On music education

Two years ago, during the pandemic and lockdowns, I recommended half a hundred films. And about ten years ago an Australian asked me in the comments section of this site what pieces of classical music I would recommend for him to suggest to his daughters.

But music is not like films. One can watch typical Hollywood cinema, like Presumed Innocent and The Fugitive with Harrison Ford, and not degrade one’s soul. Those films are light cinema, but they don’t necessarily corrupt us.

Music, on the other hand, is like sex.

These days I have participated in a comment thread on The Unz Review about an article by Michael E. Jones in which he mentions his recent debate with Greg Johnson, where the Catholic Jones criticises homosexualism.

It has been over ten years since I distanced myself from Johnson because of his defence of the misnamed ‘gay’ movement, and for promoting what the Nazis called ‘degenerate music’ on his webzine.

To my way of thinking, sex education is like music education. It is not so much, as the Australian naively asked me, a matter of suggesting a dozen masterful pieces of classical music. Rather, we must prevent our children from listening to degenerate music just as, in a healthy society, we prevent our girls from having premarital sex.

What good is a long list of my favourite works in classical music if the average Westerner would then go on to listen to—and even enjoy!—degenerate music? It’s like showing a teenage daughter the old movie Ivanhoe starring an archetypically Aryan actor like Robert Taylor and an absolute adolescent beauty (Liz Taylor) when, on the weekend, that same daughter goes on a date with a black.

In music education it’s not the sums that count (remember the Australian who asked me for a list so his daughters could add my recommendations on their mobile phones). It is subtraction that counts.

So, in today’s world, it makes no sense to make a list of classical music pieces for our children to listen to. For education to work, one would have to cut the child off from the West as Russia has cut itself off, and create a traditional society—something impossible in the soft totalitarianism of today’s West.

I was educated musically. At the age of five or six I discovered my first musical love thanks to a record of my father’s, Mussorgsky’s Khovanshchina or Dawn Over the River Moscow, an anecdote I tell in more detail in one of my books.

My early discovery of that sublime prelude happened in the early sixties, a time when the little boy I was had not heard a note of degenerate music. And how could I not be well educated when in those years my father had gone to Utica in New York to re-release one of his symphonic works?

Do you understand what I mean when I say that in musical matters one educates by example? In Gomorrah it makes no sense to make a list of classical pieces when we are as surrounded by degenerate music as fish in water. But I would like to make an exception.

Below we can listen to my first musical love. It’s curious that my first loves were Russian pieces. That’s because, as we see in the old newspaper clip of my father in Utica, he confessed ‘Stravinsky is my idol’. (Not long after discovering Khovanshchina my dad used to play for me another Russian piece that, in time, would become one of my favourites: the Firebird Suite.)

Like decent sexual behaviour, good music can only be taught by example, and by strict prohibitions. With all that Russia has banned in recent days from the Gomorrahite and dying West, that country will soon become the healthiest white society in the world…

Reflections of an Aryan woman, 102

Perhaps the last great collective Aryan creation in the West was that of the German Third Reich, with the architects of the new Chancellery and the Nuremberg Stadium; the sculptors Arno Brecker and Kolbe, and the interpreters of Wagner—in particular, the extraordinary conductor Fürtwangler. It was the result of a prodigious upsurge of the whole of Germany, under the inspiration of the supreme artist, Adolf Hitler, against the tide of world decadence. This momentum was abruptly interrupted, after only six years, by England’s declaration of war on Germany, immediately followed by the familiar coalition of hatred, under the overt or subtle leadership of the Jews.

 

______ 卐 ______

 

Editor’s note: This is where Savitri and many white nationalists fail, in that the leadership actually came from the American ethno-traitors (see what I said yesterday about John Mearsheimer). That doesn’t mean that Jewry is non-guilty. It means that Jewry was always a minor player compared to the anti-German initiative of the Anglo-Americans. (The best metaphor I can think of is a poison in which the active ingredient is provided by the ethno-traitors, and the catalyst that accelerates that poison by the Jews.)

 

______ 卐 ______

 

Everything that the non-German West has produced recently that is truly great—in France, for example, the work of a Robert Brasillach, a Henry de Montherlant, a Céline, a Benoît-Méchin, a Saint-Loup—has been, in one way or another, affected by the spirit of the Reich. There is, moreover, from one end to the other, a deep pessimism like a prescience of the inevitable death or the ‘decline of the West’ already announced by Spengler.

And the East is no better. It lives on its traditional wisdom; it performs its immutable rites and quotes its sacred scriptures whose content is older than prehistory since it is truth itself—non-human truth. But it doesn’t seem to have the strength to draw from it anything to regenerate from top to bottom. (It is, I remind you, a Hindu minority, as well as a European one, and a minority without political influence, alas, that has understood what eternal link exists between Hitlerism and the Doctrine of violent action in absolute detachment, as preached by Lord Krishna to the Aryan warrior Arjuna, in the Bhagawad-Gita).

I have, on the other hand, now, in 1971, found in India more echoes than ever of the expression of my passionate expectation of the Kalki avatar, and the end of the Dark Age. Others await it as I do, and they too don’t feel that there is anything to deplore at the thought of the end of man—except for those few whom the last divine Incarnation will welcome as collaborators, deeming them worthy to open with Him the Golden Age of the next Cycle.

There is no reason to be saddened by the idea that the innumerable ugliness that we see spreading everywhere, on every continent, will one day be definitively swept away along with those who have produced them, encouraged or tolerated them, and who continue to produce new ones.

There is no need to be saddened by the fear that the old and beautiful human creations—the Pyramids of Giza, the Parthenon, the temples of South India, Ellora, Angkor, Chartres Cathedral—may well be swept away along with them, in the colossal fury of the End.

The ugliness that man has accumulated, the desecrations of the Earth of which even the best races have been guilty in this century of universal decay, neutralise by far all that the genius of the Ancients has produced that is greatest and most beautiful. They make us forget the winged bulls of Babylon and Assyria, the friezes of the Greek temples and the Byzantine mosaics, and tip the scales in favour of the disappearance of the human species.

Moreover, eternal works no longer belong in today’s world. We don’t even see them anymore. The ugly glass and steel buildings for offices, erected recently in the centre of Athens around the Place de la Constitution, completely hide the view of the Acropolis from anyone standing in the square. The frame of the four-thousand-year-old cities is destroyed. Lycabettos, three-quarters stripped of its beautiful pine forest, is no longer Lycabettos in the eyes of those who knew and loved it fifty years ago.

And so it is everywhere. It is, or will be tomorrow on a planetary scale, the realisation of the sacrilegious dream of Descartes and all the devotees of anthropocentrism. It is the triumph of the immense human anthill over the savannah, the desert, all the terrestrial spaces where the superior man could still be alone and, through visible beauty and contact with the innocence of private life of the word, commune with the eternal.

Wagner’s Lohengrin

The last three days I watched Lohengrin on YouTube, one act each night, corroborating what I think of opera.

If a good film loses ten or twenty per cent of its art when seen on the small screen, opera easily loses ninety-nine per cent. It is art made to be seen live, with the flesh and blood characters in front of our seats, and with all the ritual of spending our meagre savings, as the adolescent Hitler did when he discovered Wagner; dressing up in our best clothes, and going to a palace (like this one in Mexico City: the only one where I have enjoyed an opera, inviting a lady of course, to accompany me).

Opera really misses almost one hundred per cent of its magic. It seems an outrage that in the next few days I will continue to use this medium to see other Wagnerian operas. But in the palace of the town where I live, operas by the Führer’s favourite composer are very rarely performed. And even in the single opera I have seen there, the subtitles in my native language were essential to understanding the songs and the plot.

It is impossible to understand National Socialism without enjoying the art of its background. And it is impossible to grasp Wagner’s art in all its glory without having the funds to go to Vienna or Bayreuth in Germany, where some of his operas are performed every year. But even if you have the money, say, to go to the opera theatre in the Judaized US, in recent times modern choreography has bastardised the German composer’s original vision, courtesy of the Jews (see for example these quotations of an article that was later deleted in The Occidental Observer).

In the performance I saw yesterday, embedded below, Lohengrin is not the blond Aryan that Europeans used to see in more accurate performances. While the singer I heard yesterday has a magnificent voice, we will have to wait for the Fourth Reich before we can, once again, enjoy Wagner’s works as they were seen by those born in much less obscure times than ours…

Reflections of an Aryan woman, 84

What does it mean to speak of the irrevocable impossibility of ‘rectification,’ in the sense in which a devotee of the cyclic theory of History—such as, in India, the first ranks of orthodox Hindus; such as, in the West, a Rene Guénon or Julius Evola—would understand this idea?

It means—and there it is almost a ‘self-evident truth’—the continuation of the course of events and currents of thought, and the evolution of the human and non-human world, as we have known it for as long as there has been a history, that is to say, for as long as we have been able, with the help of relics and documents, to construct for ourselves an idea, as non-arbitrary as possible, of the past.

We can hardly go back more than a few millennia if we want to confine ourselves to history proper, i.e. to a more or less explainable human past. We can only look back a few tens of thousands of years, starting with mysteriously preserved art objects whose meaning and use we ignore, but whose obvious perfection we nevertheless admire.

A few years ago I saw, in the small museum of the chateau of Foix, a flint statuette of such a model, and such an expression, that none of the masterpieces of Tanagra surpasses it in beauty. The anonymous sculptor who left this marvel lived, the guide tells me, ‘some thirty thousand years ago’. What did he want to do, no doubt spending several years of his life giving a soul to this insignificant fragment of the hardest stone there is? Did he want to represent a deity—to create a concrete form that helped him and others to concentrate the mind, the first step towards the ‘realisation’ of the Unthinkable? Did he want to immortalise a beloved face? To attract scattered forces to a point—and which ones?—for a definite aim. And which one?

Only those who live ‘in the eternal’ and who can, through a created object, enter into effective contact with its creator, who is always present for them, could say. I cannot. But I do know the deep impression that this statuette left on me: the impression of a forbidden world, separated from ours by some impenetrable veil, and of a quality far superior to ours; of a world where the ‘average man’, the simple craftsman, was so much closer to the hidden Reality than the greatest of our relatively recent artists (not to mention, of course, all the producers of ‘modern art’!).

Thirty thousand years! In perpetuity without beginning or end, that was yesterday. Some archaeologists, whose assessments I cannot, in my ignorance, judge the accuracy or error of, attribute ten times this age to the enigmatic carved and sculpted blocks of Tiahuanaco. Assuming that they are right, or that they are only wrong by a few millennia, it was only yesterday. It is difficult, beyond a certain distance, to distinguish differences in the past. This already applies to the very short period of a human’s life.

Unlikely as it may seem, my earliest clear memories are of the time when I was between one and a half and two years old. I can see the flat my parents lived in at that time, with its furniture. I can easily relive the impression made by certain knick-knacks, and several episodes connected with the child’s car in which my mother used to take me for a ride. But these memories, which go back to, let’s say, 1907, seem to me hardly older than the first film, Quo Vadis?, that I saw, in April 1912, since it was preceded by Newsreels, one of which, the most important and the only one that I remember, was none other than the famous sinking of the Titanic. If I were to live for several centuries, I would undoubtedly put the memories of my tenth and my fiftieth year ‘on the same level’ (in the way that ‘pre-dynastic’ Egypt and that of Pharaoh Tjeser, the great king of the 3rd Dynasty, seem to me, in the fog of time, to be almost contemporary).

Thus all that I can say of the more or less remote milestones that scientists, specialists in prehistory, discover along the path of creative men—we don’t even know which—is that they evoke the whole of a past in which all that counts for me, and in particular the beauty, strangely surpasses the present that I see around me.

Reflections of an Aryan woman, 70

As I noted above, the particular restrictions he had been able to impose on himself up to that point, in a spirit of asceticism, became unnecessary. And if he continued to observe some of them; if among other things, he obstinately abstained from alcoholic beverages and tobacco, it was out of natural disposition rather than out of a concern for discipline. And if he also refused to eat any meat, it was because deep down he—the artist and friend of animals—had a deepening disgust with the ugliness and horror of the slaughterhouse and the butchery. That said, he lived from then on as a harmoniously balanced man, mingling, without embarrassment or astonishment, with the most refined society if he deemed it necessary for his work or if, after hours of contact with his rough SA and the people, he found there a source of relaxation.

He enjoyed the company of women and, like Siegfried, the prophet Mohammed, Krishna, the incarnate God, and other illustrious fighters ‘against Time’, he knew love, sporadically at least, it seems, when he had the time! Above all, he lived for all the satisfactions that art in all its forms could give him; art that he placed so high that he didn’t admit that a man who was insensitive to it should ever take over the leadership of a National Socialist state. People who, like the French writer Malraux—who certainly cannot be suspected of any bias toward him!—met him at social gatherings and embassy dinners, admit that he was ‘witty’, even ‘humorous’ and that he ‘knew how to dance’ in the sense of Nietzsche’s definition of the term.

But at the same time, he remained first and foremost a man of his fight. And he seems to have been increasingly aware of the need for those who led this struggle under him and in collaboration with him to have a share in the secret knowledge of more than human origin. Hence his dream of a hierarchical German Empire—and beyond it, a hierarchical world according to the spirit of Tradition: a ‘caste system on a planetary scale’ to use the expression of a Hindu, an intelligent admirer of the German Third Reich.

Hence, too, his efforts to create the Order: ‘a veritable lay priesthood’ as Rauschning wrote, which was to be the guardian of Tradition at the top of the social pyramid of the Great Reich and, after the inevitable collapse, at the top of that of the faithful survivors.

This Order, as I have said, was the Schutzstaffel or ‘Echelons of protection’, commonly referred to by its initials—SS—which the Führer wanted to be both ‘militant’ and ‘triumphant’ in the sense in which these terms are applied to the Church in Catholic theology; that is to say, warlike and concerned above all with the defence and expansion of the Aryan elite’s strongholds in this world, and having attained at least a certain degree of being, separating it from the rest of mankind as the ‘chosen ones’ are separated from the ‘world’, the initiated from the uninitiated, in all traditional societies.

Without the existence of such an Order, the reversal of false values on all planes, including the material plane, was inconceivable.

National Socialist booklets, 2

On the sidebar, yesterday I replaced Savitri’s photo with a video showing a beautiful parade in Munich in 1939. If there is one thing white nationalists still don’t understand, it is that before a Semitic cult took over their culture, for the Aryan mind the visual and plastic arts, including architecture, took precedence over the written word. Even Homer was recited in special houses orally, with speakers memorising the Iliad.

The sites of white nationalism are children of the Reformation, which, unlike the Renaissance, emphasised the written word following the theologians who rebelled against the revival in Italy: a light on a potential revival of the Aryan spirit.

Judeo-Christianity, with its emphasis on the written word, eclipsed the Renaissance in the subsequent centuries as the Reformation imposed, once again, the cult of holy writ, and this time introducing the Old Testament into the psyche of Aryan man.

Having once again inverted the values, centuries later National Socialism attempted to reverse the process using public arts—just as it was done in ancient Rome and even in Greece. That’s why what happened in Munich and elsewhere in Germany is so important.

Why do I say all this in an entry devoted to the second booklet that came to me among those booklets that portrayed the spirit, now in the written word, during the most glorious times of the Third Reich? Because since the American publishers of those booklets were deprived of almost all forms of payment, the presentation of their translated booklets is too rustic. What better than to quote what on 22 July this year I wrote, in the form of a soliloquy, on the white pages of the booklet The SS Calls You! (translated from the SS original, Dich ruft die SS!):

These translations are not made with love. Just compare them with Casanova’s small book [a superb edition of a biography of an Austrian author I acquired in Manchester]: just the font and book size that the translated German booklet would deserve. It is unfortunate that there are no artists like me in the publishing industry of racialists. Therefore, I will just skim through it (the tiny font size is very uncomfortable to read…).

That said, just looking at the first page [actually page 7, after the opening credits] I can’t help but think that I shouldn’t revisit the WN sites, which are rubbish compared to this fighting spirit.

It is precisely because the US relies on that materialistic phrase containing the misleading word ‘happiness’ that makes Americans the antithesis of the Aryan hero. But there is a problem, page 10 mentions the word ‘God’.

Page 64 announces the career ‘SS music officer’ at the Berlin Conservatory, and continues the information about that SS career on the next page.

Non-degenerate music, obviously. Then, on page 66, comes a phrase I have already spoken about a couple of times on this site addressing German parents: ‘Sooner or later your son will become a soldier’.

Perhaps it is worth closing this post with an image of how the Roman church bewitches its faithful precisely with super-aesthetic editions of its liturgy: the most aesthetic editions I have ever seen in a publishing house! If with money it is possible to publish this kind of little books to instil evil, won’t it be possible to found a new publishing house that collects all these little jewels of the Third Reich in editions as elegant as those of Ediciones Cristiandad, whose publishing house resides in Madrid?

The last of the Starks

‘The Last of the Starks’ is the fourth episode of the eighth season of HBO’s fantasy television series Game of Thrones, and the 71st overall.

As I said in the previous instalment of this series, ‘The Long Night’ is so exciting that the anticlimax is unwatchable. If I had directed the show, in addition to removing feminism from it; the soft-porn scenes, Arya’s psycho traits, and putting Theon as the late hero instead of an heroine, I would’ve ended the series by filming, in this episode, Bran’s coronation after Jon led a mass cremation funeral for the dead (the latter we do see in the HBO series).

In that way the series wouldn’t have ended in the eighth season but in the seventh, in 2017: this eleventh episode being the anticlimax (something common in masterpieces of literature).

If you look at the popularity statistics for Game of Thrones, after Arya killed the monarch of the white walkers and the wights, the Night King, the fan acceptance plummeted. On the one hand I am pleased, although anti-feminism wasn’t the cause of the repudiation of this season but the blunder of squeezing all the complex plots pending in a couple of episodes.

The feminist messages that continue in this episode are not worth describing further, except that while watching ‘The Last of the Starks’ tonight I counted two of them.

Against Semitic verbiage

Vig said:

Studying the Aryan (European) history it is obvious that we are gifted with a tremendous capacity to create visual beauty in art. The Greeks were a shining example of this. This is a right brain faculty.

So the Aryan mind prefers to think in pictures but spoiled his mind by getting used to this rotten alphabet. The Anglo Saxons are proof of it.

My two cents:

This is exactly why I decorate this site with the images that can be seen both on the sidebar and in my very brief entries: something that doesn’t exist in the verbiage of left-brain white nationalism.

The ideal would be to rebuild the handsome temples that the Christians demolished to follow the advice of Manu Rodríguez (pages 148-50 of The Fair Race).

Pride and Prejudice (2005 adaptation)

In the early hours of the day after midnight, I began to watch once again the 2005 film Pride and Prejudice, based on Jane Austen’s novel. I felt really tired and had to suspend the function, already after two in the morning. I left when, advised by Mr. Darcy, Mr. Bingley struggles with himself to propose to Jane Bennet. Tonight I will see the rest.

Over the years I have talked about that movie, even since the old incarnation of this site. While what I said last week is true, that even seemingly benign films contain a subversive mustard seed that can grow, in this P&P adaptation there is no bad seed. It is a movie that may well have been filmed in a parallel world in which Hitler had won the war.

There are several readings we could make of the film. Personally, the actress who plays the blonde Jane represents, in flesh and blood, the ethereal nymphs that I place on the sidebar: the inspiration of David Lane. If there is something that I fail to understand in the white nationalist movement, it is this lack of praise for the most beautiful specimens of the Aryan race. I just do not get it. Eros’ force about women like Jane should, on its own, move millions of whites to Lane’s words. And I don’t mean only ‘That the beauty of the white Aryan women shall not perish from the earth’, but the consequence of Eros, lots of children: ‘We must secure the existence of our people and a future for white children’.

The other issue is marriage. If ours is the darkest of all times, it is because they inverted values in everything related to sexuality and the reproduction of the Aryan race. Needless to say, salvation consists of transvaluing values as they were before, in the world of Austen. But with the exception of Anglin and Devlin, who, among the white nationalists, insists so much on the subject? This is one of the many reasons I don’t take the movement seriously. In Hitler’s Germany, on the other hand, the sacredness of marriage and Aryan reproduction was primordial.

As I said, tonight I will finish watching the movie where I left after midnight. Those who want to capture the spirit of this site, what moves me to write, will have to buy the DVD of P&P and watch it from time to time. The music of Dario Marianelli, the landscapes of bucolic England, and even the buildings—for example when Mr. Darcy proposes to Elizabeth—should move the deepest fibre of the white man.

If you visit my Facebook or Twitter pages, you will find the same painting of Claude le Lorrain above the pages. It is known that the wealthy 19th-century English tried to bring the beautiful architecture of some paintings of le Lorrain (paintings that I contemplated during my last visit to London’s museums) to the countryside of the island. The building that served as a refuge from the copious rain for the future couple, when Mr. Darcy proposes to Elizabeth, is the perfect framework for the fourteen words (or twenty-eight, if we are to count the two meanings of the Lane words).

Art, architecture, Aryan beauty, Puritan sexual customs, the 14 words, good music (the very antithesis of what whites listen today), bucolic landscapes—it is all the same. Hitler, who sometime in his life wanted to be an artist, saw it clearly. When will white nationalists see something so obvious?

Hitler v Siege

Face it: The Aryan race is so starved of inspiring stories like LOTR that you ought not to be surprised that GOT (visually, pure Aryan esthetics), which was written as a response to Tolkien, became the most popular series of the decade. But since the grand finale it has come to my attention that, unlike Patrick, very few commenters add something substantial about what I have been saying about Game of Thrones.

I think that is due to a terrible way of understanding education. Except for Vig, few commenters have an artistic background. Unlike Hitler, who liked classical music, painting and the old architecture of Italy so much, the common white advocate lives under the mistaken impression that the West can be recovered using only the left hemisphere of his brain (say, the dry academic articles published by MacDonald in his webzine).

That could not be farther from the truth! Remember that it is the stories that galvanise the white population, like all those stories of the epics that inspired J.R.R. Tolkien and George R.R. Martin for their novels. Only this explains the tremendous success of LOTR and GOT in the Aryan community. Hitler also understood this by wanting to popularise the Germanic myths that Richard Wagner rescued for his people. What we see in the revolutionary wing of the white cause is exactly the opposite of Hitler’s spirit, and Siege’s case symbolizes it.

Before I distanced myself from James Mason because of his ignorance, I tried to Europeanise Siege a bit using, for my Daybreak Press, a cover with a painting by Spanish painter Francisco Goya.

But I was wrong: the stark illustration of the original (reproduced below) is the one that actually reflects the content of the book. Two days ago Krist Krusher said in the comments section of this site:

“Siege-tard” is a term I myself created to describe those who you would call crazed dogs howling at the moon [Note of the Ed.: see The Fair Race, pages 647-51]. In the past I read Siege around the same time I read Ironmarch and was not very impressed. I investigated James Mason and became thoroughly unimpressed after I noticed his sudden change of personal faith: he went from being an atheist to being a sucker for the Jebus myth after the Larsson interview! Why?

Sometimes I still try to read what former Ironmarchers write these days and the current “successor” website is a shell. Ironmarch had problems but it was a decent communication center for real fascists. The present “continuation” [like James Mason, they admire Charles Manson too – Ed.] is an abomination.

“Fascist Forge” is about as fascist as Deviantart; garish web design that even the Italian futurists would reject, hideous psychedelic imagery masquerading as art on one thread, degenerate stories with themes of homosex and vore on another, caricatures of real NS—men photoshopped to have glowing red eyes and inverted xtian symbols for user avatars—, it stands as a proud bastion of what Siege readers become as a group. They even call historical fascists like Jose Antonio Primo de Riveria and Mosley “archaeo-fascists” and think everything on the line of “those guys like Hitler are dead. We live therefore we decide everything”!

Even on /pol/ Siege is seen as a joke. To read or write anything on Siege—even regarding the merits of what it has to offer revolutionaries—is to be seen as the dumbest of subhumans.

But it is useless to ask these people to abandon their ways and begin to make some contact with the old culture.

I would like to confess something that happened in my mind in 1996, when I got in my car and drove to the border with the United States in order to emigrate. Already on the other side (I passed legally), the first thought that came to me was that what I saw was ‘the country of absolute Neandertalism’ in the sense that, compared to the old European architecture (and remember that that was Hitler’s inspiration for his New Europe), the US was an empty shell. That happened to me while I was already driving on the roads of Texas on my route to Houston.

The souls of the Siege-tards are as desolate as the landscape I saw from my Shadow Chrysler more than twenty years ago. And that is an endemic problem even among non-revolutionaries, who also don’t make deep contact with European art.

Before the accident that forced me to become the Three-Eyed Raven (I don’t mean Bran, but the old man entangled in the tree) I had wanted to be a film director. Had I reached the peak and filmed Game of Thrones, my adaptation of Martin’s novels would not have been plagued by the feminism we saw in the HBO series. But the art that can potentially captivate the white race is all there, in those epic stories adapted to visual stories for the contemporary palate. Something like a Wagner of the 21st century: television series that the Nazis would surely be filming if Hitler had won the war.

What I want to communicate is the great going astray that represents everything related to American psycho Charles Manson. I would paraphrase Jordan Peterson in the sense that the recovery of the West must be initiated by cleaning our bedroom, yes: but emphasising that the bedroom—our soul—must be arranged based on the best art created by the fair race.

A grim vision like the one on the book-cover that appears within Krusher’s quote will never captivate the race. It’s time to leave Siege in the bookshelf and order a copy of Hitler’s Table Talk. After all, ‘The sign of the times is degeneracy. This term—degeneracy—sums up all that is happening to the West’. This includes Manson fans and SIEGE-tards.