the internet Tere was so fascinated with my anti-psychiatric work that, for years, she paid the bill of my (now defunct) antipsych webpage.

The day that I left her island for good Tere was in her flat of Las Palmas. On her own initiative, she showed me the file of the psychiatric ward in which she was committed not long before she contacted me in 2002. Although it was written in almost illegible handwriting by the nurses and physicians of the hospital, the file demystified the story that Tere had detailed in her e-mails of 2002, as well as in 2003 when she visited Mexico.

In the idealized story, Tere was casually passing by near a bridge in her island when a policeman believed she would jump from it and called the ambulance, which unjustly took her to the hospital. A female doctor, her story goes, had her in an observation room and Tere protested that the detention was taking too long. This moved the doctor to arbitrarily commit her. Once involuntarily committed in the psychiatric ward she was drugged with Valium, again against her will. The tranquilizer produced a terrible side effect, paralyzing her muscles and Tere believed she would die. She wasn’t allowed to leave the ward for days and days… (If she was cut off the outside world it was because she didn’t want to give the doctors but a single phone number of a girlfriend, who to boot was never at home.) Once her brother took her out of the hospital, Tere was so scared that decided to move to Madrid. Even though she owns a flat in Las Palmas (where I would live years later), Tere preferred to share an expensive flat in Madrid in her obsession to get away, at all cost, from the betrayal she suffered in her native island.

This is Tere’s tale. Originally it made such an impression on me that I mentioned it in my webpage without mentioning her name, as a typical case of psychiatric commitment of a sane person. However, when Tere showed me the psychiatric file, I discovered that her tale was a fabrication.

In the diverse documents that Tere showed me, what first caught my eye was the police report. He testified that Tere told him she was measuring the bridge’s height. Tere hadn’t told me this little detail! What I remember now is that even in her idealized version Tere said she rudely talked back to the policeman when he asked her, alarmed, where exactly was she going.

And until now I start to connect the dots. Remember how Tere treated the employees of Las Palmas? The point is that such behavior provides a very different reading of the facts. The policeman knew that another person had killed himself a week before by jumping off the bridge. Now, confronted with a rude woman talking about measuring the bridge’s height in the middle of a freeway road, he called the ambulance. I remember that Tere herself confessed me that the reason she talked rudely to the policeman was because of what the police symbolized in her mind when she was much younger, especially due to the character of the Francoist police.

So we’ve got Franco once more [mentioned several times in the above-omitted entries]. It’s evident that Tere projects her teen experiences to the present, and onto completely innocent people. Nowadays the Spanish police are very different from Franco’s police, and even more in the Canary Islands. The Canary people in general, and the Spanish police in particular, are kind. However, due to her eternal retro-projections Tere didn’t see any provocation coming from her rude answer to the policeman, who only fulfilled his duty after the recent incident. On the contrary, and like other persons with an attitude problem, Tere projects her traumas onto the people in her immediate surroundings, however innocent they may be. For example, in one of her most provocative e-mails Tere wrote:

Are you sure you are not projecting toward the Islamic subject your unresolved rage and revenge thirst for the harm you got in the family during your teens????????

Tere’s head of concrete impedes her seeing that I’m not projecting but describing what’s happening in Europe. That’s not projection. Tere’s words are a projected self-portrait onto the people she happens to encounter. If there’s someone whose “rage and revenge thirst” is unresolved, it is Tere’s. It’s she the one who suffers from “family harms.”

This is not the first time when someone projects onto myself her self-portraiture. Analogously, the first event in the chain that ended up in her commitment, the policeman’s call to the ambulance, had been a diametrically-opposed incident to the story Tere had made me believe. Let’s now see what happened after that.

According to Tere’s tale, the commitment had been an arbitrary action of female the doctor in charge of the admissions. Only until I arrived to the island I learnt that Tere’s suicidal ideation had been something very real. From Tere herself I learned that she was measuring the bridge’s height to make sure she would die after jumping off! Tere told me this personally in Canaria: not even by e-mail. She had to check up the height because a couple of her acquaintances had jumped off from not sufficiently tall buildings and had, pathetically, survived. But there were even more surprises in her file…

One of the things that surprised me the most is that Tere made a few little tantrums asking to leave the hospital, confronting the nurses with the words:

“I can take my life whenever I want!”

or:

“I can take my life when I feel like doing it!”

Although I don’t have the file with me, I remember those phrases. When I read the police’s report—that Tere intended to measure the bridge’s height—, or the nurses’ report—that she made tantrums about taking her life—, amazed, I asked Tere: “But did you tell them those things?”

Candidly Tere assented and rationalized her conduct as the legitimate reaction before the commitment. There were other phrases of this kind, but I don’t remember them exactly. Since Tere only let me see the file in her presence, I couldn’t annotate what I read. But I can state that the file transmitted a very vivid image that Tere made a fool of herself in the hospital, lachrymosely demanding her right to kill herself. That had been the real cause of her commitment, not the malevolence of the Canary authorities, the version of the story that I had originally swallowed.

When Tere showed me the file it didn’t cross her mind that the revelation would radically transform the idea I had about her case. Tere showed it to me under the impression that I, who for a couple of years had done anti-psychiatric activism, would solidarize with her cause. She never perceived that by showing it to me her old tale would crumble.

A person in his right mind would have kept up a straight face, even someone who would commit suicide. There are be people in their right mind that commit suicide. Tere’s file, on the other hand, registered temper tantrum after temper tantrum in the psychiatric ward, aggravated by the side-effect of the Valium that impeded her to breath normally and even “to open the anal sphincter” when going to the toilet, as Tere confessed a Scientologist who does some activism against involuntary psychiatry. Even though Tere let me read only a fraction of the file, her acting out was so obvious that I wonder why wasn’t she punished with much stronger psychiatric drugs. As I said, the Canary people that I met were very kind; this might explain why they didn’t administer her neuroleptics.

I never told Tere a word about how her file had changed my mind. Still, each time that the file reported one of the amazing phrases attributed to Tere, I asked incredulously: “Did you say that…?” Tere continued to assent without perceiving how the new revelations would change my previous opinion.

Tere’s file refreshed my memory on another subject. When in 2002 I read the long tale that Tere had written, I gathered that in the previous days to her fateful visit to the bridge she was extremely upset about a lawsuit against her previous employer, a rather long and tiresome lawsuit process she had initiated. Tere’s frustration about it drove her to visit the bridge.

In September 11 of 2009, the day I escaped from her island, to my surprise those lawsuits were mentioned in the psychiatric file that I saw. And after watching Tere aggressively arguing in her island with innocent employees the first days we arrived to the island, a behavior she would later repeat with me for sure, the dots connected by themselves. For example, Tere told me that she had reproached, angrily, her detention addressing the female doctor in charge of the admissions in the psychiatric ward. I didn’t tell Tere what was in my mind when she confessed this little incident, but it seems pretty obvious that this resulted in a one-way ticket to the ward. Who on earth dares to talk rudely to the one in charge of admissions within the psychiatric ward itself? Only someone so overwhelmed by her emotional issues that acts out her suicidal ideation in front of the thoughtpolice!

To understand this analysis of Tere it’s useful to become familiar with my analysis of Andrew Solomon (already linked above). Just as Solomon displaced the rage he felt for his mother on one of his friends, breaking his jaw, Tere does something similar. Of course, women are not tough guys by nature. Instead, they frequently discharge their rage verbally: what Tere did at the stores; with me, with the policeman at the bridge, with the powerful psychiatrist in charge of the admissions, and I assume that with her former employers too, against whom Tere filled up angry lawsuits.

In one word: hysteria. Tere has a medical degree. She knew perfectly well the dynamics of the psychiatric institutions in her native island. She has no valid excuse about how would the authorities of her island react before her acting out her emotional issues.

During the ten months that I stayed in her flat, Tere was there about two months in her holyday days. When she told me that her parents hit her as a child, I suggested her to do a serious mourning to process the trauma: say, something like writing an autobiography like the one I had written. For Tere, that was absolutely out of the question. She told me several times that that wouldn’t do any good to her.

Tere never confronted her parents. She doesn’t talk about her family traumas with her two brothers either. Nor does she reproach anything to her silent relatives. She keeps everything to herself. It’s understandable, therefore, that the volcano of rage she carries inside explodes in other ways.

Tere’s case is typical. I have given my two sisters the bestseller of Susan Forward Toxic Parents, which incidentally I recommended to Tere a few years ago and she did purchase a translated copy of it. Forward tells her clients that graduate in her therapy to write a letter to the perpetrator, the parent who abused her clients when they were younger. Of the many people that I know that have read Forward’s book—Tere included—, no one has followed Forward’s advice. The fears of touching the parent inundate even the minds of those who, like Tere, have already half a century in this world. And in the case that the parent has passed away, as I explained in my essay on Solomon, Forward advises reading a vindictive letter in front of the parent’s grave to obtain inner peace. But Tere didn’t settle the score with any of her parents in the form of long epistles (cf. the first book of my series of five, Letter to mom Medusa).

Tere’s attitude is typical. All people whom I’ve tried to communicate with tell me that they already got over it and that writing long, reproaching letters—let alone sending them to their parents—is out of place. It’s risible that Tere answered back that she vehemently dislikes writing when she apparently didn’t dislike writing the psychodrama of her involuntary commitment, and even sending it to her intimate friends. Those who suffer from chronic bad temper are capable of anything except addressing their bitterness at the source that caused it.

In my Solomon essay I said that substitutive hate, the one directed onto scapegoats, is infinite. In the case of Tere that means nothing less that her bad tempers and brawls don’t finish just there. Tere needs, in addition to that, to hate the culture that was deaf about how she was abused in her teens. Tere herself confessed to me that she hated the society because of that betrayal, and that when she was committed her old memories of physical abuse at home assaulted her mind. According to her own words, the commitment had been a —:

“Now I know…!”

—that what was done to her as a child was true. But Tere, who has written op-eds to the newspapers complaining about psychiatry, doesn’t write a single word advocating the child’s right not to be parentally abused or about her own childhood, where her real pain lays. It’s no mystery that she transfers her rancor to parent symbols such as the authorities, as we saw with the police. But the policeman who impeded her reaching the bridge is not her father. Nor her mother. Nor her deaf relatives. It was Tere herself, not the file, who told me that when the policeman asked her where was she going, she responded adamantly:

“To the bridge!”

The hard answer detonated a chain reaction from the forces of law and order. And each time that Tere had the opportunity of repressing her bad temper and keep a straight face, she did nothing but escalate her acting out provoking even more the island’s authorities.


Final analysis

I wouldn’t have written this comparatively long analysis were it not for Teresa’s hatred for the West in general and traditional Spain in particular, and her craving for my culture’s destruction. We already saw [in the omitted entries] that she told me she really loved the 9/11 terrorist attacks, the Moorish immigration that is taking away what force remains of Christendom in Spain, that she thinks that every single Western family is noxious, and that she wishes that “everything collapses.”

The sad thing about cases like Teresa’s is that there are many of them. What moves me to write this article is that in the nationalist movement there is no psychological analysis whatsoever, not even in the slightest form, of why leftist people hate their civilization. I believe that this case illustrates it. The volcano of rage that Teresa carries inside never explodes in the form of speaking out about her real aggressors. Never. She re-directs it to the culture that, in her mind, symbolizes her family: the Francoist Spain and everything related to conservatism. Teresa gives a damn about the fact that in other cultures the treatment of women is far worse that what she got as a child. That’s irrelevant. What only matters is the destruction of the culture that crucified her. Period.

Teresa and I have the same age and we both suffered in Catholic families at the same time. Comparing the two biographies it’s evident that I was a victim of more serious parental abuse than what she got.

But I don’t desire the destruction of my civilization. Before trauma, even big time trauma, there still exists individual responsibility. That someone devotes himself to speaking out about child abuse (like me), or contributing to destroy the West through voting for Zapatero and by hating those concerned with the Islamization of the Europe (like Teresa), only shows that there’s indeed something like surrendering our will to evil.

If leftist feminists were good persons, the first thing they would do is to feel compassion for the girls in Europe whose genitals have been chopped off at their parents’ request. But these women do exactly the opposite: they hate the System dissidents who pity the pubescent Muslims, as Teresa hated me in her quoted e-mails.

“A little woman chasing after her revenge would over-run fate itself” wrote Nietzsche. Teresa and the rest of the little women that feel extreme hatred toward our civilization chase after an unconscious revenge. With so many voters like her in Spain and in the Western world, so many Body-snatched Pod whites like in the 1956 film, the fate of the West looks grim indeed. Teresa’s suicidal ideation, aborted by the psychiatric institution that she loathes so much, transmutes itself into the suicide of our civilization since, alas, instead of killing themselves many other empowered women have become West haters too.

But there is something in which Teresa and I are in agreement. I believe that the policeman should have let her jump off the bridge…

Protected minorities

The point I was trying to make in my previous post and in a related discussion is that during my first internet experience in 2006-2008, for the group of Alice Miller’s fans the subject of child abuse in the Muslim world was taboo. These pseudo-followers of Miller had in their minds a protected minority—Muslims—even when these Sub-Saharan Africans practice genital mutilation on pubescent girls on a massive scale.

The next internet group I became active was the counter-jihad blogsites, where I was active from the latest months of 2008 to the beginning of 2010. These people too had a protected minority in their little minds: Jews. They would not argue with me even when I typed long excerpts from an academic Jew that demonstrated that the Jewish problem was not a gentile hallucination at all.

Finally, when I arrived to white nationalism after distancing myself from Jew-blind counter-jihadists I expected that this later movement wouldn’t have protected minorities. I was wrong. Many of them still have a protected minority that, like the other minorities, is deleterious to our interests as Guillaume Faye knows: homosexuals.

HomoNegroThe fact that Tom Sunic and Robert Stark have interviewed Counter-Currents’ philosophical catamite James O’Meara without asking him tough questions during their respective interviews, proves that at least some of today’s nationalists don’t have the moral caliber to say what the Nazis said about faggotry, or even the first American incarnation of white nationalism one or two generations ago.

That this “new generation” is fond of what my beloved Nazis called “degenerate music” means that they have a rotten soul compared to the one which flourished not so long ago.

My challenge to Alice Miller’s fans

This piece has been chosen for my collection Day of Wrath. It has been slightly modified and presently can only be read as a PDF within the book, ready for printing in your home for a comfortable reading.

Against the Fourth Commandment

In the “Saturday Afternoon with Carolyn Yeager: Kairos on The German Character,” a man called to rebut the German blogger Kairos arguing that Christianity is good because of the Fourth Commandment, “Honor thy father and thy mother.”

What the caller ignored is that the Fourth Commandment is intrinsically intertwined with the Monsters from the Id that are destroying our civilization.

I don’t want to explain the subject at length. Suffice it to say that the late Alice Miller discussed how religion can contribute to the guilt that prevents us from being conscious adults. In The Body Never Lies Miller urges us to realize that the Fourth Commandment offers immunity to abusive parents, and argues it is healthier not to extend forgiveness to parents whose tyrannical childrearing methods have resulted in ruined adult lives.

Below, a page
about the poet Arthur Rimbaud from The Body Never Lies that I stole from Miller’s webpage:

Self-Hatred and Unfulfilled Love

Arthur Rimbaud was born in 1854 and died of cancer in 1891, a few months after his right leg had been amputated. In other words, he only lived to be 37 years old. Yves Bonnefoy tells us that his mother was harsh and brutal, a fact on which all the available sources are unanimous.

Bonnefoy describes her as ambitious, proud, stubbornly self-opinionated, arid, and full of covert hatred. He calls her the classic case of someone fired by the pure energy derived from bigoted religiosity. The astonishing letters she wrote around 1900 reveal that she was enamored of death and destruction. She was fascinated by graveyards, and at the age of 75 she had gravediggers lower her into the grave she was later to share with her dead children Vitali and Arthur, so that she could have a foretaste of the eternal night that was to come.

What must it have been like for an intelligent and sensitive child to grow up in the care of a woman like this? We find the answer in Rimbaud’s poetry. Bonnefoy tells us that his mother did everything in her power to curb and thwart his development as a poet, albeit to no avail. Failing that, she nipped in the bud every desire for independence on his part, every premonition of liberty. The boy took to regarding himself as an orphan, and his relationship to his mother split up into hatred, on the one hand, and obsequious dependency on the other. From the fact that he received no token of affection Rimbaud concluded that he must be in some way guilty: “With all the strength of his innocence, he rebelled fiercely against the judgment passed on him by his mother.”

Rimbaud’s mother maintained total control over her children and called this control motherly love. Her acutely perceptive son saw through this lie. He realized that her constant concern for outward appearances had nothing to do with love. But he was unable to admit to this observation without reserve, because as a child he needed love, or at least the illusion of it. He could not hate his mother, particularly as she was so obviously concerned for him. So he hated himself instead, unconsciously convinced that in some obscure way he must have deserved such mendacity and coldness. Plagued by an ill-defined sense of disgust, he projected it onto the provincial town where he lived, onto the hypocrisy of the system of morality he grew up in (much like Nietzsche in this respect), and onto himself. All his life he strove to escape these feelings, resorting in the process to alcohol, hashish, absinth, opium, and extensive travels to faraway places. In his youth he made two attempts to run away from home but was caught and restored to his mother’s “care” on both occasions.

His poetry reflects not only his self-hatred but also his quest for the love so completely denied him in the early stages of his life. Later, at school, he was fortunate enough to encounter a kindly teacher who gave him the companionship and support he so desperately needed in the decisive years of puberty. His teacher’s affection and confidence enabled him to write and to develop his philosophical ideas. But his childhood retained its stifling grip on him. He attempted to combat his despair at the absence of love in his life by transforming it into philosophical observations on the nature of true love. But these ideas were no more than abstractions because despite his intellectual rejection of conventional morality, his emotional allegiance to the code of conduct it prescribed was unswerving. Self-disgust was legitimate, but detestation for his mother was unthinkable. He could not pay heed to the painful messages of his childhood memories without destroying the hopes that had helped him to survive as a child. Time and again, Rimbaud tells us that he had no one to rely on except himself. This was surely the fruit of his experience with a mother who had nothing to offer him but her own derangement and hypocrisy, rather than true love. His entire life was a magnificent but vain attempt to save himself from destruction at the hands of his mother, with all the means at his disposal.

Young people who have gone through much the same kind of childhood as Rimbaud are probably fascinated by his poetry because they can vaguely sense the presence of a kindred spirit in it. Rimbaud’s friendship with Paul Verlaine is a well-known fact of literary history. His longing for love and genuine communication initially appeared to find gratification in this friendship. But the mistrust rooted in his childhood gradually poisoned their intimacy, and this, coupled with Verlaine’s own difficult past, prevented the love between them from achieving any permanence. Ultimately, their recourse to drugs made it impossible for them to live the life of total honesty that they were in search of. Their relationship was crippled by the psychological injuries they inflicted on one another. In the last resort, Verlaine acted in just as destructive a way as Rimbaud’s mother, and the final crisis came when Rimbaud was shot twice by the drunken Verlaine, who was sentenced to two years in prison for his crime.

To salvage the genuine love he was deprived of in childhood, Rimbaud turned to the idea of love embodied in Christian charity, in understanding and compassion for others. He set out to give others what he himself had never received. He tried to understand his friend and to help him understand himself, but the repressed emotions from his childhood repeatedly interfered with this attempt. He sought redemption in Christian charity, but his implacably perspicacious intelligence would allow him no self-deception. Thus he spent his whole life searching for his own truth, but it remained hidden to him because he had learned at a very early age to hate himself for what his mother had done to him. He experienced himself as a monster, his homosexuality as a vice, his despair as a sin. But not once did he allow himself to direct his endless, justified rage at the true culprit, the woman who had kept him locked up in her prison for as long as she could. All his life he attempted to free himself of that prison, with the help of drugs, travel, illusions, and above all poetry. But in all these desperate efforts to open the doors that would have led to liberation, one of them remained obstinately shut, the most important one: the door to the emotional reality of his childhood, to the feelings of the little child that was forced to grow up with a severely disturbed, malevolent woman, with no father to protect him from her.


Verlaine (far left) and Rimbaud (second to left)
depicted in an 1872 painting
by Henri Fantin-Latour

Rimbaud’s biography is a telling instance of how the body cannot but seek desperately for the early nourishment it has been denied. Rimbaud was driven to assuage a deficiency, a hunger that could never be stilled. His drug addiction, his compulsive travels, his friendship with Verlaine can be interpreted not merely as an attempt to flee from his mother, but also as a quest for the nourishment she had withheld from him. As his internal reality inevitably remained unconscious, Rimbaud’s life was marked by compulsive repetition. After every abortive escape attempt, he returned to his mother, both after the separation from Verlaine and at the end of his life, when he had finally sacrificed his creative gifts by giving up his writing to become a business man, thus indirectly fulfilling his mother’s expectations of him. Though Rimbaud spent the last days of his life in a hospital in Marseille, he had gone back to Roche immediately before, to be looked after by his mother and sister. The quest for his mother’s love ended in the prison of childhood.

For those interested in the subject, I’ve written about why forgiving our parents may invoke those Monsters from the Unconscious that are destroying our civilization. In Fallen Leaves I mention the mental issues of a poor Michael Jackson that forgave his father:

Solitude among millions of fans

More to the point, a few years ago I analyzed a woman who hates the West as a result of transferring her repressed, parental rage onto substitutive objects:

A Woman Chasing after her Revenge

Ten books that changed my mind


1. Maxfield Parrish Poster Book

2. The Sickle

3. Laing and Anti-Psychiatry

4. Childhood’s End

5. A Skeptic’s Handbook of Parapsychology

6. The Relentless Question

7. Final Analysis

8. The Gulag Archipelago

9. For Your Own Good

10. The Emotional Life of Nations

Miller and deMause

Or:

The ten books that made an impact in my life
before I became racially conscious

9.- For Your Own Good by Alice Miller
(read in 2002)

10.- The Emotional Life of Nations by Lloyd deMause
(read in 2006)


In my review of books 5 and 6 I said, “That smart people seem to be drawn to sects has nothing to do with intelligence and everything to do with the human mind’s strayed ways of trying to cope with the unprocessed trauma of earlier experiences at home.” In other words, the root cause of my former alienation in cults and paranormal pseudosciences was, of course, the previous abuse I had experienced at home. Below I reproduce an index page of my now defunct antipsiquiatria.org webpage (2003-2010), specifically, a version of what used to be the page of the English section of my website, where I explained why I shifted focus from antipsychiatric subjects—the subject-matter of some of my previous entries—to the authors whom I am most indebted with:


My critique of psychiatry is now relegated to a second plane. The reason for such a drastic change is that in the last few years I have read two authors that have changed my worldview: Lloyd deMause, and Alice Miller who died earlier this year [this was written in 2010]. Though Miller and deMause do not focus on psychiatry, their legacy opened my eyes: it made me see that the child abuses in the psychiatric profession are only the tip of the iceberg of a much wider crime.

Since the times of our simian ancestors infanticide was common, and it continued through the prehistory of Homo sapiens in the ancient world. This can be gathered from the remains of the sacrificed victims. For example, in the city in which I live the ritual murder of children was regularly practiced before the Spanish conquest.

I confess that when I read deMause I was unprepared to face the vast body of historical evidence about infanticide, child mutilation, the tight and tortuous swaddling of babies, the ubiquity of incest and other horrors, many perpetrated through millennia. Once in a while I had to suspend my reading of one of his books to give me a break before the horrific nature of the revelations.

Similarly, the books of Alice Miller made me to delve deeply through the very core of my being: something that detonated an emotional atomic bomb. Miller is right when she states that the suffering of a child victim of extreme parental abuse can surpass the level of pain in a concentration camp for adults [for those who can read Spanish, cf. my chapter on Miller in my Hojas Susurrantes].

Due to what John Bowlby calls attachment, parents are the most notorious soul murderers. For those who have been emotionally crushed and years later have made contact with their inner being, this is obvious. However, it’s not obvious at all for most of mankind. Because of our attachment to the perpetrator, what we are dealing with is the foundational taboo of civilization: what Alice Miller called “the forbidden knowledge.”

For the other eight books see here.

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