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, forged 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 forged 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…

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

March of the Titans

The following paragraphs of March of the Titans: The Complete History of the White Race by Arthur Kemp caught my attention:

Non-white immigration into the white heartlands

The dominating theme of European history in the last quarter of the 20th Century has been the large-scale immigration of non-White peoples and races into the modern era White heartlands of Europe, Australia/New Zealand and North America. This process has taken place via two avenues: legal immigration and illegal immigration: it is difficult to formulate estimates on which has been the greater. Whatever the channel used, the reality of masses of non-Whites settling in these territories can quite rightly said to be changing the face of these continents.

According to Eurostat (the Statistical Office of the European Communities) in their publication Migration Statistics, 1996, there is not one of the fifteen countries in Western Europe which, at the beginning of 1994, did not have less than 3-10 per cent of what they euphemistically call “non-nationals resident”.

France, Germany, Austria, the Benelux countries, Denmark, Scandinavia and England are all listed as having “non-nationals resident” of more than 10 per cent, with Germany in two regions registered figures of “more than 15 per cent.” An average of between ten and fifteen per cent of “non nationals resident” in Western Europe as of the mid 1990’s is therefore an accurate estimate, given that official figures are always behind actual statistics, as the number of illegal immigrants always closely shadows the number of legal immigrants.

Racial mixing has been extremely prevalent in Britain. According to the 1991 census, taken by the Office for National Statistics in London (ONS), 40 per cent of young Black men in Britain are married to, or live with, a White partner. The trend is less common on the other side of the sexual divide, where one in five young Black women has a partner who is White. Britain has, as a result of this large non-White influx, suffered a large number of Black riots, the most serious of which occurred in 1981, when countrywide riots saw large areas of many inner cities razed to the ground.

According to an article in the newspaper, USA Today of 17 June 1998, the number of mixed-race marriages in the USA was 150,000 in 1960. By 1998 it had increased to “over 1.5 million” and it estimated that the number of mixed-race children in America stood at “over 2 million.”

The 1960s will also go down in history as having introduced one of the most significant factors to affect White numbers in the entire history of the world: the development of the birth control pill, or oral contraceptive, which was first approved for use in the United States in 1965. Social demographic trends have shown that it is only in the Western, White, industrialized countries where contraception is used to any significant degree.

The reproduction rate in White countries (amongst their native populations) has, since the introduction of the pill, dropped to the point where in most White countries it is below the stable replacement rate of 2.4 children per female. In the non-White Third World however, no such restraints exist, and the population grows exponentially as fast as the White population declines in Europe and North America: this demographic time bomb will in the not to distant future have serious consequences for the entire earth.

The resultant massive overpopulation of the non-White lands of the earth provides the major driver for non-White immigration into the White heartlands of Europe, Australia and North America.

Battery Park, NY

Cloaca gentium – Battery Park, New York

Non-nazis are evil

“Men are the devils of the earth, and the animals are its tormented souls.”

—Arthur Schopenhauer

 
Why evil? Because they allowed the more malevolent races to exist and breed and even conquer large parts of the world. Hadn’t most whites become accomplices of the greatest crime of all history, that we might start calling The Hellstorm, by now the Third Reich would have become a massive Empire from the Atlantic to the Urals, which culture and philosophy included the most elemental animal rights.

The Nazis for example prohibited vivisection and said that those who “still think they can continue to treat animals as inanimate property” would be sent to concentration camps. Hadn’t the evil Anglo-Saxons intervened, after the Soviet Union China might have been conquered by the Germans as well: presently the most notorious nation where our brother animals are systematically, and officially, tortured on industrial scales. The below article is taken from PETA, and must be read in the context of my previous post “Animal hell & White sin.”

PETA_logo_2013

When undercover investigators made their way onto Chinese fur farms, they found that many animals are still alive and struggling desperately when workers flip them onto their backs or hang them up by their legs or tails to skin them. When workers on these farms begin to cut the skin and fur from an animal’s leg, the free limbs kick and writhe. Workers stomp on the necks and heads of animals who struggle too hard to allow a clean cut.

When the fur is finally peeled off over the animals’ heads, their naked, bloody bodies are thrown onto a pile of those who have gone before them. Some are still alive, breathing in ragged gasps and blinking slowly. Some of the animals’ hearts are still beating five to ten minutes after they are skinned. One investigator recorded a skinned raccoon dog on the heap of carcasses who had enough strength to lift his bloodied head and stare into the camera.

Before they are skinned alive, animals are pulled from their cages and thrown to the ground; workers bludgeon them with metal rods or slam them on hard surfaces, causing broken bones and convulsions but not always immediate death. Animals watch helplessly as workers make their way down the row.

Undercover investigators from Swiss Animal Protection / EAST International toured fur farms in China’s Hebei Province, and it quickly became clear why outsiders are banned from visiting. There are no penalties for abusing animals on fur farms in China—farmers can house and slaughter animals however they see fit. The investigators found horrors beyond their worst imaginings and concluded, “Conditions on Chinese fur farms make a mockery of the most elementary animal welfare standards. In their lives and their unspeakable deaths, these animals have been denied even the simplest acts of kindness.”

On these farms, foxes, minks, rabbits, and other animals pace and shiver in outdoor wire cages, exposed to driving rain, freezing nights, and, at other times, scorching sun. Mother animals, who are driven crazy from rough handling and intense confinement and have nowhere to hide while giving birth, often kill their babies after delivering litters.

The globalization of the fur trade has made it impossible to know where fur products come from. China supplies more than half of the finished fur garments imported for sale in the United States. Even if a fur garment’s label says it was made in a European country, the animals were likely raised and slaughtered elsewhere—possibly on an unregulated Chinese fur farm.

The only way to prevent such unimaginable cruelty is never to wear any fur.

Alas, this last line of the article only reflects PETA’s cowardice. As I have stated elsewhere, the only way to prevent such cruelty is simply to exterminate the human Neanderthals who perpetrate these crimes. Kill ’em all. (If you have not already discovered them, it’s high time to read my “Dies Irae” and “A postscript to Dies Irae”.)

Animal hell & White sin

cute-bunnies
 

I am shocked. Tonight I went to the grocery store to buy some milk and saw a couple of typical Mexican kids, one with a rabbit in his arms. After talking about bunnies, the smaller kid of about eight years old told me a horror story.

At school his group was taken to a farm in Mexico to see all the farm animals. Unexpectedly, at some place he saw little bunnies, alive, strung up by their ears on wire. They were in excruciating pain, trying to escape by desperately moving, over the air, their little limbs. The older kid, while still carrying the female rabbit, his pet, told me that his brother came back traumatized for what he saw. The owner of the grocery, an old woman, commented that animal cruelty was so common, and that the farm landlords probably didn’t expect that the kids would pass through that specific place.

Exterminable monsters as the Mexican perpetrators of such animal torture may be, Whites are even worse. They are the ones who, like the kids I interviewed today, have exactly the right feelings of compassion that potentially could stop the crime. But they do nothing out of political correctness. With their WMD they could easily conquer Latin America, Africa, etc., and save the animals from hell. Alas, liberal Whites are so sinfully blind that they willfully ignore that, if their race goes extinct, that means hell—literally hell: thousands upon thousands of years of hell!—for the bunnies and the other farm animals that the colored people treat so bad.

Evil is described by Scott Peck as “militant ignorance.” Liberal Whites militantly like to ignore that the radical Other is not just like oneself. Paraphrasing Peck I would say that while most people are conscious of self-delusion at least on some level, evil liberals—i.e., most Whites—actively and militantly refuse elemental consciousness about the radical Other or non-white cultures.

If someone has any doubts about my ultimate dream—as written down in “Dies Irae”—, that billions of humans must die to make the world less hellish, please picture in your mind what these poor creatures are passing through this very moment here in Mexico and in other colored countries.

Liberals have been so astronomically idiotic, so evil; they so desperately want to believe that the colored are just like them, that they are under the impression that non-whites simply treat our brother animals as they do. If I were God I would punish the ones whom I gave most talents—Whites. Instead of making good use of their talents (e.g., conquering á la William Pierce all non-white lands), the white peoples just “went and hid their talents in the ground.”

This day, by the way, I linked “A Postscript to Dies Irae” on the sidebar as “On the morality of dispatching 500 million of degenerate whites.” I believe that such cruelty on lovely creatures should awaken, among the most emergent specimens of Homo sapiens, the same level of hate that I feel.

Hunter – 5

dr_pierce


Excerpted from
William Pierce’s novel
Hunter:





“You said there must be lots of others like you out there, but there aren’t. You’re unique. You don’t like the race mixing that’s going on in this country, so you did something about it. You started blowing away mixed couples. You strangled the biggest promoter of race mixing in the Congress. You blew a committee of race-mixing celebrities to smithereens. There are millions of other people out there who don’t like race mixing either. The last Gallup poll I saw said twenty-seven per cent of White Americans disapprove of marriages between Whites and Blacks, and I personally think that the actual percentage is a good bit higher than that. But what have any of those folks done about it? Nothing. Not a damned thing. Not even the ones who really get steamed when they see a White woman with a nigger. They’ve got no balls. They’ve got no imagination. They’re constitutionally incapable of doing anything original.

”Do you really believe this country’d be in the mess it’s in today if its citizens could think? I mean really think and then act accordingly, like rational individuals. They wouldn’t even have to have balls; all they’d have to do is act rationally in the privacy of the voting booth. What you don’t understand, Yeager, is that they’re not rational individuals; they’re a bunch of fucking animals, and I’m talking about the Ph.Ds and the corporation executives as well as the cab drivers and the housewives. They don’t think; they only feel and react according to a batch of conditioned reflexes.”

“Are you trying to tell me,” Oscar came back with incredulity and defiance in his voice, “that there is no point in trying to educate people, that it does no good at all to point out their errors to them and give them facts?”

“I’m trying to tell you that you can’t educate them—that is, you can’t change their behavior—with pamphlets. The only way to persuade the population of this country that they need to change their ways is to give them a good, hard boot in the ass—about 600 times. They need to be reprogrammed, and that takes order and discipline, not books or leaflets… If you like to read books, then you should be grateful that most men aren’t rational, because it takes a pretty big herd of irrational animals to provide the infrastructure for just one printing press. To be able to afford one philosopher we need a million drones operating on their conditioned reflexes. So be happy that people have to be manipulated instead of educated. That’s the way the Lord designed things. The government accepts that and acts accordingly—at least, this part of the government does,” he said, tapping his chest with his thumb.

“If it offends your humanist sensibilities to reform the behavior of the American people with hunger and the toe of a boot and the threat of a bullet, then there are gentler methods, more ‘educational’ methods. If you had the television networks under your control you could feed the public a new brand of pablum and accomplish in twenty or thirty years a part of what needs to be done. That is, you could change the content of the ‘ideas’ that they parrot back and forth to each other. You could have them wringing their hands over what’s happening to the Palestinians and demanding a boycott of Israel, instead of demonstrating against South Africa. You could chase the queers and the other freaks back into the closet. You could cut race mixing down to almost nothing. Ryan placed his hand on Oscar’s arm and assumed a fatherly tone. “Anyway, since you don’t control the television networks, we’re going to have to do things my way. Be glad that you have a chance to help. It’s not often in history that two rational men are able to work together on a project so worthwhile. And, for Christ’s sake, forget about pamphlets.”

He paused again, “A couple of minutes ago you estimated that fewer than one per cent of the White people in this country are interested enough in what’s happening in the world around them to read a pamphlet. That’s not far off the mark. Most of our fellow citizens have absolutely no sense of civic or racial responsibility. It’s as if they believed that the world outside their own skins is only a sideshow for their personal amusement. What do you call that—solipsism?

”Anyway, nearly all the ones who do get involved politically are just conforming to the social pressures on their particular segment of society; they shout the same slogans that the people around them are shouting, and just as mindlessly. Almost no one is involved in a cause because he has carefully considered the situation, decided that something needs to be done, and taken upon himself the responsibility to do it, either independently or as part of a group. To me that’s what defines a human being: his acceptance of responsibility. By that standard most people are simply animals—thinking animals, but still animals, without the essence of humanity.”

Oscar felt the hairs rising on the back of his neck as Harry’s words recalled those he had so recently heard from Ryan. It was uncanny, he thought, that two men as different as William Ryan and Harry Keller—one a sworn defender of the regime, eager to use the most extreme measures against its enemies, and the other dedicated to the overthrow of that regime because of its racially destructive policies—should express the same, shockingly unorthodox view of the great bulk of their fellow men. While Oscar marveled to himself over this coincidence, Harry continued speaking:

“Our task now is to educate and recruit human beings—only human beings. We don’t need a mass movement for that. In fact, we can’t build or control a mass movement until we have a much stronger organization of responsible people… ah, excuse me again, until we have many more responsible friends working together. So it’s that fraction of a per cent we’re after now, the few who’re a little closer to the threshold than the rest.”

“Threshold?” Oscar asked. “In the Nietzschean sense,” Harry replied. “The threshold between animal and man—or between man and higher man, if you prefer. In any case, between the unconscious and irresponsible on one side and the conscious, responsible preparers of the way for the Superman on the other side.”

“I see,” Oscar nodded. “But I suppose the Nietzschean term which seems to me more fitting is ‘abyss’—the Abgrund which man must cross between the animal and the Superman. My impression is that the transition is not so sharp as ‘threshold’ implies, but rather that it’s more strung out, like Zarathustra’s ‘rope over an abyss.’ In myself, for example, I recognize a mixture of the unconscious and the conscious. Sometimes when I’m searching for the truth I feel as if I’m groping through a dense fog. Everything isn’t completely dark; I’m conscious of some things. But other things are so dim that I can hardly make them out; I can’t quite grasp them in my consciousness. I suspect that there are a lot of other people out there to whom it would be inaccurate to refer as ‘animals,’ because they have at least the barest glimmerings of consciousness, the barest beginnings of a sense of responsibility—some more and some less.”

As Oscar spoke, a broad smile lit Harry’s face. “So! A fellow Nietzschean!” He grasped Oscar’s arm, genuinely pleased. A momentary smile flitted across Oscar’s face in response to Harry’s reaction, but it immediately gave way to a frown, and he said, “I believe also that I prefer to think of the more irresponsible members of our race as children instead of as animals. You say that the possession of a sense of responsibility is what distinguishes the human being from the animal, but one can make the same distinction between adults and children instead.”

“If you wish,” Harry waved his hand. “But a child normally grows into adulthood. Most members of the generation alive today will go to their graves with no more sense of responsibility than when they were born.”

Quotable quote

The disappointed one speaks. I searched for great human beings; I always found only apes of their ideals.

—Nietzsche

Published in: on August 24, 2013 at 10:07 am  Comments (2)  

Follow my yellow brick road

Today is my birthday so I will indulge myself a little in my typical ethnocidal fantasies.

Recently I watched the 1939 film The Wizard of Oz after decades of not seeing it (as a small child), based on the 1900 novel by L. Frank Baum, and the thought occurred to me that each day I realize more that I have little to do with “white nationalism.” I am closer to the historical Himmler; not the fictional Himmler in the effeminate WN literature in denial that he did dispatch millions of der Juden (while the Enemy was committing a Holocaust of Germans).

In my previous entry of today I quote from Faith and Action (1938) by Helmut Stellrecht for the Hitler Youth, and a single line caught my attention very strongly: “He loves the animals that are tortured and tormented in other countries.”

A caricature from Kladderadatsch of September 1933 depicted lab animals, including white rabbits, giving the Nazi salute to Hermann Göring for his order to ban vivisection. My hero Göring prohibited vivisection and said that those who “still think they can continue to treat animals as inanimate property” will be sent to concentration camps.

But the West ganged upon poor Germany right after The Wizard of Oz was premiered and, as Stellrecht implied, in other countries the torture continued.

As you know, I live in Mexico. Every time I learn about how these slightly mesticized Amerinds literally torture the cows in the butchering houses, and continue to perform vivisections on my beloved bunnies and other animals, I cannot but remember Frank Baum’s words. His solution is the only way to put a final, screeching halt to the torture of the animals I love:

With his fall [Sitting Bull] the nobility of the Redskin is extinguished… The Whites, by law of conquest, by justice of civilization, are masters of the American continent, and the best safety of the frontier settlements will be secured by the total annihilation of the few remaining Indians. Why not annihilation? We cannot honestly regret their extermination…

Yes: these are the wise thoughts of the famous author of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz; words that appeared in Saturday Pioneer, December 20, 1890. Just compare Baum’s words with the effeminate, politically-correct pronunciations of the “White” and “Southern” nationalists of today, ready to use Judaic epithets like “sociopaths” and “psychopaths” for any white who dares to think like old Uncle Frank.

Neochristian white nationalism must die. The spirit of William Pierce must live instead. This is why I am posting, and will continue to post in WDH, entries about Nietzsche (let’s transvaluate Christian axiology) and the New Testament as well. As long as, contrary to uncles Frank and Bill, the current generation of “Nationalists” sticks to the old axiology, white Americans will continue to travel on the (red) road to extinction.

follow yellow road

My birthday advice: Start following my yellow brick road if you don’t want to see the U.S. completely turned into the African-American interpretation of The Wizard of Oz.

Hunter – 1

dr_pierce


Excerpted from
William Pierce’s novel
Hunter, which depicts one man’s attempt to right the wrongs in society by murdering interracial couples:



Oscar mused on the difference between his own system of values and that which seemed to be the norm—or at least that which was enunciated by the media spokesmen. They talked about individual rights and equality and the sanctity of life. To them, a flat-nosed, mud-colored, wiry-haired mongrel spawned by one of the mixed-race couples he had been shooting down was as precious as a golden-haired, blue-eyed little girl who might grow up to be another Adelaide. More precious, actually. Despite their prattle about “equality,” it was clear to Oscar that their vision of the future was one in which the mud-colored mongrels would inherit the earth.

He shuddered involuntarily.

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