Restructuring my being

Restructuring my life

Restructuring my
literary plans

Three weeks ago my only friend was probably killed by another animal. A month ago I had no idea that his death would break my life in two.

Although I have not written anything on the forums of those who have suffered the loss of a pet, I am greatly impressed that some of them confessed, in those forums, identical feelings to mine. I could not believe reading some testimonies: they seemed perfect clones of the agonies of my being…!

The death of Conejito affected me so much that I have abandoned the writing of De san Francisco a Himmler, of which I only wrote half a hundred pages. That was going to be a huge book that would cover, among other subjects, a more detailed denunciation of the family system from my adolescence to my fifties.

By definitively abandoning De san Francisco I find myself writing only a slim book, the tenth of an autobiographical series, which will culminate the other nine that I had written:

Carta a mamá Medusa
Cómo asesinar el alma de tu hijo
Mi infancia
El retorno de Quetzalcóatl
Hojas susurrantes
La muerte de papá
Mi conejito

Instead of the work of years that was going to represent the very ambitious De san Francisco, once I finish the last one from the above list I could begin to translate them, starting with the first. But as the regulars of this blog know, a selection of chapters of those books has already been translated into English: Day of Wrath.

Published in: on April 14, 2017 at 11:00 am  Comments (10)  

My tree


Excerpted from Man and His Symbols,
an introductory book about the Carl Jung theory:

The psyche can be compared to a sphere [see illustration: here] with a bright field (A) on its surface, representing consciousness. The ego is the field’s center (only if “I” know a thing is it conscious). The Self is at once the nucleus and the whole sphere (B); its internal regulating processes produce dreams.

Since this psychic growth cannot be brought about by a conscious effort of will power, but happen involuntarily and naturally, it is in dreams frequently symbolized by the tree, whose slow, powerful, involuntary growth fulfills a definite pattern.

The organizing center from which the regulatory effect stems seems to be a sort of “nuclear atom” in our psychic system. One could also call it the inventor, organizer, and source of dream images. Jung called this center the “Self” and described it as the totality of the whole psyche, in order to distinguish it from the “ego,” which constitutes only a small part of the total psyche.

Throughout the ages men have been intuitively aware of the existence of such an inner center. The Greeks called it man’s inner daimon; in Egypt it was expressed by the concept of the Ba-soul; and the Romans worshiped it as the “genius” native to each individual.

The Self can be defined as an inner guiding factor that is different from the conscious personality and that can be grasped only through the investigation of one’s own dreams. These show it to be the regulating center that brings about a constant extension and maturing of the personality. But this larger, more nearly total aspect of the psyche appears first as merely an inborn personality. It may emerge very slightly, or it may develop relatively complete during one’s lifetime. How far it develops depends on whether or not the ego is willing to listen to the messages of the Self.

The individuation process is more than a coming to terms between the inborn germ of wholeness and the outer acts of fate. Its subjective experience conveys the feeling that some supra-personal force is actively interfering in a creative way. One sometimes feels that the unconscious is leading the way in accordance with a secret design. (pp. 161-162).

This relation of the Self to all surrounding nature and even the cosmos probably comes from the fact that the “nuclear atom” of our psyche is somehow woven into the whole world, both outer and inner. In ways that are still completely beyond our comprehension, our unconscious is similarly attuned to our surroundings—to our group, to society in general, and, beyond these, to the space-time continuum and the whole of nature. Indeed, many of our dreams are concerned with details of our outer life and our surroundings. Such things as the tree in front of the window… (pp. 207-208)


Editor’s note:

My home garden’s tree I used to watch from my bedroom’s window as a child and teenager gave the title to my Hojas Susurrantes.

Published in: on September 18, 2015 at 2:46 pm  Leave a Comment  

New literary genre

“Know thyself” (gnōthi seafton)
Delphic maxim in the Temple of Apollo


I started Hojas Susurrantes (HS) in 1988 and added the last touchups last year. It is neither a novel nor an essay; nor memoirs in the traditional sense nor a pamphlet or poetry. It is difficult to define this non-fictional genre in few words. My first reader, Andreas Wirsén, a Swede lover of literature, wrote in an online forum that I am “a pioneer developing a new sport.”

As stated in Day of Wrath which contains a Spanish-English translation of the longest chapter of HS, Stefan Zweig wrote in Adepts in Self-Portraiture that when Western literature began with Hesiod and Heraclitus it was still poetry, and of the inevitability of a decline in the mythopoetic talent of Greece when a more Aristotelian thought evolved. As compensation for this loss, says Zweig, modern man obtained with the novel an approach to a science of the mind. But the novel genre does not represent the ultimate degree of self-knowledge:

Autobiography is the hardest of all forms of literary art. Why, then, do new aspirants, generation after generation, try to solve this almost insoluble problem?

[For a] honest autobiography […] he must have a combination of qualities which will hardly be found once in a million instances. To expect perfect sincerity on self-portraiture would be as absurd as to expect absolute justice, freedom, and perfection here on earth. No doubt the pseudo-confession, as Goethe called it, confession under the rose, in the diaphanous veil of novel or poem, is much easier, and is often far more convincing from the artistic point of view, than an account with no assumption of reserve. Autobiography, precisely because it requires, not truth alone, but naked truth, demands from the artist an act of peculiar heroism; for the autobiographer must play the traitor to himself.

Gnothi_seautonOnly a ripe artist, one thoroughly acquainted with the workings of the mind, can be successful here. This is why psychological self-portraiture has appeared so late among the arts, belonging exclusively to our own days and those yet to come. Man had to discover continents, to fathom his seas, to learn his language, before he could turn his gaze inward to explore the universe of his soul. Classical antiquity had as yet no inkling of these mysterious paths. Caesar and Plutarch, the ancients who describe themselves, are content to deal with facts, with circumstantial happenings, and never dream of showing more than the surface of their hearts.

Zweig then devotes a long paragraph to St Augustine’s Confessions, the thinker I abhor the most of all Western tradition and whose theology about Hell caused massive psychological damage in my own life (also recounted in HS). Then Zweig wrote:

Many centuries were to pass before Rousseau (that remarkable man who was a pioneer in so many fields) was to draw a self-portrait for its own sake, and was to be amazed and startled at the novelty of his enterprise. Stendhal, Hebbel, Kierkegaard, Tolstoy, Amiel, the intrepid Hans Jaeger, have disclosed unsuspected realms of self-knowledge by self-portraiture. Their successors, provided with more delicate implements of research, will be able to penetrate stratum by stratum, room by room, farther and yet farther into our new universe, into the depths of the human mind.

This quote explains why I decided to devise a hybrid genre between the self-portraiture that betrays the author and thus penetrates beyond the strata pondered by Romantic autobiographers. Over the boards anti-Nazis have been making fun about my experiences in London last year. They have no idea what I am trying to say because they completely lack context. Together with the Zweig quote my December 31 entry, “Etiology,” provides a bit of the context of what I’m trying to say in the book I’m presently writing.

Extermination • IV


Dying in a Louis XVI-style bedroom



Note of January 2017: I have removed this text because a slightly revised version of it is now available in print within my book Day of Wrath. However, this specific article can also be read as a PDF for free. duck-rabbit_illusion If you want to print it at home for a more comfortable reading with Letter-size or A4 sheets of paper, remember that on the PDF it is sized as a Pocketbook (4.25 x 6.88 in):

Extermination • III



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


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.

Extermination • II

“How much good it would do if one could exterminate the human race.”

—Bertrand Russell

Quoted in A Bibliography of Bertrand Russell



No one, to my knowledge, has written a thorough analysis of his parents. But what I said in Hojas Susurrantes (abbreviated HS this line up) about the murder of children’s souls only lays the foundation for a further and deeper elaboration of Psychohistory, which in the last analysis shows us that the human species is a failed species.


From a careful reading of HS it cannot but be inferred that most of the human species should be exterminated—on top of what is written there, because, as Schopenhauer wrote, if the world is hell, human beings are the devils of the animals. And if we want to save the animals from the human devils, there is no choice but to dispatch the latter.


That only some of the most beautiful specimens of whites deserve to continue living; so beautiful in body and soul that they have left human devilry behind, has become so obvious to me as that the cow is a mammal—as we shall see in this sort of continuation to HS.


By way of a prologue

Most of the text of HS is not original. There are original parts, yes: the long letter to the mother with which the book opens; my experiences to twelve years, and the final part where I analyze my fear of damnation as an internal persecutor begotten as a result of my father’s crimes. However, most of HS consists of long paraphrases of other peoples’ ideas, pastiches and re-workings of their works to present the trauma model (refuting, along the way, the fraudulent professions of “mental health”).

I believe that, as a didactic work to Aryanize the trauma model away from the Semitic or philo-Semitic hands of Alice Miller and Lloyd deMause, HS honors its goal. But the problems I raised—remember how the fourth book in HS ends by mentioning the burning of children by their Semitic parents in the Ancient World, wondering if mankind had a right to exist—were left unsolved. Fortunately, this century will be crucial because of the energy devolution that is upon us, especially of oil, for Nature’s killing these humans that I hate so much and whose destruction has become my personal religion.

I will not live to see my day: that which for decades I have called the extermination of the Neanderthals, in which I include not only non-whites but those white traitors who brought them into the West. But the burden is upon me to bear witness to why I believe that the être supérieur should yearn, as so desperately I do, that the primitive version of modified apes, as in my soliloquies I call the humans of today, both white and of other races, becomes extinct.

Another huge issue never made onto paper is a detailed narrative of my agonizing experiences in 1976, when I was only seventeen, and ten years later, while living in California: experiences outlined in HS. Here I hope to talk more about those life lessons. So to confess why I hate humanity to the extent of wanting to exterminate it, at the same time being the first to analyze in detail his destructive parents—so that, after due extermination, in the Acadia of my most cherished dreams the treatment to children and animals be free of my hells—is the double helix of this new text.

But there is much more than that. In the Neanderthalesque literature that I run into the bookstores I never see confessions about male sexuality that go to the merits. In HS I quoted an Austrian writer who said that autobiography is the most difficult literary art because the adept of self-portraiture has to betray himself. Of course! How it won’t be self-betrayal for a respectable writer to recount, say, his sexual fantasies? Previous literature to the “total autobiography” suffers from cowardice insofar a text that confesses everything could be posthumous. But the so-called giants of letters, that I find so small that I do not read, never reached such confessional level. They stayed in the pre-autobiographical phase of literature. Here I will try to amend this lacuna in the section entitled “In search of the soulmate.”

Quite apart from the autobiographical question, we propose the need to rescue and/or abduct Aryan women—only the very young and pretty—from what will become multiracial clans after the civilizational collapse pulls us over to strictly ethnic strongholds. To paraphrase George Lincoln Rockwell, “He who doesn’t rape won’t fight!” will be the motto of a Blonde Beast redivivus that, by getting his manhood back, will not only become genocidal of everything that does not resemble him. The Beast will hunt for his females once the collective unconscious falls back to its original form by historical inertia forces. The brutality and savagery resulting from the collapse of the rule of law, together with the most elemental Darwinism, will mercilessly weed the feminized white males. Thanks to the energy devolution of our century the yin where today is pending the psyche of these whites will swing, like a pendulum of kilometric arc, to the Yang extreme of the right.

We won’t only lucubrate to kill non-whites around the globe and renaming cities currently inhabited by people of brown, yellow or black skin with names like “Pierce City” or “Himmler City.” The idea is that, alongside the extermination of Neanderthals, the Beast will have to go on the hunt for females, abandoning a masturbation currently afflicting millions of feminized males. The Aryan sperm injected involuntarily into those who had fornicated with the colored will fulfill the fourteen words during a holy war that will cover the world—and this time fulfilling them by brute force. The obvious objective will be to form families thank to the same élan vital that breathed life into the ancient founders of Rome by abducting, and raping, their attractive Sabine neighbors. In other words: if every nation, not just ancient Rome, is born with violence, after the darkest night of the West the Aryan Nation can only be born with extreme violence: from limit to limit of the pendulum’s arc, from the extreme yin to the extreme Yang.

Basic historical inertia: the swung pendulum is rushing toward us with vengeful force because of the incredible liberal lengths it reached in the late 20th and early 21st centuries. So far it swung toward the dark side that the “Day of the Rope” so dreamt by William Pierce in The Turner Diaries, a novel written in the 1970s but projected in the 90s, won’t be enough. We will go further. Neither Pierce nor Covington—much less Covington: a de facto feminist novelist in Freedom’s Sons—dared to predict the abduction of the new Sabine women. They did not seem to have considered that if the ancient Latins (Aryans) abducted and raped the Sabines (Aryans who copulated with Aryans), with much greater reason will be legitimate to direct our rediscovered sexual primitivism over those who delivered themselves to non-whites!

Returning to the subject of total autobiography. The victim of his parents and the fucking society who has lost everything requires getting revenge against those who spit on his cross. Only revenge heals the soul, and as I cannot settle scores with the Neanderthals at least I can tell what they did. Going into detail of what I omitted in HS will show how the evil that infected my parents also infected my siblings and how some of them, in turn, voluntarily surrendered to evil after reaching adulthood. Also, when analyzing my family, relatives, acquaintances, close and distant persons I met and even strangers whom I only interacted over the net, we will see how their behavior helped me realize that the human being is so obsolete a version of Homo sapiens as the niggers of the seedy hostel with whom I spent a night.

Finally, my exterminator conclusions I have come regarding all these people have relevance for understanding the darkest hour of the West. This topic sucked my recent years to the point of putting on a blog in English and its ramifications over a thousand entries summarized in two books: The Fair Race’s Darkest Hour and Day of Wrath (which I will be abbreviating as FR and DW). The book Extermination, that I now start, is relevant because the evil that ails the white man is the same one that destroyed my tree and its leaves and my dear family of Palenque.* And if I can unravel the evil that destroyed me I will probably unravel the evil that destroys the white race around the world, including the mass migration of non-whites in London I witnessed last month.

In other words, the evil I saw in my parents and the people I met (cf. HS) and the evil I see in westerners who are committing ethnic suicide (cf. FR and DW) is, down to the core, two sides of the same coin. That alone deserves my venture into this new literary genre: the vindictive autobiography.

Mexico City
September 2014



(*) Note that this book is written for those who have already read my previous books, including HS, and understand exactly what I mean, for example, with the word “Palenque”: the house where I experienced happiness before the catastrophe of my adolescence.

Parting word:

Only the eternal feminine leads to the Absolute

Catalina (1980)

Above, Maxfield Parrish’s 1925 Lady Violet, who reminds me a girl I met long, long time ago… If an ethno-state is ever created, my ultimate dream is that in the distant future its people will resemble the paradisiacal world of Parrish.

What prevents whites from working toward that noble end, keeping in mind that Aryan female beauty represents the crown of the evolution? Elsewhere I have discussed the majority report: Capitalism and Christian axiology as the twofold etiology of Western malaise (Jewish depredations, a tertiary infection). But I have also mentioned my minority report: that the most extreme cases of self-hatred among whites—those who celebrate that their kind will become a minority surrounded by non-white swarms—cannot be explained satisfactorily by any of these two factors.

In this blog I have briefly written about how child abuse among some whites drives them to hate the culture of their parents, and also presented my book Hojas Susurrantes, most of which has not been translated to English.

After publication of this entry I won’t add new posts to this blogsite. Although I’ll still answer some comments, the site will basically remain frozen with the below PDFs advertising my books until the dollar crashes. But I’ll be busy explaining my minority report: writing another book related to the subject of why, in some families, the silly mechanism erected by the abused victim is none other than hatred for his or her parents’ civilization.


Day of Wrath

The Fair Race’s Darkest Hour

Dante’s outer circle

In the third season of Downton Abbey, when Matthew experiences a visual shock while entering a jazz club in London trying to rescue Rose dating a married man, Matthew proclaims aloud that the club is “Dante’s outer circle.”


(In the above photo inside Highclere Castle this spoiled girl, Rose, appears with a pink dress.) Downton Abbey is the only recent TV series that I might recommend. Even the kissing of Rose with a Negro in the next season is depicted as a silly revenge of Rose against her abusive mother. But there’s no obvious cultural or racial treason in the episodes I’ve watched as to date. (I’ve only missed the last one, the 2013 Christmas special of the fourth season).

These sort of post-war London clubs that shocked Matthew were in operation a hundred years ago. Music is infinitely worse now. Since the self-destructive defense mechanisms of abused adolescents are my specialty I’d claim that the rock classics you may listen today—for example “Tie Your Mother Down” by the group Queen that I used to like when I was the victim of an engulfing mother—are precisely silly defense mechanisms.

Now that I wrote a book confessing how I was abused as a teen I realize that a mature man may develop non-degenerate defense mechanisms to cope with past memories.

Alas, this is not the case of the overwhelming majority of white nationalists. All of them seem to fail to comprehend that it is impossible to revert back to the healthy sexual mores depicted in Downton Abbey if at the same time they don’t reject the music of Queen and the myriads of other rock groups.

In his blog’s entry of the first day of the new year, Iranian for Aryans reposted what musician Roger had said recently:

I’ve just finished reading this interview with the late Cardinal Domenico Bartolucci, former musical director of the Sistine Chapel, and I thought you might be interested by some of his comments. He is speaking primarily about liturgical music, but he also discusses about the general condition of music in this rotten century:

“[My father] was a workman at a brick factory in Borgo San Lorenzo, in the province of Florence. He loved to sing in church. And he loved the romance of Verdi and Donizetti. But at that time, everybody sang: the farmers while they were dressing the vines, the shoemakers while they were working a sole. There were bands in the piazza, during the holidays music directors came from Florence, and the area theatre had two opera seasons each year. It’s all gone now.”

Simple Italian factory workers used to love the music of Verdi and Donizetti? I wonder how this fits with the black metal apologists’ belief that classical music was historically something for a tiny bourgeois clique, and that most normal people were only familiar with folk songs.

I can remember them trying to make these arguments in the comment threads of Counter-Currents, Alternative Right and the Occidental Observer. There is no excuse these people will not use if it will enable them to continue listening to their beloved modern music. Were they serious, they would spend a moment considering why old reactionaries, who grew up before rock music became ubiquitous, are so repulsed by distorted guitars and screeching. (Modern man knows better, of course.)

When asked if the old musical traditions are disappearing, the cardinal said, “it stands to reason: if there is not the continuity that keeps them alive, they are destined to oblivion.”

I think that sums it up in a nutshell. One of my goals in 2014 is to acquire a tenor viol and start learning music by the English consort composers (as well as continental composers from the same time period). Whether it will be possible to find other violists to form a consort is another problem, but keeping the music alive with one’s own hands is a good starting point. It is undoubtedly the case that music cannot survive as a collection of digital audio files. That will turn it into a mere museum piece. If that happens, it will be sad but just. A civilised nation cannot choose to embrace African voodoo devilry at the expense of its own culture and expect to continue living with dignity.

Yup… Precisely because my mother is a piano teacher I rebelled against my family’s traditions and, like Downton Abbey’s Rose, never learnt how to play it. But now that I fully processed my pain thru a thick book I realize that my adolescent infatuation with Queen was just silly. I no longer listen rock. In fact, I just started learning piano at my relative old age!


(It’s me playing the piano…)

By the way, in a most recent personal communication, Iranian commented on Roger’s above sentence: “There is no excuse these people [white nationalists] will not use if it will enable them to continue listening to their beloved modern music”:

How correct Roger is! What we have here is a degenerated breed of WNs / “traditionalists” who, basically, have no musical taste, are divorced from their superior heritage, and desire a world where bad music and pornography reign sans Jew.

Recently at Facebook, a Counter-Currents sodomite responded to Iranian that a Persian ought not dare teach him what his western cultural roots are.

Can’t he? I am not an American either but, to my present ears, years after I processed my adolescent pain, the “music” promoted by Counter-Currents and other nationalist sites is becoming like Dante’s outer circle certainly…

Postscript of January 11: Alternative Right is gone now, but Richard Spencer has opened a new site promoting exactly the same “black metal” degeneracy.

On my moral inferiors

Recently a regular visitor let me know by email that he was dismayed because of my wish to exterminate those who trade by skinning alive some poor animals. He merely wanted to close the Chinese factories that supply more than half of the fur garments for sale in the corrupt, deranged West. This is my response:

I am not the monster. Those who don’t harbor exterminationist fantasies are the moral Neanderthals compared to me.

Take as an example my recent posts on pre-Hispanic Amerinds. In the last one a disturbing possibility was raised by the author of an academic paper (take heed that this is an establishment source): Several Maya skulls show marks of sharp and unhealed cuts, particularly around the eye sockets, which suggests that some of these individuals might have been flayed before the sacrifice. The presence of women and children among these skulls mean that even they, not only mature men, might have suffered a horrible death, like what still happens today in the Chinese fur factories.

I usually don’t get comments on my pre-Columbian posts, perhaps because the unearthed data sheds light onto such ghastly history that it makes it difficult to digest. But if we dare to see that the same is happening today to some animals, the emergent individual who approaches these subjects can only see those who avoid it as intellectual cowards. Why? Because the whole subject of white survival depends upon regaining a self-image that puts whites above the other races from the moral—i.e., the development of empathy—standpoint, especially empathy toward women, children and our cousins, the animals.

After my previous post on Maya sacrifice I have read another academic paper in the book El Sacrificio Humano (28 authors), this one by Vera Tiesler and Andrea Cucina, a chapter with nine pages of bibliographical references of specialized literature. (*)

Tiesler and Cucina let us know that modern Mayanists are using, in addition to the Spanish chronicles and the iconographic evidence of pre-Columbian art, the science of taphonomy (analysis of skeletons) as tangible evidence of human sacrifice in the Maya civilization.


On pages 199-200 the authors mention the techniques that the Maya used in their practices, now corroborated by taphonomy: the victim could have been shot by arrows or lapidated, his or her throat or nape could have been cut or broken, his or her heart could have been extracted either through the diaphragm or through the thorax; could have suffered multiple and fatal lacerations, or incinerated, disemboweled or skinned or dismembered. The body remains could have been eaten or used as trophies, or used in the manufacture of percussion instruments.

The authors deduce this by direct, physical evidence of the studied skeletons (or other remains) and they also mention a form of sacrifice that I had not heard of: the offering of human faces in the context of the influence on the Mayas by the Xipe Totec deity, “Our Lord the Flayed One,” who was widely worshipped at the north, in central Mexico.

Tiesler and Cucina also point out to other kind of physical evidence in the Maya civilization (that I already had mentioned in The Return of Quetzalcoatl): many skeletons with sacrificial marks have been found at the bottom of the cenotes of sacrifice. On page 206 they include the illustration of some Maya dignitaries showing off on their “uniforms” inverted heads such as the one I already added in my entry on pre-Columbia Oaxaca. The news is that a skeleton has been found of an individual showing on his thorax a human mask that hanged from his belt when he was alive.

On page 209 the authors let us know that the Mayas even sacrificed animals, and include an illustration of a jaguar surrounded in flames. They don’t say if the animal was alive when sacrificed; and on page 211 they tell of “an elevated percentage of child, adolescent and female victims whose cadavers used to be, also, the object of ritual manipulation.” In the same page appears a Maya depiction of a decapitated woman, and on page 215 a photo is reproduced of a perforated thorax suggesting that the body remains might have been used as manikins “with the objective of a terrifying display of institutional power.” They also suggest that the sacrifices might have been still performed long after the Spanish Conquest, albeit “clandestinely and increasingly resorting to animal substitutes.”

This makes my point beautifully. If you forbid a barbarous practice in a primitive race the violence will be displaced, not eradicated.

The sacrificial victims are now the animals. Remember my entry where I mentioned the case of recent torture of bunnies in Mexico? The reason why I speak with haughty contempt of non-exterminationists (“my moral inferiors”) is because they are afraid of taking their premises to their logical, commonsensical conclusion. It is not enough to close the Chinese skinning factories or the Mexican slaughter houses. To put an absolute end to such practices with no further displacement you got to wipe out the entire psychoclass behind such cruelties. (Cf. my views on psychohistory to grasp the meaning of the term “psychoclass” and also the last pages of Pierce’s The Turner Diaries.)


(*) “Sacrificio, Tratamiento y Ofrenda del Cuerpo Humano entre los Mayas Peninsulares,” in López Luján, Leonardo & Guilhem Olivier (2010): El Sacrificio Humano en la Tradición Religiosa Mesoamericana [Human Sacrifice in the Mesoamerican Religious Tradition]. Mexico City, Mexico: Instituto Nacional de Antropología e Historia (INAH) and Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México (UNAM), Instituto de Investigaciones Históricas. ISBN 978-607-484-076-6. OCLC 667990552. (Spanish)

On pre-Hispanic Amerinds, 2

The academic treatise El Sacrificio Humano en la Tradición Religiosa Mesoamericana sheds light on a photograph I used in a chapter of my book, the picture above the note “Photo by Héctor Montaño,” a photo of a recent discovery of a child offering to Huitzilopochtli that Montaño kindly sent me a few years ago when I was researching the subject of child sacrifice in pre-Columbian America. (By the end of this entry I reproduce this high-quality photo again: click on it if you want to see the details.)

In an article of El Sacrificio Humano, “Huitzilopochtli and child sacrifice in the Great Pyramid of Tenochtitlan” (my translation) by Leonardo López Luján, Ximena Chávez Balderas, Norma Valentín and Aurora Montúfar (pages 367-394), the authors tell us:

Everything indicates that this deposit is the material expression of a mass sacrificial ceremony motivated by the devastating drought of year 1 Tochli, corresponding to our 1454 C.E. and reported in a number of Indian annals. The presence of the Offering 48 in the northwest corner of Temple fully agrees with the documentary sources of the 16th century (pages 367-368).

During such ceremonies [to Tláloc], subject to the calendar or performed in times of crisis, children were symbolically similar to the dwarfs and deformed assistants of rain, as their profuse tears shed when immolated served as a hopeful omen of abundant precipitation. The careful study recently published by Michel Graulich about human sacrifice among the Aztecs indicates that, usually, the chosen children were given away or sold by their parents…; little slaves offered by the lords and wealthy people; infants purchased out of town, or children of prisoners of war. There are indications, moreover, that the kings and lords to some extent responsible for the smooth running of the meteors destined their own offspring to the téhcatl during droughts or floods, or to get rich harvests (pages 368 & 370).

The taphonomic analysis

Numerous cut marks on the ribs of both sides of the rib cage, as well as perimortem fractures produced by the same cutting action… In our view, this body of evidence is sufficient to conclude that the child of Offering 111 died during a sacrificial ceremony in which his tiny heart was extracted (pages 377-378).


Child sacrifice, war and Huitzilopochtli

Not all child sacrifices were linked to the gods of rain and fertility. Some historical documents reveal that people who were in situations of adversity, or had lost their freedom, or had been suffering a terrible disease, promised to give their children in exchange for their salvation. In other cases, the life of infants was claimed just before the military confrontations (pages 381-382).

In the following pages the authors mention the Spanish chroniclers as complementary sources of what recent archeology has discovered; chroniclers and 16th century texts such as Francisco Lopez de Gómara, the “List of Coatepec and his party,” Antonio Tello, Diego Durán and Bernardino de Sahagún.

It’s nice to see that modern science confirms, not denies, what the 16th century Spaniards had witnessed and reported.