Dante’s outer circle

In the third season of Downton Abbey, when Matthew experiences a visual shock while entering a jazz club in London trying to rescue Rose dating a married man, Matthew proclaims aloud that the club is “Dante’s outer circle.”

Downton-Abbey-Christmas-2013

(In the above photo inside Highclere Castle this spoiled girl, Rose, appears with a pink dress.) Downton Abbey is the only recent TV series that I might recommend. Even the kissing of Rose with a Negro in the next season is depicted as a silly revenge of Rose against her abusive mother. But there’s no obvious cultural or racial treason in the episodes I’ve watched as to date. (I’ve only missed the last one, the 2013 Christmas special of the fourth season).

These sort of post-war London clubs that shocked Matthew were in operation a hundred years ago. Music is infinitely worse now. Since the self-destructive defense mechanisms of abused adolescents are my specialty I’d claim that the rock classics you may listen today—for example “Tie Your Mother Down” by the group Queen that I used to like when I was the victim of an engulfing mother—are precisely silly defense mechanisms.

Now that I wrote a book confessing how I was abused as a teen I realize that a mature man may develop non-degenerate defense mechanisms to cope with past memories.

Alas, this is not the case of the overwhelming majority of white nationalists. All of them seem to fail to comprehend that it is impossible to revert back to the healthy sexual mores depicted in Downton Abbey if at the same time they don’t reject the music of Queen and the myriads of other rock groups.

In his blog’s entry of the first day of the new year, Iranian for Aryans reposted what musician Roger had said recently:

I’ve just finished reading this interview with the late Cardinal Domenico Bartolucci, former musical director of the Sistine Chapel, and I thought you might be interested by some of his comments. He is speaking primarily about liturgical music, but he also discusses about the general condition of music in this rotten century:

“[My father] was a workman at a brick factory in Borgo San Lorenzo, in the province of Florence. He loved to sing in church. And he loved the romance of Verdi and Donizetti. But at that time, everybody sang: the farmers while they were dressing the vines, the shoemakers while they were working a sole. There were bands in the piazza, during the holidays music directors came from Florence, and the area theatre had two opera seasons each year. It’s all gone now.”

Simple Italian factory workers used to love the music of Verdi and Donizetti? I wonder how this fits with the black metal apologists’ belief that classical music was historically something for a tiny bourgeois clique, and that most normal people were only familiar with folk songs.

I can remember them trying to make these arguments in the comment threads of Counter-Currents, Alternative Right and the Occidental Observer. There is no excuse these people will not use if it will enable them to continue listening to their beloved modern music. Were they serious, they would spend a moment considering why old reactionaries, who grew up before rock music became ubiquitous, are so repulsed by distorted guitars and screeching. (Modern man knows better, of course.)

When asked if the old musical traditions are disappearing, the cardinal said, “it stands to reason: if there is not the continuity that keeps them alive, they are destined to oblivion.”

I think that sums it up in a nutshell. One of my goals in 2014 is to acquire a tenor viol and start learning music by the English consort composers (as well as continental composers from the same time period). Whether it will be possible to find other violists to form a consort is another problem, but keeping the music alive with one’s own hands is a good starting point. It is undoubtedly the case that music cannot survive as a collection of digital audio files. That will turn it into a mere museum piece. If that happens, it will be sad but just. A civilised nation cannot choose to embrace African voodoo devilry at the expense of its own culture and expect to continue living with dignity.

Yup… Precisely because my mother is a piano teacher I rebelled against my family’s traditions and, like Downton Abbey’s Rose, never learnt how to play it. But now that I fully processed my pain thru a thick book I realize that my adolescent infatuation with Queen was just silly. I no longer listen rock. In fact, I just started learning piano at my relative old age!

Cesar tocando piano 2014

(It’s me playing the piano…)

By the way, in a most recent personal communication, Iranian commented on Roger’s above sentence: “There is no excuse these people [white nationalists] will not use if it will enable them to continue listening to their beloved modern music”:

How correct Roger is! What we have here is a degenerated breed of WNs / “traditionalists” who, basically, have no musical taste, are divorced from their superior heritage, and desire a world where bad music and pornography reign sans Jew.

Recently at Facebook, a Counter-Currents sodomite responded to Iranian that a Persian ought not dare teach him what his western cultural roots are.

Can’t he? I am not an American either but, to my present ears, years after I processed my adolescent pain, the “music” promoted by Counter-Currents and other nationalist sites is becoming like Dante’s outer circle certainly…

Postscript of January 11: Alternative Right is gone now, but Richard Spencer has opened a new site promoting exactly the same “black metal” degeneracy.

Mexico: The crypto and the mulatto

Here in Mexico, a couple of days ago, after my family celebrated the Day of Independence, I caught my Catholic father and sister speaking in high terms about Miguel Hidalgo, the Catholic priest that in 1810 started the war of independence; and José María Morelos, the mulatto that continued Hidalgo’s anti-white wars. While father and daughter recognized that Hidalgo and Morelos killed lots of Iberian white civilians and “from 20,000 to 30,000 prisoners of war,” they, nonetheless, regard them as “heroes.” In the Mexican wars of independence from Spain of 1810 to 1821 my father and sister could have been confused with Spaniards and, still, like many other Mexicans who could pass as Mediterraneans, they side the crypto-Jew and the mulatto. Why?

miguel-hidalgo

The 19th century portraits of Hidalgo are fake. All of them used a man of Austrian origin who posed as the father of the independence. Original reports depict Hidalgo with hooked nose. The overwhelming majority of Mexicans ignore that the Catholic priest Hidalgo was probably the son of Jewish conversos. Even the Mexican Jews, no longer cryptos, acknowledge it: “Two genealogical studies of the eighteenth century, the Archivo General de la Nación de Mexico and the Ramo de la Inquisición, suggest that Father Miguel Hidalgo y Costilla, the father of Mexican Independence, had a Converso background and that Bartolomé de las Casas, a Bishop who fought to free slaves in Nueva España, also had Jewish ancestors.” In case of my family, they are under the naïve impression that both Hidalgo and Las Casas were of pure Spanish origin.

But what about the mulatto Morelos? The 1944 edition of José Vasconcelos’ A Brief History of Mexico that my father read long ago, says (my translation):

For Morelos, for example, to be comparable to Washington, it must be assumed that Washington had decided to recruit blacks and mulattoes to kill the English. Instead, Washington disdained blacks and mulattoes and recruited the English of America, who did not commit the folly of killing their own brothers, uncles, and relatives, only because they were born in England. Quite the contrary, each participant of the American Revolution felt pride for his British ancestry and hoped for the betterment of the English. This should have been the sense of our own emancipation, to transform New Spain into an improved Spain, better than that of the peninsula but with its blood, our blood. The whole later disaster of Mexico is explained by the blind, criminal decision that emerged from the womb of Hidalgo’s mobs and is expressed in the suicidal cry: “Death to the Spaniards!”

So why many Mexicans who physiognomically could pass as southern Italians, Greeks or Spaniards side the mulatto against their blood? Recently, for example, my father’s orchestra composition, La Espada (The Sword), was a success in Mexico City: an homage to the mulatto Morelos (my father has zero black blood by the way).

The music is good—the first ten minutes can be listened in the above clip—, but the libretto is outrageous. The poet Carlos Pellicer (1897-1977) wrote it and my father adapted it for 150 voices and orchestra:

Tú fuiste una espada de Cristo,
que alguna vez, tal vez, tocó el demonio.
Gloria a ti por la tierra repartida.
Perdón a tu crueldad de mármol negro…
Gloria a ti al igualar indios, negros y blancos…
Gloria a ti que empobreciste a los ricos
Y te hiciste comer de los humildes,
Procurador de Cristo en el Magníficat.

My rough translation:

You [Morelos] were a sword of Christ,
once, perhaps, touched by the devil.
Glory to you for distributing the land.
Sorry for your cruelty of black marble…
Glory to you for equating indians, blacks and whites…
Glory to you that made the rich poor
And made the humble eat,
Attorney of Christ in the Magnificat.

When Pellicer said “touched by the devil” he meant the killings of unarmed Iberian whites that the mulatto ordered in cold blood. That’s why Pellicer said “black marble”: Morelos’ appearance was even darker than the Amerind skin! So much that, to avoid being called names, Morelos covered his curly hair—obvious black heritage—with the legendary bandana that adorns his head in every single picture that represents him.

JOSE MARIA MORELOS Y PAVONThe rest of my rough translation of the famed poet needs no explanation. However, as far as I know Catholic Pellicer (whom I met as a child when my family visited him at Tepoztlán) didn’t have black blood either. You can imagine where all of these ethno-suicidal ideas came from: the religion of the inversion of values of these Body-snatched Mexican Pods, my family included.

Sparta – XII

Translated from EVROPA SOBERANA

“And in Lacedaemon and Crete not only men but also women have a pride in their high cultivation. And hereby you may know that I am right in attributing to the Lacedaemonians [Lacedaemonia was the name borne by the city of Sparta from Late Antiquity to the 19th century] this excellence in philosophy and speculation: If a man converses with the most ordinary Lacedaemonian, he will find him seldom good for much in general conversation, but at any point in the discourse he will be darting out some notable saying, terse and full of meaning, with unerring aim; and the person with whom he is talking seems to be like a child in his hands.”

—Plato, Protagoras


sparta


On the pagan mentality, the Spartan religious feeling and the supremacy over Athens

Religion in Sparta played a major role, far above any other Greek state. Spartan supremacy was not only physical, but spiritual. This apparent contradiction is explained by the Hellenic religion, drinking directly from the original Indo-European religion: a religion of the strong—not a religion of self-pity and worship of the sick, the weak, the downtrodden and unhappy. In Sparta, also, that religion had been placed at the service of a shield specifically designed to withstand the rigors of the Iron Age.

Hellenic polytheism was something deeply natural and vital, and is inextricably woven to the memory of the blood, as “divinity consists precisely in that there are gods and not one god.” Our ancestors made of their gods spiritual monuments containing all those qualities peculiar to them that had made them thrive and succeed. They deposited in them higher feelings with which they gave way and perfected together a being who existed before in fuzzy and dormant state. The creation of gods is something capital when valuing a people, for the gods are the personification of the highest ideals and values of that people. One can say that the gods created the race, and the race their gods. Through the gods we can know the people who worshiped them, the same way that through the people—ourselves, our ancestors, our history and our brothers—we meet the gods.

The peoples had their gods and the gods had their villages. Sparta worshiped typical Hellenic deities, although two among them acquired singularly relevant and important roles and became the most worshiped deities, even by the time of the Dorian invasion: Apollo and Artemis. They were twin brothers, reconfirming the cult of “sacred twins.” Their father was Zeus, the heavenly father; and their mother was Leto, daughter of Titans, who to escape the jealousy of Hera (Zeus’ heavenly wife) had to become a she-wolf and run away to the country of the hyperboreans. Note here the presence of an important symbolic constant, the heavenly principle (Zeus, eagle, lightning) together with the earthly principle (Leto, wolf, titan).

Apollo_Artemis_Brygos_Louvre

Apollo and Artemis, ca. 470 BCE.


Apollo was the son of Zeus and brother of Artemis, god of beauty, of poetry (he was called “blond archpoet”), music, bow and arrow, youth, the sun, the day, of manhood, light and pride. He could predict the future and each year returned from Hyperborea in a chariot drawn by swans. (As Lohengrin, the king of the Grail, with his boat, and like other medieval myths about the “Swan Knight” as Helias—obviously a version of the Roman Helios in France.) Apollo presided over the chorus of the nine muses, deities that inspired artists, and lived on Mount Helicon. He was conceived as a young, blond and blue-eyed man, holding a lyre, harp or bow, and possessor of a manly, clean, youthful and pure beauty—“Apollonian” beauty. The mythology explained that in his childhood he killed the serpent Python (in other versions a dragon), setting in its place, with the help of the hyperboreans, the sanctuary of Delphi.

Heracles also killed a snake when he was a newborn. Such legends represent the struggle that initially led the Indo-European invaders against the telluric gods of the pre-Indo-European peoples. Apollo received several titles including Phoebus (“radiant”), Aegletes (“light of the sun”) and Lyceus (“born of wolf,” as in some way were Romulus and Remus). As equivalents gods of Apollo in other peoples we have Apollo Phoebus (Roman), Abellio or Belenus (Celtic ), Baldur (German), Byelobog (Slavs), Lucifer (medieval heretics), Baal (Phoenician), the Beelzebub demonized by the Church and Belial: another demon of Christianity.

Apollo was worshiped in the most important festival of Sparta, the Carnea. There they paid homage to the under-god in the figure of the ram. To carry out the rituals, the priests chose five unmarried men who for four years should continue a vow of chastity.

Artemis was the sister of Apollo, daughter of Zeus, goddess of night, moon, bow and arrow; of forests, hunting and virginity, but also of labor and male fertility. Artemis was usually depicted armed with bow and silver arrows, wearing a short and light tunic or skins of wild animals, carrying her hair up and accompanied by a pack of hunting dogs. Her car was pulled by deer, the animal most associated with her, and in fact she is sometimes depicted with horns of deer, reminiscent of the most primitive paganism. She was chaste and virgin in perpetuity, and virgin were her priestesses, Melissa (“bees,” another symbol of Artemis). She was harsh, stern, proud, sharp, wild, silent and cold: the result of a patriarchal work, the only model of female divinity able to command respect and devotion to such an ascetic and leathery virility as the Spartan.

The Dorian Artemis equaled the Celtic Artio, the Roman Diana, and the Slavic Dievana; but she had nothing to do with the Artemis worshiped by eunuch priests in the temple of Ephesus (Asia Minor, now modern Turkey): a goddess of “fertility” often depicted with black skin, multiple breasts, whimsical hairstyles, a body adornment and other oriental distortions. (Dievana was conceived by the ancient Slavs as a virgin goddess associated with hunting and the moon. For the Poles, she was a young virgin who hunted in the forests. South Slavs imagined her running through the forests of the Carpathians, and other Slavic peoples imagined her accompanied by bears or a pack of dogs. All these configurations correspond clearly to the Greek Artemis or Roman Diana.) In Greek mythology Artemis was a mentor to the young Atalanta, who became the best runner of Hellas, and no one, not even a god, was closer to conquer her than the mortal hero Orion. Apollo and Artemis were, finally, the sacred twin couple; day and night, sun and moon, gold and silver. They were the juvenile archetypes of Spartan masculinity and femininity, respectively.

On the other hand, Sparta venerated the heroes of the Iliad, especially Achilles, but also Menelaus and Helen, kings of Sparta in Homer’s mythology. Heracles was practically a Spartan national hero (remember that, according to tradition, he was the patriarch that founded the royal lineages of Sparta), and his figure was hugely popular among young men.

The city of Sparta had forty-three temples dedicated to various gods and twenty-two temples dedicated to the heroes (including those of the Iliad), whose deeds inspired the flourishing generations; more than fifteen statues of gods, four altars and numerous funerary tombs. There was also a temple dedicated to Lycurgus, worshiped as a god. In a city the size of Sparta, the number of religious buildings was very noticeable.

In religious ceremonies, men and women—particularly those in age of dating—attended, entirely naked as they did during the processions, the tournaments, the beauty contests and the dances. This already implies that the Spartans were not ashamed of their bodies, but that proudly displayed them whenever they could because they were robust, well-formed and harmonious. These events were festivals of beauty, Dionysian ceremonies in which the body was worshiped and beautified by effort and sacrifice. According to Plato, a beautiful body promises a beautiful soul and “beauty is the splendor of truth.”

The athletic custom of shaving the body hair and smear oneself with oil before a competition was of Spartan origin, although the Celts were given to body shave before battles. They sought thereby to extol the body; give relief, volume, detail, brightness and “life” to the muscles, therefore proudly displaying the result of years and years of grueling physical training and strenuous efforts, probably with the aim of finding the best partner and/or gaining prestige.

The guilt and sense of sin that Christianity tried to impose in the field of body pride made man feel ashamed of the very things he was proudest. Judeo-Christian morality, by condemning hygiene, care, training and the preparation of the body as “sinful”, “sensual” and “pagan” gradually achieved that the European population—converted into an amorphous herd whose attitude to any hint of divine perfection was met with resentment and mistrust—forgot that their bodies also were a creation and a gift from God.

For young people of both sexes such festivals served to became familiar with each other, because we think that Sparta was a city with few inhabitants, where thanks to public ceremonies everyone knew everybody by sight and was integrated into the popular. It was at these events where you watched and chose your future spouse. The competition also served to establish hierarchies in beauty, courage, strength, agility, hardness, endurance, courage, skill, speed, etc., and the best men would join the best women, as might be the case for the coronation of a king and a queen in a contest, or a champion and a championess in a competition. In his Republic Plato said that it is necessary that the best men join the best women most of the time, and that the worst men join the worst women; and that you have to raise the children of the first, not those of the second. Thanks to this, and to the facilities and even obligations of marriage, the young Spartans married men and women between twenty and twenty-five years.

Le us imagine all those pagan cults of sacrifice, struggle, union and that glorification of the collective existence of a great people. That’s pride and socialist joy or nationalism, a cult for effort and struggle through which the Spartans themselves nourished themselves, as the warriors’ deeds made that the youngest would want to match them and beat them; they longed for their opportunity to demonstrate their flowering qualities. Moreover, knowledge of the deeds of the society helped Spartans to know themselves; to be proud of their homeland, and to become aware of its grandeur and superiority. Everything was wisely designed for the burning of Spartan pride to last.

What would ritualism in such a “socialist” country be? It was simple and austere, and the Spartans took it with fanatical solemnity, for all rituals were perfect and the result flawless. The rites had to be carried out at whatever cost. It is known that before the battles the Spartans celebrated a sacrifice, usually a male goat: a fertility sign, and under no circumstances they fought before the ritual was consummated. There is the story of how this was practiced to an extreme once the enemy appeared during the ritual. The Spartans did not move from their positions until the ending of the ceremonial, even when the first enemy arrows started the killing and wounding others. When the ritual ended they fought and won the battle. Such kind of feelings, orbiting around rites in which they reproduced symbolic events, kept them in contact with the beyond: where the force of the fallen and the ancient fathers dwelt.

All these elements contributed to form a highly spiritual feeling: the Spartan felt himself as the summit of creation, the favorite of the gods, a privileged, magnificent, splendid, arrogant and godlike creature; a member of a holy seed, a holy race and lucky “link in the eternal racial chain,” a protagonist of an unparalleled feat of an extremely profound mystical experience that he was convinced would end up leading him directly to the immortality of Olympus, as the semi-divine heroes he worshiped. He was proud of being a Spartiate because precisely the fact that to become one of them it was necessary to overcome the hardest ordeals made him feel a holder of a privilege.

Nietzsche said, “For a tree to reach Heaven with its branches, it must first touch Hell with its roots,” and it is said that Odin went down to the huts before ascending to the palaces. This implies that only after passing the most terrible tests the warrior has earned the right to access to higher states, on pain of suffering the degradation to which it leads the drunken arrogance of the one who has not hardened in suffering and is not able to take the pleasure, power and luxury with respect, care, gentleness, veneration, humility and an almost apprehensive appreciation. The Spartans had reached the bottom, sinking into the whole tragedy of their atrocious instruction, and also had passed through all the manly sensations of fullness, health, vigor, strength, power, force, dominion, glory, victory, joy, camaraderie, reward and triumph. Having covered the whole emotional range that goes from pain to pleasure made them to possess a wisdom only for the heroes and the fallen, and surely no one could appreciate more the significance and importance of pleasures than the Spartans.

It existed in Sparta, as in other places, an initiating circle of priests and priestesses. Little is known about them except that they were selected men and women, initiated at specific sites in secret ceremonies called “mysteries,” which made them the repositories of ancient wisdom and esoteric mystical orientation. In Greece, the mysteries represented what could not be explained rationally with words, but that was necessary to see and live it. The mysteries (of Delphi, Eleusis, Delos, Samothrace, Orpheus, etc.) became prestigious initiation schools, with important people attending from all Hellas with intent of awakening the spirit. Much of what we know of them is related to a decadent age which had betrayed the secret, so the ritual was monstrously disfigured and the true mysteries gone.

Mount Taygetos, symbol of pride and elitism of Sparta, was also called Mount Dionysius because it was there where the Spartans worshiped this god in a mystery of elaborate ritual ceremonies, the mysteries of Dionysus. Dionysus is a kind of Hellenic Shiva (in Hinduism, Shiva is said to meditate on the top of Mount Meru): a divine, destructive and dancing archetype. Much confusion has arisen around Dionysus, so we will try to clean up the image of this god.

The mythology explained that Dionysus was the son of Zeus (a masculine and heavenly principle) and of some earthly goddess (an earthly, feminine principle) that, according to some versions, is Demeter, Persephone and Semele. Dionysius had been torn (like the Egyptian Osiris and the Vedic Purusha) and eaten by the Titans (chthonic entities), but, as the Titans ended up breeding men, all men have within them a spark of Dionysus. Zeus could save the heart of Dionysus and, planting it in the womb of his mother (in other versions, in Zeus’ thigh), Dionysus was reborn and rose to the rank of “twice born.”

Dionysus was the god of the strong instincts, of the fullness of life, spiritual abundance, the joy of life, transparent pleasure, gratitude; the joyful and furious frenzy of happiness that, wanting earthly eternity, needs the children. It was par excellence the god of the healthy and strong: of that popular pagan joy that overflows and created in its abundant happiness—or destroys in its unbridled rage—; the god of the instincts that make one feel alive and rise the race above its materials limitations or from everyday pettiness.

Exekias_Dionysos_Staatliche_Antikensammlungen

Sixth century BC piece depicting Dionysus among sailors transformed to dolphins.


Over time, however, and as Hellas was losing its purity, the cult of Dionysus was easily perverted (being a god of bodily, material and “dark” impulses) and became a fat god of orgies: a noisy god of amusements, alcohol, promiscuity and insane hysteria. The Romans adopted this deformed god as Bacchus, and his followers (mostly cowardly, decadent, perverted, morbid and boring women of good families) made the cult degenerate into orgiastic “orgies,” including blood sacrifices, promiscuous sex and alcohol poisoning. It was such a scandal that was formed around the Bacchanalia that the senate of Rome in 186 BCE and forbade it and exterminated its followers in a great slaughter.

At this point, we must address the issue that will certainly be around the heads of many readers: the comparison Sparta-Athens. What city was “better”?

Often we are told that Athens represented the artistic and spiritual summit of Greece and Sparta the physical and warrior evolution. It’s not as easy as that. We must start from the basis that it is a great mistake to judge the development of a society for its commercial or material advancement. This would lead us to conclude that the illiterate Charlemagne was lower than anybody else present, or Dubai the home of the world’s most exalted civilization.

It is necessary to better assess the spirituality, health, individual quality and the genetic background of which a society is depository. This could ground us in unusual lands, for instance, that the Cro-Magnon culture was highest that has stepped on the planet. As already mentioned, not without reason it has been said that the whole Spartan state was an order, a union of warrior-monks, as the Spartans zealously cultivated a discipline and ancient wisdom that most Greek states had lost. Many have noticed that the harsh Spartan discipline practices have a distinctively touch of a warrior yoga, meaning that any ascetic yoga practice would help the physical, mental and spiritual improvement. In Sparta everything worked within the mystique and the uttermost devotion of the people of Greece, and it is a huge mistake to believe that the only polished Spartan instruction was the body.

Thus we come to the important subject of art and that it usually happens that it is a common argument to vilify Sparta. The Spartans used to say that they carved monuments in the flesh, which implied that their art was a living one: literally them, and the individuals that composed their homeland. But Sparta also had conventional art as understood in the present. It was famous throughout Greece for its music and dance (of which nothing has survived), as well as its highly-prized poetry that has come to us fragmented. Its architects and sculptors were employed in such prestigious places as Delphi and Olympia, and imposed a stamp of straight simplicity and crystal clarity in their works. The best example of this is the sober Doric style, direct heritage of Sparta that became a model not only for countless temples throughout Greece, as the Parthenon in Athens itself, but also for the classic taste of later Europe that has endeavored to continue the legacy of Greece and Rome.

DoricParthenon

Example of Doric architectural style, considered the paradigm of the classic in the West.


The Greeks, and particularly the Spartans, studied “physiognomy” to interpret the character, personality, and ultimately the soul of an individual based on physical features, especially of the face: to the point that ugliness in certain Greek states was practically a curse. It was also believed that beauty and a willingness of the features should be an expression of noble qualities necessary for a beautiful body bearer, if only dormant. The creators of the Greek statues made them with that knowledge of the human face and of the perfect proportions in mind, and therefore represented not only a beautiful body but also a beautiful body carrying a beautiful soul. The blind rage with which the Christians destroyed most Greek statues indicates that they greatly feared what they represented, because in them the Hellenes fixed and settled, once and for all, as a goal and template and ideal: the human type that Christianity would never be able to produce.

Many other states, on the other hand, suffered from a taste for the exotic and the cosmopolitan in which all empires fall when they neglect their attention, authenticity and identity. Gobineau called Athens the most Phoenician of the Greek cities (Essay on the Inequality of Human Races, Book IV, Chapter IV). Athens, with the plutocracy of Piraeus; with its mob of merchants, charlatans, noisy slaves, acrobats, pseudo-intellectuals, pundits, soothsayers and false Egyptian magicians; with their sumptuous clothes, rich food, spices, incense, colors, flavors, perfumes, obscene riches, deformed mystery cults, orgiastic ceremonies, prostitution, alcoholism, dirt, disease, and finally rampant decay in demagoguery including cosmopolitanism, hedonism, homosexuality, multiculturalism and miscegenation, was farther from the European ideal than Sparta: which ever embraced this filth; only when it was not Sparta anymore. Meanwhile, they remained essentially rustic, rough and authentic.

In Athens there emerged countless philosophical schools (some of them, as the sophists and cynics, reflecting a clearly decadent spirit) which attests to the chaos and contradictions within the Athenian citizens and of the Athenian national body itself. Demagoguery and the sagacity of the slave, the shopkeeper, the merchant, the Phoenician dealer, and the nomad of the desert began to leave a mark. And this is acclaimed by historians of philosophy that teach today (Julius Evola pointed out the pleasure with which modern civilization sees in Athens the origin of democracy). In Sparta people did not ramble or speculated because its inhabitants knew the laws of the land, the sky and the species; and lived in agreement with them with no hustle, speculation, or absurd discussions.

The Athenians despised them because they considered the Spartans brutal and simple. The Spartans despised Athenians because they considered them soft and effeminate even though the Athenians, as Greeks, were also great athletes—though never to the level of the Spartans. It is said that a Spartan who contemplated a painting depicting victorious Athenians was asked “Are those Athenians brave?” He replied “ Yes, in painting.”

There was a latent rivalry between the Ionian people of an Athens influenced by Asia Minor, and the Dorian people of Sparta directly influenced by their own Nordic heritage, who never stopped being governed by anything but their ancestral tradition and their own popular consciousness. With the exception of Athens, which saw herself as the best, all other Hellenic states reserved their admiration for Sparta, seeing it as a shrine of wisdom and justice: the true repository of primitive Hellenic tradition. Sparta was always the most famous and respected city among the Greeks. They always resorted to it to arbitrate interstate disputes, and most of the times they not even had to resort to force: Sparta sent an ambassador to which everyone would voluntarily submit, like a divine envoy.

Sparta – VIII

Translated from EVROPA SOBERANA


sparta


The education of adolescents


We know with certainty that, at the gates of puberty, there was a brutal initiation ritual of physical and psychological type to be overcome in order to continue with the instruction. During the festival of the goddess Artemis, the altar was filled with tasty cheese. Aspiring lads had to steal as many cheeses as they could, but this must outwit a phalanx of armed lads with whips, instructed to use them unscrupulously in the task of protecting the altar. To achieve their objective, the boys must learn to coordinate and demonstrate a spirit of sacrifice and selflessness. Everyone received terrible wounds, but as the only means of defense was the older lads’ whip, it was necessary only to endure the pain as they stole the pieces. Sometimes a boy died. In Sparta there were many tests of this type, whose goal was to bring applicants to the limit to harden them up, also discarding the weak. Those who, covered in blood, bore the “ceremony” with no moan, cry pain or scream were awarded crowns of leaves and hailed as heroes for their people, acclaimed by their elders, young girls and the younger siblings, who found the triumph inspiring. Thus, the victorious became eirenes or irenes (ephebes).

From the moment following the festival of Artemis, a transformation operated in the instruction of the boys who had passed the test. They came from the gangs, receiving out a simple himation (woolen clothing) each year, being forbidden the chiton (common tunic). Discipline became stricter.

According to Xenophon, Lycurgus realized that, from adolescence, self-will is rooted in the mind of the boy. It looms in his conduct a subtle trend of insolence which marks the beginning of a selfish appetite and individualistic pleasure. Also, the stage that separates the fearful and innocent child from the wise veteran is a thin red line of imprudence and recklessness, typical of adolescence and those who, having learned a lot but not enough, tend to overestimate themselves and commit dangerous blunders. And that is the most difficult step in any learning: when you think you know “enough”.

To counter this potential pride, Spartan ephebes had to walk through the streets in silence, with their head bowed and their hands hidden, without looking around but fixing their eyes on the ground, taking a walk of monks, as centuries later would walk the perfect Manichean. Boys who would otherwise be the loudest and annoying were converted into gray and ghostly silhouettes. This, of course, was not permanent but temporary and contributed to strengthen the humility and modesty of the young Spartans; and to raise the pride of those who, after concluding their instruction, were allowed to walk with their heads held high. It also helped in the meantime that the citizens would not feel offended by the presumption of the candidates, since there is nothing to offend more a seasoned veteran than an arrogant and cocky “newbie” too proud of his achievements.

But on the other hand, the ephebes were first taught to read and write, and were taught music, dance, mythology and poetry. And, for the first time since they were seven years old, long hair was permitted: in which care they would rush, gradually getting spotless manes and feel pride of them, since the hair was “the cheapest ornament” and, according to Lycurgus, “adds beauty to a beautiful face, and terror to an ugly face.” Wearing long hair was an ancient Greek custom that somehow recalled the barbarian origins of the race. Many have given long hair, especially in the case of women, the importance of signs of fertility: nervous system extensions and tuners of spiritual capacities. Archetypically, it is the manifestation of the spiritual bell that comes from the top head of the consummate practitioner of inner alchemy, covering the entire body out. On the formation of long hair act factors such as nutrition, health, exposure to sun and air, and exercise. Thus the mane should be something like a banner of individuality, a personal identification sign denoting the health and habits of the individual.

What is clear is that for some young people who had been at age seven with a shaved head, a grown hair should have represented a sign of psychological improvement, and convey the sense of a new, more spiritual stage, less helpless and raw, less brutal. After the painful stage in which children sacrificed their hair, they had conquered the beauty and individuality allowed to their perfect ancestors. Both the shaved head like the achievement of long hair were for the Spartans two stages of an archetypal transformation process, internal and external.

The most important new material of this period was the music, which was oriented to religious, patriotic and war hymns. The songs and the singing together is something that helps the united cultivation of the spirit, to strengthen the cohesion of the collective unconscious. Each alliance of warriors always has had its songs. In Sparta there were numerous choirs, and every Spartan child should learn to sing in a chorus. In many ceremonies three groups were organized: one of old people, other of young males and another for children. When elders began singing “In the past we were young and brave and strong,” the young men continued “and so are we now, come and check it out for,” and the kids responded “but soon we will be the stronger.” A nation that prides itself always seeks that each generation is better than the previous as time goes on, like a wolf pack: the younger vigorous and impulsive generations replace the older in positions through direct action.

Great emphasis was placed in the cultivation of memory, and the young Spartans memorized ballads of the poet Tyrtaeus, who had helped them so much in the second Messenian war. As an example of the poetry of Tyrtaeus, forgive the following snippet:

Let’s advance by locking a concave wall of shields, marching in rows of Pamphyli, Hylleis, Dymanes [the three originating Dorian tribes], and waving in the murderer hands the spears. Thus entrusting us to the Eternal Gods, without delay we comply with the orders of the captains, and we all right away go to the rude fray, firmly raising in front of those spearmen. Tremendous will be the crash when both armies collide their round shields and resonate when abut each other… Well, it’s a beautiful die if you fall into that vanguard like brave warrior who fights for his country… with courage fight for the homeland and the children, and die without begrudging now our lives…

Those who dare, in closed row, to fight melee and advance in vanguard in fewer number die, and save those who follow them. Those who are left with nothing tremble without honor… Go in melee combat, with long spear or sword smite and finish with the fierce enemy. Putting foot by foot, squeezing shield to shield, plume with plume and helmet to helmet, chest to chest fight against the other, handling the hilt of the sword or the long spear… Go forward, children of the citizens of Sparta, the city of the brave warriors! With the left hold firm your shield, and the spear brandish boldly, without worrying to save your life: that is not the custom of Sparta. Make the spirit of your heart strong and courageous, and do not fall in love with life when you are fighting men.

The Spartan ephebes assiduously studied Homer, whose many verses could recite. But of course, the military-physical training did not stop ever, and was always the main subject. As they were getting older, some boys were placed in front of the gangs of younger children, either as paidonomos or mastigophora. The desire of the veteran to make the rookie suffer to perfect him and cure him, teaching him everything he had learned—and that occurs in any army—, was taken to squeeze the new generations and to excel the foregoing.

We have seen that all instruction was intended to cultivate Spartan abilities as will to power, decision-making, the pleasure of responsibility, valor, courage, bravery, stoicism, patriotism, the martial, the ability of leadership, sobriety, self-control, asceticism, austerity, sacrifice and suffering, courage, physical and moral toughness, the sense of duty and honor, fortitude, wisdom, psychological and spiritual balance; the quick wit, sharp and cold and chivalry education, character building, solemnity, respect, brevity, iron discipline, efficiency, holy obedience and aggression. A wide range of qualities very important and basic, today endangered. But all these qualities would be useless if they were not used for something; if they had no objective, a single goal. Nietzsche wrote, “It is inexcusable that, having power, you do not want to dominate.”

Any discipline, asceticism, self-control, the terrible pain, the fear, the danger, the risk, rivalry, hunger, thirst, sleepiness, exhaustion, cold, heat, discomfort, aggression, the hideous cruelty, the suffering and fighting, the beating, whipping, insults, blood splashing everywhere, the constant omnipresence of deeper death and higher life leading to a prodigious tension of life, were a wonderful and magnificent expression of how a whole lineage wanted to be: furious, and, at all costs, the absolute masters of their own collective will enthroned on Earth and mercilessly crushing any enemy that arose. Are these bad feelings? Or, conversely, are they highest and most admirable sentiments, sacred impulses that prompt to live, to fight, to destroy, to create, to renew and translate into some eternal memory? These were qualities and feelings that Indo-European humanity has lost and must be recovered.

All this is great as it is. Now then, what was the result of these qualities and these feelings? What was the result of such education? What was the result of the discipline of great suffering? The result was a man of superior type, with a cool head and insensitive to pain, suffering and discomfort, who used to think quickly in times of great danger and stress. A soldier well versed in all the arts of war who used to fight to achieve his goals; a martial man bred and trained to rule. A fearless and fearsome man, that despised his own life for the sake of his people; despised more the others, so he was hard and ruthless. A mighty stoic man also despised all material trifles of worldly life, and his only dedication were his brothers in combat, his loyalty to country, devotion to his family and wishes of divinity for his race.

A man accustomed to outdoor life, which forged an unbreakable bond with his land, which was regarded as a sacred legacy, a responsibility. A gymnast with impressive physical form, a true athlete. A warrior used to earn things by himself. Nothing done to him would break him; he was able to endure the most terrible pains and deepest spiritual tragedies as calmly as accepting the joys and triumphs. After having demonstrated the ability to obey, he earned the right to command.

spartan-boyThink of how Spartan children suffered the pain, fear, stress and exhaustion. What happened when they emerged from childhood? Into what they turned when growing and becoming men? How would the body of an adult Spartan look like? We can only imagine, but at his side the young athletes of the Athenian sculptures may seem harmless angels.

spartan boy 2The Spartan body was immediately distinguished for being very willowy, slender, dark-skinned not for race but for exposure to the sun, air, moisture; to dry, fresh and salt water, the skewers of vegetation, to stinging insects, dust, land, rock, snow, rain, hail and, ultimately, all kinds of weather. This would make the Spartan skin so stranded and hard as wood. Second, the relief of his body would be highlighted. The type of physical training had favored the development muscle mass concentration, hardness, strength, extreme flexibility and the “purging” of all grease and impurities. Thus, the Spartan would be fibrous and bulky at once, and would look lean and sharp. Vascular fat and softness would shine by their absence; blood vessels, ligaments, fibers, muscles, nerves and tendons would stand almost grotesquely and ultimately, everything would appear to be a rough, twisted, tense and compact mass of roots, branches, wires, tubes, cutting, marking and stones with the color of the wood.

In addition we can figure out that their body would be entirely crossed by many scars. The marks of the lashes would be remarkable in many areas of the skin, but especially in the back. Each Spartan should be a differential map, with different types of signs of violence. Many would lack teeth, have a broken nose and scars on the skull and face: a legacy of melee combats and brutal ball games. The height of the Spartan, what their contemporaries have told us (remember Xenophon, though he lived in an already decadent stage of Sparta), must be high if we consider the malnutrition undergoing in childhood and puberty. In Thebes skeletons have been discovered belonging to a Spartan garrison, of which 180 centimeters must be a normal height among them. Spartan’s hair was long, usually blond. They were allowed to grow beards and took pride in their care, because for them the beard was a symbol of a free and accomplished man who chooses his life. Their faces with a hard look, a strong expression highlighted by the intensely of the blue eyes bequeathed by their Dorian ancestors.

The animals are remarkable for their hardness, their instinct, their resistance to pain and hunger, bad weather, and for their ferocity. The Spartans, thanks to the energy that only comes with experience, motivation and a fanatical and methodical training, were able to beat them. Through self-sacrifice and the risk posed by blindly lunging the unknown and the extreme, they were able to answer the question of where the limits of man lay, and what man is capable when a supernatural will dwells within and take firm roots throughout his being.

We cannot even imagine how were the men of ancient times, for their ferocity, determination and toughness. Well, of them all, the Spartan was the hardest and well-made, the most perfected and stronger. The instruction of the Spartans was brutal, but in one way or another, instructors have always unconsciously intuited that that is the best way to form good warriors.

On a much smaller scale, modern armies also employ brutality toward the recruits: insults, shouting, offences, humiliation, beatings and hazing—modern initiations—help the novice to be ashamed of his former self, to get rid of it, forget it and change it to a personality that is coupled with that of his comrades: another piece of the puzzle that will become his unit. Moreover, often they are not called by names, but by nicknames (“war names”) or numbers. Exhaustive exercises, inconvenience, discomfort, suffering, fear, stress, disgust, etc., serve to sustain and promote the recruit and his humility and respect before what excels him. Only when the applicant has delivered himself as a sacrifice, voluntarily touching bottom in strenuous suffering, he may start from scratch again in a new way, with a transformed personality purged of its blemishes and tempered in the fire and the hammer of an ideal; firm, fanatic, sublime and sacred. Today only the vaguest trace of all this stoicism has reached us.

Public punishments, extremely difficult testing, the victory of each gang, good sports scores, etc., helped to reinforce the prestige of the Spartan community. A community not only has prestige for those who do not belong to it, but its members feel that same prestige internally. This morality, this esprit de corps, increased the pride of belonging to such community. The sacrifices that Sparta members underwent made everyone feel pride and honor in their contemplation. Every time a lad calmly endured a whipping session, every time another one beat a sport record, each time that, with his face torn and bleeding hands, the victorious fighter triumphed over himself and over probability, the will of each member of the community was persuaded: “such acts demonstrate the greatness of my community. I am proud to be with these men and will continue perfecting to reach their height.” And pride and elitism swelled as with fire. When called “equals” among each other, they felt mutually proud. And when a weak fell from exhaustion during a march, when another was punished for moaning in a fight or under the lashes, when another fainted of pain, when another did not return from the forest or mountain, when another died in a career or of hunger, the same iron will read these happenings: “Such acts show that not everyone has the honor of belonging to our community, but that it must be won. I want to win this honor and I am on track. And I want the weak to surrender, leave or be removed from our community for the sake of it.” That is, they dismissed those who might besmirch the honor of the word “ equal,” and such removal was a sacrifice that kept alive the flame of pride.

This group is to the amorphous collectivity what the pack is for the flock.

“Her little child”

Spanish version of this post: here.

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

Carl_Ludwig_Nietzsche


(Carl Ludwig Nietzsche,
Nietzsche’s father)


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dentist Bettmann’s opinion, in Turin:

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

Basel journal for the sick, January 1889:

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

First day at Jena, January 19, 1889:

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

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

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

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

The mother to Overbeck, April 8, 1889:

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

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

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

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

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

At the end he completely sinks into apathy.

nietzsche_demented

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

Dance over the abyss

der_kampf_mit_dem_daemon

If you look into an abyss, the
abyss, likewise, looks into you.



This self-addressed pæan of intoxicated happiness is, I know, regarded by modern physicians as a morbid euphoria, as the last pleasure in a decaying brain, as the stigma of that megalomania which is characteristic of the early stage of paralytic dementia. But Nietzsche talks clearly and incisively amid the ardours of intoxication. No other mortal, perhaps, has ever in full awareness and without a trace of giddiness leaned so far and seen so clearly over the edge of the precipice of lunacy.

No doubt the light that sparkles here is a perilous one. It has the phantasmal and morbid luminosity of a midnight sun glowing red above icebergs; it is a northern light of the soul whose unique splendour makes us shudder. It does not warm us, it terrifies us. It does not dazzle, but it slays. He is not carried away as was Hölderlin by an obscure rhythm of feeling, is not overwhelmed by the onrush of melancholy. He is scorched by his own ardours, is sunstruck by his own rays, is affected by a white-hot and intolerable cheerfulness. Nietzsche’s collapse was a sort of carbonization in his own flames.

He commanded the German emperor to go to Rome in order to be shot; he summoned the European powers to take united military action against Germany, to encircle his fatherland in a ring of iron. Never did apocalyptic wrath shout more savagely into vacancy, never did so glorious presumption scourge a mind beyond earthly bounds. His words issued like hammer-blows striving to demolish the edifice of established civilisation. The Christian era was to cease with the publication of his Antichrist, and a new numbering of the years was to begin.

“No one has written, felt, suffered in such a manner before; the sufferings of a god, a Dionysius.” These words, penned when his mental disorder had already begun, are painfully true. The little room of the fourth floor, and the hermitage of Sils-Maria, not only sheltered the man Friedrich Nietzsche whose nerves were breaking under the strain, but also served as the places from which were issued a marvellous message to the dying century. The Creative Spirit had taken refuge beneath the attic roof heated by the southern sun, and was bestowing its entire wealth upon a timid, neglected, and lonely being, bestowing far more than any isolated person could sustain.

Within those narrow walls, wrestling with infinities, the poor mortal senses were stumbling and groping amid the lightening-flashes of revelation. Like Hölderlin, he felt that a god was revealing himself, a fiery god whose radiance the eyes could not bear and whose proximity was scorching. Again and again the cowering wrench raised his head and attempted to look upon the countenance of this deity, his thoughts running riot the while.

Was not he who felt and wrote and suffered such unthinkable things, was not he himself God? Had not a god reanimated the world after he, Nietzsche, had slain the old god? Who was he? Who was Nietzsche? Was Nietzsche the Crucified; the dead god or the living one; the god of his youth, Dionysius; or both Dionysus and the Crucified—the crucified Dionysius?

More and more confused grew his thoughts; the current roared too loud beneath the superfluity of light. Was it still light? Had it not become music? The narrow room on the fourth floor in the Via Carlo Alberto began to intone; the shining spheres made music; all heaven was aglow. What wonderful music! Tears tricked down his face, warm tears. What sublime tenderness, what auspicious happiness! And now, what lucidity! In the street, everyone smiled at him in friendly fashion; they stood up to greet him; they made obeisance to him, the slayer of gods; they were all so delighted to see him. Why? Why?

He knew. Antichrist had appeared upon earth, and men acclaimed him with hosannas. The world hummed with jubilation, was full of music. Then suddenly the tumult was stilled. Something, someone fell down. It is he, himself, in the street, in front of the house where he lodged. He was picked up. He found himself back in his room.

Had he been asleep for a long time? It seemed very dark. There was the piano. Music! Music! Then, unexpectedly, people appeared in the room. Surely one of them must be Overbeck. But Overbeck is in Basel; and where is he, Nietzsche? He no longer remembers. Why does the company look at him so strangely, so anxiously? He is in a train, rattling along the rails, and the wheels are singing; yes, they are singing the “Gondolier’s Chanty,” and he joins in, signs in an interminable darkness.

He is in a strange room, and always it is dark. No more sunshine, no light at all, either within or without. People talk in the room. A woman among them, surely it is his sister? He had thought she was travelling. She reads aloud to him, now from one book, now from another. Books? “Was not I once a writer of books?” Comes a gentle answer, but he cannot understand. One in whose soul such a hurricane has raged grows deaf to ordinary speech. One who has gazed so intently into the eyes of the daimon is henceforth blinded.

Flight into music

der_kampf_mit_dem_daemon

For many years music remained a private amusement to which Nietzsche delivered himself up in a spirit of irresponsible pleasure, with the pure delight of an amateur, a pastime altogether outside his main “mission” in life. Music flooded his being only after the philological crust had been removed, only when his erudite objectivity of outlook had become disintegrated, when his cosmos had been shattered as if by a volcanic eruption.

Precisely because he had pent up these primal springs of his nature for so long behind the damns of philology, erudition, and indifference, did they gush forth so vehemently and penetrate into every crevice, irradiating and liquefying his literary style. It was as if his tongue, which had hitherto sought to explain tangible things, had suddenly refused its allotted task and insisted upon expressing itself in terms of music. Even his punctuation—unspoken speech—his dashes, his italics, could find equivalents in the terminology of the elements of music.

The details of each work are vibrant with music, and the works as a whole read like symphonies. They no longer belong to the realm of architecture, of intellectual and objective creations, but are the direct outcome of musical inspiration. Of Thus Spake Zarathustra he himself says that it was written “in the spirit of the first phrase of the Ninth Symphony.” And how better can I describe the opening of Ecce Homo than as a magnificent organ prelude destined to be played in some vast cathedral? “Song of Night” and “Gondolier’s Chanty” resemble the croonings of primitive men in the midst of an infinite solitude. When was his inspiration more joyous and dancing, more heroic, more like a lilting cadence of the Grecian music of antiquity, than in the pæan indited during his ultimate outburst of happiness, in the Dionysian rhapsody? Illuminated from on high by the pellucid skies of the South, soaked from beneath by the waters of music, his language became as it were a wave, restless and immense.

Music, limpid, freedom-giving, and light, became the dearest solace of Nietzsche’s agitated mind. “Life without music is nothing but fatigue and error.” “Was a man ever so athirst for music as I?” He, the solitary wanderer cast out by the gods desired only that they should not rob him of this one consolation, this nectar, this ambrosia which eternally refreshed and reinvigorated the soul. “Art, nothing but art! Art was given us that we might not be slain by truth.”

The world had forsaken him; his friends had long since gone their ways and ignored his existence; his thoughts strayed forth on interminable pilgrimages. Music alone walked by his side, accompanying him into his final, his seventh, solitude.

When in the end he fell into the abyss, she watched over his obliterated mind. Overbeck, coming into the room after the catastrophe, found the unhappy madman sitting at the piano, his fingers fumbling the keys in a vain effort to find the harmonies so dear to him.

Epigrams and arrows

Why is the white nationalist movement fraudulent? Because white nationalists don’t really believe in their own shit:

• Any “nationalist” who says he hates Hitler is a phony white nationalist

• Any “nationalist” who says he supports homos is a phony white nationalist

• Any “nationalist” who promotes pop music is a phony white nationalist

• Any “nationalist” who embraces feminism is a phony white nationalist

• Any “nationalist” ignorant of the history of Europe is a phony white nationalist

How many are there in the American scene that hate Hitler or accept the homo agenda or listen popular music (this includes gyms) or accept women in what should be boys only clubs or are reluctant to learn basic facts about the Old World that allowed the New World in the first place?

If these guys are the cream of the Aryan people… you guys must be in good shape! Consider these epigrams and arrows taken from the site of Iranian for Aryans:

Portrait of a Young Boy in a Red Suit


§ The sign of the times is degeneracy. This term—degeneracy—sums up all that is happening to the West. As a case in point, witness the efflorescence of “zoo brothels” in Germany (here). What’s amazing—is it really?—is that the zoophilic campaigners push the moral relativism card.

§ I am a staunch defender of the Western canon and I consider those who degrade it and marginalize it as my enemies.

§ White man, stop being such a degenerate. Your daughters sleep with niggers, they dress like strumpets, they behave like harlots, they talk back, and they abort. And to think that you have the temerity to be offended! What fatuousness!

§ Everything that this unlamented, for me, degenerate stood for was a direct slap to civilization and culture; especially, music. The strident cacophony, the profligacy, the words, the attire, the overall appearance, and the destructive aura of these retarded, sophomoric culture-wreckers damns them to eternal perdition as far as I’m concerned.

§ Sexual jealousy is one of the worst feelings a man can have. It is all-consuming and all-encompassing. Now I fully realize the importance of the traditional doctrine of marrying a virgin.

§ Hell is having to listen to and watch all forms of modern entertainment.

§ I’m sick of seeing young white women with tattoos.

§ I hate, I detest, I loath, I excoriate, I vilify modern “movies”, “music”, “art”, “poetry”, “literature”, and every other flatus meant to represent modern “culture”.

§ The “White movement” is no movement in the true sense. It is a loose aggregate—at best—of armchair loudmouths and pretentious pontificators. The overwhelming number of individuals who are either self-penned or peon-promoted “leaders” are half-baked intellectuals; to wit, those who spout off Evola and Nietzsche from one aperture while doing the same for rock’n’roll from the other, posterior one.

The pretenders, these pseudo-thinkers claim, disingenuously, that modern Whites, youth especially, don’t like and can’t digest the Western musical canon. They need, so they say, something more “up beat” and “relevant”. In other words, let’s teach them all the thoughts of the bigwigs from the Western past, which is somehow not antithetical, while pushing the “musical” excrescences of modernity. This is not only hypocritical, but otiose, since our agenda must be to invoke the Past in its entirety. Imagine, having a people who can quote Guénon while gyrating to AC/DC!

If such a group was ever to come to fruition, it would get nowhere. How can a mind house the soul of a nigger? It is a veritable abortion. And the people who talk big while listening to filth have no taste and they have no soul. The thoughts and milieux of great minds are antipodal to modern “White music” and even to musical modernisms of any and all sorts à la Stravinsky and Bartok. Can one even fathom a Nietzsche-like prophetic figure perorating such great and inspiring thoughts while contemplating offal?

Not impressive

by Iranian for Aryans

emheader

I’ve come to the conclusion over the past few years that the mantra, “The conservatives of today are the liberals of tomorrow,” is axiomatic. Whereas the Racialist Right of the past, viz., Rockwell, inveighed against rock’n’roll, modern-day WNs promote it to the hilt and consider it part of White cultural heritage. Thus, it’s not surprising that James O’Meara’s latest essay is part of this trend.

Essentially, O’Meara’s essay is an attempt to belittle the Western musical canon and replace it with something more “progressive” (with a homosexual tinge). There are several problems with this. Allow me to begin with the most inconsequential and then I’ll work my way up to the crux of the matter.

James O’Meara’s writing style is irritating. It’s filled with references to “pop culture” and various modern/modernistic sayings. It’s a snazzy, jazzy, and frenetic writing style with a lot of names thrown in to give it the flavor of credibility. This invoking of the modern “world of pop” is alien to me and others from the Old World. More than half-the-time, I have no clue who or what he is referring to. O’Meara is steeped in the modern world. This is not good and it’s a sign of worse things to come.

Now, I’m not an expert on Equal Tuning (ET). However, I know enough of Western music, with its modes and diatonicity, to realize that the latter expanded the possibilities of the former by allowing for better direction and finality due to harmonic progression. Contrary to what the “composer” Dane Rudhyar claims, Western music did not revoke Mysticism. The Western canon is spiritual to the core, from chant up to and including the pathos of  Elektra. Incidentally, I listened to Rudhyar’s “compositions” and they are ugly and miasmic. I thought it wryly humorous that he should speak about the West losing its Mysticism with his cacophonous compositions.

Once O’Meara is done attempting to denigrate the foundations of Western music, he states that the twelve-tone diatonic system is bankrupt and washed up: it’s discordant, it’s anti-Tradition, it’s “merely psychological”, etc. If O’Meara knew anything about Western music, he would know that it goes beyond the mundane. Western music moves the Soul. Actually, it invokes various States. Those who are moved by a Beethoven symphony, a Haydn string quartet, an Ockeghem mass, and a song of courtly love by Machaut, know of what I speak. For example, the last movement of the Pastoral symphony, where the double basses take the melody, makes the music soar, and one feels as if the clouds have been ripped asunder and the Heavenly Host has shown itself in its full glory. This is not mere theatrics. If individuals, bereft of a sense of beauty, cannot see it, then they are blind.

In actuality, O’Meara’s thesis is not novel. Others have besmirched Western music before. O’Meara’s approach, however, is to attack Western music by quoting the school of Sophia Perennis in order to sanctify his agenda. This doesn’t fly as it’s disingenuous and manipulative. A case in point is O’Meara’s homosexuality and probable pederasty. O’Meara is quick to quote and use Guenon to further his agenda; to wit, his viewpoint is in tune with “Aryanism”. Yet, Guenon converted to Islam and moved to Egypt, married an Egyptian woman, and fathered a half-Egyptian daughter. Indeed, Lings, Burkhardt, and Schuon, all big names in Tradition, converted to Islam and even took Islamic names. Next time, when O’Meara raises the issue that the anti-homosexual stance is Abrahamic and not Aryan, why doesn’t he quote Guenon, Lings, Burkhardt, and Schuon, all “Aryans”, in order to see what they think of homosexuality, given their conversion to Islam?

After having attacked Western music and attempting to destroy its edifice, O’Meara calls for a new music. This new music is exemplified by a horrid modernist by the name of Partch. Said modernist, miracle of miracles, is yet another “wild boy”; i.e., a homosexual. As disgusting as homosexuality is, what’s more intolerable, philosophically, ideologically, and aesthetically, is the hubris with which O’Meara pontificates on the merits of Partch. Partch is nothing but a gasbag and a pretentious pseudo-iconoclast. This microtonal moron (like Haba and Harrison, another homosexual) is touted because he developed a new system of music and new instrumentation to go along with it. Big Deal. Experimentation is nothing but another sign of the times. Is it any wonder that Hitler stated, “There shall be no experimentation”?

Experimentation is proof that music, including other fields of cultural expression, are dead and stinking. When an artist must create something novel, for the sake of novelty, then there is no creative spirit present. Hasn’t one witnessed that every degenerate and soporific (at best) “composer” of the modern era has been noted for one hare-brained form of experimentation or another? One can take serialism, minimalism, microtonalism, and their various permutations and amalgams as proof that not one of these turds (how appropriate, given their homosexuality) has anything to say. Further, isn’t it also telling that there is a large degree of perverse sexuality (homosexuality) in these aesthetically horrid circles: Harrison, Cage, Partch, etc.?

A Traditionalist would look to the past and stick with that, refusing to infuse today’s cacophony and faux-music (“folk metal”, for example) to build something new, since the age of creativity in the Arts has passed and said Frankenstein will be a chimera full of monkeyshines. This lack of understanding shows that O’Meara’s utilization of Tradition is flawed. It’s quasi-Tradition raised on rock’n’roll and other types of “pop culture”. All that this ridiculous talk does is, yet again, show that O’Meara and his ilk lack musical refinement while exhibiting, unbeknownst to themselves, the utmost hubris. As a case in point, O’Meara’s third installment on Partch refers to the decomposer as “Our Wagner, Only Better”! My God, what fatuousness!

Speaking of Wagner, he’s considered an idol because the NS, Hitler in particular, made him such at the expense of others. This is a case of sycophantism. In fact, the Right doesn’t know any better, because it, too, lacks knowledge and aesthetic sensitivity, to a large degree. Brahms and other composers who weren’t revered by Hitler and Co. didn’t shine as strongly for the Right as we currently witness. Be that as it may, I agree with Rossini: “Mr. Wagner has beautiful moments, but bad quarters of an hour.”

You who love the Western musical heritage and give it more than cursory lip-service  should be aghast at what this pederast has written. He has an agenda of promoting the most absurd ideas as novel and almost always with some homosexual angle. His “wild boys” are charlatans, hacks, freaks, homosexuals (excuse the redundancy), modernists, and purveyors of ugliness. I have yet to listen to a piece by Partch that can compete with the most nugatory of classical compositions.

The fact that Western youth do not listen to their musical hits and wonderments is not a reason to forego the Musical Masters, but to accept the fact that Western youth are degenerate through and through and must be redeemed. They need the light and they need to be re-acquainted with their heritage. Simulacra of a nadir variety are simply not to be brooked.

Prolegomena

for the new religion for Whites

by Cesar Tort


In a previous thread Stubbs responded to one of my comments:

I have, and I’m not really a theist. I’m more along the lines of Pierce or Heidegger or something. The problem with trying to emulate the NSDAP on this one is that they were able to use a lot of “meta-political” work done prior. They had Kant and Hegel and Nietzsche and so on, which wasn’t ideal but was at least a start.

Their religious dogmatism was mostly limited to things like banning freemasonry or not letting atheists into the SS, which wasn’t “separation of church and state” but wasn’t exactly a reformation either. They had to deal with the same problem as us: ending nihilistic atheism through something besides Christianity. It requires a new way of thinking, but I don’t see how the German people of 1940 could have been ready for it. They hadn’t witnessed the collapse of their entire civilization, they weren’t going to believe that God was dead just because Nietzsche claimed it. Now we know.

Maybe I’m being a little too bombastic; I don’t really care whether “the Spirit proceeds from the Son who proceeds from the Father” or “both the Spirit and the Son proceed from the Father”, but that doesn’t mean religion shouldn’t be debated in the public sphere, as a matter of right and wrong, and not merely a “personal opinion” to be tucked away. I see secularism as a sort of spiritual pacifism, and pacifism on the highest questions (is there a God?) trickles down to even the most basic issues (who are we to say homosexuals can’t marry?).

So let me think of some fundamental questions that need to be answered: Why does it matter if the White race exists, if the rest of the humans are happy? Why does it matter if the White race continues to exist if I personally live my life out in comfort? Why should I be concerned with the White race if it only recently evolved from our ape-like ancestors, knowing that change is a part of the universe? Why should I be concerned with the existence of the White race if every White person is mortal, and preserving each one is futile? Why should I be concerned with preserving the White race if all White people who live will suffer, some horribly, and none would suffer if they were wiped out? Why should I as an individual put effort into helping my race when it’s very unlikely that my personal effort will tip the scales? Why should I bother living at all, if my life is not immediately entertaining to me?

These are big questions. Maybe no one in the 1930s would ask why Germans must survive, but Pierce’s student has become the norm in 2013. I don’t think we can just give a smattering of different reasons and call it good enough. We’re going to need answers, and we’re going to actually need to agree on what the answers are, and how we got them, and that means no separation between religion and politics. Incidentally, this also makes a Christian-pagan-atheist alliance very difficult, and I think each position will have to divorce itself from and, at most, work in parallel with the others. Eventually something will become “king of the hill” and it will flip the world upside-down.

This is my response:

So let me think of some fundamental questions that need to be answered: Why does it matter if the White race exists, if the rest of the humans are happy?

That and the rest of your questions are easy questions—for me. But I acknowledge that trying to respond in a blog entry is extremely difficult (William Pierce tried to ponder along similar lines in the very first of his weekly speeches). The real problem with this topic is that it involves something that we may call “psychoclasses,” a subject I mention in those pages of my book where I try explain psychohistory.

If regarding music you belong to a superior psychoclass to those of the masses, you will find it impossible to “prove” your superiority unless you are a scholar of musical science (see e.g., this response by Roger to one of James’ articles on music at Counter-Currents). I can grasp what Roger says intuitively. But I am not a music scholar. I can’t use language to prove that those who like the crassest forms of pop music are spiritual degenerates. Similarly, it’s all too easy to recognize a beautiful or an ugly face you see in the real world, but when trying to use mere language to describe that face to, say, the police, you will see that you need a visual representation of it.

It is the same regarding your questions above. As I told you in that thread, to me the beauty of the white Aryan woman (some would argue that leptosomatic ephebes fall in this category too) could transform itself into a new myth. To use Michael O’Meara’s words in Toward the White Republic:

For it is myth—and the memories and hopes animating it—that shape a nation, that turn a “motley horde” into a people with a shared sense of purpose and identity, that mobilize them against the state of things, and prepare them for self-sacrifice and self-rule.

Myth, not race realism, not stats on black-on-white crime or an excruciating analysis on the Jewish problem, will create the white ethnostate. Let us not use only those old tones anymore when trying to communicate with the broader population. Remember those words written specifically by Beethoven (rather than Schiller) for his Choral symphony:

Oh friends, not these tones!
Rather, let us raise our voices in more pleasing
And more joyful sounds!

For the emergent individual, classical music is the manifestation of a spiritual stage; the crassest forms of pop music and sexual permissiveness, the manifestation of a degenerative, hedonistic stage. The problem with the new myth that potentially could galvanize Whites is, of course, that like music it cannot be articulated except by means of using the right hemisphere of the brain; in this case, the visual arts.

Terre et Peuple, Blut und Boden

Catalina, the crown of the evolution, a girl I met in 1980

The above illustration comes from the brush of the American painter Maxfield Parrish. That Westerners in general and Americans in particular have been degrading their psyches into descendent spirals since World War 2 is evident when keeping in mind that it was estimated that a copy of one of Parrish’s masterpieces, Daybreak, could be found in one out of every four American households in times when Hitler was in power.

Even later, when I was a child in the 1960s, I remember how the American and British cultures still celebrated spiritually the beauty of the Aryan woman. I was a child when the original Prince Valiant came up in every Sunday paper, a comic-strip where the female characters were depicted as hyper-Nordic beauties and the institution of marriage (and the femininity of women) was solid.

Whites need to evolve, make a quantum leap from their current degeneracy to their previous stage. This cannot be done as some young people in the movement say, by invoking the year of 1936—as the Spanish Civil War was, literally, the last ditch of the Christian era (ask me: who studied in the Madrid High School of Mexico City). Following Hegel’s dialectic I would say that Christian numinousity can be merged within its antithetical secularism, giving birth to a synthesis that would be neither Christian nor secular in the current liberal sense.

Let me finish this post with the last paragraph of my essay “Gitone’s magic,” a sort of Platonic response to Counter-Currents’ explicitly “gay” agenda:

I imagine modifying the Northwest Republic tricolor flag by means of placing the colors horizontally and adding the full image of Parrish’s Garden of Opportunity in its middle. Not because in our search for the inexplicable superiority of the Venusinian we males should try to imitate Gitone or Tadzio, which is impossible. But because only the unreachable archetype of the eternal feminine will lead the white race to the Absolute.

I don’t know why, but I confess that every time I read this last line I find myself almost on the verge of tears…

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