The triumph of Christianity

These days, once again, the tragedy of James Watson, one of the most famous scientists in the world for having been one of the discoverers of the molecular structure of DNA, has come to public attention.

For having accepted that IQ is differential among human races, currently Watson is treated as a pariah in his country to the extent that he had to sell his gold medal awarded to him in the Nobel Prize ceremony of 1962.

I’ve talked about the Mexican film Roma, which is being hugely acclaimed in national and international film circles. Time magazine ranked the Mexican Indian as the best performance of 2018. This Indian woman whom the director Alfonso Cuarón used had no experience as an actress before Roma (she speaks the Mixtec language). But this Indian has been catapulted to fame by the mere fact of having starred in the Cuarón movie. She is even doing tours in the United States where, through a translator, they interview her.

In the words that the gospel attributes to Jesus, the last shall be the first and the first the last. When in 1968 I saw 2001: A Space Odyssey I imagined that in the world of the future only whites, like those that appear in the film, would conquer space and make the leap to overman (this is the message of the film that used the symphonic poem of Richard Strauss, Thus Spake Zarathustra, inspired in Nietzsche’s book of the same title). Who would have said that in the 21st century the exact opposite would occur!: the neighbouring country of the north would marginalise one of its best scientists to the degree that he suffers economic hardship and sold his medal, and it would catapult the career of a Mexican Indian whose mother tongue is not even Spanish.

The triumph of Christianity over the Aryan mind, the inversion of values that Nietzsche so much warned about, is now total: absolute.

Roma (2018 film)

Yesterday and in the first hours of this day I watched, on Netflix, the latest film by the Mexican Alfonso Cuarón, Roma, which alludes to the Colonia Roma where Cuarón lived as a child, not very far from where I also lived as a child in Mexico City.

Surely some visitors of this site will wonder how a phenotypically Creole family looks like in Mexico; that is to say, a family with little or no Amerindian blood. The autobiographic Cuarón recreates, in a black-and-white film, the daily life of one of these families in the great Mexican capital of the late 1970 and 1971 (a period that I remember so well).

Before talking about the film, I must say that I feel outraged by the awards that the Mexicans Alfonso Cuarón, Alejandro González Iñárritu and Guillermo del Toro have received by cinematographic institutions and film critics. Although none is Jewish, their films navigate the same currents of the anti-white Zeitgeist of our time.

Of Cuarón, who has a huge talent for the seventh art, I would only recommend Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban: the film with fewer bad messages for the Aryan cause. In Children of Men and Gravity the bad messages are more conspicuous, and let’s not talk about the 2015 film, The Revenant by González Iñárritu, which won three awards in a Hollywood dominated by Jews.

Exactly the same must be said of Guillermo del Toro, whose monstrous The Shape of Water gave him the Oscar for best director last year. Also, his 2006 Pan’s Labyrinth sides the wrong guys of the Spanish Civil War.

As I said, the film Roma portrays a white family in Mexico City (Cuarón and I even went to the same High School, the Colegio Madrid). As to the plot, I do not know a single father of any of these white Mexican families who, in addition to abandoning his young children and wife, has no intention of seeing them again! From this point of view, the message of Roma is analogous to del Toro’s The Shape of Water, where a typical American man of the 1950s, father of a white family, is the bad guy in the movie.

In Roma the heroine is a Mixtec Indian woman who, by at the end of the film, saves two children from drowning in the sea, putting her life at risk. This image represents the culmination of the Mexican movie with the white kids and the mother embracing the heroic Indian.

My mother has had a legion of Indian maids, and my dear grandmother was a great confidant of them who actually loved them. Needless to say, I never heard of a case in which an Indian maid risked her life to save a white child. Thus Cuarón’s heroine is the counterpart of which I’ve never heard: that a father of a white family in Colonia Roma, or another similar district in Mexico City, abandons his children to the degree of not wanting to see them again. Did Cuarón’s father did exactly this to his children? The autobiographic Cuarón doesn’t specify this in the interviews.

In both Hollywood and in art films, the cultural war against the Aryan is absolute. It bothers me that, in the white nationalist forums, these Mexican directors are not seen for what they are: little Jews even if they do not have a drop of Jewish blood. Even Greg Johnson under a penname recently wrote a review of Children of Men without fully understanding the toxicity of these acclaimed films directed by talented Mexicans.
 

Tuesday update:

Cuarón shows his true colours in this interview in Spanish, from which I translate the essential pronouncements:

To the liberal interviewer he said: ‘La perversa relación que existe en nuestro país entre raza y clase’ (‘The perverse relationship that exists in our country between race and class’) in a context in which Mexico’s poverty is blamed for this ‘perverse relationship’: a phrase that Cuarón repeats twice throughout the interview. On the second occasion, he says that ‘por el color de tu piel también estás determinado socialmente’ (‘by the colour of your skin you are also socially determined’ in Mexico).

He also said: ‘¡México es clasicista y bien racista!, y al mexicano le cuesta mucho trabajo aceptar eso… Si queremos una verdadera transformación, todo empieza con la autorreflexión’ (‘Mexico is classicist and very racist! And the Mexican has a hard time accepting that… If we want a true transformation, everything starts with self-reflection’).

Isn’t it crystal-clear now why the anti-white System has overfilled Cuarón with so many international awards?

Published in: on December 17, 2018 at 2:34 pm  Comments (7)  
Tags:

Extermination • III

Libro
CHAPTER 1:

THE STAR CHILD
 
 
 
 

A dream in Madrid

The day after my birthday in 2011 I received a wonderful gift, a long letter in Spanish, from which I translate here only one of the opening paragraphs:

You see, like you I was raised and educated in Mexico, where I was taught from school and the official media to despise my people and consider myself a mestizo. Had it not been for the rectifier comments of my parents probably I would be one of those many Criollos waving an enemy flag as if it was my own. The point is that it gradually dawned on me that the Mexican society was multiracial garbage where the Mongoloid-American element has replaced the European element, so causing the current state of anarchy and endemic violence.

“Criollos” or “Creoles” were the children of Spaniards born in the New World who had no drop of Amerind blood. It’s true what the Criollo said, whom I shall refer to as “Ibero,” that in Mexican public education Indian blood far outweighs the Spanish. So true that even some phenotypically Creole people are more identified with the American-Mongoloid element than with their European roots. No wonder the popular Mexican genius says, “Mexico is a surreal country.”

Such surrealism is a direct result of the continental experiment of the Counter-Reformation to genetically mix the European-Iberian with the American-Mongoloid. Never before it had been attempted a project of biological and social engineering on a continental scale in previous centuries and millennia! While the Spaniards used to talk of limpieza de sangre (purity of blood) and a caste system prevailed in the Americas, with the peninsular Spaniards and the Criollos at the top of the pyramid, the desire to exploit economically the New World alongside the universalism of the papacy broke natural barriers between what, following William Pierce, were two different species of humans. The mix of European and Indian worsened considerably with the massive importation of blacks to the mainland. Few know that more blacks arrived in the Spanish and Portuguese colonies of America than to the colonies of their Anglo northern neighbors. The difference is that here they amalgamated earlier, resulting in the formation of a crossbreed stock of the three races that explains the falling behind of the nations south of the Río Bravo.

In the mid 1970s I studied two years at the Madrid School of Mexico City. Back then most of my peers were Caucasian, some even blond: children of refugees of the Franco regime. (The school I knew no longer exist. On February 16, 2014 I received a visual shock when seeing more than a dozen classmates of one of my nephews from the Madrid. There was only one that might be considered white.) The Viceroyalty of New Spain lasted exactly three hundred years, from 1521 to 1821. In one of the history lessons I received in the Madrid School, the teacher revealed that the New Spaniards amused themselves by classifying the mixtures between the three races. Note that in the list below, a transcript of the footnotes of the sixteen illustrations of various Mexican parents with their children, the “Morisco” should not be confused with the peninsular Moor, or “Chino” with the inhabitant of China, or “Gíbaro” with the Amazonian Jívaro tribe:

1.- Spanish with Indian, mestizo
2.- Mestizo with Spanish, castizo
3.- Castizo with Spanish, Spanish
4.- Spanish with mora [negress], mulatto
5.- Mulatto with Spanish, morisco
6.- Morisco with Spanish, chino
7.- Chino with Indian, salta atrás
8.- Salta atrás with mulatto, lobo [literally, wolf]
9.- Lobo with china, gíbaro
10.- Gíbaro with mulatta, albarazado

Castas

11.- Albarazado with negro, cambujo
12.- Cambujo with Indian, sambaigo
13.- Sambaigo with loba, calpamulato
14.- Calpamulato with cambuja, tente en el aire [literally, stay in the air]
15.- Tente en el aire con mulatta, noteentiendo [literally, I don’t get you]
16.- Noteentiendo with Indian, tornatrás [literally, jump back]

(The Jews were not included in this melting-pot list of the three races as the Inquisition always kept them at bay; although some say that every Spanish has at least a drop of Jewish blood.) In today’s Mexico these New Spaniard terms are no longer used but the naco, analogous to the North American nigger, is used to refer disparagingly the mestizo with pronounced Amerind features.

In a coffeehouse in the center of Tlalpan in Mexico City, on January 26, 2012 to be exact (as good autobiographer, I keep a diary), I personally met Ibero, the author of the above-cited epistle, when he returned from his stay in Spain. After a long conversation we agreed that we would start a radio program for Latin American Creoles, and that we would meet on Saturday to plan the details. Ibero spoke to cancel the appointment the same week we met and mysteriously did not answer my numerous e-mails. I let time pass and decided to phone him more than a year later, on 31 March 2013. His answer was laconic, and the tone of his voice was not benign. I forgot the matter but later that year, on December 14, Ibero called back. He was very apologetic; insisted on an appointment that afternoon, and we met at another coffeehouse in Tlalpan, near where I live, El caldero chorreado (a translation of The leaky cauldron), in honor of the Harry Potter movie that Alfonso Cuarón filmed.

After coffee I invited Ibero to see my bookshelves, which are under my sister’s house. All the talk had been, from the coffeehouse, friendly until for some reason the subject of Mediterraneans and Nordics was brought up. I was surprised that, with bilious zeal, Ibero said something like: “We [the Mediterraneans] have saved them [the Europeans] more than once!” Ibero ignores that the ruling castes of the ancient Greeks and Romans were Nordic, as shown in FR. Even in the early Middle Ages, Charles Martel, as a Frank, came from a Germanic tribe. But I was surprised when I told him that, to save myself from the currency crisis that is coming, it would be ideal to move to Iceland. I did not record the conversation, I just wrote down what he said: “They kill you!,” “They’d kill us!” or “They’ll kill us!” (when writing the diary I was not sure which of those phrases had been the most accurate and wrote down all three). He meant that the Icelanders would kill us if we dared to emigrate there. I was shocked because I thought it was obvious that the nacos would terminate us—not the Aryans—after the collapse of the dollar leads to social chaos in the largest metropolis in Latin America. I was stunned at Ibero’s vehemence and did not say anything. But when I showed him in a bookshelf the 2011 edition of Arthur Kemp’s March of the Titans, he got very upset. Although I do not remember the specific reason of the anger, the image of Ibero greatly exalted when showing him the book is very much present.

I feel bound to say that on my recent trip to the United Kingdom I visited Kemp in an ideal village to live: far from traitorous London and where I saw no people of color. Years ago Kemp’s car was vandalized by the antifa while working in the British National Party, so I’ll omit mention where he now lives. Suffice it to say that he was very kind to me, a real tourist guide. He took me in his car to Chester and several places of interest: beautiful English countryside far from the Babel of the large British cities. My talks with Arthur in one of the very small towns we visited revealed something I suspected but was not sure.

The anger not only of Ibero, but of a good portion of the white nationalist community about March of the Titans is due to such an elemental truth that it requires complete brainwashing by racial egalitarianism not to see it: The concept “Nordic” refers to those whites who are less mixed. It’s that simple. No one who reads Pierce or Kemp fails to see so elementary fact.

History is the tallest tower of experience, wrote Van Loon, the queen of the humanities; and he who fails to base his understanding of race on it—classics like Gobineau, Chamberlain and Günther—won’t learn the Letter A of racial studies. Most white nationalists persist in not seeing what they have in front of their noses and claim that those who have lived for millennia in the Mediterranean, so close to the Levant and Africa, have virtually the same percentage of non-whites genes that Scandinavians. Not only many so-called white nationalists cling to the absurd premise that the mixture was negligible. Those Mediterraneans with inferiority complex so take this revelation like a bomb that Arthur’s family suffered harassment by e-mail from a Greek man of very dark skin, the stalker came to be called, who felt insulted for the book.

Before I met Arthur I supposed the critique of Christianity by Kemp in a book that took years to investigate was a factor of the visceral rejection of March of the Titans coming from many white nationalists and Mediterraneanists. In the “very small town” I won’t name I became disabused. Questioning Arthur I realized that the cause was simply the most abject state of denial before the elemental on the part of those who had browsed the online version of the book. (Ignorant racists because, as I told Kemp, he had not done anything but “reinventing the wheel” already devised by Gobineau.) And this, even though Kemp was always very polite in his texts by adding, immediately afterwards, that not all Spanish, Greek, Slav or Balkan inhabitants had suffered considerable miscegenation. Qualifying his findings in each chapter was not enough. The mere fact of making discriminative distinctions drives crazy the “racists” who are currently “fighting” the dogma of equality, Ibero included.

Following my meeting with Ibero in El caldero chorreado he invited me to what, as I understood, would be a meeting of Creole nationalists to be held on 21 December. I hesitated but decided to go at the last minute. Besides Ibero I had not met anyone knowledgeable of “white nationalist” literature over the internet, and despite our differences I could not resist the temptation of meeting more people that, like Ibero, were familiar with the subject.

When I parked my car on the street Mecanógrafos in the Sifón neighborhood, where the meeting was held, I was struck by the rock music played in one of the houses. I thought some naco neighbors were having a party and wondered if the noise would mar our meeting. Imagine my surprise to learn that the “music” came exactly from Ibero’s friend’s home! In announcing my arrival to the woman who opened a window, she summoned the one who had invited me. Another surprise: with Ibero a guy on costume with a swastika on his arm opened the door! What left an impression on me was that Ibero’s companion was not Criollo. He was clearly a hybrid whose Mongoloid-American element stand out. As a courtesy, I won’t mention his name but in this book we shall call him “Mestizo.”

Upon entering the party—not a meeting of intellectuals as I had imagined—I was surprised again to see it be held in winter outdoors. At the back of the yard I saw a fabric with the sign of the German SS and another with the Blade of Burgundy: Nazism and Creole nationalism. In my idealized vision I had imagined people like, say, the racially conscious gentlemen of the London Forum I would meet the month before last. But the anti-music and outdoor December party were the opposite: they would perform a crude pagan celebration at midnight, a popular holiday condemned by the pope. More surprising still was that among a few whites were more people of swarthy skin. I could not believe it and the situation turned openly surreal—the surrealism that Mexicans are fond to self-parody—when the friendly Mestizo with his swastika on the arm said “I’m white” to a group of guests, standing and drinking alcoholic beverages. I remembered an adolescent story of Arturo’s follies, one of my classmates of the Madrid School. Arturo once got into his car some transvestites and the police stopped him. One of them made a scene by yelling at the police: “I have vagina! I have vagina!…” Arturo commented that, if he said that, it was obvious that he did not have one. The same is true of those airing from the rooftops that they are “white.” Although I spoke some time in the yard’s party with Ibero, Mestizo and a Punk who showed me the wounds of his fights against the antifas, I could not long stand the music and the cold and left. And yes: the trio was very kind to me and accompanied me off the street.

The following month, the first Sunday of 2014, I saw again Ibero and Mestizo but this time in the Casa del Té—a place chosen by me—in the Condesa neighborhood where, without quarreling, I informed them that I was the staunchest nordicist in the Anglophone blogosphere. I explained that it was all a platonic love for the nymph Catalina when I was in my early twenties. It was then that Ibero confessed that he did not read my blog, and I assumed that the cause was precisely the nordicist articles I was reproducing and my open contempt for Spain. Let’s recall that in FR I pick texts by William Pierce and Kenneth Clark where it is alleged that the Iberian Visigoths allowed to be duped by Christianity, thus breaking their ancient taboo of never mixing with non-Goths, and henceforward Spain had not contributed substantially to the development of the ideas that create Civilization. But what Ibero and Mestizo ignored is that my nordicism obeyed a tragedy that prevented me to relate, among other realities of life, with Catalina (tragedy that I’ll tell in the long chapter “In Search for the Soulmate,” although I mention some of it in the first book of HS).

Although our differences were irreconcilable, I felt very curious to know a little more about the group. In a couple of weekends after a flu that hit me, Mestizo and I met in other places: the first one, a solitary coffee shop on a side of the central church in Coyoacán; the second, at a restaurant in Paseo de la Reforma with distant group members (Ibero missed those meetings while Punk had problems with the law). At the last meeting I witnessed another incredibly surreal scene. Fabián, who barely knew the group had invited one Gabriel at the meeting: a subject with light skin but whose brachycephalic head denoted rude Indian ancestry. Mestizo degraded Gabriel in front of me, Fabián and Pedro—a son of Spaniards—by telling the other mestizo that, due to his Indian-white mixed breed, he could not belong to the group. Gabriel, who had arrived wearing Nazi paraphernalia, was a young man with good feelings and the degradation ceremony distressed me so much that I left the table. Even for Pedro, an authentic Criollo, it seemed excessive what Mestizo did to the other mestizo for being mestizo, and tried to make modest amends.

If we keep in mind that the ethno-state that will emerge in North America will have to know the peculiar psychology of her southern neighbors, you will understand why I mention such colorful anecdotes. The racial complex of the Mexicans is not limited to Mestizo. There is much “coconut” in the country: people brown outside and white inside. Even so-called neo-Nazi groups in Mexico are composed mostly of this type of people. I have seen in the subway of the big city very dark-skinned brown women with bleaching creams on their arms, and have heard of a mother who disowned her daughter for not having being born white. (Mrs. Hypocrite!: she was the one who married a very dark-skinned man!)

Surrealism also occurs in reverse, and even among the Mexican intelligentsia. A family member told the bizarre story about a man who visited my parents’ house: the partner of the former director of the Madrid School, Cristina Barros, granddaughter of the famous Justo Sierra. (Cristina’s daughter, Isabel, was fair-headed, perfectly dolichocephalic and of sublime facial features. To me she always seemed a nymph of pure “nordish” stock but, in reality, her blood was of the most Aryan type existing among Spaniards. She and her family travel with Mexican passports.) Cristina’s partner, whose name escapes me, said with total vehemence that he was “a pure Indian”—something that contradicted all appearances! Although it may seem laughable, there are not only “coconuts” aspiring to white in Mexico, but whites who repudiate their Creole blood as well. We cannot understand the impossible chimera of different ethnic groups that is now called “Mexico”—Indians that not even speak Spanish, a few Criollos, the full range of mestizos and dark-skinned browns with negro blood—if one ignores the psychic toll that such concoction of races caused.

The last time I saw Ibero and Mestizo was on 19 April this year I write in a homely meeting at which only these two attended. The other group members are hobbyists, as they take “Criollo” preservation more like a hobby than a profession. In the meeting Ibero said such an aberration that I won’t sit and take it.

He said, as I annotated the following day, that he did not mind the blond hair or blue eye to become extinct “provided the generic white survive,” i.e., the non-Aryan, peninsular Spaniard like him. Taking into account that I am devoted body and soul to the archetype of the nymph Catalina we did not see or talked again after that meeting; but that night I discovered that Mestizo had better feelings, as he was concerned that the blue-eyed blonds became extinct.

If we translate to Oldspeak Ibero’s vocabulary his words mean something like: “I don’t care that the white race is extinguished always providing the Criollo-types survive,” that is, the mudbloods, as the vast majority of Creoles are not even remotely as pure whites as Catalina or Isabel.

Ibero turned out to be my ideological antipode insofar I am so devoted to the archetype of my hyper-Nordic Catalina as that feudal nobility of the 12th century who fabled with an inaccessible and deified woman. Since childhood, my mind and my most cherished taste for those I fancy have been clearly and inexorably medieval.

The semantic trap in Ibero’s ideology is to call generic white those who are not. “White” as I said in FR refers to the European mixture that occurred in the United States and Canada before the migration of Jews in the late 19th century. Ibero and Mestizo abuse the term by referring to those folk that are far from the Aryan paradigm—Aryans that still exist, though they are very few, in Latin America. (The statistics of the article with the title of “Blanco” in the Spanish-written Wikipedia are misleading: they are based on surveys of mestizo-Americans that, as Mestizo does, call themselves “white” or “of white ancestry”.) Ibero’s stance is aggravated by granting amnesty to people who, without a doubt, are as mestizos as his colleague: accused physiognomies that remind me of the Moorish actors I have seen in several Spanish TV series filmed in the peninsula. “Generic white” does not mean Indo-European. Ibero misuses language as mestizo-Americans abuse words like “Latino” or “Hispanic” in the United States to refer to immigrants of the color of poop.

Although Mestizo has good feelings, cognitively he is a goner because, unlike the Brazilian, he has no objection to breed, as Ibero.

The latter is what the Spanish-speaking Metapedia denominates “mediterraneanist”: people who believe that the “meds” are superior to the Nordic.

In my discussions with Ibero I noticed he has got a clear animosity toward the real Aryans. In the last meeting I saw them he told me that those who fought with most courage in World War II were the Spaniards; and when I mentioned the looming monetary and energy crises he said he was hopeful that Spain would be saved. That is what matters to him.

I mention these stories because, I believe, Sebastian Ernst Ronin’s critique of white nationalism, a late version of American universalism, is correct. Ronin claims that all nationalism is ultimately ethno-nationalism, and that it makes no sense to use the word “white” in Europe.

The case of Ibero illustrates it. Though born in Mexico, Ibero is an ethno-nationalist (a Creole nationalist) to use Ronin’s language, not a “white nationalist.” He apparently has no Indian blood: his heart is in Spain or, rather, in an Hispanic America. Extrapolating the concept of “white race” to Europe is launching into a fool’s errand. Doing it in Spain would literally charge at windmills for the simple fact that many of the “meds” are not even white. Most people of the Iberian Peninsula will identify with other “meds” and, what is infinitely worse, with clearly mesticized people like the Hispanic Americans. Ronin is right: you cannot create “white” awareness among WASPs and MEDs of Europe or Latin America, including authentic Criollos. Perhaps it is worth mentioning that, the day of the pagan party outdoors, Ibero drove back some of the guests: pure English girls living in Mexico. When Ibero’s ideology—whom I repeat: has no-Amerindian blood—came up, one of these English said: “But you’re not white.”

The key to the whole thing is to notice how the inferiority complex of the Mediterranean, so well exemplified in Ibero, sometimes almost comes to desire the extinction of the real whites. It’s not only bothering he does not care that blue-eyed blonds become extinct—presumably, only an eccentric and expendable subset of the “generic white” in his mind. When I was on speaking terms with him I always detected a kind of peevishness towards them. And what’s scary is inferred from this, taking into account the harsh criticism of Ronin to white nationalism.

Although he has no Jewish blood, Ibero is a kind of Jew as he uses his Iberian genotype and phenotype as platform and inferiority complex to degrade the competition. And the competition is no less than the true white. Ibero is, as his internet pennames denote, an “Iberolobo,” a “Peninsular.” He never emphasizes, as I do, the fact that the peninsular Portuguese irreparably tarnished their genes with sub-Saharan, African blood. Although he and Mestizo—especially Ibero—have a good grasp of the content of white nationalist blogs for English speakers, Ibero’s mind orbits around another gravitational field: Spain and its American transplant. He is a silent scholar of English blogs only as inspirational material on how to develop a “Criollo” equivalent in the Americas. By remembering his outburst against Icelanders when I told him if I had money I would move there—with true Vikings genetically speaking—, we will see something fundamental. I never heard from Ibero a similar rebuff against the Mediterraneans, Amerinds, mestizos or Jews. Only the nordish peoples seem to arouse his anger.

I will be told that the case of Ibero is eccentric, and that it is illogical to generalize from an isolated case. But it is not so isolated. Drawing on my recent trip to London I will tell something I saw at the Millennium Bridge.

I joined a walking tour on the bridge led by a young man who spoke, in Spanish, of the desire to divorce of Henry VIII as if it was “a tantrum of a brat” which the Pope did not grant. Although many Spaniards have lost their faith, you may still feel the cultural inertia of previous centuries. Ibero himself, who is not Catholic, has told me he does not like the English. Similarly to the tour for Spaniards, contemporary nationalism reinforces ancient grudges between the nations. Europeans are not united by a common lack of skin melanin! Unlike them I do not care if the divorce was legitimate; only that the establishment of an independent church by Henry VIII helped to break the monolithic power of the Catholic Church which had chained the thought of the white man throughout Europe. An old-styled nationalist in Spain would never reason that way!

To be fair to Ibero, I must make it clear that his anti-nordicism can go completely unnoticed unless someone presses him a little. That distinguishes him from the ancient hatred of Jews for Aryans, who so badly want to exterminate them that in their Talmud they proclaim that “the best of the gentiles must be exterminated.” In other words, the animosity of Ibero before the Aryans is only dormant, not omnipresent as in the case of our ethnic enemies. However, Ibero’s mind is perfectly understood when we note his words, that he has repeated more than once: “I’m not a second-class white!” Actually, as the English girl who he gave a raid said, he’s not even properly white.

Had Hitler’s dream been fulfilled—an Aryan empire from the Atlantic to the Urals—the most Aryanized Spaniards would be already thinking like me, not as Ibero. But I would like to put forward a direct response to his stance that it doesn’t matter that blue-eyed blonds become extinct, and that what only matters are the so-called generic whites, with the opposite fantasy: although it was a gift from the unconscious.

Some years before meeting Ibero, in November 12, 2008, I arrived at the Madrid airport after barely sleeping the previous night in mainland and across the ocean for nervousness to travel: something that usually happens to me the day before transatlantic voyages. Falling into deep sleep that night in a city I had never been, something happened. Unlike my dreams that opened the chapters of my HS, so riddled with symbols, this time the descent into the abyss of my being took me to something I had known for some time but was no longer in the front of my consciousness. But before quoting the content of the naked “dream” without symbols I must say I slept in a soulless building, which was surrounded by more of them: residential complexes like those that have become so fashionable in the West since the culture fell.

The dream had somehow present the rudimentary faces of the Spaniards who had been in the neighborhood without soul where I slept. The message from my unconscious that awoke me suddenly well after midnight let me know that we had to level all that vacuous culture, wiping out the ugly people living there. In other words, in no way my destiny in life ended with the Hojas I wanted to publish (that trip to Spain, I naively believed, would lead to find a publisher for my 700-page book). No: there was not nearly the last word in my Hojas. The wake up dream on another continent, after some thirty-odd hours of not sleeping and then falling into the depths of my being, was analogous to those dreams in which the person believes to have received a divine message: You still have to speak about the extermination of the Neanderthals, César: you still need to talk about it…

Six years have passed since that night of late 2008, but instead of delving further into my unconscious let us continue our story.

Quite independently of my dream in Madrid, it would hurt me horrors that whites with brown hair and/or brown eyes became extinct. There are precious Aryans with black hair—think of the Liza Taylor in 1952 who filmed Ivanhoe or the 1889 painting by Heinrich Hoffman, Christ and the Rich Young Ruler (though of course: the neighborhood Madrilenians where I slept seemed troglodytes compared to them). I’m perfectly capable of appreciating the dark hair to the degree of falling in love if you reach that level of beauty for my eyes. But people like Ibero give us a slight clue to the envy of those who, during the Jacobin terror, sent to the guillotine the blonds of Paris (as Kemp tells us in his magnum opus).

In Europe “white nationalism” not only does not exists: it cannot exist. Ibero is neither white nationalist nor a Nazi, although the website of him and Mestizo, Visión Blanca, sometimes exhibits a rare fetish for Third Reich paraphernalia, a subject that Mestizo is more knowledgeable than us. As already explained, Ibero is simply an Iberian-Latin-American nationalist: he defends the Caucasoids of this part of the continent despite their mudblood. What is striking of quite a few white nationalists who blog or comment in English is that, as Ibero, they are capable of the doublethink that someone with brown skin is “white” simply because he is native of towns along the Mediterranean coast. The truth is that some Europeans are as “white” as Ibero’s partner, Mestizo. If those internet anti-nordicists who have offended me were confronted with pictures of both, they could not decide who is the American mestizo and who, say, the contemporary Greek.

No wonder that, once broken the Visigoth taboo of not mixing with the Mediterranean, the resulting stock of ancient Hispania embraced Christianity with such superstitious vehemence. Pierce said it clearly: the physical beauty of the Aryans is the splendor of divinity, so that the Christians (as the perpetrators of the Jacobin terror with the guillotined blonds) smashed the statues of the Greco-Roman world. A glance at the chapter on Hispania by Pierce in Who We Are is enough to see how the original Iberians mixed with the Semitic Carthaginians from time immemorial—long before the Muslim conquest of eight centuries, of which only the very stubborn say it did not leave a significant genetic mark. (Also, many Russian and Europeans of the Balkans mixed with Asians and Turks respectively.) This passage from the only non-fiction book from the pen of Pierce should be kept in mind:

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

By white Pierce understood of Indo-European origin; not what the newspeak of our days calls “Mediterranean,” “Hispanic” or worse, “Latino.” Independently of the behavior of the Brazilian, who according to the humorous illustration above would be a noteentiendo or tornatrás, he is well above the Criollo nationalists, white nationalists and even neo-Nazis (whom I have referred to in FR as fake Nazis). As seen in FR the Brazilian strongly believes in the “one-drop rule.”

Once one starts tolerating the first drops of non-white blood in one’s own body—say: the ancestral taboo that the Visigoths violated—, those drops will mark the beginning of the end. If we look at the history of the Iberian Peninsula from the highest tower of History we see that it is marked by two major Christian betrayals: the conversion of the Goths that broke the color barrier in the 6th century and, a thousand years later, the green light of a Pope for peninsular males to marry the conquered Amerindian. (In Portugal the church even allowed women to marry a number of imported negroes.) Regarding this last betrayal that began in the 16th century it is worth mentioning that, despite the system of castas the mestizos, the castizos and the harnizos used to bribe the Spanish authorities to be registered as “Criollos” though genetically they were not. These historical realities help us to understand the mind of Ibero’s partner, Mestizo; and also remind me the general amnesty that white nationalists have granted to the populations bordering the Mediterranean Sea.

There is no way to avoid the downward spiral of miscegenation once the line becomes blurred. If white nationalists lack the courage to draw a line highly enough the same fate will fall upon them—what happened to the continent conquered by the Spaniards and Portuguese. So-called Latin America is actually mestizo-America: a gigantic racial rubbish-dump from Río Grande to Tierra del Fuego. And this is true in spite of the fact that a tiny fraction of the population of these countries* remains authentically Aryan.


______________

* Argentina, Bolivia, Brazil, Chile, Colombia, Costa Rica, Cuba, Ecuador, El Salvador, Guatemala, Haiti, Honduras, Mexico, Nicaragua, Panama, Paraguay, Peru, Dominican Republic, Uruguay and Venezuela.

Fuck Hollywood!

Now that we are talking about why overt, out-of-the-closet homos such as James O’Meara (who must not be confused with Michael O’Meara) and Jack Donovan should not be given platforms in white nationalist forums, a recent comment in a previous post moved me to collect the following comments in related threaded discussions.

I refer to Greg Johnson who, under the penname of Trevor Lynch, extraordinarily reviewed Quentin Tarantino’s Pulp Fiction (below I changed textual references to “Lynch” as “Johnson”). Johnson’s review was sectioned in two parts. Let’s start with the second.

For obvious reasons, the first commenters to jump on that thread were O’Meara and Donovan. I was the third one to comment, the dissident voice. Pay special attention to my words way below in this post in the context of what I recently said in Gitone’s magic (“Just compare this homosexual shit [two whites raping a Negro] with the Platonic love for Tadzio in Death in Venice: one inspires the sensitive soul and the other trashes the god Eros”).

After the cheers that Johnson got from O’Meara and Donovan for his favorable review of this filthy film, the most frank criticism I found about Johnson’s bizarre review came out from Howard.


John Norman Howard commenting on Johnson’s review…

 “Yes, Pulp Fiction contains interracial couples, villainous bumbling whites, and noble, eloquent blacks. One just has to look beyond the casting to the story itself.”
[in Johnson’s review]

The eyes are the window to the soul. The outward appearance of the characters is anything but superficial: one would have to look beyond the casting, the scenes, and the dialog as well. Sorry, but Fail one.

 “Pulp Fiction is only superficially anti-white. On a deeper level, it can aid us in rejecting modernity and recovering the spiritual foundations of something better.”
[in Johnson’s review]

Fail two. It’s overtly anti-White or at best, pro-diversity: which in the end analysis is White genocide. Big talk of “honor” yet admitting it was merely an opportunistic double-cross in the end? Can’t have it both ways, mate. And the whole “watch in the rectum” thing was just another of Tarantino’s gratuitous homosexual jokes. Just like the whole hillbilly pawnshop luridness. Whether you want to credit him for using Walken in the way Walken seems to work best, well. Funny in the usual South Park manner, but certainly not “genius”.

Greg Johnson said…

Your eyes might be the windows to your soul, which is what that saying means. But it certainly does not mean that your eyes are the windows to other people’s souls, or that they penetrate to the essence of whatever surface they light on.

John Norman Howard said…

I know what the saying means. My point is, the outward appearance of the characters in the movie are said movie’s “eyes”, as it were. Hence, one can readily see the indisputable “soul” of the movie. Leastwise, those of us with eyes to see, and without the scales of our pet theories, notions, and pseudo-intellectual baggage covering them.

I said…

I cannot conceive any good film featuring a black married to a white girl [as in Pulp Fiction] unless the film has an explicitly pro-white message, which obviously every film by this repulsive being [Tarantino] lacks.

The film starts with a white man with his white girlfriend assaulting a restaurant: the opposite of what usually happens in the real world, as revealed by color of crime stats. At the end of the film we see a flashback in that very restaurant with a spiritually powerful black man lecturing the weakling white robbers. Other instances of inverted travesties in Pulp Fiction could be cited, but it is unnecessary.

Art

True filmic art, like Death in Venice or Andrei Rublev inspires people. But in this decadent century only a handful of Hollywood films have inspired me. Ninety-nine per cent of them are so replete with anti-West, multicult messages that almost every time I visit the theaters I feel morally raped.

In the other thread I said that one of my sisters sings classical music hymns. When Pulp Fiction appeared instead of finding inspiration she felt visually raped. My sister is very sensitive, and the scene of the silent masked man referred to as “the gimp” (the one who was awakened up from a S&M dungeon to watch a tied-up Butch) shocked her deeply. Just compare this homosexual shit with the Platonic love for Tadzio in Death in Venice: one inspires the sensitive soul and the other trashes the god Eros. The same with Tarantino’s violence: unlike the gratuitous violence in Pulp Fiction a group of Tatars raid the city of Vladimir in Andrei Rublev: a historically accurate and shocking yet inspiring sequence for white viewers.

It could be argued that art depicting a decadent culture is still art, for instance Polanski’s Bitter Moon; the film by the Mexican director Alfonso Cuarón, Children of Men and, according to Johnson, Pulp Fiction.

My trouble with this approach is that all of these films have contributed to debilitate the spirit of the westerners. Like the character Vincent in Pulp Fiction, Bitter Moon reflects how the extremes of the hedonistic lifestyle in Paris are leading the French to ethnical suicide, literally. Like Pulp Fiction, in Children of Men the message is traitorously inverted: the white hero must save a black baby from extinction in a dying world that is no longer breeding any babies.

Yes: there is art in both Polanski and Cuarón’s films. But since their message hurts the Western soul Howard’s reply to me in the other thread is worth reciting: “Exactly… and kudos on mention The Brigade for its much-needed hammer on Hollywood and how to handle that sewer”.

Johnson deleted this comment by Howard.
In the other thread about the same film,
Part 1 of Johnson’s review:

Joe Owens said…

Whatever moral message Pulp Fiction is supposed to convey is well and truly lost in all the filth it’s wrapped up in. I’m sure we can find some moral reasoning in all this twisted rubbish. Yes, what about Inglourious Basterds or Hostel: Part II by Quentin Jerome Tarantino? Come on, time to leave this filth to the cranks and Jews who produce it!

Uncle Fritz said…

Good heavens: I thought it was just me!! I couldn’t even get through the damned film—after two attempts. Maybe too much philosophical immersion really is a dangerous thing…

John Norman Howard said…

Exactly. Pulp Fiction is the product of an unsound mind, and bestowing it with all this metaphysical mumbo-jumbo accolades is laughable.

It’s natural that a generation raised upon South Park would find it “deep” and “innovative”. But the bottom-line is this: The only thing remarkable about the film is that it marks a true line of demarcation in American culture (such as it is) whereby trash cinema passes as art, and an overt “up yours” to Whitey previously witnessed only in the most prurient blaxploitation junk of the seventies.
I’ve always found it serendipitous that this film’s release and subsequent lionization occurred at about the same time as the O.J. murders. Another stark line of demarcation in America’s racial demise.

Iranian for Aryans said…

Amen! The same can be said of everything popular, especially what passes for music.

Joe Owens said…

Why are you spoiling the pages of Counter Currents with this rubbish??? Shabbos Goy movies shouldn’t be praised by white nationalists. Come on, let’s get back to basics, Greg Johnson, I think you’re partying too much!

I said… (responding to Meh)

“Anyone expecting explicitly pro-white movies in this era might just as well stop watching movies.”

Ergo, I have stopped watching films—though as a big fan of the seventh art I still continue to watch the classics. Yesterday for example I saw the original, black-and-white version of The Hunchback of Notre Dame.

“Art, even decadent art, can be worth something…”

Rubbish. Please, see “The Philosophy of Beauty”, a six-video series in the playlist presently featured at The Occidental Observer.

I was born in a family of artists. Real artists I mean. So it’s easy for me to distinguish real art from “decadent art” (an oxymoron).

If I had children I would never allow any of them watching how two white males sodomize a Neanderthalesque nigger [see the Pulp Fiction photo above]. Never. How grotesque! (Not grotesque of the sublime kind, like the shots of Quasimodo at the upper balcony of the cathedral, saying to the gargoyles, “Why was I not made of stone, like thee?”) What a travesty of what is really happening in America (blacks raping whites)!

In The Brigade Covington makes a point: when secession war begins, the only thing that could defeat white revolutionaries is… Hollywood! Actually the climax of the novel is the way the revolutionaries finally hit Hollywood.

I would recommend all nationalists to stop watching modern films and use that time to read The Brigade.


Postscript note:

In Covington’s latest novel about how our new country will look like, all of this Hollywood rape scenes, which can only turn on our decadent nationalists, will be forbidden for our budding families (“The theaters were showing virtually nothing made after 1965 or so”). Instead, inspiring films, the polar opposite of the Tarantino degenerate scum, will be exhibited in the theaters such as Frank Capra’s It’s a Wonderful Life.

Let me finish this post with another comment that Johnson deleted when, last year at Counter Currents, I dared to criticize another silly review of another Hollywood movie.

When Johnson argued that his deep philosophical interpretations of the movies were pertinent, my response was: “I prefer Covington’s approach,” and quoted directly from his last novel:

“The once vibrant city of San Francisco, officially deeded by the Aztlan government to a huge ‘gay community,’ had lost two thirds of its population owing either to death from phosgene and sarin gas, or else through flight away from the V-3s. The section of the white and Jewish entertainment industry that had remained in Hollywood and their mansions in Beverly Hills, Santa Monica and Carmel being sacked and plundered by mobs of campesinos.”

That’s the spirit! That’s the way all true nationalists should handle the Hollywood foe once our nation is established…