Open thread:

Is Charles Manson good for Hitler’s 88 words?

Below I’ve cut and pasted my response to Joseph Walsh in the previous thread, whom I met in London five years ago. He said:

On Charles Manson, I remember you quoting Jake F. saying Atomwaffen Division members were “unhinged, to say the least” but at the same time you are a Mexican who wants the genocide of 99% of humans including all Mexicans so society would of course see you as “unhinged, to say the least”.

I am not a Mexican. Click on my avatar and you’ll see me as a baby. The overwhelming majority of Mexicans don’t look like that as babies. The overwhelming majority of Mexicans are Christians. I am not. Mexicans of the upper class are liberals, even the Catholics. I am not a liberal. The overwhelming majority of Mexicans eat meat. I do not, nor do I like football as they do.

I come from parents who in the early 1960s were premiering orchestra pieces at Utica, New York with my father as the composer and my mother as the piano interpreter of my dad’s symphonic music. The overwhelming majority of Mexicans are not heirs of classical music, not even remotely.

As to ‘unhinged’, my philosophy is as unhinged as that declaration of Schopenhauer that it’s better that suffering mankind should be called home, or as Bertrand Russell’s statements that all of mankind should be exterminated. Unlike pessimist Russell, I am only saying that the most beautiful whites, with empathy toward the animals, must be spared from such exterminationist fantasies. That still may sound unhinged to the majority of ears, but could it be common sense from the POV of an ET mind? (cf. Arthur C. Clarke’s last words in Report on Planet Three).

I think you tend to overestimate your importance. Most of what you publish on your blog is writings from other people, you have not really said anything too original but rather summarized modern Aryan ideology. If the Aryan race does become extinct it won’t be because it didn’t read the blog of a Mexican!

True. But my really original stuff is my 1,600-page book trilogy that, after I finish my backup PDFs, I may start to translate.

Sometimes you come across as pompous and it wouldn’t surprise me if you eventually shut down comments altogether and just talk to yourself.

I only reject those comments that, as Mauricio says above, demoralise the true Aryan; those silly pro-Christian comments after they’re told repeatedly to stop their preaching; those Meds who openly resort to insult because of my Nordicism (Dr. Morales), and a troll from Florida who uses many sockpuppets and who I believe was also banned in other racialist forums.

I notice you are friendly to people when you like what they’re saying but then you cast them off as soon as they’ve outlived their usefulness.

Examples please? As Evropa Soberana does in his site, I could have not allowed a single comment since 2011. But I’ve allowed thousands of them. I now believe that Vig was right: time matters. Sometimes I even suspect that the pessimists like Devan are not ethnically Aryans and just come here to demoralize the would-be soldiers. Other times I find out that they are mudbloods that hate me because of my Nordicism.

Though you portray yourself as some inheritor to the National Socialist legacy this is nonsense as non-Aryans can have nothing to do with National Socialism.

I portray myself as an admirer of NS, not as a National Socialist. Even the real Nazis admitted some Spaniards from the Franco regime to fight in a battle, right? What’s wrong with that?

Moreover what you endorse (The Turner Diaries solution) was not something Hitler would endorse. National Socialism and C.T.’s ideology are two different things.

Of course. NS thrived before the West’s darkest hour. Now that the darkest time has already come, and that the age of treason is everywhere, it’s time for a scorched-Earth policy.

And while you talk about kooks who believe in conspiracy theories I believe you followed cults and paranormal nonsense up until your 40’s.

Until the early 1990s to be precise, when I was in my early thirties. I did not believe in parapsychology for character flaws, but because, as I’ve explained elsewhere, I was tortured at seventeen and needed a defence mechanism.

But the real point is that, in times before the internet, it was virtually impossible to obtain the right information. I mentioned above November 1989. Major CSI figures visited Mexico City in that month. Finally, I could read the sceptical books they brought here from the US.

Unlike you I awoke when I was 13 and…

How can Neo unplug himself from the Matrix if no Morpheus contacts him through the internet? Did you awake thanks to the internet? If not, even in London pro-white info used to be far more reachable than in Mexico before the age of the internet! Yours is reasoning under a false analogy.

I have been interested in the white race since I was 17. I’m now 31.

So you were born in the late 1980s. I was interested in the white race since Second Grammar School, that is 1966, when I was 8/9-years-old, as I confess in the last book of my trilogy.

That means much more time to develop my thoughts unlike you who only awoke in 2008 when you were 50.

By ‘awakening at fifty’ I meant that before that year I did not even know that white nationalism existed or any website defending the West. I started to awake by the end of 2008, as soon as I discovered that info on the internet. Before I started to use the internet, the germane info I used to get in Mexico was almost zilch compared to the info an average American gets in the US. The main pro-white figures are not mentioned, ever, in the Mexican media. Conversely, the Phil Donahue Show at least interviewed Jared Taylor in the 1990s; 60 Minutes also interviewed William Pierce long ago, etc.

And you can put down the Charles Manson… but the future belongs to the white youth and those whites being born at present, not old Mexican boomers.

I’ve never claimed that any Mexican (a real Mexican I mean) should or will inherit the Earth. Rather, my point is that none of the Charles Manson fans—not one of them—has ever provided in this site, or in the book Siege, any rational argument as to why Manson is good for the 14 words. The only thing I hear from them is a blind admiration with no rationale for such admiration.

Perhaps I should add a new post with the title: ‘Open thread: Why is Manson good for Hitler’s 88 words?’ I bet none will advance a single compelling argument, even if I add no further post tomorrow to give critics a chance to focus on the hatnote question above…

On butcher Simón Bolívar

Editor’s note: My comment today mentioning gorilla Hugo Chávez makes me think that folks in the alt-right are also clueless about other anti-white ‘liberators’ of Latin America. The following is a Spanish-English translation of an interview with historian Pol Victoria:
 

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Simón Bolívar [left, a recent facial reconstruction] has become an almost religious reference. There are even political regimes that call themselves ‘Bolivarian’. The Venezuelan regime has made him a demigod. But who was really Bolivar? Was he the spotless hero sold by Bolivarian propaganda today?

The truth is, no. On the contrary, Bolivar’s career is covered in blood.

Let us place ourselves: from 1808, when Napoleon invaded Spain, the Spanish viceroyalties of America first revolted against the French and then proclaimed their own independence. It was not a war of young oppressed nations against an old invading empire: it was rather a civil war between supporters of independence and supporters of the Crown (the ‘realists’).

In present-day Venezuela, the fight was so bloody that Simón Bolívar declared the ‘war to the death’ against the royalists, and applied it to the letter. After the battle of the Tinaquillo, in August of 1813, he destroyed a series of towns and passed through the arms all the ‘Europeans and Canary Islanders’ [i.e., the whitest Iberians living in the Americas], as he called the royalists.

In September of that same year he dictated forced recruitment and shot those who refused to take up arms. He then shot 69 Spaniards without trials. In December 1813 he defeated the diminished royalist army in Acarigua and ordered the killing of 600 prisoners. On February 8, 1814 he dispatched the Spanish prisoners of Caracas, Valencia and La Guaira: about 1,200 civilians, mostly merchants, and he ordered that ‘all imprisoned Spaniards immediately are passed through the arms, even in hospitals, without exception’.

As gunpowder was scarce, it was resolved to kill them with sabre and spear blows, and by crushing their heads with large stones. The elderly and disabled were taken to the gallows tied to their chairs. Despite the pleas of the archbishop of Caracas, Bolívar consumed the massacre. The last part of the carnage reports that those who were sick in the hospital were also executed.

These are just a few episodes in Simón Bolívar’s bloody career; without a doubt, the most cruel and ruthless of the Latin American ‘liberators’. It would also be necessary to recount the murder of the shipwrecks of a Spanish ship on Margarita Island; the criminal looting of Santa Fe, and the murder of the prisoners after the battle of Boyacá.

Interestingly, today Simón Bolívar has a statue in the Parque del Oeste, in Madrid [i.e., not only Americans; most Iberian whites are clueless too].

Published in: on July 31, 2019 at 2:53 pm  Comments (1)  

On ‘Private Hudson’ commenters

Vig once asked me how I endured answering so patiently what the commenters were telling me. Indeed: since I modified the comments options, and now every comment has to be approved, I’ve been saving good time since I’m not approving every comment.

I must say that there are issues that have bothered me greatly about the character of even the most intelligent commenters. One of them who used to comment here, a ‘Stubbs’ (‘Vance Stubbs’ at VNN Forum) suddenly stopped doing so in 2015 without giving any explanation, and he did not even answer my personal message.

Other commenters are intelligent on many issues but cease to be so when it comes up, be it conspiracy theories (9/11 or JFK), or a psychotic admiration for Charles Mason: as can be seen in a loonie Unz Review article. In many respects, the racialists who post in the alt-right forums are still normies. They are clueless about the logical fallacies inherent in conspiracy theories because, unlike me, they have not studied magical thinking. (*)

But what I like most about the fact that all the comments are now on moderation is that I no longer let the pessimists pass so easily. I refer to those who claim, almost dogmatically, that everything is lost for the white race. They remind me of Private Hudson in the movie Aliens that I watched in a Marin County theatre in 1987:

The spirit of the true soldier is to fight even against all odds, as did those who survived in the movie. That is not the spirit of the defeatists who used to comment here, and I’m glad they can no longer do it.

________

(*) From November 1989 I began to familiarise myself with the CSI’s magazines and books: research that culminated in 1997 when I lived in Houston. I will never forget a JFK conference by CSI in Seattle, which I attended in 1994. Many years before Vincent Bugliosi published his 2007 book debunking the conspiracy theories about the murder of JFK it was already known that they were as crazy as Fake Moon Landing theories.

________

Update: On August 7 commenter Stubbs replied thus:

[…] Also I apologize for leaving so abruptly, that was rude of me. There wasn’t much to it, I just got busy and didn’t have nearly so much time to read or write. I think I just deleted your PM because it was old by the time I read it, but I still should have sent something back. I didn’t mean to come off as derisive or anything.

Goebbels quote

What does Christianity mean today?

National Socialism is a religion.

All we lack is a religious genius capable of uprooting outmoded religious practices and putting new ones in their place.

We lack traditions and ritual. One day soon National Socialism will be the religion of all Germans. My Party is my church, and I believe I serve the Lord best if I do his will, and liberate my oppressed people from the fetters of slavery.

That is my gospel.

Published in: on July 30, 2019 at 4:49 pm  Comments (4)  

A new religion for whites, 5

by Kevin Alfred Strom

This week we continue to explore the idea of a new religion for racially-conscious White people; and we return again to National Socialist Germany. As I said several weeks ago of that nation:

With profounder ideals and a stronger will than any other leadership structure of any other society for thousands of years at least, Germany ultimately sought to spiritually shepherd the unique expression of the Life Force and the growing consciousness that is our race through the dangers of the 20th century and beyond.

Today we go beyond the spiritual awakenings that took place there, and look with muted awe at the tragic apparent end of National Socialist Germany and the death—and undying spirit—of National Socialism’s founder, Adolf Hitler. Was his life and death the beginning of a new religious tradition?

From the life of Siddhartha Gautama to the beginnings of modern organized Buddhism, centuries passed. Three hundred years elapsed between the first stories of Jesus and the founding of Christianity. From the Mycenaean origins of the Eleusinian Mysteries to the Greek celebration of them there passed nearly a thousand years. Adolf Hitler died just eleven years before I was born. We are just at the beginning.

 

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The Death and Undying Spirit of Adolf Hitler

by Savitri Devi

Others have described—or tried to describe—far better than I (who was not on the spot) ever could, the last days of the Third German Reich: the irresistible advance of the two frantic invading armies (and of their respective auxiliaries) into the heart of the land, in which years of unheard-of bombardment had left nothing but ruins; the terror of the last and fiercest air raids that disorganized everything, while streams and streams of refugees kept pouring westward (realizing that they had, in spite of all, less to fear from the Americans—enemies of National Socialism with no faith to put in its place—than from the Russians, who were fighting in full awareness of their allegiance to the contrary faith); the horror of the last desperate battles, intended to immobilize for a while an enemy that one now knew to be the winner; and the moral breakdown—the frightening, blank hopelessness, the bitter feeling of having been mocked and cheated—of millions in whose hearts faith in National Socialism had been inseparable from the certitude of Germany’s invincibility: the moral ruins, even more tragic and more lasting than the material ones.

Others have described or tried to describe the horror of the last days of Berlin under the relentless fire of the Russian guns—Berlin which, seen from above, “looked like the crater of an immense volcano.” (These are the words of the well-known German airwoman, Hanna Reitsch, who saw it.) In the midst of the capital ablaze, stood the broad and yet untouched gardens of the Chancellery of the Reich. There, surrounded by a few of his faithful ones in his bunker, underground, Adolf Hitler, the man against time, lived the apparent end of all his life’s work and of all his dreams, and the beginning of his people’s long martyrdom. More or less accurate reports have reached the outer world about his last known gestures and words. But nobody has described in all its more-than-human grandeur the last, real, inner phase—the tragic failure, and yet (considered from a standpoint exceeding by far that of the politician) the culmination—of his dedicated life.

In August Kubizek’s biography of him as a young man, there is a passage too significant for me not to quote it nearly in extenso. It is the description of a walk to the Freienberg (a hill overlooking Linz) in the middle of the night, just after the future Führer and his friend had attended together, at the opera, a performance of Richard Wagner’s Rienzi. “We were alone,” writes Kubizek. “The town had sunk below us into the fog. As though he were moved by an invisible force, Adolf Hitler climbed to the top of the Freienberg. I now realized that we no longer stood in solitude and darkness, for above us shone the stars.

“Adolf stood before me. He took both my hands in his and held them tight—a gesture that he had never yet made. I could feel from the pressure of his hands how moved he was. His eyes sparkled feverishly. The words did not pour from his lips with their usual easiness, but burst forth harsh and passionate. I noticed by his voice even more than by the way in which he held my hands how the episode he had lived (the performance of Rienzi) had shattered him to the depths.

“Gradually, he began to speak more freely. The words came with more speed. Never before and also never since have I heard Adolf Hitler speak like he did then, as we stood alone under the stars as though we had been the only two creatures on earth.

“It is impossible for me to repeat the words my friend uttered in that hour.

“Something quite remarkable, which I had not noticed before, even when he spoke to me with vehemence, struck me at that moment: It was as though another self spoke through him; another self, from the presence of which he was as moved as I was. In no way could one have said of him (as it sometimes happens, in the case of brilliant speakers) that he was intoxicated with his own words. On the contrary! I had the feeling that he experienced with amazement, I would say, that he was himself possessed by that which burst out of him with elemental power. I do not allow myself a comment on that observation. But it was a state of ecstasy, a state of complete trance, in which, without mentioning it or the instance involved in it, he projected his experience of the Rienzi performance into a glorious vision upon another plane, congenial to himself. More so: The impression he had received from that performance was merely the external Impulse that had prompted him to speak. Like a flood breaks through a dam which has burst, so rushed the words from his mouth. In sublime, irresistible images, he unfolded before me his own future and that of our people.

“Till then I had been convinced that my friend wanted to become an artist, a painter, or an architect. In that hour there was no question of such a thing. He was concerned with something higher, which I could not yet understand . . . He now spoke of a mission that he was one day to receive from our people, in order to guide them out of slavery, to the heights of freedom . . . Many years were to pass before I could realize what that starry hour, separated from all earthly things, had meant to my friend.”

Calmer now, amid the thunder of explosions and the noise of crumbling buildings—the flames and ruins of the Second World War—than then, at the top of the Freienberg, under the stars; freed from the temporary wild despair that had seized him at the news of the Russian advance west of the Oder River, Adolf Hitler beheld the future. And that future—his own and that of National Socialism and that of Germany, which had now become, forever, the fortress of the new faith—was nothing less than eternity; the eternity of truth, more unshakable (and more soothing) in its majesty even than that of the Milky Way.

The Russians could come, and their “gallant Allies” from the West could meet them and rejoice with them upon the ashes of the Third Reich (as Winston Churchill and his daughter Sarah, who were actually to be seen a few days later giggling with Russian officers before the skeleton of the Reichstag); Berlin could be wiped out—or bolshevized—and Germany, cut in two or in four, could, for years and years, suffer such an ordeal as no nation in history had yet suffered. In spite of all, National Socialism, the modern expression of cosmic truth, would endure and conquer.

National Socialism would rise again because it is true to cosmic reality and because that which is true does not pass. Germany’s via dolorosa was indeed the way to coming glory. It had to be taken, if the privileged nation was to fulfill her mission absolutely, i.e., if she was to be the nation that died for the sake of the highest human race, which she embodied, and that would rise again to take the lead of those surviving Aryans who are—at last!—to understand her message of life and to carry it with them into the splendor of the dawning Golden Age.

Oh, now—now under the ceaseless fire and thunder of the Russian artillery; now, on the brink of disaster—how the man against time clearly understood this!

Above him and above the smoke of the Russian cannons and of the burning city, above the noise of explosions, millions and millions of miles away, the stars—those same stars that had shed their light over the adolescent’s first prophetic ecstasy forty years before—sparkled in all their glory, in the limitless void. And the man against time, who could not see them, knew that his National Socialist wisdom, founded upon the very laws of life; his wisdom that this doomed world had cursed and rejected, was and would remain, in spite of all, as unassailable and everlasting as their everlasting dance.

Darkening Age, 26

Shenoute the Great, a.k.a. Saint Shenoute the Archimandrite (347-465 C.E.), the abbot of the White Monastery in Egypt, is considered a saint by the Oriental Orthodox Churches, and is one of the most renowned saints of the Coptic Orthodox Church.

In ‘Merciful Savagery’, chapter fifteen of The Darkening Age: The Christian Destruction of the Classical World, Catherine Nixey wrote:
 

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Monks—anonymous, rootless, untraceable—were able to commit atrocities with near impunity. ‘Our angels’ some Christians called them. Rubbish, said non-Christians. They were not angels but ignorant, boorish thugs, men in appearance only who ‘led the lives of swine, and openly did and allowed countless unspeakable crimes’. As the author Eunapius wrote with sardonic distaste: ‘in those days every man who wore a black robe and consented to behave in unseemly fashion in public, possessed the power of a tyrant, to such a pitch of virtue had the human race advanced!’ Even a wholeheartedly Christian emperor mutedly observed that ‘the monks commit many crimes’…

For as they went through the door, the monks found themselves in a room whose air was heavy with incense and where the light of numerous lamps glimmered on countless carved surfaces: they were in a chamber full of heathen idols. Here was a statue of the lecherous parricide Zeus; there was one of Zeus’s father, Kronos; there was the deceitful Hecate…

They smashed the statues and threw the broken fragments in. The waters swirled, then swallowed the remnants of Gessius’s paganism without a trace. A nest of Satan had been emptied.

Later, when Shenoute was criticized for breaking and entering into another man’s house, he was utterly intransigent. ‘There is no crime,’ he declared, ‘for those who have Christ.’

The laws of the land may not have mattered to Shenoute. The laws of his monastery were, on the other hand, to be obeyed at all times. And there were a lot of them.

More than five hundred rules circumscribed every aspect of Shenoute’s monks’ lives from the moment they got up, just before dawn, to the moment that they went to sleep, and everything they did in between. There were rules on what the monks wore; what they ate (precious little, mainly bread); when they ate (infrequently); when they prayed (relentlessly); how they prayed (audibly); where they had their hands when they prayed (emphatically, for some reason, not near their ribs); how they slept (alone and without erotic desire); how they washed (infrequently, without looking at one another’s bodies or their own); whether or not they shaved (absolutely not, except with permission, for: ‘Cursed shall be any who shaves himself…’); and even where they defecated. As one rule (that perhaps raises more questions than it answers) explained: if anyone needs to ‘defecate into a pot or a jar or any other vessel… they shall ask the Male Eldest’. Once inside a monastery, the monk’s life was no longer his own…

The monastery even controlled minds—or attempted to. From the moment of waking, monks in Shenoute’s monastery were rarely at rest, their days filled with a punishing regime of physical work and prayer. They were even more rarely silent. Lest their minds wander onto ungodly paths as they performed the tedious basket-weaving that was a monk’s lot, they were encouraged to chant constantly—prayers, or passages of scripture—anything at all. Just as the weaving chained hands, keeping them from sin, so the chanting chained wandering minds. It has been said that the monastery at work would have sounded like nothing so much as a swarm of bees in flight.

Why did people sign up for such an unappealing life? It is possible that they didn’t know the full extent of its austerity when they joined. Monks who entered Shenoute’s monastery were not presented with a comprehensive contract at the door, or read their rights upon arrival. Instead, monastic discipline was more of a revealed religion; the full extent of the White Monastery laws being only slowly explained to each new entrant, little by little, once they were already inside. This may have been less Machiavellian than it sounds: to hear all the laws in one go would have made for a long evening. Nevertheless, by the time monks fully realized the form of their new life they would—now bereft of their money, their land and even their own clothes—have been almost powerless to leave it.

Once a monk had given himself to his new monastic master he had to obey him—or face the consequences. Numerous rules begin with the formulation ‘Cursed be…’ Cursed were those who didn’t give all their wealth to the monastery; cursed were those who shaved without having been ordered to; cursed were those who looked at another monk with desire. If a monk ate, say, the forbidden fruit of cucumber at the wrong time then, the law informed him, ‘he sins’. At least sixty of the rules were devoted to sexual transgressions. Looking desirously at the nakedness of your neighbour while he washed was wrong; as was staring ‘with desirous feeling’ at your own nakedness; those who sat ‘close to one’s neighbour with a filthy desire in their heart’ were also cursed’.

Note that last one: ‘with a filthy desire in their heart’. No sin had been committed. The mere intention of sin was now a sin in itself. In Shenoute’s monastery even thoughts were policed. ‘Can any hide himself in secret places that I shall not see him?’ the Lord had asked. The answer from the White Monastery at least was a resounding no. As this new generation of hard-line Christian preachers constantly reminded their congregations in fierce, hectoring speeches, there was nowhere to hide from the all-seeing eyes of the Lord…

Religious intensity was not new. Greece and Rome had known those who took religion to extremes and who had gone about their lives feeling humbled and crushed by fear of the gods. Generally, though, religious fervour had been a private passion—and it had kept within the confines of the law. But as Christianity gained control, religiosity started to become a public duty and would, with self-righteous pride, overstep the boundaries of the law. Some of the most important thinkers of the era supported such behaviour. If necessary, one must make oneself obnoxious. One must stop at nothing—even harming other people—in the service of the Lord. There is, after all, no crime for those who have Christ.

To punish a sinner violently, to flog them, beat them, make them bleed—this was not to harm them but to help them, by saving them from worse punishments to come. Shenoute worried that if he didn’t beat the monks in his care then he was offending God. Punishments used against erring Christians even in Augustine’s time ranged from the confiscation of property to being barred from church, beatings, and floggings with rods. It is better, said Augustine, ‘with severity to love, than with gentleness to deceive’. This was not cruelty. Did not the shepherd bring wandering sheep back to the flock with his rod? The Church, he wrote, ‘persecutes in the spirit of love’.

This was holy violence. Jesus may have told his followers that they should, when struck by an aggressor on their right cheek, offer him the other, but his fourth- and fifth-century followers were less forgiving. As John Chrysostom explained, if a Christian happens to hear someone blaspheme then, far from turning their own cheek, they should ‘go up to him and rebuke him; and should it be necessary to inflict blows, spare not to do so. Smite him on the face; strike his mouth; sanctify thy hand with the blow.’ Murder committed for the sake of God, argued one writer, was not a crime but actually ‘a prayer’.

Some of Chrysostom and Shenoute’s methods of control would be mirrored, a hundred or so years later, for very similar reasons, in imperial law. When the emperor Justinian came to power in AD 527, he set about reforming the morals of his subjects with a zeal and a legal thoroughness as yet unseen. He had a good incentive: if he did not punish them then, he firmly believed, God would punish him.

Civil officials now found themselves required to enforce laws about what went on in private homes. Church officials found themselves pressed into service as de facto spies. Roman emperors had always used informers—delatores. Now, they were put to the service of the Church. Men of all ranks were required to become informers. Any breach of the laws was to be reported.

Bishops were required to become the emperor’s spies and report back on their fellow officials. If they refused or failed in their duties, then they themselves would be held accountable. Among those whom the clergy were tasked with reporting on were actors, actresses and, as one revealing little law added, prostitutes ‘who wore monastic habits’. The punishments could be terrible. If a nurse aided and abetted an affair of a young woman in her charge, she would be punished by having molten lead poured down her throat. Correction was paramount. Justinian, as the chronicler Procopius put it, was determined to ‘close all the roads which lead to error’.

Julian, 72

XI

On 22 June I left Vienne at the head of an army of twelve thousand men—cuirassiers, crossbowmen and infantry. The whole town came out to see us off. Florentius radiated irony, while Marcellus could hardly disguise his amusement. I am sure that they thought this was the last they would see of me. Helena bade me farewell with stoic dignity. She was the essence of a Roman matron, quite prepared for me to return upon my shield.

It was a sunny day as we rode out of the city. On my right was Sallust and on my left Oribasius. Directly in front of me a standard-bearer carried a hideously lifelike image of Constantius, crowned and wearing the imperial robe. My cousin had recently sent me this effigy, with a long set of instructions on how I was to show it off. He also reminded me that I had not been sent to Gaul as monarch but as a representative of the Emperor whose principal task was to display the imperial robe and image to the people. Despite this small humiliation, I was in high spirits as we took to the road.

We arrived at Autun 26 June. On that same day I defeated the Germans and set the city free. Note to secretary: At this point insert relevant chapter from my book, The Gallic Wars. It should be that section which covers the campaign from Autun to Auxerre to Troyes to Rheims, where I passed the month of August.

Priscus: As Julian described, Sallust on his right, Oribasius on his left, and myself just behind.

His official account of the campaign is generally accurate. From Julius Caesar on, commanders tend to give themselves the best of it in their memoirs, but Julian was usually honest. Of course he tended not to mention his mistakes.

He does not tell how he lost the better part of a legion through carelessness: he sent them through a forest where he had been warned that there were Germans… and there were Germans. But in general, Julian was a cautious commander. He seldom committed a man unless he was certain that the odds were in his favour. Or so the experts assure us. I know practically nothing of military matters, even though I served with Julian both in Gaul and Persia. I was not of course a soldier, though I did fight from time to time, with no pleasure. I experienced none of that blood lust he referred to some pages back, a rather surprising admission because in conversation Julian never once admitted to a liking for war.

Sallust took care of all details. He was most capable and in every way an admirable man. Too admirable, perhaps? One often had the feeling that he was playing a part (usually that of Marcus Aurelius); he was invariably demure and diffident and modest and sensible, all those things the world believes it admires. Which is the point. Less self-conscious men invariably have traits we do not admire. The good and the bad are all mixed together. Sallust was all good. That must have taken intense self- discipline as well as the awareness that he was indeed trying to be something he was not. But no matter what his motives, he was impressive, and a good influence on Julian.

Julian lifted the siege at Autun. He then marched north to Auxerre. He rested there a few days. He always took every possible opportunity to refresh his troops, unlike so many generals who drive them past their strength. From Auxerre we moved to Troyes. This was a difficult journey. We were continually harassed by Germans. They are a frightening-looking people, tall and muscular, with long hair dyed bright red, a tribal custom. They dress pretty much like us, wearing armour pilfered from Roman corpses. In open country, they are easily vanquished, but in forests they are dangerous.

At Troyes we spent several hours outside the walls trying to explain to the frightened garrison that we were not Germans and that this was indeed the Caesar. Finally Julian himself, with that “hideously lifelike” image of Constantius beside him, ordered the people to open the gates.

We stayed at Troyes a day. Then we moved on to Rheims. Julian had previously agreed with Florentius that the main army of Gaul would be concentrated there in August, preparatory to retaking Cologne. So Marcellus was already at Rheims when we got there. Shortly after we arrived, a military council was called. Weary from the long ride and longing for the baths, I accompanied Julian and Sallust to the meeting.

Marcellus was hardly pleased to find Julian so obviously thriving on military life. When Julian inquired if the troops were ready, he was told that they were not. When would they be ready? Evasion. Finally: a major offensive was not possible this year.

Then Julian rose and lied with the genius of a Ulysses. I could hardly believe my ears. He spoke first in sorrow. “I had hoped to find all of you here eager and ready to fight the tribes. Instead, I find nothing is planned and we are on the defensive, as usual.” Marcellus began to mutter dangerously but Julian was in full flow. You know what he was like when the spirit (often identified as Helios) was upon him.

“I was sent here, General, by the divine Emperor to show his image to the barbarians. I was also sent here to recover the cities you have lost. I was sent here to drive the savages back to their forests beyond the Rhine. I have sworn as Caesar to conquer them or to die.”

“But Caesar, we…” That was all Marcellus was allowed to say. As Julian talked through him, he withdrew a document from his tunic. It was the booklet on etiquette that Constantius had given him. “Do you see this, General? All of you?” Julian waved it like a standard in the air. No one could tell what it was exactly, but the imperial seal was perfectly visible.

“It is from the divine Emperor. It is to me. It arrived by special messenger at Autun. It contains orders. We are to regain Cologne. Those are his commands and we are his slaves. We have no choice but to obey.”

There was consternation on Marcellus’s side of the council table. No one had heard of these instructions for the excellent reason that they did not exist. But the bold lie worked largely because Marcellus was a true politician in the sense that he could not admit that there was anything which he ought to know that in fact he did not know. He gave Julian the army.

Published in: on July 28, 2019 at 12:13 pm  Comments Off on Julian, 72  

Quotes

I’ve spent this day
adding quotable quotes
on my Twitter account.

Published in: on July 27, 2019 at 8:08 pm  Comments (3)  

Morgan vs. Ryckaert

 
Franklin Ryckaert: Racism= harming people of another race because of their race. Race realism = realizing that races are inherently different and avoiding risky situations with people of other races.

Robert Morgan: Or in other words, racists do what ‘race realists’ would do if they had the courage.

 

______ 卐 ______

 

Editor’s note: Franklin Ryckaert exemplifies what is wrong with white nationalism and the alt-right.

Per the Old Testament and the Talmud, Jews must exterminate the Gentiles.

Per the New Testament, Gentiles are commanded, instead, to love the Other including Jews and non-whites.

White nationalists and alt-righters don’t obey the Führer. They obey the Jew who wrote the New Testament: prolefeed for us Gentiles.

It is just that simple.

Whites are condemned to become extinct unless they transvalue Ryckaert’s et al values back to pre-Christian mores. But nationalists won’t do it. They’re self-righteously addicted to their (((drug)))…

On my latest 5 posts

My latest five posts, which convey the idea of what ‘Priesthood of the Fourteen Words’ means, originally appeared on this site as pages.

Posts are blog content listed in a reverse chronological order (newest content on top). Due to their reverse chronological order, posts are meant to be timely. Older posts are archived based on month and year. As the posts get older, the visitor has to dig deeper to find them, but he has the option to search based on categories and tags.

In WordPress, Pages, on the other hand, means content such as your ‘About’ page: privacy policy, contact page, etc. Unlike the regular Posts, visitors cannot see the Pages unless they click on a link. At the bottom of the Pages there are no categories or tags.

Since I am adding PDFs of all the Posts of this site to my DreamHost (DH) backup—see: here—, I would like that those otherwise invisible Pages also appear in my DH backup of The West’s Darkest Hour.

That is why I duplicated its content today, old Pages now also visible as regular Posts, so that when I add the PDF of the latest five entries visitors can also see the ‘Pages’ on my DH backup.

Published in: on July 25, 2019 at 12:21 pm  Comments Off on On my latest 5 posts