Reflections of an Aryan woman, 27

The future, whether personal or historical, is as impenetrable—as impossible to experience—as the past. We can at most, by reasoning by analogy, or by letting ourselves be carried along by the rhythm of habit, deduce or imagine what it will the immediate future be like. We can say, for example, that the road will be covered with ice tomorrow because it has just rained this evening and then the thermometer has suddenly dropped below zero centigrade; or that the price of food will rise because the strikers in the transport services have obtained satisfaction; or that such and such a shop, ‘open every day except Monday’, will be open next Thursday. On the other hand, it is totally impossible for any human being to predict what Europe will look like in three thousand years’ time, just as nobody in the Bronze Age could imagine what the same continent will look like today, with industrial cities in place of its ancient forests.

This does not mean that the future does not already ‘exist’ in a certain way, as the only set of virtualities destined to be realised, and that this ‘existence’ is not as irrevocable as that of the past. For a consciousness freed from the bondage of the ‘before’ and the ‘after’ everything would exist on the same basis, the future as well as the past, in what the sages call the ‘eternal present’, the timeless.

To predict a future state or event is not to deduce it from known data, at the risk of making a mistake (by omitting to take into account certain hidden, even unknowable, data); it is to see it, in the way that an observer, seated in an aeroplane, grasps a detail of the earth’s landscape, amid many others that he apprehends together, whereas the traveller on the ground can only distinguish it in the course of a succession of which he himself is a part, ‘before’ one detail, ‘after’ another. In other words, it is only when seen from the Eternal Present that what we, the prisoners of Time, conceive something as a debatable possibility that it becomes a real fact: a ‘given’, as irrevocable as the past. It is a matter of perspective—and of clairvoyance. Even when viewed from above, a landscape is clearer for the observer gifted with good eyesight. But it is enough that he stands above to have a global vision, that the man on the ground lacks.

History relates that on 18 March 1314 Jacques de Molay, before going to the stake, summoned ‘to the tribunal of God’ the two men responsible for the suppression of his Order: Pope Clement V, ‘in a month’, and King Philip the Fair, ‘within a year’. Both men died within the time allotted, or rather seen from the perspective of the eternal present by the last Grand Master of the Knights Templar. And more than eighteen hundred years earlier, Confucius, when asked by his disciples about the influence his teaching would have, answered that it would ‘dominate China for twenty-five centuries’. With a margin of fifty years, he spoke the truth. He also had, in the same perspective of the sage who rose ‘above time’, seen from beginning to end an evolution that no calculation could predict.

But I repeat: the wise man capable of transcending time is already more than a man. The future, already ‘present’ for him that he reads, remains, in the consciousness subjected to the ‘before’ and the ‘after’, something that is built at every moment in prolongation of the lived present; that becomes at each moment present, or rather past—the ‘present’ being only a moving limit. It is unalterable, no doubt, just like the past, since there are rare consciousnesses that can live both in the manner of a present. Nevertheless, as long as it has not become the past, it is felt, by the man who lives on the level of Time, as more or less dependent on a choice of all moments. Only with the past does a consciousness related to Time have the certainty that it is given, irrevocably: the result of an old choice perhaps (if such is believed), but that it is too late to want to modify, however we go about it.
 

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Editor’s Note: A time in my life I was involved in parapsychology, which includes the purported study of retrocognition and precognition (before George Martin wrote his novels, I really wanted to become a sort of Bran). I entered the field as a believer and came out sceptical. Now it seems clear to me that parapsychologists have not demonstrated the reality of retrocognitive or precognitive phenomena, or even that there are psychics or gifted people who have had these powers.

But I still love to play with the idea even if it is pure fantasy. The ultimate truth about Time is unclear, and while parapsychologists have failed to scientifically prove their claims, that doesn’t automatically mean that extrasensory cognition doesn’t exist. It just means that there is no reliable evidence yet.

Anyone who wants to get acquainted with the subject could start with sceptical books like Nicholas Humphrey’s Leaps of Faith: Science, Miracles, and the Search for Supernatural Consolation.

Reflections of an Aryan woman, 25

Perhaps the notion of the irrevocable ‘existence’ of the past is of little consolation to those tormented by nostalgia for happy times, lived or imagined. Time refuses to suspend its flight at the plea of the poet enamoured of fleeting beauty—whether it be an hour of silent communion with the beloved woman (and, through her, and beyond her, with the harmony of the spheres), or an hour of glory, i.e. communion, in the glare of fanfares or the thunder of arms, or the roar of frenzied crowds, with the soul of a whole people and, through it and beyond it, again and again, with the Divine: another aspect of the Divine.

It is possible, sometimes, and usually without any special effort of memory, to relive, as if in a flash, a moment of one’s own past and with incredible intensity, as if one’s self-consciousness were suddenly hallucinated without the senses being the least bit affected. A small thing—a taste, very present, like that of the petite Madeleine cited by Proust in his famous analysis of reliving; a furtive odour, once breathed in; a melody that one had thought forgotten, a simple sound like that of water falling drop by drop—is enough to put, for an instant, the consciousness in a state that it ‘knows’ to be the same as the one it knew, years and sometimes decades, more than half a century earlier; a state of euphoria or anxiety, or even anguish, depending on the moment that has miraculously re-emerged from the mist of the past: a moment that had not ceased to ‘exist’ in the manner of things past, but which suddenly takes on the sharpness and relief of the present, as if a mysterious spotlight directed the daylight of the living actuality.

But these experiences are rare. And if it is possible to evoke them, they do not last long, even in very capable people of evoking their memories. Moreover, they only concern—except in very exceptional cases—the personal past of the person who ‘revives’ such a state or such an episode, not the historical past.

Yet there are people who are much more interested in the history of their people—or even that of other people—than in their own past. And although scholars, whose job it is to do so, succeed in reconstructing as best they can, from relics and documents, what at first sight appears to be the ‘essentials’ of history, and although some scholars sometimes astonish their readers or listeners by the number and thoroughness of the details they know about the habits of a particular character, the intrigues of a particular chancellery, or the daily life of such and such a vanished people, it is no less certain that the past of the civilised world—the easiest to grasp, however, since it has left visible traces—escapes us.

We know it indirectly and in bits and pieces, that our investigators try to put together, like a game of patience in which half or three-quarters of the puzzle are missing. And even if we possessed all the elements, we would still not know it, because to know is to live, or re-live, and no individual subjected to the category of Time can live history. What this individual can, at most, know directly, that is to say, live, and what he can then remember, sometimes with incredible clarity, is the history of his time insofar as he himself has contributed to making it; in other words, his own history, situated in a whole that exceeds it and often crushes it.

This is undoubtedly a truer story than the one that scholars will one day reconstruct. For what appears to be the ‘essence’ of an epoch, studied through documents and remains, is not. What is essential is the atmosphere of an epoch, or a moment within it: the atmosphere that can only be grasped through the direct experience of someone who lived it: one whose personal history is steeped in it. Guy Sajer, in his admirable book The Forgotten Soldier, has given us the essence of the Russian campaign from 1941 to 1945.

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Editor’s Note: This is absolutely true. One of the reasons why I prefer lucid essays like the one by Evropa Soberana on the Judean war against Rome (the masthead of this site) to the scholarly book that Karlheinz Deschner wrote about that epoch, is that Soberana transports us to that world—as in another literary genre Gore Vidal’s Julian has transported us to 4th-century Rome. Academic books are extremely misleading in that they don’t transport us back in time. We desperately need the visuals of what happened. That’s why I like the metaphor of the last greenseer, Bloodraven: the man fused to a tree that could see the past.
 

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He was able to put in his pages such a force of suggestion, precisely because, along with thousands of others in this campaign of Russia in the ranks of the Wehrmacht, then in the elite Grossdeutschland Division, it represents a slice of his own life.

When, three thousand years from now, historians want to have an idea of what the Second World War was like on this particular front, they will get a much better idea by reading Sajer’s book (which deserves to survive) than by trying to reconstruct, with the help of sporadic impersonal documents, the advance and retreat of the Reich’s armies. But, I repeat, they will acquire an idea of it, not a knowledge, much in the way we have one today of the decline of Egypt on the international scene at the end of the 20th Dynasty, through what remains of the juicy report of Wenamon, special envoy of Ramses XI (or rather of the high priest Herihor) to Zakarbaal, king of Gebal, or Gubla, which the Greeks call Byblos, in 1117 BC.

Nothing gives us a more intense experience of what I have called in other writings the ‘bondage of Time’ than this impossibility of letting our ‘self’ travel in the historical past that we have not lived, and of which we cannot therefore ‘remember’. Nothing makes us feel our isolation within our own epoch like our inability to live directly, at will, in some other time, in some other country; to travel in time as we travel in space.

We can visit the whole earth as it is today, but not see it as it once was. We cannot, for instance, actually immerse ourselves in the atmosphere of the temple of Karnak—or even only one street in Thebes—under Themose III; to find ourselves in Babylon at the time of Hammurabi, or with the Aryas before they left the old Arctic homeland; or among the artists painting the frescoes in the caves of Lascaux or Altamira, as we have somewhere in the world in our own epoch, having travelled there on foot or by car, by train, by boat or by plane.

And this impression of a definitive barrier—which lets us divine some outlines but prohibits us forever a more precise vision—is all the more painful, perhaps, because the civilisation we would like to know directly is chronologically closer to us, while being qualitatively more different from the one in whose midst we are forced to remain.

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Editor’s Note: In my fantasy that such a thing as the Wall existed, and have the last greenseer as our tutor, I imagine that I would spend an inordinate amount of time visiting ancient Sparta, and other cities where the Norse race remained unpolluted for centuries. I would visit all the temples of classical religion not only in Greece but in Rome, trying to capture through their art the Aryan spirit in its noblest expression.

But above all I would pay close attention to the human physiognomy of living characters before they mixed their blood with mudbloods.

Only he who actually sees the past as it was, has a good grasp of History.

The saddest thing of all is that pure Nordids still exist, but the current System is doing everything possible to exterminate them (as in Song of Ice and Fire the children of the forest was a species on the verge of extinction).

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History has always fascinated me: the history of the whole world, in all its richness. But it is particularly painful for me to know that I’ll never be able to know pre-Columbian America directly… by going to live there for a while; that it will never again be possible to see Tenochtitlan, or Cuzco, as the Spaniards first saw them, four hundred and fifty years ago, or less, that is to say yesterday. As a teenager, I cursed the conquerors who changed the face of the New World. I wished that no one had discovered it so that it would remain intact. Then we could have known it without going back in time; we could have known it as it was on the eve of the conquest, or rather as a natural evolution would have modified it little by little over four or five centuries, without destroying its characteristic traits.

But it goes without saying that my real torment, since the disaster of 1945, has been the knowledge that it is now impossible for me to have any direct experience of the atmosphere of the German Third Reich, in which I did not, alas, live.

Believing that it was to last indefinitely—that there would be no war or that, if there were, Hitlerian Germany would emerge victorious—I had the false impression that there was no hurry to return to Europe and that, moreover, I was useful to the Aryan cause where I was.

Now that it is all over, I think with bitterness that only thirty years ago[1] one could immerse oneself immediately, without the intermediary of texts, pictures, records, or comrades’ stories, in that atmosphere of fervour and order, of power and manly beauty, that of Hitlerian civilisation. Thirty years! It is not ‘yesterday’, it is today: a few minutes ago. And I have the feeling that I have missed very closely both the life and the death—the glorious death, in the service of our Führer—that should have been mine.

But one cannot ‘go back’ five minutes, let alone 1500 years or 500 million years, into the unalterable past, now transformed into ‘eternity’—timeless existence. And it is as impossible to attend the National Socialist Party Congress of September 1935 today as it is to walk the earth at the time when it seemed to have become forever the domain of the dinosaurs… except for one of those very few sages who have, through asceticism and the transposition of consciousness, freed themselves from the bonds of time.
 

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Editor’s Note: ‘I saw your birth, and that of your lord father before you. I saw your first step, heard your first word, was part of your first dream. I was watching when you fell. And now you are come to me at last, Brandon Stark, though the hour is late’…

‘Time is different for a tree than for a man. Sun and soil and water, these are the things a weirwood understands, not days and years and centuries. For men, time is a river. We are trapped in its flow, hurtling from past to present, always in the same direction. The lives of trees are different. They root and grow and die in one place, and that river does not move them. The oak is the acorn, the acorn is the oak’ (Boodraven to his pupil in George R.R. Martin’s A Dance with Dragons).

[1] This was written in 1969 or 1970.

Reflections of an Aryan woman, 24

 

Chapter V

History, Action and the Timeless

‘Time, Space and Number
Fell from the black firmament,
Into the still and sombre sea.
Shroud of silence and shade,
The night erases absolutely
Time, Space and Number’.

—Leconte de Lisle (‘Villanelle’, Poèmes Tragiques)

Have you ever worried about the irremediable flight of hours, and the impossibility of going back in time? And have you felt how we are prisoners of time, in all that concerns our sensitive experience? Prisoners of space, certainly, since we are material bodies, even if we are not only that, and a body cannot be conceived independently of its position concerning reference points—but even more so prisoners of time, since a temporal succession is necessarily oriented, and can only be experienced in a direction from the past, frozen in its irrevocability, towards the future, perhaps just as irrevocable but apprehended as an indefinity of possible situations (of more or less probable virtualities) as long as it has not become ‘present’, that is to say, definitive history?

There is, of course, a limit to the possibilities that a body of flesh, blood and nerves such as ours can travel through space. Men have managed, at the price, it is true, of enormous inconvenience, but they have finally managed, to leave the field of attraction of the Earth, of which they had hitherto been the captives, and to launch themselves beyond it. Oh, not very far! Only as far as the Moon, the immediate vicinity of our planet. (It should be said in passing that it was Aryans, one Aryan especially, the mathematician von Braun, who made this feat possible, and other Aryans who achieved it.) This is only the beginning. But this ‘first step’ allows ‘all hopes’ say the experts who have studied the question. What they pompously call ‘the conquest of space’ would only be a matter of technical progress, thus of study and patience.

There is, however, a limit, it seems. For if technical progress is indefinite, so is physical space. It is unwise to make predictions in this area. Who could have said, only a few decades ago, that men would one day actually see our Earth rising and setting: a huge luminous disc, blue and white, against a black background on the lunar horizon? It seems very unlikely to me that man will ever venture outside our solar system, which is so vast on our scale, and so infinitesimal on the cosmic scale. But it remains certain that, even if it remains forever impossible in practice to cross a limit (of which we are still unaware), we can nevertheless imagine an indefinite expansion in this direction.

Beyond the last limit reached, whether within the solar system or further away, there will always be ‘room’: an untravelled distance that we could travel if we had more powerful means. There is no theoretical limit. Space is essentially what can be travelled in every direction. In fact, there would be no practical limit for a hypothetical explorer who wouldn’t need to eat, sleep and wear out and who operated a transport device capable of renewing its driving energy. And even if it can never be materially realised, one can imagine such a journey lasting forever, through space.

On the other hand, we know that, even with the help of the most excellent memory, it is impossible to go back in time and, even with the help of a lot of political intuition and individual and collective psychology, to follow the course of time beyond tomorrow, or even ‘tonight’. I mentioned above the irrevocability of the past, which can be forgotten or distorted—which is bound to be distorted, even when we try to reconstruct it impartially—but that one cannot change; which is now out of reach, as if printed forever in an immense impersonal and infallible memory: the memory of the Universe out of our reach, but also out of range, unknowable, because not directly relivable.

We often hear it said that ‘the past is nothing’, that ‘what is no longer is as if it had never been’.

I, for one, have never been able to understand this assimilation of the living data of yesterday and the day before yesterday, to pure nothingness. Perhaps I have too much memory. It is not the absence of the past—the impossibility of ‘recapturing’ it—that strikes me most, but on the contrary its eternal presence: the impossibility of altering the slightest detail of it. What is done, or said or thought has been done, said, thought. One can do something else, say something else, direct one’s thoughts in a completely different direction. But this ‘other thing’, this ‘converted’ thought (turned in another direction) are new irrevocable things, which are superimposed on the first without destroying them. I have, as far back as I can remember, always felt this.

As a child, I attended a free school, a Catholic school, and took catechism lessons with the other little girls. We were told, among other things, that ‘God can do anything’. Having each time reflected on such a statement, I ventured one day to ask for the floor, and said, as soon as I was free to speak: ‘I came to class today at eight o’clock in the morning, Lyon time. Can ‘God’ make it so that this is no longer true, but that I came, let us say, at half-past eight, still Lyon time? Can he change the past?
 

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Editor’s Note. There is a saying in the language of Cervantes: “Palo dado ¡ni Dios lo quita!”, literally, ‘Hit given [a blow with a stick] not even God takes it away!’ (i.e., what’s done is done. The closest English idiom is ‘A bell can’t be unrung’).

Like Savitri, I am infinitely passionate about the past, as can be seen in the image at the bottom of this site: the child Bran would learn how to retrocognitively see our historical past thanks to the heart tree. That image became the logo of this site: one of the mysteries to most visitors.

The past is the present: If Columbus’s caravels had sunk in an Atlantic storm, we wouldn’t be here.

When I say the historical past I mean the real past, which Bran has access to through magic north of the Wall. I am not referring to the history books written by Christians and neochristians (that is, secular liberals). They lie about what really happened.
 

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Since the teacher was unable to answer my question in a way that satisfied my young mind, I detached myself a little more from the idea of this all-too-human ‘God’ that was being presented to me: the god whose shocking partiality towards ‘man’ had begun, at the dawn of my life, to repulse me. And the irrevocability of the past, of the present moment as soon as it fell into the past, always haunted me: a source of joy, a source of anxiety, a precious knowledge since it dominated the conduct of my life.

More than forty years later, in 1953, I was to write a prose poem, each stanza of which ends with the words: ‘While we never forget, never forgive’. I evoked there the memory of the glory that was the Third German Reich, and also of my bitterness (and that of my comrades) at the thought of the relentless persecution of our people, and of all the efforts made after the Second World War to kill our Hitlerian faith.

This attitude was not, for me, new. At the age of eight, only a few months before the First World War, had I not once declared that I ‘hated Christianity because it makes it a duty of the faithful to forgive’, revolted as I was at the idea of ‘forgiveness’ granted to children guilty of torturing insects or other defenceless animals, as well as to grown-ups who have committed gratuitous atrocities at any time, provided that the cowardly, and therefore degrading act is followed by repentance, however tardy?

Forgiveness or forgetting can completely change the relationship between people, as long as it is given wholeheartedly. It cannot change what is once and for all stereotyped in the past. It is not even certain that the relationship between individuals and entire peoples would improve much, if the former began to practice forgiveness of offences, trivial and serious, and if the latter suppressed, suddenly, the teaching of history among their young people. They would stop hating each other for the reasons they are despised, or at least opposed, today. But given human nature with its lusts, vanity and selfishness they would soon discover other pretexts for enmity.

Animals have short memories, and how! Each generation, unaware of man’s repeated cruelties, is ready to trust him again, and in the case of domesticated animals to give him the unconditional love of which only unreasoning beings are capable. And yet… this total oblivion doesn’t improve at all the conduct of men towards the rest of creation. Wouldn’t the forgetting of history have, between men this time, a similar result or rather a similar lack of result?

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Editor’s Note: This is exactly why the entire contemporary white nationalist movement is animal quackery. If they had a noble heart, the first thing they would do is denounce the Hellstorm Holocaust with the same mania as the media at the hands of Jews speak of their Shoah. But it should come as no surprise if we take into account that the majority of white nationalists are Christian or neochristian.

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In any case, no ‘new beginning’, however happy, can obscure what once happened. To have been, even once, is, in a way, to be forever. Neither forgetting nor forgiveness, nor even the indefinite succession of millennia, can do anything about it. And the smallest events, the smallest on our scale, are as indelible as those we consider the most important. Everything ‘exists’ in the manner of things ‘past’: past in the eyes of individuals who can only live their experience according to a ‘before’ and an ‘after’.

About the commenters

This recent discussion with one of the biggest fans of this site motivated me this morning to think on the subject.

If there is one thing that has wasted my time, it is arguing with people with whom I should never, ever have argued. For example, the referred commenter, using the pen name he uses in the comments section of The Unz Review, said earlier this year: ‘The USSR withered because they did not push for the racial replacement of Germany—by Russians’.

It was because of things like that that for a long time I prevented the vast majority of his comments from passing here.

But the aforementioned commenter, who describes himself as Russian, is not alone. In the past, a Romanian whom I also prohibited from commenting here said that he didn’t give a damn about the suffering of millions of Germans in the war and, paradoxically, in other respects he spoke like a National Socialist.

It sounds like schizophrenia, but these types of people have been very common on this site and elsewhere.

I confess that, in my great frustration with them and three other smart commenters, I have filled many pages of my diaries since 2018. There is no point in exhuming those private diaries except to say that I sometimes feel like George Lincoln Rockwell, who tells how he admitted a half-naked Aryan (a homeless?) to his group and later he became an excellent element. But there was a dark side to that tactic, as another unhinged individual within Rockwell’s group of outcasts was the one who shot him…

In December I said that only those who thought like the SS could comment on this site. I forgot to add that I wasn’t referring to them meeting in military groups, since that would become a honey trap for the System. What I wanted to say is that they ought to think like SS men; that their scale of values should allow them to crave things like the Master Plan East. I didn’t mean that they bought weapons or planned an attack (the Hollywood vision of white nationalism, as we saw in the silly movie Imperium). I was referring to changing your scale of values, as Savitri said in my post yesterday.

In other words, since most whites are tainted by the florid psychosis stage of Christian ethics, the only thing that makes sense is to try to understand what is going on, and convey it to as many Aryan males as possible. It hurts to say it, but Greg Johnson is right about one thing: it’s not time for politics but metapolitics.

This site receives very little feedback in the comments section. And of the fans we’ve had, I’ve already blocked a few for saying things like the outrageous quote I picked up above. In many ways I am alone. I have to deal with those shirtless guys like the ones Rockwell admitted into his group, but it’s impossible to detect at first glance who among these outcasts will be a good element and who may want to shoot me (what happened to the poor commander).

The alternative is that I forget about commenters and continue my work ‘in the cave of the three-eyed raven’, trying to make a Bran my disciple so that he can later conquer the world: a metaphor that only one commenter has understood, an European.

Since December I broke my promise to close the comments for a year. I reopened them only after two and a half months—only to be cheated by one of the banned commenters, through a sockpuppet.(*) But I think that what the European told me in an entry that I posted at the last minute of the last day of the year is worth reposting, as at that time the comments section was already closed.

Commenter I.N. wrote to me:

 

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Excuse me for the lengthy text.

I understand how crucial it is for you to move towards this direction [basically close the comments section] given how much you have pondered about it for years now and I applaud you for it. The fact that you tolerated this insufferable situation for so long is a testament to your patience. However, by doing so you remove an indispensable aspect that should define discourse between us National Socialists so as to exchange viewpoints and answer questions.

This has been an integral feature of your site as apart from your entries, the comments too did aid me in acquiring a perfected exterminationist worldview. You must cultivate a climate for dialogue and encourage your viewers to engage in conversation among them. If you shun it your page might lose much needed traction and visitors and we need to assist you in amassing a wider audience of Whites willing to arrive at the truth.

If you wish to attract a larger audience and maybe even ‘steal’ followers from ‘mainstream’ WN sites like Counter Currents and American Renaissance you might want to think again about resorting to such strict censorship. That way you can redirect their focus to your revolutionary site and maybe witness a steady shift in their mentality as they begin to reject their old digital hangouts and dedicate their attention to you if your teachings take hold. Additionally, this radical approach of yours might make it impossible for people living on the other side of the Atlantic to opine on your entries.

Indeed, most commenters were unable to cross the psychological Rubicon to gain a higher understanding of the root causes that have culminated in the West’s ongoing downfall and it started to become frustrating but you can’t let this indignation get the better of you. Let them stagnate in the middle of the river and drown.

It will be a pity to have the rest of us who are of sound judgement and servants of the 14 words be lumped in with impudent buffoons like Adunaii or depressed defectives like Simon Elliot / Autisticus Spasticus. I admit that some of their comments may seem smart and sophisticated from a purely neutral standpoint, and I am not neutral but intrinsically bound to the ground of the radiant bucolic landscape that enchants and permanently captivates everyone who disembarks on the riverfront lying on the opposite side of the Rubicon. (It appears the journey across happens amidst intense fog / Christian ethics, that’s why most lose track of the destination and end up at the riverbed, never managing to even glance at the promised Utopia achievable only through the axiology of National Socialism.)

Said process of ‘conversion’ happened pretty much instantaneously thanks to stumbling upon your work and due to my own life experiences, research and conclusions. But commie sympathisers like Adunaii and abject, puerile defeatists like Elliot have to be expelled for reasons of adamant ideological consistency and devotion to the sacred cause summed up in the 4 and 14 Words.

Only through the Religion of Hate will we be able to exact holy racial vengeance and purify the flora and fauna of this planet by disposing of the sadistic vermin (dimwitted, dark skinned and two-legged mostly) that stains and defiles it once and for all and thus establishing a truly just, fair and beautiful Earth encompassing New Order in the biological sense. A world filled with staggeringly gorgeous Aryan nymphets and youths to roam it gracefully with kindness, respect, modesty and empathy and meant only for those worthy of living.

Anyway, I digress. Though this tactic relieves you from the burden of putting up with the absurdly preposterous (as in not sharing your justified hatred yet) content in the posts of some annoying slowpokes, some commenters could provide very informative insights and it would be a loss to miss out on that.

Some (extremely few in fact) deserve to be granted permission to keep commenting on this site. At least allow a very select number of them like Mauricio, Joseph Walsh (I have been keeping up with your site since April 2019 and I haven’t seen his profile in the comments for a while and I cannot remember if he has made an appearance in the last two years so I don’t know if he is still active), [Anti]natalist44 (thankfully he changed his idiotic surname, he might be a bit pessimistic but he is also necessarily cynical which can enlighten the Aryan about how hypocritical they are) or Apollokult among others like him who surprisingly fully align with your principles which, in all honesty, should be common knowledge and even maxims embedded into our culture.
 

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Editor’s Note: Both I.N. and I were unaware then that Natalist44 was none other than Adunai.
 

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Or at least slightly alter this policy you have adopted. You could enable the option to post comments that are sent exclusively by e-mail instead. The absence of a comment thread will automatically dissuade dummies, normies and white nationalists from bothering to leave their undesirable opinions on this gem of a site. Or efilists for that matter.

Could you not appoint some voluntary admins to filter the comment section and dispatch the outcasts that would dare trespass on your webpage? I am not cognizant of the intricacies involved in operating a site or the terms of use/service of WordPress by the way. I do not disagree with you per se, I actually partially welcome this initiative. I still I urge you to reconsider though.

Your site encapsulates the very essence of what the White Man must do in order to survive which is admittedly to ‘think more ruthlessly than Himmler’. That is quite a demanding task to undertake, and assuming the only stimuli they receive that leads them down this path is your site, then you can be sure it is going to take a while before they cross over to Level 9. Though as betrayed by your disappointment, few people appreciate the effort you put into awakening them.

At best it happens instantly (like with me) and at worst it needs an incessant bombardment of Nordicist literature for a couple of years. Let us be confident that the continuous reading of all that your site has to offer will be the catalyst that drives them to shatter their flawed and indulgent worldview which derives from the allegiance to a false, self-abasing and ultimately suicidal morality.

The prerequisite is to shake off the persistent indoctrination that has been passed down from generation to generation and has become so ingrained into our psyche (not mine, I have always been an atheist and a staunch critic of the afterlife paranoia) that it has developed such resilient antibodies to ensure its firm grip over the Aryans’ responses and actions. Tough job but something as unlikely as this can transpire. You remember what Tikhar said earlier this month.

Anyway, I have never seen a Priest of the 14 Words (you coined this term) devote his life so holistically to the materialisation of Aryan resurgence and domination despite being tainted by foreign blood. You are truly much more Aryan than the overwhelming majority of Aryans. You are a prophet and a benefactor to our run down race. Frankly, pretty much no one else articulates the harsh truth in such a precise, crystal clear and no holds barred manner.

Keep struggling and sending out three-eyed ravens to educate prospective broken Brans by imbuing them with retrocognition so that they endeavour to uplift the ever dissipating Whites from their demoralising and self-destructive state.

I merely wanted to leave my contribution for the second and last time apparently (unless another e-mail of mine impresses you so as to warrant its own entry). I think of you as an underrated and obscure (not recognised enough) hero of these end times (unless the White Revolution takes place and is successful), Mr. C. T.

Thank you for changing my life. Heil to you! I hope the Whites of the future that emerge victorious from this ordeal build a statue in dedication to your memory. I will keep being a faithful follower of yours.

Again, sorry for my brazenly long testimony. Happy New Year with loads of success in adequately conveying your ‘heretic’ message.

By the way, I am eagerly anticipating the day the subtitle of this site will finally read something along the lines of: ‘The Time For Armed Revolution Is Here! Nietzschean Transvaluation for a Hitlerian Civilisation!’

I.N.

___________

(*) Update of September 29: At Adunai’s request, I removed the screenshot showing that his I.P. is identical to the I.P. of Antinatalist44.

Day of Wrath’s pdf

Yesterday a new visitor posted this comment arguing that we shouldn’t criticise Greg Johnson so harshly. I pointed out that there were many entries on this site about Johnson and that I had summarised my views about him on pages 9-11 of Day of Wrath (DOW), indicating that my book appeared on the sidebar. But this morning that I checked the sidebar I noticed that while there is a link to get the hard copy of the book, there was no link for the PDF, which I just added it to.

DOW also contains English translations of some chapters of my books in Spanish on the terrible, even infanticidal treatment with which entire cultures treated children. In a crucial scene from Game of Thrones we see Bran freak out when the three-eyed raven shows him the human sacrifice of an adult in the remote past of Westeros. What this book shows is that, in real human history, these sacrifices were made even with children, including the American continent in which I find myself.

Those who wish to know why I have gone so far into the dark side of our past to understand the present—just what the raven wanted Bran to know!—should consider this book. Reading it together with watching the Russian film that I talked about in my previous post will help the visitor understand why I have generated the austere, and sometimes sullen gravitas, of my current personality.

What story did they tell you?

This is what you should know, white man!

The dragon and the wolf

‘The Dragon and the Wolf’ is the seventh and final episode of the seventh season of HBO’s fantasy television series Game of Thrones, and the 67th episode overall. It was written by series co-creators David Benioff and D. B. Weiss (hereafter referred to as D&D), and directed by Jeremy Podeswa. In this episode the two bitches meet for the first time and agree to a truce while the Night King is defeated. Note that when the series began, King Robert Baratheon ruled the Seven Kingdoms that these two queens now dispute, although the threat north of the Wall has become a distraction that will be resolved in the following season.

We see the climactic scene of this episode when Littlefinger is executed: the man who, with his lies, had started the war between the Starks and the Lannisters although before his trial we see a memorable dialogue between Theon and Jon in the main hall of Dragonstone.

D&D and/or the director deleted a crucial scene showing that the real hero in uncovering Littlefinger’s wiles had been Brandon Stark, as can be seen from what a fan wrote:

Bran Stark actor Isaac Hempstead Wright revealed in a past interview with Variety that he and his Game of Thrones co-star Sophie Turner, who plays Sansa, shot a sequence in which Sansa consults him ahead of Littlefinger’s trial. You see, Sansa was first convinced that her own sister, Arya, was out to murder her in attempts to become the Lady of Winterfell. Arya felt certain of the same—and it was all thanks to the master manipulator Littlefinger. Viewers were sweating buckets watching the season 7 finale, believing that one of the Stark girls would turn on the other and commit fratricide within the halls of their House’s ancestral seat. Sansa and Arya flipping the script and sentencing Littlefinger to death was a massive twist—and seemed to leave a wide plot hole that went completely unpatched. The deleted scene Hempstead Wright discussed with Variety would have stitched up the gap and detailed exactly how the Stark sisters knew what Littlefinger was up to and how they arrived at their plan to execute the former Master of Coin.

In the scene, Sansa consults Bran about what to do regarding the whole ‘I think our sister is going to kill me’ dilemma. Using his newfound abilities as the Three-Eyed Raven, Bran peers into Littlefinger’s past and unearths every underhanded thing he’s done to secure power.

As Hempstead Wright describes it, ‘We actually did a scene that clearly got cut, a short scene with Sansa where she knocks on Bran’s door and says, ‘I need your help’, or something along those lines. So basically, as far as I know, the story was that it suddenly occurred to Sansa that she had a huge CCTV department at her discretion and it might be a good idea to check with him first before she guts her own sister. So she goes to Bran, and Bran tells her everything she needs to know, and she’s like, Oh, s***.

Though audiences can fill in the blanks without this scene, it makes Bran’s powers all the more real, and, frankly, terrifying. Nothing can be kept from him, and as a result, nothing can be kept from his family. There is no secret Bran cannot uncover—and the biggest skeleton he drew out of the proverbial closet was the truth behind Jon Snow’s birth. Bran knew of his brother-cousin Jon’s true parentage and real identity as Aegon Targaryen, the son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark, and his rightful claim to the Iron Throne over the wannabe queen Daenerys Targaryen before others did. His knowledge spread to Samwell Tarly, then to Jon himself, and (spoiler alert) quickly made its way to Sansa and Arya themselves.

Not all the audience filled the gap. Censoring that scene made some believe, at Littlefinger’s trial, that Sansa had understood for herself the betrayal of the master of intrigues. The confusion was such that some fans commented that Sansa would never have been able to outwit Littlefinger. Sometimes I wonder if D&D abandoned the already filmed scene because of their feminist agenda.

Oathbreaker

‘Oathbreaker’ is the third episode of the sixth season of HBO’s fantasy television series Game of Thrones, and the 53rd overall.

Sometimes the only thing of value in an episode is a single dialogue. In both the previous season and Martin’s previous book, silence reigns over what happened in Bloodraven’s cave below the great weirwood tree. But in this season we finally learn that Bran is receiving retrocognitive lessons about Westeros’ past. After one of those lessons, in which Bran sees his father as a young man fighting with the best swordsman in the kingdom, Bran’s mentor interrupts the vision and after a brief exchange he says:

Three-eyed raven: The past is already written the ink is dry.

Bran: What’s in that tower? I want to go back there.

Three-eyed raven: I have told you many times: stay too long where you don’t belong and you will never return.

Bran: Why do I want to return? So I can be a cripple again? So I can talk to an old man in a tree?

Three-eyed raven: You think I wanted to sit here for a thousand years watching the world from a distance as the roots grew through me?

Bran: So why did you?

Three-eyed raven: I was waiting for you.

Bran: I don’t want to be you.

Three-eyed raven: (chuckles) I don’t blame you. You won’t be here forever. You won’t be an old man in a tree. But before you leave you must learn!

The raven’s sight

More than forty years ago, in ‘Why the West Will Go Under’ published on National Vanguard (excerpted: here), William Pierce predicted everything that would happen today. I consider Pierce to be one of the extremely, extremely few three-eyed ravens to use the metaphor I use at the end of my eleven autobiographical books.

Four decades after his very wise words, a few racialists have begun to see glimpses of what Pierce clearly and transparently saw when whites thought that everything was great. The following are three posts from commenters of an article published yesterday on American Renaissance:

Commenter 1: There is no fixing this politically. You need to understand that right now. As I have said numerous times, it will take a Hitleresque type of ruthlessness to save the country and the white race. You want to keep playing fair with these people, then prepare to die.

Jared Taylor who runs that webzine has been trying for decades to play fair (remember that Taylor’s parents were fanatic Christians that moved to Japan to save the heathen).

Commenter 2: What I will never understand is just how many White people in the US, Canada, Western Europe, Australia and New Zealand support the extermination of the European peoples worldwide.

Has this guy read one of the three articles that we recommend in the comments section of the sticky post, that of Black Pigeon Speaks? (When I finish my review of Game of Thrones I will replace it with a passage from my eleventh book.)

Commenter 3: What if the nation has been sick from the inception and this end is fitting? Do we really want to save this horrid monster? We should not even attempt life support, let the USA die.

They are just beginning to glimpse things that the three-eyed raven had seen thanks to his precognitive abilities…

Dark wings, dark words

‘Dark Wings, Dark Words’ is the second episode of the third season of HBO’s fantasy television series Game of Thrones, and the 22nd episode of the series. In King’s Landing the messages that put men as silly continue. In the castle gardens we hear this conversation:

Olenna Tyrell: ‘Do you know my son, the Lord of Highgarden?’

Sansa: ‘I haven’t had the pleasure’.

Olenna Tyrell laughs: ‘No great pleasure, believe me: a ponderous oaf. His father was an oaf as well, my husband, the late Lord Luthor’.

But in the Riverlands, Rickard Karstark tells King Robb a great truth: ‘I think you lost the war the day you married her’, referring to non-white buttocks.

In the North, while heading to the Wall, Bran Stark has a dream, where he tries to kill the three-eyed raven, but a boy tells him that this is impossible because the raven is Bran himself. When he wakes up and they continue with the march, Osha suspects that someone is following them and goes out to investigate. At this moment the boy from Bran’s dream arrives and reveals that his name is Jojen Reed. Another message in which the male-female roles are reversed is seen when Jojen, who is accompanied by his sister Meera, tells Bran’s caregiver Osha: ‘I’m unarmed. My sister carries the weapons’.

But the writers were still unsatisfied with those two scenes and included one more scene that reverses the male-female roles. Travelling North, Arya, Gendry, and a fat boy nicknamed Hot Pie are discovered by a small group called The Brotherhood Without Banners led by Thoros of Myr, who suspect the three of them have escaped from Harrenhall. Arya draws her sword to face alone the group that has found them while her two friends, Gendry and Hot Pie, hide behind the rocks. We can already imagine in the real medieval period a girl doing that, in the context of crossing a dangerous forest where there could be highway robbers!

Back at King’s Landing, the erotic scene between Tyrion and Shae is disgusting. Those scenes, and many other erotic scenes of Game of Thrones would never have been shot in a healthy West.

En route to the Wall, Bran receives from Jojen the first revelation about what has been happening to him since Jaime threw him from the tower of his home. Jojen says that, like Bran, he is also a greenseer: as those gifted with clairvoyant powers (out-of-body experiences, also known as astral projection) were called in the ancient religion. Greenseers also have retrocognitive powers (seeing the past paranormally) and precognitive powers (glimpses of the future). Jojen explains that the three-eyed raven that appears in Bran’s dreams means someone who ‘brings the sight’.

Bran still ignores it but the old man in a hiding cave under a huge weirwood tree on the other side of the Wall, who has been sending him those dreams under the image of the raven, is the most powerful man in Westeros even though he can no longer move (in Martin’s novels Bloodraven’s power in Westeros affairs is more conspicuous than in the HBO series). Jojen, another gifted psychic who tries to guide Bran, tells him that he too has had the same dream and that he has followed Bran believing that the boy will play an important role in the future. But even during that conversation between two gifted thanks to the old religion, the reversals of roles arise between the women who follow Hodor, Bran and Jojen from behind:

Osha: Isn’t he [Jojen] ashamed, your brother, needing you to protect him?

Meera: Where’s the shame in that?

Osha: Any boy his age who needs his sister to protect him is gonna find himself needing lots of protection.