Extermination • IV

In a Louis XVI-style bedroom

In May 2012 I received a surprise in the damned house.* Someone had left a box on the outside edge of the restroom for visitors. Opening it I saw something that amazed me: a little, divine animal! It looked like a bunny of short life but it was so beautiful and graceful that it could not be a rabbit, I thought. It took me time to recognize that it was actually a white bunny, but so otherworldly I felt that I had difficulty in reconciling my two hemispheres: one saying it could only be a divine creature, and another saying it was a little rabbit who had come to the world not long ago.

Almost abandoned in a box without custody, it had been one of many bunnies of a birthday gift to the children of a party bought by one of my irresponsible brothers, the father of the celebrated child. In a subsequent chapter I tell you how I got to interact with the creature, whom I rescued from an uncertain fate because of the pettiness of my family and Mexicans in general. Previously I had never interacted in such way with an animal; in fact, I never wanted to have pet even though I did not get married and have no offspring. But seeing such defenseless being at the mercy of the modified apes in my family moved me to adapt it. I’ll tell stories but in this chapter all I can add is that, over time, the white rabbit would help me to finally find my way out of the inverted world of Alice.

Just under two and a half years later I would receive a shock that changed the planned architecture of this book. The newspaper The Mirror reported that four young males of Seaham in Durham, England, between seventeen and twenty raped, tortured and murdered Percy: a bunny that, in the picture you can see on the internet with the naked young, looks identical to my pet, who is now an adult rabbit.

They tried to shave Percy, set her alight, tried to drown her and then threw her still alive from the window. The human monsters, all white, even filmed with a cell what they did: a video that the owner of the bunny (also white) could not see when the police arrested the perpetrators; just a still picture to identify the missing pet. The punishment for this crime was insignificant in today’s Britain. I would have ordered torture—exactly what they did to the rabbit—and then throwing them out the window to let them die in agony lying on the ground (tit for tat). In fact, if by some miracle of fate an extraterrestrial force had empowered me like a Karellen on my recent trip to the UK, I would have done it already.

We must remember that, had the Anglo-Saxon demons allowed Germany an empire from the Atlantic to the Urals, in areas under the Nazi flag the torment animals would have slowed considerably. Personally, I consider Hermann Göring my patron saint: and he should also be the patron for those who yearn for a world free of such abuses of human power. Never forget the caricature of 1933 on how freed animals—no more vivisection! no more animal testing!—salute their savior Hermann.


Unlike my beloved Nazis, in both DW and my blog in English I talked about what the non-Nazis are capable to do with defenseless animals. I mentioned fur factories in China where some mammals are skinned alive; farms in Mexico where they hang the rabbits from their ears to death, something that has also happened in some Australian farms. This and what they did to Percy pierced my soul. Her photo in The Mirror shows her in a posture of quiet confidence before the humans who would torture her: identical image to the positions of how my own bunny—so used like Percy to benign owners—peacefully relaxes in human presence. The betrayal of the universe that Percy must have experienced facing the change from human angels to human devils is such that I have dedicated this book to her memory.

Although what those evil humans in Durham did was condemned by other English, so-called normal people do not stay behind. Human beings whom I consider exterminable are capable of pouring concentrated solutions for days in laboratory rabbits, and to prevent they close their eyes they fasten their lids with tongs! (How many women are unaware that their cosmetics are experimented such way…) This happens now with the blessing of society precisely because World War II was won by the wicked. Few know that in 1944-1947 the Soviets, Jews and Americans practiced a holocaust of Germans, the “Hellstorm” preventing inter alia that the benign policies of Hermann, who had saved our cousins in the brief historical window represented by the Third Reich, were implemented in the post-war West.

The philosopher of science Thomas Kuhn used the optical illusion of the duck-rabbit to show how a “paradigm shift” makes you see the same information in a completely different way. If westerners had not passed through a brainwashing process, instead of seeing a duck (the Nazis were evil) they would see a rabbit (they were actually good!). I noticed this in 1992 when studying the Faces of Bélmez in a small village of Andalusia. I started believing that the faces of the kitchen of María Gómez Cámara were a paranormal phenomenon until some day, looking at the face called La Pelona, I made a change in my inner subjectivity. I experienced the feeling that the broad strokes of the face were the work of human hand, shattering the parapsychological research upon which I had placed my hopes. Well ahead the book I will tell the details of that misadventure in Spain; suffice it to say that the paradigm shift comes from the inner will. Following the example of Kuhn, the volitional faculty of my mind stopped seeing a bird of the family Anatidae and discovered an Oryctolagus cuniculus.


The same can happen in our inner eye while revaluating Christian and neo-Christian values to their National Socialist antithesis (cf. FR and DW). Why do white nationalists, most of whom are Christian theists and neo-Christian atheists and both scared of The Turner Diaries are dissociated psychologically? Because, unlike William Pierce, with their stupid love for the modified apes they condemn other animals to a torture for millennia—while potentially the Aryans, who are going extinct, are capable of becoming Görings. For a truly integrated individual it becomes a no-brainer that what is moral is putting a screeching halt to the sadism towards our cousins, and the only way to do that is by dispatching the human devils. A change from love to hatred for sinful mankind—great hatred I mean: a hatred à la Yahweh from the mouth of Jeremiah—represents a paradigm shift. Does the quote from the novel Childhood’s End by Arthur Clarke I included in the fifth and final book in HS is recalled? In that novel humans are metamorphosed into a higher being. I quote again one of these passages, but remember that in the novel Karellen was the leader of the aliens who visited Earth: physically indistinguishable from the Christian iconography of devils.

“If you want a single proof of the essential—how shall I put it—benevolence of the Overlords, think of that cruelty-to-animals order which they made within a month of their arrival. If I had had any doubts about Karellen before, that banished them—even though that order has caused me more trouble than anything else he’s ever done!

That was scarcely an exaggeration, Stormgren thought. The whole incident had been an extraordinary one, the first revelation of the Overlords’ hatred of cruelty. That, and their passion for justice and order, seemed to be the dominant emotions in their lives—as far as one could judge them by their actions.

And it was the only time Karellen had shown anger, or at least the appearance of anger. “You may kill one another if you wish,” the message had gone, “and that is a matter between you and your own laws. But if you slay, except for food or in self-defense, the beasts that share your world with you—then you may be answerable to me.”

No one knew how comprehensive this ban was supposed to be, or what Karellen would do to enforce it. They had not long to wait.

The Plaza de Toros was full when the matadors and their attendants began their processional entry. Everything seemed normal; the brilliant sunlight blazed harshly on the traditional costumes, the great crowd greeted its favorites as it had a hundred times before. Yet here and there faces were turned anxiously towards the sky, to the aloof silver shape fifty kilometers above Madrid.

Then the picadors had taken up their places and the bull had come snorting out into the arena. The skinny horses, nostrils wide with terror, had wheeled in the sunlight and their riders forced them to meet their enemy. The first lance flashed—made contact—and at that moment came a sound that had never been heard on earth before.

It was the sound of ten thousand people screaming with the pain of the same wound—ten thousand people who, when they had recovered from the shock, found themselves completely unharmed. But that was the end of that bullfight, and indeed of all bullfighting, for the news spread rapidly.

Before I woke to the real world and stop demonizing the Third Reich, Childhood’s End was my favorite book. Now I see the devil Karellen, as painted by Clarke, was too magnanimous to humans. The sole fact that there are seedy slaughterhouses in the Spanish-speaking world warrants more drastic steps than that character’s actions.

In Mexico compartments for calves are so narrow that they cannot even turn around in the cage. When growing up farmers cut horns, mark with iron and castrate without anesthesia. On trucks en route to the Mexican slaughterhouses the animals sometimes travel more than a day without food or drink; they arrive hungry, thirsty and dizzy to Hell. The first thing the poor animals see in the slaughterhouse is a gruesome spectacle: pools of blood and skinned or dismembered carcasses of other cows; severed heads on the floor… They enter the first circles of hell in a state of panic. Arriving at the seventh the blow the killers give on the cow’s head does not always kill it. Sometimes this noble animal is injured, in shock and with the deepest pain wondering with no language why the demons of hell do you what they do. Mexicans are so exterminable that they usually put live pigs into an enormous pool of boiling water so that the Gehenna’s pain by fire makes the animal drop off its hairs. (In Mexico people are fond of eating pork rind—incidentally, a treat for my father—and they don’t like seeing hairs on it.)

The Spaniards are not left far behind. They prepare the bull in a bullfight to make it less dangerous by cutting the horns’ tips, smearing petroleum jelly on its eyes to blur the vision and an irritant solution onto the legs so that the animal will be always moving around the bull ring. (Before, they would have stuck a needle into the genitals to stunt their growth.) They put tow into its nose for making it harder to breathe; they give strong laxatives before the fight, and beat its loins and kidneys with sacks before it faces the matador. (And let us not mention what can be seen in the Spanish and Latin American television after the bull enters the arena.)

Only now it may be glimpsed the power of my unconscious during the dream in Madrid. If from the unconscious we take it not only to consciousness but to the super-consciousness it means that most humans should not exist. It is not enough that, according to polls, the majority of Spaniards today are uninterested in bullfighting. The mere fact that they and other people are involved in the chain of cruelty to animals—either using a product of feminine vanity experimented on the eyes of a bunny who was prevented from closing its eyelids, or gobbling the cutlet of a pig that had been submerged alive in boiling water—should be enough to arouse the exterminating hatred of the alien devil. Consider for example this passage from a commentary by one J. Marone, who in 2005 reviewed for Amazon Books Slaughterhouse: The Shocking Story of Greed, Neglect, and Inhumane Treatment Inside the US Meat Industry:

Cows, pigs and chickens are taken through the slaughter house alive. Cows are often alive all the way through the line, this includes while they are getting their legs chopped off with cutters—imagine that… They [those who work there] do not stop the line for these inconveniences. The workers shove electric prods in their rectums and eyes—deep into the sockets occasionally pulling out the eye to get them moving to the slaughter line.

After reading this [the book] I will never eat another piece of meat again. It is not my decision to make any other living thing suffer. But I find it amazing that when you go to share this book, people don’t want to know. They would rather stay ignorant and that in itself has shocked me tremendously.

The italics from the last paragraph are mine, and express why it is not enough that humans claim ignorance, as almost every adult has heard what happens in the slaughterhouses. When recently in my preparations for writing this chapter I began to read what was happening in those places I promised myself, like Marone, not to put pieces of corpses of mammals or birds in my mouth again. And now that I write these lines I notice that, to be consistent, I must also leave the dairy. From now on I will not be complicit of what dairy cows suffer in Mexican farms, which will eventually be killed in such spine-chilling way anyway. (I’ll even quit eating eggs. In this country of exterminable Neanderthals they put five chickens in a cage of less than one square meter where they live a year or more with electric lights to prevent normal sleeping hours and having them laying eggs like crazy. No wonder that a visitor to these coops called those places “gallinaceous madhouses.”)

I do not believe in the postmortem survival of the soul in the Christian or Buddhist sense. But clearly, Anatole France was right to say that, until you’ve stopped eating animal flesh (or derivatives of tormented animals I would say), a part of your soul remains unawakened. The thought of France takes us back to the points made in the fourth book of HS, where the psychogenic evolution of man is exposed. If regarding childrearing the Spaniards had taken a psychogenic quantum leap compared to Amerindians who still ate flesh of their children, a new leap means developing, in our times, empathy for our cousins in the animal kingdom.

Unlike Hitler and other vegetarians of the Nazi party, most Aryans have not gone through that leap. Just look at the pictures of mammals in laboratory experiments performed throughout North America and Europe and see that mankind is truly a damned species. I won’t incur into the rudeness of adding those pictures in this chapter: that is a task I leave to my readers. What I’m getting at is that the development of empathy has not even reached white nationalism or neo-Nazism understood in the American way. For example, on page 731 of Freedom’s Sons, the last novel in the saga of Harold Covington about the creation of a white nation northwest of North America, the author gives as ignoble the prohibition of eating beef, and on page 884 he puts as noble the practice of a child to go out hunting rabbits not to eat them, but for pleasure.

A parenthesis: When I talk about the extermination of the Neanderthals, in which I include virtually all non-whites and a good part of whites, it is not that I have forgotten the Jews. By now it should be obvious that those who continue cruel Mosaic practices in their treatment of animals to be eaten (in addition to the Talmudic injunction to exterminate the best of the goyim) are shown at the top of my blacklist. So, when I talk to exterminate the Neanderthalesque whites in the future, it is perfectly understood that cities like Jerusalem or Tel Aviv had already been ethnically cleansed and renamed as Himmler City or Eichmann City.

Such exterminating fantasies would not seem unhealthy if we do a thought experiment. In the article that gave the title to DW I quoted a nonfiction book by Arthur Clarke in which he spoke of the “Judgment from the Stars” the earthlings could experience. If we imagine that in real life someone like a Karellen visited our planet, what is the first thing he would see from his distant ships of silver, far above the human swarms? Urban sprawl. Environmentally destructive industries and bringing the cameras closer, abject human misery and unimaginable suffering of other species that share the planet with us. If, as in Clarke’s novel, the visitor also possessed machines to study the past of the species he would also perceive, along the hell that the naked apes put their cousins in, that throughout history and prehistory these apes had behaved hideously with their own children. It is worthwhile summarizing the statistics of the fourth book in HS.

With their machines to literally see the human past this hypothetical extraterrestrial would be taken aghast at the extent of infanticide: from fifteen to fifty percent of the total number of births in prehistoric times. Already in historical times, he would see thousands of young children slaughtered ritually, offered to the Babylonian goddess Ishtar. He would see the sacrifice of the infants of the Pelasgians; of the Syrians to Jupiter and Juno and more infant offerings at Gezer and Egypt in the centuries the earthlings call 10th-8th before Christ. Not to mention what the visitor would see with his machines when focusing them on the ancient Semites of Carthage, where burning children alive ordained by their own parents reached its infamous zenith. Something similar our visitor could see about other Phoenicians, Canaanites, Moabites, Sepharvites and the ancient Hebrews: who in their origins offered their eldest son as a sacrifice to their god(s). With their magic to see our past, the alien visitor would learn that it was not until the 4th century of the Gregorian calendar that Valentinian decreed that families must raise all their children, although both the exposure as the abandonment of infants continued in Europe until a council took action against the custom of killing one’s own kids.

Far worse things would our visitor see in the lands inhabited by non-whites: thousands of babies, mostly female, abandoned in the streets of ancient China; and how those not abandoned were put to death in cold water. He would see that in feudal Japan they suffocated the baby with wet paper covering her nose and mouth; how infanticide was systematic in the feudal Rajputs in India, sometimes throwing their children alive to the crocodiles; and how in pre-Islamic Arabia they buried alive a number of newborn females.

With his technology based on unimaginable principles the visitor would also see that the inhabitants of sub-Saharan Africa killed their children much more often than did other races: in Årebo, the Nama Hottentots, the inhabitants of the Lake Victoria Nyanza, the Tswana, the Ilso, the people of the bush, the !Kung of the Kalahari Desert, the Kikuyu (the most populous group in what is now Kenya), the Tswana, the Vadshagga, the Ibo village in Nigeria where the neonate was also buried alive or the Kuni, where every mother had killed at least one of their children. He would even see that child sacrifice was practiced in Zimbabwe as recently as the beginnings of the century the earthlings denominate 20th century. He would also see truly massive infanticides among the natives of the countless islands of Oceania, and in New Guinea, and even more among the extremely primitive aborigines of Australia, Tasmania and Polynesia. He would learn that in American tribes infanticide continued in times the practice had been abandoned in Europe, and also learn about the cannibalism among the Dene Amerindians and those of the Mackenzie Mountains; and that in the region now known as South Texas the Mariame practiced female infanticide on a large scale. He would see the same not only among the Central and South American tribes, but in the civilizations before the Spanish conquest where ritual slaughter of women and children suggests that they did it out of pure sadism. The hypothetical Karellen would see what I also mentioned in HS with reliable academic references: that some of these women and children were flayed on the face, or suffered eye mutilation before being executed. Finally, the visitor would see that, after the Conquest, the cruelty of the Mesoamerican and the Incan was prohibited by the Spanish only to be transferred to animals, which explains the cruelty in the slaughterhouses and farms at a time when our visitor does not have to use his devices to open the Complete Book of History and Prehistory of the species he studies.

It is clear where I want to go. If it is legitimate for this hypothetical alien to remove from the face of the Earth a newly-arrived species of modified apes whose haughtiness blinds them from their evil, how can it be pathological that one of the terrestrials reaches the same conclusion? Just because, unlike the visitor, he does not have technological power?

The sad truth is that infanticide and human cruelty have not been atoned inwardly, only transferred onto our cousins.

In DW I spoke of the Star-Child. An eschatology from above would be a son of man returning on the clouds with great power and glory to judge mankind, or, in the new version of the myth, a David Bowman in a sphere of light approaching the Earth as in Kubrick’s film. But since I’m skeptical of both personal deities and intelligent civilizations in the Milky Way, I could conceive, rather than an eschatology “from above” an eschatology “from below.” I refer to the intra-psychic evolution of a human being while developing an infinitely more intense empathy of what the bulk of modified apes (whom I call Neanderthals) have developed.

The rhetoric currently in use among the protectors of children and animals in the West is only a first stammering of what we have in mind. Unlike the hypothetical Star-Child, the most fanatical “animal rights” activists whom I have personally met don’t even dare to see that, besides humans, other species must be removed from the Earth and its oceans. A Star-Child with mile-high empathy and powers would not tolerate, for example, the torture of several hours that a pack of killer whales inflict a whale calf while killing it to rip off its tongue. And pictures of hyenas eating a little elephant alive—there are video recordings of how a member of the pack rips the trunk of the alive elephant—speak for themselves and do not need lucubration on how we would proceed.

Animal-on-animal cruelty aside, the hatred that the metamorphosed human also feels for other modified apes around him can be glimpsed in the following anecdote. Before I went to England with plans to emigrate, I left my pet in the damned house that, as we saw in the fifth book of HS, is virtually on Tlalpan Viaduct: a freeway that goes on the road to Cuernavaca where trucks and cars constantly pass, even well after midnight. Seeing my bunny in a cultivated garden that is paradise for him, but surrounded by such noise, especially at night, I imagined—with powers à la Bowman—eliminating all and every one of the Mexicans who drive that stretch of the road to avoid the background roar for my bunny. Such fantasy would not seem outlandish if, on a new scale of values, we value the modified apes negatively; and noble species of animals including lagomorph mammals, positively regardless of the relative size of their brains or sophistication of their culture.

It does not matter that to clean Tlalpan Viaduct from humans it requires to eliminate millions of Mexicans, as there are millions who take that road. The interests of a single animal trump the interests of millions of humans, insofar as the modified apes are valued on the negative side of our scale. With the exception of a few nymphs as beautiful as Catalina who reside here, no inhabitant of this city is worth it—of male Criollos for example, I know exactly no one with honor or true nobility of soul. The sum of millions of modified apes in this city that Farnham O’Reilly declared that needs to be razed and transformed into a memorial atonement park dedicated to Nature does not give a positive for the mere fact that they are millions. It gives a large negative. Conversely, a single modified dinosaur (contemporary bird) or a lagomorph, as much as modest and discreet its life may be, is a small positive. The arithmetic with which the Star-Child judges the species on Earth, including Homo sapiens, has little to do with the standards about the “positive” and “negative” for humans.

A world of cultivated forests and Percys never again to be tortured by monstrous whites or of any other skin color is what shall inherit the Earth. It cannot be more significant that my most important works, Hojas Susurrantes and this one I am starting, Extermination, are dedicated to non-humans: a tree and a bunny.

In the final chapter of Childhood’s End the metamorphosed children eliminated all animal and plant life, except their own. I do not think we need to go that far. In the laws of the universe there is an Aristotelian golden mean between the apocalyptic children of the end and the law of the jungle that currently impose the naked apes. The mean is turning the world into an Elysian island. Young Clarke just past thirty beautifully described that place with his prose: the city of Lys in his first novel, Against the Fall of Night where, besides some animals, an evolved form of human being is allowed—a human where empathy is imposed and the original sin is gone. But let us go down the heights of the genuine science fiction for a moment and return to the real world.

The monastic orders wrought by the Spanish crown alongside the soldiery, including some mendicant orders that protected the natives, did not represent a genuine empathy. The 16th century Spain was Quixote; and these orders represented a counterproductive version of empathy or compassion for those who suffer. What the Franciscans, Dominicans, Augustinians and eventually the Jesuits did in the Americas was quixotic folly: to conceive the naturals as souls to be saved.

In Tasmania and the Caribbean islands the Europeans would exterminate the natives but not having exterminated them in the American continent led to, over the Colonial period, the natives’ displacement of their sadism onto both their offspring (as we saw in HS) as the animals. If instead of catechizing they would have cornered the natives, as Americans would do in this continent, the New Spaniard psychoclass in the Americas would have reflected the Iberian psychoclass undyed of Mesoamerican sadism. The social engineering of the Counter-Reformation was the big culprit for the gestation of a mesticized cruelty between Spanish bullfighting and Amerindian sacrificial passion in this huge part of the continent.

The next chapter describes the stubborn infatuation of my father for the Dominican monk who protected Amerindians the most and originated, with his lamentations, the Black Legend against Spain. At the moment we can only say that the basis of my feelings towards humanity are already in these pages albeit very, very lightly sketched. HS was like the tunnel Dave suddenly found himself in: a vortex of colored lights where, terrified, he traveled at great speed across vast distances in space, viewing bizarre cosmological phenomena and strange landscapes of unusual colors. But HS ends before the final metamorphosis, before the new Odysseus discovers himself as middle aged in a bedroom designed in Louis XVI style; seeing progressively later versions of himself and, finally, as a very old man lying on a bed.

The rest of this book will explain how, due to the evilness in my family and society—Evil with capital E—, with no need of extraterrestrial agency as a black monolith at the foot of a bed for a centenarian elder dying in that bedroom, I suffered an inner metamorphosis and now come back to hate humanity so much as the Star-Child hated it.

Homo americanus is also Homo judaicus

A week ago I mentioned that Tom Sunic’s conference in Copenhagen was a revelation for me. I also said that the price to save the white race from extinction is apostasy from Christianity. The reason for this, I explained, is that what is killing whites is their Euro-Semitic operating system. In the words of Sunic at minute 6:53 of this section of the Copenhagen conference, “Homo Americanus is also Homo Judaicus.” I would use stronger language, like “the Christian problem encompasses the Jewish problem” (see my recent exchange with Pat Hannagan in one of the threads to clarify the latter).

If Homo Americanus is also Homo Judaicus it follows that Murka must burn to save the white peoples. Alas, I don’t have the power of Karellen, an extra-terrestrial visitor in Arthur C. Clarke’s 1953 novel Childhood’s End: a classic in science-fiction where the religions of the primitive earthlings were erased before more substantial changes could be performed by Overlord social engineering.

This is what Karellen and the Overlords did without actually killing anyone or violating his rights:

It was known that the Overlords have access to the past, and more than once historians had appealed to Karellen to settle some ancient controversy. It may have been he had grown tired of such questions, but it is more likely that he knew perfectly well what the outcome of his generosity would be. The instrument he handed over on permanent loan to the World History Foundation was nothing more than a television receiver with an elaborate set of controls for determining co-ordinates in time and space. It must have been linked somehow to a far more complex machine, operating on principles that no one could imagine abroad Karellen’s ship. One had merely to adjust the controls, and a window into the past was opened up. Almost the whole of human history for the past five thousand years became accessible in an instant.


Though it had always been obvious to any rational mind that all the world’s religions writings could not be true, the shock was nevertheless profound. Here was a revelation which no one could doubt or deny: here, seen by some unknown magic of Overlord science, were the true beginnings of all the world’s great faiths.

Within a few days, all mankind’s multitudinous messiahs had lost their divinity. Beneath the fierce passionless light of truth, faiths that had sustained millions for twice a thousand years vanished like morning dew. All the good and all the evil they had wrought were swept suddenly into the past, and could touch the minds of men no more.

Humanity had lost its ancient gods: now it was old enough to have no need for new ones.

See again the Sunic video linked above in bold type if you have doubts that he believes that a Judeo-Christian zeitgeist among European-derived peoples is behind the empowerment of the tribe (keep in mind that McDonald was present during that conference).

Dies Irae

H and N

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.

Beneath Ridley Scott’s planet

In my Hojas Susurrantes I recount how I liked Planet of the Apes (1968) the same year I watched Kubrick’s magnum opus on the big screen. When I learned as a child that they were filming the second part of the Planet, I loved the idea and thought it would be a fascinating film that would respect the original story. I remember that I found very long the months that, with great anxiety, I expected Beneath the Planet of the Apes (1970) to be released.

When it finally was released in Mexico City and went with my cousin Julio to the Cine de los Insurgentes I was shocked. The film was light-years apart from what I imagined it should be a legitimate sequel. As a child I didn’t have the faintest idea of what Hollywood really was, much less did I imagine that much of Hollywood’s interests had nothing to do with art or with an indictment of humankind—the main theme of the 1968 film. The sequel Beneath the Planet of the Apes, which was released in Mexico about three years after the masterpiece of Franklin Schaffner, proved to be an absolute crap and the worst was that it made the boy I was feel completely cheated.

As a personal vignette I would say that, after watching the movie with my cousin, in the confusion we passed directly to the large roundabout which is in front of the now defunct Cine de los Insurgentes instead of going around it. (Incidentally, twenty years later they would film scenes of the 1990 Total Recall with Arnold Shwarzenegger in the commercial part beneath the roundabout.) We got stuck on it and the speed of the cars would not let us escape the roundabout. It was not built for pedestrians and Julio and I, who were about ten and twelve years old respectively, had gone to the theater without our parents. I discovered the roundabout was not made for pedestrians when I realized that the “sidewalk” had no room for my feet. In a sense we had risked our lives by rushing directly into the upper side of the roundabout when we left the movie theater. The chaotic and noisy Avenida de los Insurgentes and the congestion of the two children alone in the large roundabout turned out to be a pertinent corollary to my great disappointment.

Decades, and a dozen more disappointments of traitorous prequels, sequels and remakes to great sci-fi movies, passed until I grasped the fact that a market-driven society does not always coincide with my artistic sensibilities. In “Ridley Scott’s Prometheus” Trevor Lynch (Greg Johnson) recently put it this way:

As the credits rolled, I took off my 3-D glasses and rubbed by eyes in disbelief, trying to fathom the vulgarity of spirit behind this godawful movie. It is the same vulgarity of spirit that took the mysteries of Stanley Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968) and gave us Peter Hyam’s sequel 2010 (1984), where the monoliths work to prevent nuclear war. It is the same vulgarity of spirit that took “the Force” of the original Star Wars trilogy and explained it in terms of little measurable material widgets called “midichlorians” in The Phantom Menace (1999). It is the same vulgarity of spirit that took the mysteries of Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds (1963) and gave us Rick Rosenthal’s made-for-TV sequel The Birds II: Land’s End (1994), in which we are informed that the bird attacks are due to pollution.

Heidegger tells us that this vulgarization is the essence of modernity, which seeks to abolish all mystery and transcendence, replacing them with the transparent and available, which in cultural terms boils down to the vulgar and the trite.

But some of us are more modern than others, and it all fell into place when I spied the name of screenwriter Damon Lindelof, one of the principal culprits behind Lost […]. Prometheus is the same kind of portentous swindle: just Jews making millions peddling myths for morons. Don’t lose your money, or your lunch, at Prometheus.

I lost my money today watching this grotesque film and I agree. But about Star Wars Johnson failed to say that the real abomination started not with The Phantom Menace but with The Return of the Jedi: where an idiotic George Lucas completely betrayed the character of Darth Vader that had impressed many adolescents that had watched the splendid The Empire Strikes Back.

In the interview “Alien Special Features” of my DVD, Special Edition I heard a Ridley Scott saying that after Blade Runner he would never direct another sci-fi movie unless the story was really good, referring to the original script of the first Alien. With Prometheus Scott has just betrayed what he said.

Worst of all, of course, was 2010: Odyssey Two. Fuck you Arthur Clarke for having accepted the green bill, according to your own confession, to write a sequel you had promised never to write…

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

Childhood’s End


The ten books that made an impact in my life
before I became racially conscious
4.- Childhood’s End
(read in 1984)

In the second review, The Sickle, I confessed that when I was immersed in an eschatological cult I believed that those who developed “psi” (a letter in the Greek alphabet, Ψ, that in parapsychology represents both ESP and PK) “would irrupt in human destiny to the point of thoroughly transforming the world, just like the novel Childhood’s End.”

Arthur C. Clark’s Childhood’s End completely blew my mind when I read it at twenty-five. Here I’ll limit myself to provide some quotations from the chapters of Clarke’s masterpiece, and recount the main plot event:

Chapter 1. Earth and the Overlords

For a moment that seemed to last forever, Mohan watched, as all the world was watching, while the great ships descended in their overwhelming majesty… This was the moment when history held its breath… The human race was no longer alone.

And on the sixth day Karellen, Supervisor for Earth, made himself known to the world in a broadcast that blanketed every radio frequency. He spoke in English so perfect that the controversy it began was to rage across the Atlantic for a generation. But the content of the speech was more staggering even than its delivery. By any standards, it was a work of a superlative genius, showing a complete and absolute mastery of human affairs. There could be no doubt that its scholarship and virtuosity, its tantalizing glimpses of knowledge still untapped were deliberately designed to convince mankind that it was in the presence of overwhelming intellectual power. When Karellen had finished, the nations of Earth knew that their days of precarious sovereignty had ended. Local, internal governments would still retain their powers, but in the wider field of international affairs the supreme decisions had passed from human hands. Arguments – protests – all were futile.

“If you want a single proof of the essential —how shall I put it— benevolence of the Overlords, think of that cruelty-to-animals order which they made within a month of their arrival. If I had had any doubts about Karellen before, that banished them.”

Chapter 2. The Golden Age

Fifty years is ample time in which to change a world and its people almost beyond recognition. All that is required for the task are a sound knowledge of social engineering, a clear sight of the intended goal —and power. These things the Overlords possessed. Though their goal was hidden, their knowledge was obvious, and so was their power. That power took many forms, few of them realized by the peoples whose destinies the Overlords now ruled. Their might enshrined in their great ships had been clear enough for every eye to see. But behind that display of sleeping force were other and much subtler weapons.

“All political problems,” Karellen had once told Stormgren, “can be solved by the correct application of power.”

“That sounds a rather cynical remark,” Stormgren had replied doubtfully. “It’s a little too much like ‘Might is Right’. In our past, the use of power has been notably unsuccessful in solving anything.”

“The operative word is correct” [answered Karellen].

By the standards of all early ages, it was Utopia. Ignorance, disease, poverty, and fear had virtually ceased to exist. The memory of war was fading into the past as a nightmare vanished with the dawn; soon it would lie outside the experience of all living men.

It was known that the Overlords have access to the past, and more than once historians had appealed to Karellen to settle some ancient controversy. It may have been he had grown tired of such questions, but it is more likely that he knew perfectly well what the outcome of his generosity would be. The instrument he handed over on permanent loan to the World History Foundation was nothing more than a television receiver with an elaborate set of controls for determining co-ordinates in time and space. It must have been linked somehow to a far more complex machine, operating on principles that no one could imagine abroad Karellen’s ship. One had merely to adjust the controls, and a window into the past was opened up. Almost the whole of human history for the past five thousand years became accessible in an instant.

Though it had always been obvious to any rational mind that all the world’s religions writings could not be true, the shock was nevertheless profound. Here was a revelation which no one could doubt or deny: here, seen by some unknown magic of Overlord science, were the true beginnings of all the world’s great faiths. Within a few days, all mankind’s multitudinous messiahs had lost their divinity. Beneath the fierce passionless light of truth, faiths that had sustained millions for twice a thousand years vanished like morning dew. All the good and all the evil they had wrought were swept suddenly into the past, and could touch the minds of men no more. Humanity had lost its ancient gods: now it was old enough to have no need for new ones.

Chapter 3. The Last Generation

“A blue sun?” said Karellen, not many hours later. “That must have made identification fairly easy.”

“Yes,” Rashaverak answered. “It is undoubtedly Alpha-nidon 2. The Sulphur Mountains confirm the fact. And it’s interesting to notice the distortion of the time scale. The planet rotates fairly slowly, so he must have observed many hours in a few minutes.”

It might have been Earth. A white sun hung in a blue sky flecked with clouds, which were racing before a storm. A hill sloped gently down to an ocean torn into spray by the ravening wind. Yet nothing moved: the scene was frozen as if glimpsed in a flash of lightening. And far, far away on the horizon was something that was not of Earth —a line of misty columns, tapering slightly as they soared out of the sea and lost themselves among the clouds. They were spaced with perfect precision along the rim of the planet —too huge to be artificial, yet too regular to be natural.

“Sideneus 4 and the Pillars of the Dawn,” said Rashaverak, and there was awe in his voice. “He has reached the center of the Universe.”

“And he has barely begun his journey,” answered Karellen.

Key plot event and twists

After the ships appeared out of the blue above every major city, it was not until more than fifty years that Karellen and his crew physically revealed themselves to humankind. They resembled the traditional image of devils with wings, horns on their heads, and tails. The “overlords” were taller than humans, and proportionally more massive; highly sensitive to bright light, were only capable of breathing Earth’s air for short periods of time.

Karellen’s attitude towards humanity was split between pity for its lack of morals and benevolent jealousy for mankind’s potential ability to transcend the physical universe. His role as Supervisor of Earth was to nursemaid humanity into its next evolutionary level: an apocalypse in which humanity’s children will transfigure through thoroughgoing psi development.

Jeff and Jenny had been the first in all the world, but soon they were no longer alone. Like an epidemic spreading swiftly from land to land, the metamorphosis infected the entire human race. It touched practically no one above age of ten, and practically no one below escaped. It was the end of civilization, the end of all that men had striven for since the beginning of time. In the space of a few days, humanity had lost its future, for the heart of any race is destroyed, and its will to survive is utterly broken, when its children are taken from it.

The price of godlike status for mutant children is to lose their self: there is no pronoun “I” for the merged species. Although the Overlords are significantly more advanced intellectually and technologically than humanity, they are unable to make this evolutionary leap themselves. Karellen’s job had been to restrict the actions of humanity to create a stable society so that, when “Total Breakthrough” arrives naturally —i.e. thoroughgoing ESP and PK development by children— mankind will not destroy itself.

“Now I understand,” said the last man.

The Last Man! Jan found it very hard to think of himself as that… For reasons which the Overlords could not explain, but which Jan suspected were largely psychological, there had been no children to replace those who had gone. Homo sapiens was extinct.

It was also Karellen’s intention to learn from the last non-mutant man how humanity’s caterpillar comes about in the hopes that eventually his own race can learn enough of the metamorphosis process to join the Overmind.

“Still nothing to report,” Jan began. “A few minutes ago I saw the trail of your ship disappear in the sky… I wish I knew what your cameras were showing you now, to compare it with what my mind imagines I’m seeing! Is this how it talks to you, Karellen, in colours and shapes like these?”

“The buildings round me – the ground – the mountains – everything’s like a glass – I can see through it… The light! From beneath me shining upward, through the rocks, the ground, everything – growing brighter, brighter, blinding…”

There was nothing left of Earth. They [the formerly human children] had leeched away the last atoms of its substance. It had nourished them, through the fierce moments of their inconceivable metamorphosis, as the food stored in a grain of wheat feeds the infant plant while it climbs towards the Sun.

Once every single child lost his/her biological soul, left the tyranny of matter behind to reach the stars, and humanity was no more, Karellen is left alone with his thoughts.

Six thousand million kilometres beyond the orbit of Pluto, Karellen sat before a suddenly darkened screen. The weight of centuries was upon him, and a sadness that no logic could dispel… The great control screen flared for a moment with sombre, ruby light: without conscious effort, Karellen read the message of its changing patterns. The ship was leaving the frontiers of the Solar System: the energies that powered the Stardrive were ebbing fast, but they had done their work. Karellen raised his hand, and the picture changed once more. A single brilliant star glowed in the centre of the screen: no one could have told, from this distance, that the Sun had ever possessed planets or that one of them had now been lost. For a long time Karellen stared back across that swiftly widening gulf, while many memories raced through his vast and labyrinthine mind. In a silent farewell, he saluted the men he had known, whether they had hindered or helped him in his purpose.

No one dared to disturb him or interrupt his thoughts: and presently he turned his back upon the dwindling Sun.

Humanity was the fifth race that the Overlords assisted in the apotheosis process.

For the other nine books see here.

On Kenneth Clark’s “Civilisation”

Kenneth Clark may have been clueless about the fact that race matters. Yet, that our rot goes much deeper than what white nationalists realize is all too obvious once we leave, for a while, the ghetto of nationalism and take a look at the classics, just as Clark showed us through his 1969 TV series Civilisation.

Compared to the other famous series, Clark’s was unsurpassed in the sense that, as I have implied elsewhere, only genuine art—not science—has a chance to fulfill David Lane’s fourteen words.

By “art” I mean an evolved sense of beauty which is almost completely absent in today’s nationalists. Most of them are quite a product of Jewish modernity whether with their music, lifestyles or Hollywood tastes, to a much greater degree than what they think. For nationalism to succeed an evolved sense of female beauty has to be the starting point to see the divine nature of the white race. In Clark’s own words, “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.”

Below, links to excerpts of most of the chapters of the 1969 series, where Clark followed the ups and downs of our civilisation historically:

“The Skin of our Teeth”

“The Great Thaw”

“Romance and Reality”

“Man—the Measure of all Things”

“The Hero as Artist”

“Protest and Communication”

“Grandeur and Obedience”

“The Light of Experience”

“Heroic Materialism”

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

For an introduction to these series, see here.

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

Ellipsis omitted between unquoted passages:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In the last entry both Clark and I discussed Francis of Assisi: a saint who in Spanish language we call San Francisco. Colonists from Spain, who established a fort at the Golden Gate, named the Californian city after St Francis in 1776. Like London and New York, the modern city of San Francisco is a good paradigm to illustrate my interpretation of the Tempesta.

It should be a no brainer—and I am astounded that recently my frankness caused much offence in a well-known nationalist who lives in the Sin City—that white people of sound mind find it rather awkward to reproduce in such a town. I will repeat here my diatribes already written in the threads even if, by doing it, I completely part ways from the candid gentleness of the hero of this series, Kenneth Clark.

In the 1980s I lived in the Bay Area and noticed the cultural gulf between the inhabitants of the city of San Francisco and the family-oriented town of Novato in Marin County at the other side of the Golden Gate, where I lived. I felt the difference between the Sin City and Novato as conspicuous as the two sides of the border with my native Mexico. No hyperbole: that’s what I felt.

How could millions of healthy white families possibly thrive in Sodom, or in Gomorrah? The mere sight of the pink and blue sodomites inhibits altogether our wish to have lots of kids. The visual experience of constantly watching on the streets such rape—that is the exact word—of the beautiful San Francisco of yore inhibits the Aryan soul from founding large families. This is exactly the same psychological phenomenon of watching swarms of Mexican browns and even yellows throughout California.

A few months ago I rewatched Hitchcock’s Vertigo after decades of not seeing it. The movie made me feel extremely dismayed, and therefore my hatred skyrocketed toward the cultural rapists that turned such a beautiful city into Gomorrah. It doesn’t matter that, as an ultraliberal German blogger told me, “these gay demonstrations are neither frequent nor ubiquitous.” The general rape, not only by homos, of the old city is so ubiquitous that, if I had real political power, I’d send the cultural rapists straight to my trains with a one-way ticket you know where.

One of the reasons why I believe that American-style “white nationalism” is phony is precisely because the whole movement is, at least partially, dissociated. With the exception of Harold Covington the movement smells to ink, not gunpowder. Shouldn’t it be more than obvious that, for a nationalist of truly sound mind, the Gomorrahites that brought toddlers to a Sadomasochist Fair in San Fran would have to wear Rosa Winkel camp badges, and subsequently sent to Auschwitz II?

The only way that my passion would be misallocated is that the aggressiveness of the “gay movement” in San Francisco be perfectly compatible with Norman Rockwell’s America. But truly honest nation-builder nationalists know all too well in their hearts that pink and blue wild men (see link above) are inconceivable in the Rockwell world, don’t you?


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