Extermination • II

Libro
 
“How much good it would do if one could exterminate the human race.”

—Bertrand Russell

Quoted in A Bibliography of Bertrand Russell

 

1

No one, to my knowledge, has written a thorough analysis of his parents. But what I said in Hojas Susurrantes (abbreviated HS this line up) about the murder of children’s souls only lays the foundation for a further and deeper elaboration of Psychohistory, which in the last analysis shows us that the human species is a failed species.

2

From a careful reading of HS it cannot but be inferred that most of the human species should be exterminated—on top of what is written there, because, as Schopenhauer wrote, if the world is hell, human beings are the devils of the animals. And if we want to save the animals from the human devils, there is no choice but to dispatch the latter.

3

That only some of the most beautiful specimens of whites deserve to continue living; so beautiful in body and soul that they have left human devilry behind, has become so obvious to me as that the cow is a mammal—as we shall see in this sort of continuation to HS.

 
 

By way of a prologue

Most of the text of HS is not original. There are original parts, yes: the long letter to the mother with which the book opens; my experiences to twelve years, and the final part where I analyze my fear of damnation as an internal persecutor begotten as a result of my father’s crimes. However, most of HS consists of long paraphrases of other peoples’ ideas, pastiches and re-workings of their works to present the trauma model (refuting, along the way, the fraudulent professions of “mental health”).

I believe that, as a didactic work to Aryanize the trauma model away from the Semitic or philo-Semitic hands of Alice Miller and Lloyd deMause, HS honors its goal. But the problems I raised—remember how the fourth book in HS ends by mentioning the burning of children by their Semitic parents in the Ancient World, wondering if mankind had a right to exist—were left unsolved. Fortunately, this century will be crucial because of the energy devolution that is upon us, especially of oil, for Nature’s killing these humans that I hate so much and whose destruction has become my personal religion.

I will not live to see my day: that which for decades I have called the extermination of the Neanderthals, in which I include not only non-whites but those white traitors who brought them into the West. But the burden is upon me to bear witness to why I believe that the être supérieur should yearn, as so desperately I do, that the primitive version of modified apes, as in my soliloquies I call the humans of today, both white and of other races, becomes extinct.

Another huge issue never made onto paper is a detailed narrative of my agonizing experiences in 1976, when I was only seventeen, and ten years later, while living in California: experiences outlined in HS. Here I hope to talk more about those life lessons. So to confess why I hate humanity to the extent of wanting to exterminate it, at the same time being the first to analyze in detail his destructive parents—so that, after due extermination, in the Acadia of my most cherished dreams the treatment to children and animals be free of my hells—is the double helix of this new text.

But there is much more than that. In the Neanderthalesque literature that I run into the bookstores I never see confessions about male sexuality that go to the merits. In HS I quoted an Austrian writer who said that autobiography is the most difficult literary art because the adept of self-portraiture has to betray himself. Of course! How it won’t be self-betrayal for a respectable writer to recount, say, his sexual fantasies? Previous literature to the “total autobiography” suffers from cowardice insofar a text that confesses everything could be posthumous. But the so-called giants of letters, that I find so small that I do not read, never reached such confessional level. They stayed in the pre-autobiographical phase of literature. Here I will try to amend this lacuna in the section entitled “In search of the soulmate.”

Quite apart from the autobiographical question, we propose the need to rescue and/or abduct Aryan women—only the very young and pretty—from what will become multiracial clans after the civilizational collapse pulls us over to strictly ethnic strongholds. To paraphrase George Lincoln Rockwell, “He who doesn’t rape won’t fight!” will be the motto of a Blonde Beast redivivus that, by getting his manhood back, will not only become genocidal of everything that does not resemble him. The Beast will hunt for his females once the collective unconscious falls back to its original form by historical inertia forces. The brutality and savagery resulting from the collapse of the rule of law, together with the most elemental Darwinism, will mercilessly weed the feminized white males. Thanks to the energy devolution of our century the yin where today is pending the psyche of these whites will swing, like a pendulum of kilometric arc, to the Yang extreme of the right.

We won’t only lucubrate to kill non-whites around the globe and renaming cities currently inhabited by people of brown, yellow or black skin with names like “Pierce City” or “Himmler City.” The idea is that, alongside the extermination of Neanderthals, the Beast will have to go on the hunt for females, abandoning a masturbation currently afflicting millions of feminized males. The Aryan sperm injected involuntarily into those who had fornicated with the colored will fulfill the fourteen words during a holy war that will cover the world—and this time fulfilling them by brute force. The obvious objective will be to form families thank to the same élan vital that breathed life into the ancient founders of Rome by abducting, and raping, their attractive Sabine neighbors. In other words: if every nation, not just ancient Rome, is born with violence, after the darkest night of the West the Aryan Nation can only be born with extreme violence: from limit to limit of the pendulum’s arc, from the extreme yin to the extreme Yang.

Basic historical inertia: the swung pendulum is rushing toward us with vengeful force because of the incredible liberal lengths it reached in the late 20th and early 21st centuries. So far it swung toward the dark side that the “Day of the Rope” so dreamt by William Pierce in The Turner Diaries, a novel written in the 1970s but projected in the 90s, won’t be enough. We will go further. Neither Pierce nor Covington—much less Covington: a de facto feminist novelist in Freedom’s Sons—dared to predict the abduction of the new Sabine women. They did not seem to have considered that if the ancient Latins (Aryans) abducted and raped the Sabines (Aryans who copulated with Aryans), with much greater reason will be legitimate to direct our rediscovered sexual primitivism over those who delivered themselves to non-whites!

Returning to the subject of total autobiography. The victim of his parents and the fucking society who has lost everything requires getting revenge against those who spit on his cross. Only revenge heals the soul, and as I cannot settle scores with the Neanderthals at least I can tell what they did. Going into detail of what I omitted in HS will show how the evil that infected my parents also infected my siblings and how some of them, in turn, voluntarily surrendered to evil after reaching adulthood. Also, when analyzing my family, relatives, acquaintances, close and distant persons I met and even strangers whom I only interacted over the net, we will see how their behavior helped me realize that the human being is so obsolete a version of Homo sapiens as the niggers of the seedy hostel with whom I spent a night.

Finally, my exterminator conclusions I have come regarding all these people have relevance for understanding the darkest hour of the West. This topic sucked my recent years to the point of putting on a blog in English and its ramifications over a thousand entries summarized in two books: The Fair Race’s Darkest Hour and Day of Wrath (which I will be abbreviating as FR and DW). The book Extermination, that I now start, is relevant because the evil that ails the white man is the same one that destroyed my tree and its leaves and my dear family of Palenque.* And if I can unravel the evil that destroyed me I will probably unravel the evil that destroys the white race around the world, including the mass migration of non-whites in London I witnessed last month.

In other words, the evil I saw in my parents and the people I met (cf. HS) and the evil I see in westerners who are committing ethnic suicide (cf. FR and DW) is, down to the core, two sides of the same coin. That alone deserves my venture into this new literary genre: the vindictive autobiography.

Mexico City
September 2014

 

___________________________________________

(*) Note that this book is written for those who have already read my previous books, including HS, and understand exactly what I mean, for example, with the word “Palenque”: the house where I experienced happiness before the catastrophe of my adolescence.

Extermination • I

Or:

Second thoughts about my “parting word”

 

I was serious last July when I wrote that I would not add more posts to this page until the financial accident happens. But another sort of accident happened to me that ruined my plans (see below), and instead of making a living overseas I find myself writing again.

In the July message I also said that I would “be busy explaining my minority report.” Well, I have started that autobiographical book in my native language. Its first translated pages are precisely the ones that appear below:
 

 
LibroOn August 4, 2014 I arrived to London in the hope of moving to a small town in the United Kingdom in order to save my life once Mexico City catches fire after the looming collapse of the dollar.

One of the smartest commenters on my blog, whom I will call “the Brazilian,” had promised, through his contacts, fake work permit so I could look for a job in England. Throughout the two years I interacted with him in the blog and then thru personal communications, this guy reiterated that he wanted to help me to move there, and when in early 2014 he indeed moved to England I thought his plans were sincere.

The man is the result of a mixture between the races of his homeland, Brazil. He himself confessed publicly that his ancestors were Iberians, blacks and mestizos. Thus in order he did not feel self-conscious with me, I told him that I was not properly white.

Later in this chapter I will talk about some “Creole nationalists”—Mexicans that show off their Iberian roots and claim to have no drop of Indian blood—with whom I interacted in Mexico. The Brazilian’s intelligence had so impressed me that I told these Creole nationalists that my Brazilian, “mulatto friend has an IQ of 140.” Moreover, in my intimate soliloquies I said, more than once, that the level of penetration of the Brazilian on important issues to understand the darkest hour in Occident amazed me. I even told to myself that an “upward quantum leap” was crystal-clear when comparing the Brazilian to the vast majority of Aryan commenters visiting my site. No one like him had captured perfectly the disaster that represented Christianity for the white race, to the extent that—like me—the Brazilian considered it a more serious problem that the Jewish problem itself. Even his derogatory remarks about the philosophers sounded to my ears far above the intellectual masturbation we read in some sophisticated pro-white sites in the internet.

The Brazilian’s intellectual acumen, along with my huge need to escape Mexico, made my defenses down and I trusted him to the extent of deferring to his judgment my first steps to immigrate. I refer not only to the steps to obtain fake documents but also to roommate concerns. (London is so expensive that almost everyone shares their departments and the poorest even their rooms.) Although, as we shall see later in Extermination, thirty-two years before I had a horrible experience in London at a time when I also wanted to escape from Mexico, this time I thought that with such smart colleague our plans could not fail. The Brazilian even offered to pick me up at Heathrow Airport outside London; by telephone he informed me that he would not go to work the Monday I arrived to pick me up.

I thanked him and my flight arrived on time. After exiting from the immigration line, where obviously I hid the British woman who interrogated me that the purpose of my trip was to immigrate, I was surprised that the Brazilian was not there. I waited about twenty minutes at Terminal 4, the specific spot of international arrivals I had mentioned to the colleague, but no sign of him. After half hour he hadn’t come. Nor forty or fifty minutes after arriving at the terminal… I had virtually not slept due to my inability to sleep sitting on the plane and I badly needed to leave the soulless airport lounge and go to the hotel I had booked and even paid from Mexico. But the Brazilian did not appear. With the heavy suitcase I carried—suitcase to emigrate, not for tourism—I could not even move at ease in the terminal. I made a change in coins from a fiver to call the Brazilian’s mobile phone. What was my surprise that he wasn’t at the airport; just on his way, and he claimed he was “about to arrive.” I stopped worrying. But time continued to pass, and more than an hour-and-a-half after my arrival at the agreed terminal, he did not appear. I was hesitant to make extra phone calls because the airport’s phone had swallowed one or two of my pound coins but tried calling. This second time his tone was less friendly, “I’m almost there!” It must have been about two to three hours after the plane landed that the Brazilian finally appeared, without apologizing for the delay.

I wish to stop now and don’t recount the misadventure of that day because it makes me mad that I trusted someone whom I had never met in the real world, but I shall keep writing…

Having been so much delayed would be only the first lack of consideration by the Brazilian to a man more than twenty years his elder, who had arrived sleepless from a transatlantic voyage. After greeting each other, the Brazilian convinced me that the taxi would be very expensive and that we better take the subway to my hotel. Once in the tube, as it is called the narrow subway in London, we had to transship over more than once the various lines en route to the hotel, always carrying my heavy suitcase up awful stairs during the transfers. When we got off from a train among the London crowd for one of these transfers, the Brazilian asked me to wait because he wanted to buy something in the store just across the tracks. He climbed the stairs, walked into the shop, came out and smiled at me before… getting out into the street.

I was completely flabbergasted! If such a thing happened to me in my right mind, not in the confused state I was, I would have acted differently. But I was at the mercy of a bloke that—allegedly—would solve my migration problems. He was the only contact I knew in London for a (crooked) work permit. As he had already been delayed at the airport without a good reason or having apologized, had I been in my right mind when he went off the street I would have told him to get lost; fled by taxi to my hotel, and would have sought a more reliable contact the following days (say, through Spanish-speaking restaurants). But without sleep as I was, with great anxiety I remained on the tube station watching the largest racial melting pot of Europe (nowadays London has white minority).

The Brazilian should have taken about thirty-five minutes to arrive, or more, since he left and only then I realized that he had not found what he wanted at the front shop; that’s why he looked it out on the street. Hours later I discovered it were beers what the miscreant had bought, who had cared a damn that his fellow blogger (the Brazilian used to maintain a blog about “racial realism” in Portuguese) remained stranded with his heavy suitcase wondering what the hell had happened.

As I said, it makes me mad to tell this because I did not react as I should. The fact that I did not possess work permit and that the Brazilian had the handle for the grill not only for it, but to get me affordable accommodation—according to him he already had reserved one—played a psychological role in my indecision to make a clean break after the second or third discourtesy. Anyway, when he came laughing and said, “What did you think: that this crazy Brazilian had abandoned you?” I hid my feelings and continued the underground journey to the hotel.

It was during another transfer, now closer to the hotel and where we had to go outside to take another train (I think it was the street where he showed me the tallest building in Europe) that the Brazilian asked me something. He said that instead of going to my hotel, why not accompanying him to the slum hostel where he was living these days. They only charged £60 per week and although his roommates were black—that is, three blacks slept in a single room, beside the Brazilian—, it was only for a week while the better place he had reserved for us would be vacating. The Brazilian had a small back suitcase containing his laptop. He dared not leave it in the hostel with such hosts and carried it every time he went out.

Go figure my dear readers… All of my travel strategy had been based on a bloke that, now I realized, was on the verge of homelessness as he had to carry his belongings in the street for fear of loosing them in a “hostel” without lockers. Had I not been so obfuscated by the turn of events I would have stopped dry the adventure that very instant. But cognitively I was not well. In fact, I was completely alienated. True: I had prepared with extreme meticulousness everything left in Mexico—my library, my manuscripts in ring-binders and envelopes sealed against moisture (I thought I wouldn’t be back in years), the taking care of my pet and even a big farewell party for all believed I would leave for good—, but about my stay in England I had deferred all planning to “the mulatto of 140 of IQ.”

What a mistake. It was not until my return to Mexico, when I told the details of my misadventure to my old friend Paulina, that I noticed things that a man usually cannot see. Pau listened carefully and explained that men tend to admire intelligence at the expense of the other facet of the human psyche: empathy. I knew that in the white nationalist movement there were people with terrible character flaws. But the fact that the Brazilian seemed a hybrid between mestizo and mulatto was no reason to distrust him, as he believes in the “fourteen words” to the extent of having promised not to leave offspring. (Remember the first lesson to the Hitler Youth of Faith and Action by Helmut Stellrecht: “But if your blood has traits that will make your children unhappy and burdens to the state, then you have the heroic duty to be the last.”)

Unfortunately, character flaws can be hidden over the internet. And as in Mexico I only had considered the intellectual aspect of this bloke—a “hemiplegia” of mine, so to speak instead of having delved into the two facets of the person—, in a state of complete cognitive alienation to what was happening I agreed to his idea to abort the journey to my hotel and go to his hostel.

I would lie if I lay the blame at the Brazilian. Now that I’m out of the UK I find it obvious that the planning of my trip was grotesque, to say the least. “The drowning will grab at straws,” and the urgency of leaving a Neanderthalesque Mexico and survive the dollar collapse was such that I put aside from my consciousness basic matters I should have contemplated at my age, before venturing on another continent.

The journey to the hostel was not underground but from the outside, traveling in one of those red double-decker Routemaster buses so showy in London. And still there came the miscreant character of he whom I had placed my most cherished hopes. Throughout the journey in the underground and on the outside of the biggest city in Europe—a crossing that, due to change of plans, had already lasted more than two hours after leaving the airport—the Brazilian had never been solicitous in helping me with my heavy suitcase. Now, in the red double-decker bus, he swiftly climbed to the second floor and asked me repeatedly to go upstairs with him! It was then for the first time, that I showed some self-respect by refusing to come up with my heavy suitcase. During that second-long journey—remember that by aborting the way to the hotel we now were going to a very different address—we still had to make another transfer, but this time from bus to bus. We descended into a densely populated and very noisy area of London; streets swarmed with lots of blacks. To my surprise, the Brazilian told me to wait because he was going to find a toilet.

Lo and behold I was once again alone among human swarms with my heavy suitcase and no sleep! (Later, when I learned that the first time he left he had gone to buy beer, I connected the dots and realized that it was urgent for him to urinate the ingested alcohol.) In that hideous swarthy-filled street, and carrying something less than £2,000 in cash along with my credit cards, a black approached me. I didn’t understand a word. Scared and carrying the heavy suitcase I entered a grocery store but the attendants were not white either. My anxiety was very obvious until the Brazilian reappeared and we boarded the final bus that would take us to our destination.

Unlike the noisy subway, on the red bus it was possible to talk. At last we initiated conversation on topics that fascinate me. I told him that I had seen some mixed couples in London and was greatly surprised that there were so many blacks. He replied that it was a punishment to the English for having waged war against Germany, and added that Nazi Germany was by far the noblest creature that European history had produced. Then he said he did not understand how Americans like Matt Parrott insist on mixing the unmixable: Christianity with white nationalism.

It was not until we reached his quarters that I received the biggest shock of the trip. It’s true that in 1982 I had spent a night in London in a spacious room of a Youth Hostel; a room with many beds. But back then they were all European Aryans; I, the only foreigner. I was twenty-four and, coming from Mexico, was amazed at how good looking some of those English were (in the country where I was born almost all seemed Neanderthals to me). But now I was in 2014, and the all-encompassing social engineering of the British elites in recent decades, that is, replacement of the native race by imported race, had been a success. The Brazilian’s room was not spacious as the hostel I had slept decades ago. It was of regular size with the most miserable niggers you might think of. In fact, in no way it resembled a hostel but one of those trash-people rooms subsidized by charities for the homeless in large metropolis. But they were not homeless: they were blacks surviving, I suppose, from the same type of underemployment of the Brazilian.

I barely saw the spectacle and wanted to run away. On the street the Brazilian insisted that I should pay the £60 for the week. It was already night and he claimed he was tired and that we should think things over the next day. I didn’t know what to do. I had to cancel the hotel reservation so that it was not charged to my American Express, but there were no public telephones in the neighborhood. I tried to get information in a grocery store that opened at night, but they were immigrants who hardly knew English and were unaware of the dynamics of the big city. Not even the Brazilian could tell me what was, in England, the telephone equivalent to 911 so that, through his cell phone, I could make a call. The Brazilian kept insisting me to pay the £60, as the “hostel” never receives one-night payment, only a full week; and said I should forget my worries until the next day. (Take into account that with those £60 I could have spent a single night in a modest hotel, even after losing my reservation.) Still arguing in the street, the Brazilian, speaking in a serious tone, argued that he was tired; ignoring that it was me who had not slept the night before, and insisted to forget the matter of seeking hotel or making emergency phone calls.

As there was no one to help me, not even a taxi to get on in those streets, and as I was worried that in that colored neighborhood I could be assaulted and my money taken away (for my heavy suitcase I was an obvious target), I agreed. I reentered the “hostel,” paid the administrator of the slum the £60 he demanded, and walked into to the room of blacks and the mulatto Brazilian.

But I could not sleep… Although I had not slept the night before I was in a state of extreme anxiety.

I went out to the hostel’s terrace and finally I saw a white man. He was also an immigrant. He didn’t have fluent English and told me he was from Romania. As it had happened to me decades ago in the same city, as I newly arrived from Neanderthalesque lands I was pleasantly surprised by the looks of the blond Romanian. I spoke with him in the fresh night but not for long. He was not very smart and I also felt a little cold in the outdoors terrace. (I had left the plane with my jacket, shirt and dress pants but had not changed my clothes; one of the blacks that tried to sleep in the dirty room, where my cloths were, had warned me not turn the light on.) Apparently the Brazilian also failed to reconcile sleep and after sighting me in the terrace he went to the kitchen to talk at length with a muscular black returning from the gym. The Brazilian informed me that to survive in such place—go figure, myself in formalwear with the downtrodden—, one had to learn to converse amiably with the dark-skinned. The long conversation of the Brazilian with the huge black gave the lie to the claim that he was too tired to help me make an urgent phone-call.

I don’t remember the exact moment when the Brazilian told me that the police had arrested his contact—the very contact that was supposed to get me the papers. He did not say whether he had been arrested the day before or the day I arrived at Heathrow. But I doubt that, if the story is true, it was such a recent event. Chances are that the arrest had occurred long before—which means that the Brazilian had not warned me on time, when I was in Mexico. Had I been informed on time I would have aborted any plan to cross the Atlantic!

The events yelled at me that the trip had been in vain. By not having warned me in time of the arrest the Brazilian had committed a trick of confidence. However, even though that day the Brazilian confessed that he was desperately seeking a decent roommate, I failed to suspect that behind his convincing me to come to London a sinister motive was hiding. The crux of his confession was that his old roommate was a black homosexual whose conduct had caused the Brazilian to flee from there and move to the seedy hostel (where we were now).

I am ashamed to say that even with all this novel information I was slow to connect the dots that such insistence that I go London had not been motivated to help me, the word he used several times but to help himself in his problems with blacks. The underlying motivation of Brazilian seemed to be: “Unlike this nigger, blogger César, who comes from an educated family and whose parents have three pianos at home and five servants, will be my personal savior.”

Such naiveté!: In Mexico I had only imagined a Brazilian full of honor, insofar he vehemently insisted he did not plan to reproduce even after finding a woman in England (remember the wise counsel of Helmut Stellrecht for non-whites). But in London he told me that even before his “racial awakening”—something unheard of in a man of color—he had come to the firm conclusion that he would not leave descendants in Brazil. It was not until I assimilated even more painful confessions than that of the “gay nigger”—for example, that the day prior to my arrival the Brazilian had been wandering at London’s downtown because he could not remember where he lived, and that he drank alcohol to cope with his pathetic life—that I began to glimpse who he really was.

The trip had been a fraud. My purpose had never been crossing the ocean to help a mulatoid fellow to find a roommate—but looking sanctuary for me in a small English village with no coloreds to survive the dollar collapse! He who so much boasted to know something of human psychology had been duped like a child…! Nothing had I suspected of the motives of Brazilian: trying to use me to solve his problem and, therefore, the understandable lack to timely notify me about the “arrest.”

But back to my sleepless night.

My mattress had no sheets. I had no choice but to put my white skin in contact with a mattress that must have suffered a thousand sweats from blacks. Even in such conditions I tried to sleep with the four darks of the room. My anxieties and a disagreeable negress snoring inches from me on the top bunk—the pseudohostel was so abhorrent that not only races mixed, but the very sexes too—didn’t let me sleep…

But with the dawn I regained my senses. In the morning, with several guests already waking up on the terrace, including some I had not seen the previous evening, the Brazilian insisted I opened a bank account and said that another of his contacts worked in a bank (by law, tourists cannot open accounts in the UK). Perhaps that employee even knew, the Brazilian told me, another person to obtain work permit.

But I had lost confidence in him. The second night of consecutive sleeplessness I had talked to another night bird, Stuart, who lived there in another room and used to talk to the Romanian during the evenings on the terrace. His accent was not British. Stuart was born in Scotland and raised in New Orleans. As the Brazilian, Stuart had been so badly beaten by life that he had fallen to the pseudohostel. We spoke of my racial ideas and this young man conceded that in New Orleans blacks had behaved very poorly during hurricane Katrina. He was not bothered, though somewhat surprised, about my overtly racist worldview and I asked him what was the whitest city in Scotland. He said that Perth and his hometown, Dundee. He added that the beautiful town of Perth was ideal for retirees (i.e., for people like me had I arrived with the proper funds to buy a modest house).

I made my decision. That morning I was not going to endure a single minute of a “hostel” which did not even have showers for bathing. The blacks woke up and put their filthy music we all heard over the terrace. I told the Brazilian that I would go to Scotland. He was surprised but, by seeing my resolution, walked along with me to the outskirts of the metro station. We said goodbye and never met again.

I still struggled that day to reach Perth. It was not the Victoria Station that the Brazilian had suggested but the famous King’s Cross the one which would take me to the far north: the very one where they had filmed the movies of the magical station in Harry Potter. My flight had been so hurried that already going on my train to Scotland I had to ask one of the uniformed train attendants if Perth was large enough to house hotels. By fleeing multiracial London and the nightmarish underworld of the Brazilian I hadn’t had time to make the most basic inquiries! (the hostel didn’t have Wifi access). Although nearly all uniformed workers in train stations were black, I approached an Anglo-Saxon woman who informed me that there were hotels there. However, still dying of tiredness I was unable to sleep sitting up and had to wait six more hours to reach my destination.

When I arrived to Perth the tourist information center was closed, but the taxi driver of the terminal, a typical Scot, was extremely helpful in taking me to the cheapest places he knew. We went to Dunkeld Road not far from the station, and the Scot awaited me several times while I knocked the doors of various guesthouses. As it was midsummer the signs were saying “No vacancy” but in one of the houses, Connie, the Irish woman who received guests in Clark Kimberly Guest House, admitted me gladly. Having no reservation I had to rent an expensive room with double bed.

But it didn’t matter. That night I slept placidly after so long. At last I encountered myself in the hands of the white man…

Parting word:

Only the eternal feminine leads to the Absolute

Catalina (1980)

Above, Maxfield Parrish’s 1925 Lady Violet, who reminds me a girl I met long, long time ago… If an ethno-state is ever created, my ultimate dream is that in the distant future its people will resemble the paradisiacal world of Parrish.

What prevents whites from working toward that noble end, keeping in mind that Aryan female beauty represents the crown of the evolution? Elsewhere I have discussed the majority report: Capitalism and Christian axiology as the twofold etiology of Western malaise (Jewish depredations, a tertiary infection). But I have also mentioned my minority report: that the most extreme cases of self-hatred among whites—those who celebrate that their kind will become a minority surrounded by non-white swarms—cannot be explained satisfactorily by any of these two factors.

In this blog I have briefly written about how child abuse among some whites drives them to hate the culture of their parents, and also presented my book Hojas Susurrantes, most of which has not been translated to English.

After publication of this entry I won’t add new posts to this blogsite. Although I’ll still answer some comments, the site will basically remain frozen with the below PDFs advertising my books until the dollar crashes. But I’ll be busy explaining my minority report: writing another book related to the subject of why, in some families, the silly mechanism erected by the abused victim is none other than hatred for his or her parents’ civilization.

____________________________

Day of Wrath

The Fair Race’s Darkest Hour

Defamation over the boards

knighthood_logo.gif

In the forum White Nations (specifically, here) a guy said:

Tanstaafl accuses Cesar Tort, his blog The West’s Darkest Hour, of siding with the basic flowing premises of the Jewish Narrative.

Utter nonsense! I signed with my real name on Alex Linder’s poll in VNN forum advocating final solutions to the Jewish problem; and I end both of my 2014 books (The Fair Race’s Darkest Hour and Day of Wrath) praising Himmler’s ways.

I would have banned CT sooner than Tan did, for no other reason than that he was a hopeless Covingtonista. I remember Hadding trying to reason with him and it was like reasoning with a brick wall.

Tanstaafl never banned me from Age of Treason. I decided not posting there anymore. And I am no longer a Covingtonista as anyone who reads my blog knows. (Again, see the very end of The Fair Race; see also here to understand further reasons.)

Anyone knows how to contact Will Williams, the author one of the above comments? (White Nations did not allow me to respond). If I can clear myself from those absurd charges over there I might even remove this entry.

Introduction

product_thumbnailThe present collection of my miscellaneous writings is so diverse that I decided simply to order it by size. The first article, “The Return of Quetzalcoatl” is actually a translation from Spanish of a long chapter within Hojas Susurrantes, a translation which comprises more than half of the present book. The rest, much shorter articles also ordered by size, are edited versions of original texts that I authored and that originally appeared in the blogsite The West’s Darkest Hour. I am not including the dates of the original drafts because the editing process, sometimes after years of writing them, moved me to modify the ideological content of some articles. For all practical purposes the publishing date of most articles is 2014. The exception of course is my Quetzalcoatl, a study on child abuse that I finished in 2007, a few years before I became familiar with the pro-white literature. Since the Quetzalcoatl is a “book” within a larger book that still has to be translated, here I include brief notes inside brackets to explain some sentences.

The compilation in Day of Wrath (PDF here) is a sister companion to my longer compilation of several pro-white authors and bloggers in The Fair Race’s Darkest Hour. The free, online PDFs of both texts is meant to be downloaded in the homely computers of those who fear that the anti-white regimes will eventually censor the internet. Finally, as The Fair Race, Day of Wrath is also available in printed form.

César Tort
May 20, 2014

Published in: on May 20, 2014 at 10:19 pm  Comments (10)  

Why I am not a neonazi

The following are some of the last pages of my forthcoming book, The Fair Race’s Darkest Hour. I will include a PDF of the whole book in my next blog entry.


Virtually all white males have been feminized. This is due to the fact that they, including white nationalists, are reluctant to repudiate every single conquest of feminism—starting not only with allowing women to vote (we have seen that democracy is the worst kind of political system) but even with their “right” to inherit wealth or property. The humiliating empowerment of white women throughout the West is directly proportionate with the cretinization of white males. However, now that I reproduced my translations of a book about the prime example of polar Yang in our history, Sparta, I would like to qualify that what we need is Aristotle’s proverbial golden mean. Sparta produced the best soldiers in world history but perished because it ignored what we now know: that enslaving non-whites is fatal in the long run. What we need is the Hegelian synthesis between yang Sparta and yin Athens: a sort of modern Rome.

That is exactly what National Socialism was all about. Inspired in Rome, and let us remember the virile Roman salute, the Third Reich incorporated and eliminated—Hegel’s aufheben—the contradictions in both extremes: it was highly cultured as well as a tough military state.

I consider myself a spiritual inheritor of the Nationalist Socialist legacy. But I reject neonazism. Why? Because neonazis are basically white nationalists plus Nazi paraphernalia. We have already seen that, unlike the NS men, these groups love degenerate music, Judaized Hollywood and non-reproductive sex. Many of these décadents are also anti-Nordicists who would dismiss a command cited in the very first lesson of Stellrecht’s Faith and Action quoted in the previous page: “But if your blood has traits that will make your children unhappy and burdens to the state, then you have the heroic duty to be the last.”

It may seem hilarious to say it here but there are some neonazis in Mexico—mestizos! Some of them live their “Nazi” lifestyles under the delusion that they are whites. Of course, I have zero friends among these poor bastards. They would never consider Stellrecht’s advice for the Hitler Youth, which should apply to them far more. I confess that my only friend in Latin America is the Brazilian Larry Mars, a true believer in the fourteen words whom I have quoted in this book. Unlike the neonazis Mars does indeed believe that his duty is to be the last of his line, insofar as he concedes he is not properly white.

Mexican clowns aside, the surreal thing is that even the pure Aryans hate Nordicism. Conversely what I love about Himmler is that, precisely because he was not handsome, he admired the hyper-Nordics of a Norwegian town he visited and harbored the thought that its people could be a paradigm for the Reich. Remember Stubb’s words about white nationalists:

Not only does it [Nordicism in general and real National Socialism in particular] retrigger all the anti-racist conditioning they thought they’d gotten rid of, but it makes them ask “where does it end?” “At what point can we finally stop paying attention to each others genetic (and non-genetic) flaws?”

The answer is that it doesn’t end: that all life is struggle and hierarchy and that the Aryan race will never be perfected nor entirely freed from threats. But that’s not what they want to hear. Pierce made eugenics the core of his religious outlook as a means of protecting the eugenically-selecting society. But I see little concern for the subject among modern white nationalists. Can you imagine a racial state with a comprehensive eugenic policy which didn’t consider the reversal of mongrelization to be a major objective? [Stellrecht’s “heroic” advice] That it wouldn’t make its population look more like Swedes and less like Sicilians, as time goes on? It’s hard to do so, which is why I believe “anti-Nordicism” in white nationalism has, among other things, shut down much of the discussion on the subject.

On September 2013, in Harold Covington’s Northwest Front blogsite, several commenters subscribed politically correctness by bashing Covington in order not to offend the feelings of contemporary Greeks. A saner Northwest Front commenter said, “Those among us who don’t have the ability to look at a picture of half-Turks and tell they’re not White weren’t ever going to amount to anything on behalf of the White race.” The other side, the “revolutionary” neonazis, ignored that DNA tests have even revealed nigger genes among quite a few of the Portuguese; and we have already seen El Greco’s painting of crossbreed Spaniards as well as Pierce’s statement that “a 5 percent decline in average IQ would cause our civilization to collapse,” which applies to Sicily and Greece even before the Turkish invasion.

This cowardly lack of recognition of the very Letter A in Indo-European studies is not the only thing that annoys me about the embryonic movement known as white nationalism. Over the internet boards I find it bothersome when typical neonazis demand that I dismiss the Holocaust stories as hoax; and that if I fail to do it my morals are beyond the pale.
 
irving08-12

David Irving in 2012

As someone who has spent many years studying controversial subjects (the pseudoscience in both parapsychology and biological psychiatry), I know perfectly that you must spend at least a decade of your life trying to digest the scholarly literature of both sides of an academic debate. I am in my middle fifties now and don’t have the time nor the motivation to research the Holocaust claims and counter-claims. For me it is enough to point out that two former Holocaust revisionists, Mark Weber, the director of the Institute of Historical Review, and David Irving, the famed historian of the Third Reich, have changed their minds over the years, both accepting now that a few millions of Jews probably died during the war. According to an email of March 16, 2014 sent to me by Irving himself, his book on Herr Himmler will be released later in this year. Irving’s forthcoming book quotes historical records proving that, even though the six-million figure is an invention, a few millions of Jews probably died as a result of harsh Nazi treatments.

But I would like to go beyond the scruples of our best historian in the field. Joseph Walsh recently stated in my blogsite that “The Truth is that the glad stirrings of genocide lurk in the heart of every man, yet only the Nazis had the courage to acknowledge the Truth.” Panina, a Swede that in 2012 used to comment in my blogsite, went even further:

What is certain is that the Holocaust would not have produced any debilitating psychological effect on non-Christian whites. (By Christianity I mean “Christian morality.” Most atheists in the West are still Christian, even if they don’t believe in God or Jesus.) Being emotionally affected by the Holocaust presupposes that you think:

1) Victims and losers have intrinsically more moral value than conquerors and winners

2) Killing is the most horrendous thing a human can do

3) Killing children and women is even more horrendous

4) Every human life has the same value

None of these statements ring true to a man who rejected Christian morality. In fact, even if the Holocaust happened, I would not pity the victims or sympathize with them.

If you told the Vikings that they needed to accept Jews on their lands or give them gold coins because six million of them were exterminated in an obscure war, they would have laughed at you.

It must be comical for the Nietzscheans of the North that, unlike the monocausalism ubiquitously present in the neonazi and white nationalist movement, Himmler acknowledged other factors: “Our people’s thinking was misled by the forces of the Church, Liberalism, Bolshevism, and Jewry.” And let us never forget Hitler’s own words in one of his table talks: “The heaviest blow that ever struck humanity was the coming of Christianity.” If neonazis were true Nazis and had transvalued Christian/Neo-Christian values they would be trying to demonstrate that Himmler’s Posen Speech in 1943 is genuine, not a hoax as they claim, and even find genocidal inspiration from the speech.

Of course: they will never do it because all of them are Neo-Christian pseudo-Nazis. Speaking with a little humor I would say that neonazis, white nationalists, and American southern nationalists subscribe what we may call the Harry Potter approach to the Jewish problem. Throughout those novels for children, the female author presents us a Harry who never uses “Avara Kadavra,” the killing spell against the bad guys; Harry only uses the disarming charm, “Expelliarmus.” But only in novels and movies for kids the good guys, who never are depicted as cold assassins, can win. In real life you have to make a transition to the dark side to become a soldier.

I have read The Turner Diaries twice. When I read it for the first time, or rather listened the audio version with Pierce’s own voice, I was still struggling with the last remnants my Neo-Christian programming. I didn’t like the Breivik-like cruelties: for example the killing of an innocent black—the first killing of the novel—or the dispatching of an entire group of pro-white warriors for not taking care of the Jewish problem in Toronto. And in the novel’s Day of the Rope I was troubled by the description that many innocent young women also die. Then I read most of Covington’s Quintet and sensed a moral difference. Covington’s characters are not so bloodthirsty, not so genocidal exterminators. I could imagine myself doing the things in Covington’s novels but in the past some passages of the Diaries made me wonder…

But now that I have definitively left behind Christian axiology I can see that Pierce was ultimately right. As NS soldiers in the coming racial wars, altogether imbued in the martial qualities of gravitas and severitas, we must behave. The huge difference between the Quintet and the Diaries is that in Pierce’s world not only an ethno-state is born: in the final pages it’s described that only the white race shall inherit the Earth. In Covington’s world that is dismissed because it would mean genocide on a scale not even performed by the Bolshevik Jews. But as Pierce said in Who We Are, already cited way above:

The hard lesson taught by the different results of the European colonization of North America, Latin America, Australia, New Zealand, India, and southern Africa is that the only type of colonization with lasting significance is racial colonization; and that racial colonization can succeed only when Whites are willing and able to clear the land of non-White inhabitants and keep it clear.

This item of both Who We Are and the Diaries is so strong meat that I will elaborate on it only in Day of Wrath, a book reproducing my essays already available in The West’s Darkest Hour.


Feminist quotas in the Northwest Front

Rockwell was assassinated in 1967; Pierce died of natural death, more than thirty years later. None of them were properly white nationalists. (“White nationalism” is a term introduced in the middle 1990s for the internet.) Their worldview was much closer to the thoroughgoing Yang reaction in National Socialism against the feminizing forces of degeneracy.

Presently in the American racialist scene Harold Covington, called “The Kid” in the times of Rockwell and Pierce, is considered the most radical (“Yang”) element as ideologically he is a revolutionary, not a mere reactionary. But Covington does not believe that millions of Jews died as a result of harsh treatment by the National Socialist Germans. Unlike Panina, Walsh and a few others, he is still stuck in Neo-Christian values. (I would dare to say that the stirrings of genocide should lurk in the heart of every transvalued white, which means accepting as grim necessity what seventy years ago happened to the subversive tribe.) As already said, in Covington’s quintet the purpose is not to reconquer the whole United States for the race, but to form an ethnostate within a few Northwestern states by means of secession; leaving the rest of the US territory to the blacks, mestizos, Jews, and white traitors. In fact, in Covington’s plan the nuclear weapons of mass destruction are left in the power of the federal government of the United States!

In more than two thousand pages the plots of Covington’s quintet—The Brigade, A Distant Thunder, A Mighty Fortress, The Hill of the Ravens and Freedom’s Sons—are situated in a balkanized, anti-white and dying America until freedom fighters create an independent White Republic in a corner of the territory. In 2010 I purchased copies of the first four novels of the saga and devoured them with uttermost interest (The Brigade, which almost made me cry, contains the perfect tactics as to how to conduct a racial war in the 21st century). While I felt uncomfortable that the last pages of A Mighty Fortress featured a female director of movies in the newly created Republic, I let it pass because National Socialist Germany also allowed the career of filmmaker Leni Riefenstahl. But Riefenstahl was the exception, not the rule. In NS Germany women were generally not allowed to carry out official functions: they were excluded from positions of responsibility.

In Covington’s saga the ethnostate is clearly depicted as a self-styled National Socialist state, even during the revolutionary period before the creation of the Republic (“‘You a Nazi, sir?’ ‘I am’”—page 278 of The Hill of the Ravens; “…a lot of us are outright Nazis”—page 74 of The Brigade). And I cannot agree more with what Covington said on page 53 of A Distant Thunder, “When a race of people loses its women, it loses everything.” (This, incidentally, is what moved me to reproduce a Maxfield Parrish illustration of an ethereal nymph on the cover of this book.) On pages 187-189 of the Ravens Covington even enumerates his “Ten Principles of National Socialism,” of which I will mention a few lines:

Be Honest. A National Socialist faces a fact whether he likes it or not. Dishonesty is the mark of the enemy, who has falsified man’s conception of life, past and present. National Socialism represents the truth of life in its purest form.

Be Faithful to your Race. No one must be allowed to spoil what nature created in eons of racial evolution. Your highest purpose in life must be: to carry on that evolution toward a better, stronger more beautiful mankind. The purity of the highest race is basic requirement for ever-higher evolution.

Fight for your Race. Fight for the holy ideals of National Socialism, which is the heart of our great race.

Nothing is Impossible. Where there is a will, there is a way. Everything falls before the man of indomitable will. It is necessary for us to suffer many cruel sacrifices because we must harden ourselves for the most decisive struggle in history.

Reject Decadence. Everything must be judged in relation to the survival and improvement of your race. Anything and anyone who hinders either the existence of our race or its perfection must be rooted out and destroyed.

But Covington violated this last principle by playing decadent, rock music in some of his radio podcasts. Furthermore, in his last novel, the only one that I did not purchase (Covington kindly sent me a PDF draft of the first 452 pages of Freedom’s Sons, which I printed and read), he makes huge concessions to runaway feminism.

On page 13 for example, an order is expressed about the need to keep female soldiers out of direct combat in spite of the fact that Covington’s female characters are “as brave as lions.” Similarly, page 16 states: “A number of Nationalist soldiers wearing NDF tiger-stripes—mostly female…” On pages 18-19 a feat is described about one of these female tigresses, and on page 38 it is stated that “The new government department consisted of 342 people plus himself, about evenly split between male and female.” The most offensive line in Freedom’s Sons is found on page 50 which contains a dialogue: “A lot of Christians and general Neanderthal male chauvinist type want to go back to an all-male army.”

I confess that as a potential revolutionary I used to listen Covington’s Radio Free Northwest shows, and loved his urgent plea to invite all conscious whites to move to the Northwest corner in preparation for the civil war. However, when Covington included the voices of a couple of women in his podcasts I lost interest and stopped listening the show.

More than a year passed… Then I learnt that one of these women betrayed Covington. She flipped sides to the point of becoming anti-white, and in her website she even disclosed what happens in some “Secret Nazi Meetings” attended by the supporters of Covington: supporters who had indeed taken the trouble to move to the Northwest in preparation of Covington’s civil war.

The Old Man had violated his first principle, “Be Honest,” because a National Socialist honestly faces the biological fact that women are simply not interchangeable with men and that, in genuine NS, positions of responsibility belong to the Boys Only Club.

White nationalism is only a stone in the middle of the rapid-flowing waters of a dangerous river; an over-the-water large stone that can help us in our endeavor to jump to the other side. I myself used that flat stone in my crossing from Christianity and Liberalism to National Socialism. (In fact, I could even write down such a spiritual odyssey in a text that might be titled “From St Francis to Himmler.”)

But even accepting my metaphor that the stone is not meant to be a permanent residence let me say that, on a very generous estimate, the contents of this book are incomplete. Its intellectual content must be balanced with two more books about what really happened before, during and after the Second World War; non-fiction books that will detonate an emotional bomb in the reader’s mind:

1.- The abridged version of Alexandr Solzhenitsyn’s The Gulag Archipelago (the full version is for scholars or Russians), and:

2.- Thomas Goodrich’s Hellstorm: The Death of Nazi Germany, 1944–1947, reviewed way above.

Only after assimilating them, together with the present book, will the reader be purged from all the viruses of the mind with which the Judeo-Christian-Liberal establishment infected his soul.

On my moral inferiors

Maya-sacThis piece has been chosen for my collection Day of Wrath. It was slightly modified and presently can only be read as a PDF within the book, ready for printing in your home for a truly comfortable reading. Cheers. The author

Are Spaniards Aryans?

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

Quotable quote

“I have lost faith in a pro-white movement run basically by liberals, eunuchs and even degenerates.”

César Tort

Published in: on October 11, 2013 at 2:52 pm  Comments (6)  

Infanticide in the historical Israel

by César Tort

Below, a Spanish-English translation of pages 602-608 of my book Hojas Susurrantes. For a broader context of the subject of infanticide, see the Metapedia article (here).


In the past, the shadow of infanticide covered the world, but the Phoenicians and their biblical ancestors, the Canaanites, performed sacrifices that turn pale the Mesoamerican sacrifices of children.

The Tophet, located in the valley of Gehenna, was a place near Jerusalem where it is believed that children were burned alive to the god Moloch Baal. Later it became synonymous with Hell, and the generic name “tophet” would be transferred to the sacrificial site of the cemetery at Carthage and other Mediterranean cities like Motya, Tharros and Hadrumetum, where bones have been found of Carthaginian and Phoenician children.

Semitic-offering-to-molech

According to a traditional reading of the Bible, stories of sacrifice by the Hebrews were relapses of the chosen people to pagan customs. Recent studies, such as Jon Levenson’s The Death and Resurrection of the Beloved Son: The Transformation of Child Sacrifice in Judaism and Christianity have suggested that the ancient Hebrews did not differ much from the neighboring towns but that they were typical examples of Semitic peoples of Canaan.

The cult of Yahweh was only gradually imposed in a group while the cult of Baal was still part of the fabric of the Hebrew-Canaanite culture. Such religion had not been a syncretistic custom that the most purist Hebrews rejected from their “neighbor” Canaanites: it was part of their roots. For Israel Finkelstein, an Israeli archaeologist and academic, the writing of the book of Deuteronomy in the reign of Josiah was a milestone in the development and invention of Judaism.

Josiah represents what I call one of the psychogenic mutants who firmly rejected the infanticidal psychoclass of their own people. Never mind that he and his aides had rewritten their nation’s past by idealizing the epic of Israel. More important is that they make Yahweh say—who led the captivity of his people by the Assyrians—that it was a punishment for their idolatry: which includes the burning of children. The book of Josiah’s scribes even promotes to conquer other peoples that, like the Hebrews, carried out such practices. “The nations whom you go in to dispossess,” says the Deuteronomy, “they even burn their sons and their daughters in the fire to their gods.” (12: 29-31). “When you come into the land that the Lord is giving you, you shall not learn to follow the abominable practices of those nations. There shall not be found among you anyone who burns his son or his daughter as an offering.” (18: 9-10).

This emergence, or jump to a higher psychoclass from the infanticidal, is also attested in other books of the Hebrew Bible. “The men from Babylon made Succoth Benoth, the men from Cuthah made Nergal, and the men from Hamath made Ashima; the Avvites made Nibhaz and Tartak, and the Sepharvites burned their children in the fire as sacrifices to Adrammelech and Anammelech, the gods of Sepharvaim” (2 Kings: 17: 30-31).

There were kings of Judah who committed these outrages with their children too. In the 8th century B.C. the thriving King Ahaz “even sacrificed his son in the fire, following the detestable ways of the nations the Lord had driven out before the Israelites” (2 Kings 16: 1-3). Manasseh, one of the most successful kings of Judah, “burnt his son in sacrifice” (21:6). The sacrificial site also flourished under Amon, the son of Manasseh. Fortunately it was destroyed during the reign of Josiah. Josiah also destroyed the sacrificial site of the Valley of Ben Hinnom “so no one could use it to sacrifice his son or daughter in the fire to Molech” (23:10). Such destructions are like the destruction of Mesoamerican temples by the Spaniards, and for identical reasons.

Ezekiel, taken into exile to Babylon preached there to his people. He angrily chided them: “And you took your sons and daughters whom you bore to me and sacrificed them as food to the idols. Was your prostitution not enough? You slaughtered my children and made them pass through the fire” (Ezekiel 16: 20-21). The prophet tells us that since his people wandered in the desert they burned their children, adding: “When you offer your gifts—making your sons to pass through the fire—you continue to defile yourselves with all your idols to this day. Am I to let you inquire of me, O house of Israel? As surely as I live, declares the Lord, I will not let you inquire of me” (20:31). Other passages in Ezekiel that complain about his people’s sins appear in 20: 23-26 and 23: 37-39.

A secular, though inspired by Jung, way to see God is to conceive it as how the ego of an individual’s superficial consciousness relates to the core of his own psyche: the Self. In the following diatribe by Ezekiel (16: 35-38) against his people we can hear this inner daimon, the “lord” of the man Ezekiel:

Therefore, you prostitute, hear the word of the Lord! This is what the Lord says: Because you poured out your lust and exposed your nakedness in your promiscuity with your lovers, and because of all your detestable idols, and because you gave them your children’s blood in sacrifice, therefore I am going to gather all your lovers, with whom you found pleasure, those you loved as well as those you hated. I will gather them against you from all around and will strip you in front of them, and they will see all your nakedness. I will sentence you to the punishment of women who commit adultery and who shed blood; I will bring upon you the blood vengeance of my wrath and jealous anger.

When a prophet—that is, an individual who has made a leap to a higher psychoclass—maligned his inferiors, he received insults. Isaiah (57: 4-5) wrote:

Whom are you mocking? At whom do you sneer and stick out your tongue? Are you not a brood of rebels, the offspring of liars? You burn with lust among the oaks and under every spreading tree; you sacrifice your children in the ravines and under the overhanging crags.

Ezekiel wrote in the 6th century B.C.; Isaiah in the 8th B.C. Although Julian Jaynes would say that their visions were bicameral, it has been said that some of those diagnosed with schizophrenia have a much higher moral standard of values than the average individual. The very psalmist complained that people sacrificed their children to idols. But what exactly were these sacrificial rites?

Since the 10th century B.C. the spoken tradition of what was to be collected in biblical texts centuries later complained that Solomon “built a high place for Chemosh, the detestable god of Moab, and for Molech, the detestable god of the Ammonites,” and that his wives made offerings to these gods (1 Kings 11: 7-8). And even before, from the third book of the Torah we read the commandment: “Do not give any of your children to be passed through the fire to Molech, for you must not profane the name of your God.” (Leviticus 18:21). A couple of pages later (20: 2-5) it says:

Say to the Israelites: “Any Israelite or any alien living in Israel who sacrifices any of his children to Molech must be put to death. The people of the community are to stone him. I will set my face against that man and I will cut him off from his people; for by giving his children to Molech, he has defiled my sanctuary and profaned my holy name. If the people of the community close their eyes when that man gives one of his children to Molech and they fail to put him to death, I will set my face against that man and his family and will cut off from their people both him and all who follow him in prostituting themselves to Molech.”

Despite these admonitions, the influential anthropologist James Frazer interpreted some biblical passages as indicating that the god of the early Hebrews, unlike the emergent god quoted above, required sacrifices of children. After all, “God” is but the projection of the Jungian Self of a human being at a given point of the human theodicy. Unlike Larry S. Milner, a Christian frightened by the idea, I do not see it impossible that the ancient Hebrews have emerged from an infanticidal psychoclass to a more emergent one. In “The Dying God,” part three of The Golden Bough, Frazer calls our attention to these verses of Exodus (22: 29-30):

Do not hold back offerings from your granaries or your vats. You must give me the firstborn of your sons. Do the same with your cattle and your sheep. Let them stay with their mothers for seven days, but give them to me on the eighth day.

A similar passage can be read in Numbers (18: 14-15), and this one (3: 11-13) seems revealing:

The Lord also said to Moses, “I have taken the Levites from among the Israelites in place of the first male offspring of every Israelite woman. The Levites are mine, for all the firstborn are mine. When I struck down all the firstborn in Egypt, I set apart for myself every firstborn in Israel, whether man or animal. They are to be mine. I am the Lord.”

The psychohistorian Howard Stein, who has written several scholarly articles on Judaism since the mid-1970s, concludes in an article of 2009 that the gathered information suggests a particular interpretation. According to Stein, the substrate of fear for the slaughter “helps to explain the valency that the High Holiday have for millions of Jews world-wide,” presumably echoes of very ancient happenings.

In contrast to what we were taught in Sunday school as children, Moses did not write the Torah: it was not written before the Persian period. In fact, the most sacred book of the Jews includes four different sources.

Since the 17th century thinkers such as Spinoza and Hobbes had researched the origins of the Pentateuch, and the consensus of contemporary studies is that the final edition is dated by the 5th century B.C. (the biblical Moses, assuming that ever existed, would have lived in the 13th century B.C.). Taking into account the contradictions and inconsistencies in the Bible—for example, Isaiah abhorred animal sacrifice—it should not surprise us that the first chapter of Leviticus consist only of animal sacrifices, which the “Lord” called holocausts to be offered at the entrance of the Tent of Meeting. After killing, skinning and butchering the animal, the priest incinerates everything on the altar “as a burnt offering to the Lord; it is a pleasing aroma, a special gift presented to the Lord.” A phrase that is repeated three times in that first chapter, it also appears in subsequent chapters and reminds me those words by Cortés to Charles V about the Mesoamerican sacrifices (“…they take many girls and boys and even adults, and in the presence of these idols they open their chests while they are still alive and take out their hearts and entrails and burn them before the idols, offering the smoke as the sacrifice”). In the book of Exodus (34:20) even the emerging transition of child sacrifice to lamb sacrifice can be guessed in some passages, what gave rise to the legend of Abraham:

For the first foal of a donkey, they should give a lamb or a goat instead of the ass, but if you do not give, you break the neck of the donkey. You must also give an offering instead of each eldest child. And no one is to appear before me empty-handed.

Compared with other infanticidal peoples the projection of the demanding father had been identical, but the emergency to a less dissociated layer of the human psyche is clearly visible. As noted by Jaynes, the Bible is a treasure to keep track of the greatest psychogenic change in history. The Hebrews sacrificed their children just as other peoples, but eventually they would leave behind the barbaric practice.

isaac sacrifice

After the captivity in the comparatively more civilized Babylon in 586 B.C., the Jews abandoned their practices. In his book King Manasseh and Child Sacrifice: Biblical Distortions of Historical Realities, published in 2004, Francesca Stavrakopoulou argues that child sacrifice was part of the worship of Yahweh, and that the practice was condemned only after the exile. Like their Christian successors, the Jews had sublimated their filicidal desires in the Passover ritual. Each year they celebrate the liberation of their people and remember how Yahweh killed the firstborn Egyptians: legendary resonance of the habit of killing one’s eldest son.

But the biblical Moloch (in Hebrew without vowels, מלך, mlk), represented as a human figure with a bull’s head was not only a Canaanite god. It also was a god of the descendants of the Canaanites, the Phoenicians. The founding myth of Moloch was similar to that of many other religions: sacrifices were compensation for a catastrophe from the beginning of time.

Above [i.e., in my book] I said that Plutarch, Tertullian, Orosius, Philo, Cleitarchus and Diodorus Siculus mentioned the practice of the burning children to Moloch in Carthage, but refrained from wielding the most disturbing details. Diodorus says that every child who was placed in the outstretched hands of Moloch fell through the open mouth of the heated bronze statue, into the fire. When at the beginning of the 3rd century B.C. Agathocles defeated Carthage, desperate and immersed in the most abject magical thinking the Carthaginians began to burn their children in a huge sacrifice as a tactical “defense” before the enemy. The sources mention 300 incinerated children.

Blake-Moloch

Had I run a career of film director, I would feel the obligation to visually show to humanity their infamous past by filming the massive red-hot bronze statue while the Greek forces besieged the city, engulfing child after child, who would slide down to the bottom of the flaming chimney. In addition to Carthage, the worship of Moloch, whose ritual was held outdoors, was widespread in other Phoenician cities. He was widely worshiped in the Middle East and in the Punic cultures of the time, including several Semitic peoples and as far as the Etruscans. Various sacrificial tophets have been found in North Africa, Sicily, Sardinia, Malta, outside Tyre and at a temple of Amman.

Terracotta urns containing the cremated remains of children, discovered in 1817, have been photographed numerous times. However, since the late 1980s some Italian teachers began to question the historicity of the accounts of classical writers. Tunisian nationalists took advantage, including the president whose presidential palace near the suburban sea is very close the ruins of the ancient city of Carthage.

The Tunisian tourist guides even make foreigners believe the Carthaginians did not perform sacrifices (something similar to what some ignorant Mexican tourist guides do in Chiapas).

Traditional historians argue that the fact that the remains are from very young children suggests sacrifice, not cremation by natural death as alleged by the revisionists. The sacrificial interpretation of Carthage is also suggested by the fact that, along with the children, there are charred remains of lambs (remember the biblical quote that an evolved Yahweh implies that the slaughter of sheep was a barter for the firstborn). This suggests that some Carthaginians replaced animals in the sacrificial rite: data inconsistent with the revisionist theory that the tophet was a normal cemetery. To make matters worse, the word mlk (Moloch) appears in many stelae as a dedication to this god. Had there been simple burials it would not make sense to find these stelae dedicated to the god of fire: the graves are not marked with offerings to the gods.

Finally, although the classical writers were bitter enemies of the Carthaginians, historical violence is exercised by rejecting all accounts, since the time of Alexander to the Common Era. The revisionism on Carthage has been a phenomenon that is not part of new archaeological discoveries, or newly discovered ancient texts. The revisionists simply put into question the veracity of the accounts of classical writers, and they try to rationalize the archaeological data by stressing our credulity to the breaking point. Brian Garnand, of the University of Chicago, concluded in his monograph on the Phoenician sacrifice that “the distinguished scholars of the ridimensionamento [revisionism] have not proven their case.”

Nonetheless, I must say that the revisionists do not bother me. What I cannot tolerate are those individuals who, while accepting the reality of the Carthaginian sacrifice, idealize it. On September 1, 1987 an article in the New York Times, “Relics of Carthage Show Brutality Amid the Good Life” contains this nefarious phrase: “some scholars assert, the practice of infanticide helped produce Carthage’s great wealth and its flowering of artistic achievement.” The memory of these sacrificed children has not been fully vindicated even by present-day standards.

The Carthaginian tophet is the largest cemetery of humans, of boys and girls in fact, ever discovered. After the Third Punic War Rome forced the Carthaginians to learn Latin, just as the Spanish imposed their language to the conquered Mexicans. Personally, what most worries me is that there is evidence in the tophets of remains of tens of thousands of children killed by fire over many centuries. I cannot shudder more over imagining what would had become of our civilization had the Semitic Hannibal reached Rome.

P.S. for this blog:

And the traitors of today are planning to make a movie depicting the non-Aryan Carthaginians as the good guys and the Romans as the bad guys of the film…

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