Negroes & English roses


 

I wrote the following article
three years ago:

 

“I’ve never seen a real nigger, only in pictures.”

“Lucky you! That was kind of the idea behind the Revolution, sweetie, so you wouldn’t have to see one.” said Jenny.

Freedom’s Sons, page 579

 
As I said in a comment of my “parting word,” only if I have to say something important I would do it in this addenda to The West’s Darkest Hour.

Presently I am in the United Kingdom and am extremely dismayed at the quantity of both mixed couples and general miscegenation and fraternization among whites with non-whites in a country that still produces some of the most beautiful Aryan women, previously known as “English roses.”

I first visited London in 1982. I was not racialist but my mind did not register non-whites then. Now, in 2014 I see that the native English have become a minority in their own capital. If it were not for a surprisingly large amount of beautiful blond children and adolescents I’ve seen in London, some of them tourists I guess, I’d have no objection in nuking the Sin City.

Even at Shakespeare’s Globe Theater, where I had to pay £40 for a seat to watch Anthony and Cleopatra, several Shakespearean actors are now Mulattoes and Negroes; and among the audience I had to watch a pubescent white girl being fondled by a dark Indian while watching the comedy. If we keep in mind that the Englishmen of other times treasured their Roses you can imagine the astronomic shift that has taken place in the island since I was born more than half a century ago.

To boot, during my visit to the Guildhall Art Gallery I discovered that it was closed for reparations until September, which means that I won’t see the collection of nymphs depicted in the pre-Raphaelite masterpieces.

In contrast to the paintings that I expected to see in real life but couldn’t, in this visit to the UK I have been bombarded with street and subway photos showing blacks everywhere as if they were the legit inhabitants of this country! A London Forum member told me that the media is even portraying blond women with black husbands and coffee-and-milk kids as something cool and fashionable. Even the front cover of a promotional brochure of the Museum of the Bank of England, that I visited, has a black girl beside a pile of gold bars.

Fortunately, the English are as crazy Keynesians as the Americans, which means that the coming crash of the dollar will drag the sterling pound too bringing this multiracial utopia into utter chaos.

PS of 28 August:

I’ve left the United Kingdom by now. Kevin MacDonald has published an article on an epidemic of non-whites raping pubescent white girls in the UK that perfectly diagnoses the runaway insanity in the UK. This is one of MacDonald’s phrases in the article: “This is a pathology so extreme that it should really be considered a collective psychosis.”

PPS of 7 September:

See also Andrew Hamilton’s article: here.

Published in: on October 24, 2017 at 10:11 pm  Comments (1)  

Poisoned arrow

by Jack Frost

Amor vincit omnia
Caritas vincit omnia
Agape vincit omnia.
[1]

 
Perversely, the suicide of the West (Christendom) is an expression of its civilizational confidence—confidence in its own moral purity, in its vision of universal brotherhood, in the power of charity and love, and in its ability to assimilate the victimized Other, who recalls to them the victimized Jesus.

That this is all horribly misconceived according to the rational principles of Darwin is ignored. Calls to faith and universal brotherhood are stronger.

Thus, the poisoned arrow of Christian charity strikes home before the shield of reason can be raised to knock it away.

 

___________________________

[1] Note of the Ed.: The term Agape or Love Feast was used for certain religious meals among early Christians. Originally it was used as a verb but the noun form first occurs in the Septuagint. Other ancient authors have used forms of the word to denote love in contrast to philia (an affection that could denote friendship) and eros, an affection of a sexual nature. Christianity developed Agape as the love of the Providence for humankind. In the New Testament it refers to the covenant love of God for humans and the term extends to the love of one’s fellow man.

Published in: on September 15, 2015 at 4:58 pm  Comments (1)  
Tags: ,

Extermination • I

Or:

Second thoughts about my “parting word”

 

I was serious last July when I wrote that I would not add more posts to this page until the financial accident happens. But another sort of accident happened to me that ruined my plans (see below), and instead of making a living overseas I find myself writing again.

In the July message I also said that I would “be busy explaining my minority report.” Well, I have started that autobiographical book in my native language. Its first translated pages are precisely the ones that appear below:
 

 

_______________________________________

 

To the memory of Percy

 

_______________________________________

 
 
 
LibroOn August 4, 2014 I arrived to London in the hope of moving to a small town in the United Kingdom in order to save my life once Mexico City catches fire after the looming collapse of the dollar.

One of the smartest commenters on my blog, whom I will call “the Brazilian,” had promised, through his contacts, forged work permit so I could look for a job in England. Throughout the two years I interacted with him in the blog and then thru personal communications, this guy reiterated that he wanted to help me to move there, and when in early 2014 he indeed moved to England I thought his plans were sincere.

The man is the result of a mixture between the races of his homeland, Brazil. He himself confessed publicly that his ancestors were Iberians, blacks and mestizos. Thus in order he did not feel self-conscious with me, I told him that I was not properly white.

Later in this chapter I will talk about some “Creole nationalists”—Mexicans that show off their Iberian roots and claim to have no drop of Indian blood—with whom I interacted in Mexico. The Brazilian’s intelligence had so impressed me that I told these Creole nationalists that my Brazilian, “mulatto friend has an IQ of 140.” Moreover, in my intimate soliloquies I said, more than once, that the level of penetration of the Brazilian on important issues to understand the darkest hour in Occident amazed me. I even told to myself that an “upward quantum leap” was crystal-clear when comparing the Brazilian to the vast majority of Aryan commenters visiting my site. No one like him had captured perfectly the disaster that represented Christianity for the white race, to the extent that—like me—the Brazilian considered it a more serious problem that the Jewish problem itself. Even his derogatory remarks about the philosophers sounded to my ears far above the intellectual masturbation we read in some sophisticated pro-white sites in the internet.

The Brazilian’s intellectual acumen, along with my huge need to escape Mexico, made my defenses down and I trusted him to the extent of deferring to his judgment my first steps to immigrate. I refer not only to the steps to obtain forged documents but also to roommate concerns. (London is so expensive that almost everyone shares their departments and the poorest even their rooms.) Although, as we shall see later in Extermination, thirty-two years before I had a horrible experience in London at a time when I also wanted to escape from Mexico, this time I thought that with such smart colleague our plans could not fail. The Brazilian even offered to pick me up at Heathrow Airport outside London; by telephone he informed me that he would not go to work the Monday I arrived to pick me up.

I thanked him and my flight arrived on time. After exiting from the immigration line, where obviously I hid the British woman who interrogated me that the purpose of my trip was to immigrate, I was surprised that the Brazilian was not there. I waited about twenty minutes at Terminal 4, the specific spot of international arrivals I had mentioned to the colleague, but no sign of him. After half hour he hadn’t come. Nor forty or fifty minutes after arriving at the terminal… I had virtually not slept due to my inability to sleep sitting on the plane and I badly needed to leave the soulless airport lounge and go to the hotel I had booked and even paid from Mexico. But the Brazilian did not appear. With the heavy suitcase I carried—suitcase to emigrate, not for tourism—I could not even move at ease in the terminal. I made a change in coins from a fiver to call the Brazilian’s mobile phone. What was my surprise that he wasn’t at the airport; just on his way, and he claimed he was “about to arrive.” I stopped worrying. But time continued to pass, and more than an hour-and-a-half after my arrival at the agreed terminal, he did not appear. I was hesitant to make extra phone calls because the airport’s phone had swallowed one or two of my pound coins but tried calling. This second time his tone was less friendly, “I’m almost there!” It must have been about two to three hours after the plane landed that the Brazilian finally appeared, without apologizing for the delay.

I wish to stop now and don’t recount the misadventure of that day because it makes me mad that I trusted someone whom I had never met in the real world, but I shall keep writing…

Having been so much delayed would be only the first lack of consideration by the Brazilian to a man more than twenty years his elder, who had arrived sleepless from a transatlantic voyage. After greeting each other, the Brazilian convinced me that the taxi would be very expensive and that we better take the subway to my hotel. Once in the tube, as it is called the narrow subway in London, we had to transship over more than once the various lines en route to the hotel, always carrying my heavy suitcase up awful stairs during the transfers. When we got off from a train among the London crowd for one of these transfers, the Brazilian asked me to wait because he wanted to buy something in the store just across the tracks. He climbed the stairs, walked into the shop, came out and smiled at me before… getting out into the street.

I was completely flabbergasted! If such a thing happened to me in my right mind, not in the confused state I was, I would have acted differently. But I was at the mercy of a bloke that—allegedly—would solve my migration problems. He was the only contact I knew in London for a (crooked) work permit. As he had already been delayed at the airport without a good reason or having apologized, had I been in my right mind when he went off the street I would have told him to get lost; fled by taxi to my hotel, and would have sought a more reliable contact the following days (say, through Spanish-speaking restaurants). But without sleep as I was, with great anxiety I remained on the tube station watching the largest racial melting pot of Europe (nowadays London has white minority).

The Brazilian should have taken about thirty-five minutes to arrive, or more, since he left and only then I realized that he had not found what he wanted at the front shop; that’s why he looked it out on the street. Hours later I discovered it were beers what the miscreant had bought, who had cared a damn that his fellow blogger (the Brazilian used to maintain a blog about “racial realism” in Portuguese) remained stranded with his heavy suitcase wondering what the hell had happened.

As I said, it makes me mad to tell this because I did not react as I should. The fact that I did not possess work permit and that the Brazilian had the handle for the grill not only for it, but to get me affordable accommodation—according to him he already had reserved one—played a psychological role in my indecision to make a clean break after the second or third discourtesy. Anyway, when he came laughing and said, “What did you think: that this crazy Brazilian had abandoned you?” I hid my feelings and continued the underground journey to the hotel.

It was during another transfer, now closer to the hotel and where we had to go outside to take another train (I think it was the street where he showed me the tallest building in Europe) that the Brazilian asked me something. He said that instead of going to my hotel, why not accompanying him to the slum hostel where he was living these days. They only charged £60 per week and although his roommates were black—that is, three blacks slept in a single room, beside the Brazilian—, it was only for a week while the better place he had reserved for us would be vacating. The Brazilian had a small back suitcase containing his laptop. He dared not leave it in the hostel with such hosts and carried it every time he went out.

Go figure my dear readers… All of my travel strategy had been based on a bloke that, now I realized, was on the verge of homelessness as he had to carry his belongings in the street for fear of loosing them in a “hostel” without lockers. Had I not been so obfuscated by the turn of events I would have stopped dry the adventure that very instant. But cognitively I was not well. In fact, I was completely alienated. True: I had prepared with extreme meticulousness everything left in Mexico—my library, my manuscripts in ring-binders and envelopes sealed against moisture (I thought I wouldn’t be back in years), the taking care of my pet and even a big farewell party for all believed I would leave for good—, but about my stay in England I had deferred all planning to “the mulatto of 140 of IQ.”

What a mistake. It was not until my return to Mexico, when I told the details of my misadventure to my old friend Paulina, that I noticed things that a man usually cannot see. Pau listened carefully and explained that men tend to admire intelligence at the expense of the other facet of the human psyche: empathy. I knew that in the white nationalist movement there were people with terrible character flaws. But the fact that the Brazilian seemed a hybrid between mestizo and mulatto was no reason to distrust him, as he believes in the “fourteen words” to the extent of having promised not to leave offspring. (Remember the first lesson to the Hitler Youth of Faith and Action by Helmut Stellrecht: “But if your blood has traits that will make your children unhappy and burdens to the state, then you have the heroic duty to be the last.”)

Unfortunately, character flaws can be hidden over the internet. And as in Mexico I only had considered the intellectual aspect of this bloke—a “hemiplegia” of mine, so to speak instead of having delved into the two facets of the person—, in a state of complete cognitive alienation to what was happening I agreed to his idea to abort the journey to my hotel and go to his hostel.

I would lie if I lay the blame at the Brazilian. Now that I’m out of the UK I find it obvious that the planning of my trip was grotesque, to say the least. “The drowning will grab at straws,” and the urgency of leaving a Neanderthalesque Mexico and survive the dollar collapse was such that I put aside from my consciousness basic matters I should have contemplated at my age, before venturing on another continent.

The journey to the hostel was not underground but from the outside, traveling in one of those red double-decker Routemaster buses so showy in London. And still there came the miscreant character of he whom I had placed my most cherished hopes. Throughout the journey in the underground and on the outside of the biggest city in Europe—a crossing that, due to change of plans, had already lasted more than two hours after leaving the airport—the Brazilian had never been solicitous in helping me with my heavy suitcase. Now, in the red double-decker bus, he swiftly climbed to the second floor and asked me repeatedly to go upstairs with him! It was then for the first time, that I showed some self-respect by refusing to come up with my heavy suitcase. During that second-long journey—remember that by aborting the way to the hotel we now were going to a very different address—we still had to make another transfer, but this time from bus to bus. We descended into a densely populated and very noisy area of London; streets swarmed with lots of blacks. To my surprise, the Brazilian told me to wait because he was going to find a toilet.

Lo and behold I was once again alone among human swarms with my heavy suitcase and no sleep! (Later, when I learned that the first time he left he had gone to buy beer, I connected the dots and realized that it was urgent for him to urinate the ingested alcohol.) In that hideous swarthy-filled street, and carrying something less than £2,000 in cash along with my credit cards, a black approached me. I didn’t understand a word. Scared and carrying the heavy suitcase I entered a grocery store but the attendants were not white either. My anxiety was very obvious until the Brazilian reappeared and we boarded the final bus that would take us to our destination.

Unlike the noisy subway, on the red bus it was possible to talk. At last we initiated conversation on topics that fascinate me. I told him that I had seen some mixed couples in London and was greatly surprised that there were so many blacks. He replied that it was a punishment to the English for having waged war against Germany, and added that Nazi Germany was by far the noblest creature that European history had produced. Then he said he did not understand how Americans like Matt Parrott insist on mixing the unmixable: Christianity with white nationalism.

It was not until we reached his quarters that I received the biggest shock of the trip. It’s true that in 1982 I had spent a night in London in a spacious room of a Youth Hostel; a room with many beds. But back then they were all European Aryans; I, the only foreigner. I was twenty-four and, coming from Mexico, was amazed at how good looking some of those English were (in the country where I was born almost all seemed Neanderthals to me). But now I was in 2014, and the all-encompassing social engineering of the British elites in recent decades, that is, replacement of the native race by imported race, had been a success. The Brazilian’s room was not spacious as the hostel I had slept decades ago. It was of regular size with the most miserable niggers you might think of. In fact, in no way it resembled a hostel but one of those trash-people rooms subsidized by charities for the homeless in large metropolis. But they were not homeless: they were blacks surviving, I suppose, from the same type of underemployment of the Brazilian.

I barely saw the spectacle and wanted to run away. On the street the Brazilian insisted that I should pay the £60 for the week. It was already night and he claimed he was tired and that we should think things over the next day. I didn’t know what to do. I had to cancel the hotel reservation so that it was not charged to my American Express, but there were no public telephones in the neighborhood. I tried to get information in a grocery store that opened at night, but they were immigrants who hardly knew English and were unaware of the dynamics of the big city. Not even the Brazilian could tell me what was, in England, the telephone equivalent to 911 so that, through his cell phone, I could make a call. The Brazilian kept insisting me to pay the £60, as the “hostel” never receives one-night payment, only a full week; and said I should forget my worries until the next day. (Take into account that with those £60 I could have spent a single night in a modest hotel, even after losing my reservation.) Still arguing in the street, the Brazilian, speaking in a serious tone, argued that he was tired; ignoring that it was me who had not slept the night before, and insisted to forget the matter of seeking hotel or making emergency phone calls.

As there was no one to help me, not even a taxi to get on in those streets, and as I was worried that in that colored neighborhood I could be assaulted and my money taken away (for my heavy suitcase I was an obvious target), I agreed. I reentered the “hostel,” paid the administrator of the slum the £60 he demanded, and walked into to the room of blacks and the mulatto Brazilian.

But I could not sleep… Although I had not slept the night before I was in a state of extreme anxiety.

I went out to the hostel’s terrace and finally I saw a white man. He was also an immigrant. He didn’t have fluent English and told me he was from Romania. As it had happened to me decades ago in the same city, as I newly arrived from Neanderthalesque lands I was pleasantly surprised by the looks of the blond Romanian. I spoke with him in the fresh night but not for long. He was not very smart and I also felt a little cold in the outdoors terrace. (I had left the plane with my jacket, shirt and dress pants but had not changed my clothes; one of the blacks that tried to sleep in the dirty room, where my cloths were, had warned me not turn the light on.) Apparently the Brazilian also failed to reconcile sleep and after sighting me in the terrace he went to the kitchen to talk at length with a muscular black returning from the gym. The Brazilian informed me that to survive in such place—go figure, myself in formalwear with the downtrodden—, one had to learn to converse amiably with the dark-skinned. The long conversation of the Brazilian with the huge black gave the lie to the claim that he was too tired to help me make an urgent phone-call.

I don’t remember the exact moment when the Brazilian told me that the police had arrested his contact—the very contact that was supposed to get me the papers. He did not say whether he had been arrested the day before or the day I arrived at Heathrow. But I doubt that, if the story is true, it was such a recent event. Chances are that the arrest had occurred long before—which means that the Brazilian had not warned me on time, when I was in Mexico. Had I been informed on time I would have aborted any plan to cross the Atlantic!

The events yelled at me that the trip had been in vain. By not having warned me in time of the arrest the Brazilian had committed a trick of confidence. However, even though that day the Brazilian confessed that he was desperately seeking a decent roommate, I failed to suspect that behind his convincing me to come to London a sinister motive was hiding. The crux of his confession was that his old roommate was a black homosexual whose conduct had caused the Brazilian to flee from there and move to the seedy hostel (where we were now).

I am ashamed to say that even with all this novel information I was slow to connect the dots that such insistence that I go London had not been motivated to help me, the word he used several times but to help himself in his problems with blacks. The underlying motivation of Brazilian seemed to be: “Unlike this nigger, blogger César, who comes from an educated family and whose parents have three pianos at home and five servants, will be my personal savior.”

Such naiveté!: In Mexico I had only imagined a Brazilian full of honor, insofar he vehemently insisted he did not plan to reproduce even after finding a woman in England (remember the wise counsel of Helmut Stellrecht for non-whites). But in London he told me that even before his “racial awakening”—something unheard of in a man of color—he had come to the firm conclusion that he would not leave descendants in Brazil. It was not until I assimilated even more painful confessions than that of the “gay nigger”—for example, that the day prior to my arrival the Brazilian had been wandering at London’s downtown because he could not remember where he lived, and that he drank alcohol to cope with his pathetic life—that I began to glimpse who he really was.

The trip had been a fraud. My purpose had never been crossing the ocean to help a mulatoid fellow to find a roommate—but looking sanctuary for me in a small English village with no coloreds to survive the dollar collapse! He who so much boasted to know something of human psychology had been duped like a child…! Nothing had I suspected of the motives of Brazilian: trying to use me to solve his problem and, therefore, the understandable lack to timely notify me about the “arrest.”

But back to my sleepless night.

My mattress had no sheets. I had no choice but to put my white skin in contact with a mattress that must have suffered a thousand sweats from blacks. Even in such conditions I tried to sleep with the four darks of the room. My anxieties and a disagreeable negress snoring inches from me on the top bunk—the pseudohostel was so abhorrent that not only races mixed, but the very sexes too—didn’t let me sleep…

But with the dawn I regained my senses. In the morning, with several guests already waking up on the terrace, including some I had not seen the previous evening, the Brazilian insisted I opened a bank account and said that another of his contacts worked in a bank (by law, tourists cannot open accounts in the UK). Perhaps that employee even knew, the Brazilian told me, another person to obtain work permit.

But I had lost confidence in him. The second night of consecutive sleeplessness I had talked to another night bird, Stuart, who lived there in another room and used to talk to the Romanian during the evenings on the terrace. His accent was not British. Stuart was born in Scotland and raised in New Orleans. As the Brazilian, Stuart had been so badly beaten by life that he had fallen to the pseudohostel. We spoke of my racial ideas and this young man conceded that in New Orleans blacks had behaved very poorly during hurricane Katrina. He was not bothered, though somewhat surprised, about my overtly racist worldview and I asked him what was the whitest city in Scotland. He said that Perth and his hometown, Dundee. He added that the beautiful town of Perth was ideal for retirees (i.e., for people like me had I arrived with the proper funds to buy a modest house).

I made my decision. That morning I was not going to endure a single minute of a “hostel” which did not even have showers for bathing. The blacks woke up and put their filthy music we all heard over the terrace. I told the Brazilian that I would go to Scotland. He was surprised but, by seeing my resolution, walked along with me to the outskirts of the metro station. We said goodbye and never met again.

I still struggled that day to reach Perth. It was not the Victoria Station that the Brazilian had suggested but the famous King’s Cross the one which would take me to the far north: the very one where they had filmed the movies of the magical station in Harry Potter. My flight had been so hurried that already going on my train to Scotland I had to ask one of the uniformed train attendants if Perth was large enough to house hotels. By fleeing multiracial London and the nightmarish underworld of the Brazilian I hadn’t had time to make the most basic inquiries! (the hostel didn’t have Wifi access). Although nearly all uniformed workers in train stations were black, I approached an Anglo-Saxon woman who informed me that there were hotels there. However, still dying of tiredness I was unable to sleep sitting up and had to wait six more hours to reach my destination.

When I arrived to Perth the tourist information center was closed, but the taxi driver of the terminal, a typical Scot, was extremely helpful in taking me to the cheapest places he knew. We went to Dunkeld Road not far from the station, and the Scot awaited me several times while I knocked the doors of various guesthouses. As it was midsummer the signs were saying “No vacancy” but in one of the houses, Connie, the Irish woman who received guests in Clark Kimberly Guest House, admitted me gladly. Having no reservation I had to rent an expensive room with double bed.

But it didn’t matter. That night I slept placidly after so long. At last I encountered myself in the hands of the white man…

See you at the Leaky Cauldron?

Harry-Potter_Leaky_Cauldron_signSoon I will pay a visit to London and other towns in the U.K.

Anyone interested in joining me with a beer in a pub?

Cheers!

Published in: on June 17, 2014 at 12:22 pm  Comments (18)  

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.”

Downton-Abbey-Christmas-2013

(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!

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.

March of the Titans

The following paragraphs of March of the Titans: The Complete History of the White Race by Arthur Kemp caught my attention:

Non-white immigration into the white heartlands

The dominating theme of European history in the last quarter of the 20th Century has been the large-scale immigration of non-White peoples and races into the modern era White heartlands of Europe, Australia/New Zealand and North America. This process has taken place via two avenues: legal immigration and illegal immigration: it is difficult to formulate estimates on which has been the greater. Whatever the channel used, the reality of masses of non-Whites settling in these territories can quite rightly said to be changing the face of these continents.

According to Eurostat (the Statistical Office of the European Communities) in their publication Migration Statistics, 1996, there is not one of the fifteen countries in Western Europe which, at the beginning of 1994, did not have less than 3-10 per cent of what they euphemistically call “non-nationals resident”.

France, Germany, Austria, the Benelux countries, Denmark, Scandinavia and England are all listed as having “non-nationals resident” of more than 10 per cent, with Germany in two regions registered figures of “more than 15 per cent.” An average of between ten and fifteen per cent of “non nationals resident” in Western Europe as of the mid 1990’s is therefore an accurate estimate, given that official figures are always behind actual statistics, as the number of illegal immigrants always closely shadows the number of legal immigrants.

Racial mixing has been extremely prevalent in Britain. According to the 1991 census, taken by the Office for National Statistics in London (ONS), 40 per cent of young Black men in Britain are married to, or live with, a White partner. The trend is less common on the other side of the sexual divide, where one in five young Black women has a partner who is White. Britain has, as a result of this large non-White influx, suffered a large number of Black riots, the most serious of which occurred in 1981, when countrywide riots saw large areas of many inner cities razed to the ground.

According to an article in the newspaper, USA Today of 17 June 1998, the number of mixed-race marriages in the USA was 150,000 in 1960. By 1998 it had increased to “over 1.5 million” and it estimated that the number of mixed-race children in America stood at “over 2 million.”

The 1960s will also go down in history as having introduced one of the most significant factors to affect White numbers in the entire history of the world: the development of the birth control pill, or oral contraceptive, which was first approved for use in the United States in 1965. Social demographic trends have shown that it is only in the Western, White, industrialized countries where contraception is used to any significant degree.

The reproduction rate in White countries (amongst their native populations) has, since the introduction of the pill, dropped to the point where in most White countries it is below the stable replacement rate of 2.4 children per female. In the non-White Third World however, no such restraints exist, and the population grows exponentially as fast as the White population declines in Europe and North America: this demographic time bomb will in the not to distant future have serious consequences for the entire earth.

The resultant massive overpopulation of the non-White lands of the earth provides the major driver for non-White immigration into the White heartlands of Europe, Australia and North America.

Battery Park, NY

Cloaca gentium – Battery Park, New York

A rant from London

In the thread “Stubbs on anti-Nordicism” a woman, Maggie, tried to post a comment that, instead of discussing it there, I better use it as a separate entry:

This blog is a disgrace and should not be on the internet. Who are you (and any of these ridiculous writers that you are so fond of quoting) to decide which race is more superior to another, and to decide that only Aryans should be preserved? People like you are the Tom Buchanans of the 21st century, spouting utter drivel about race and the minute distinctions between races.

Can I just say – who actually cares? Race is a foolish notion introduced by people like yourself to discriminate against others because of the colour of their skin. It is true that in the years to come there will be wars about food and land – because there are too many people on this planet. I accept that. However, removing people from “Nordic” (what a ridiculous term) countries to the countries of their ethnic origin will most probably cause even more fighting, unrest and disruption in this already flawed world.
And by the way, your views on women are completely outdated and shameful. Women have done so much to help this world when the pigheadedness of men has almost ruined everything.

Looking back over what I have written, I admit it is flawed, slightly incoherent and does not address the arguments you made in the article. But I am just simply disgusted and angered that a website like this, promoting bigoted, clearly racist views, is allowed to exist in the 21st century.


BookWiseMy response. Maggie: Before a mere knee-jerk reaction based upon decades of anti-white propaganda, I would recommend a little of owl wisdom. Please read the most elemental articles linked on the sidebar:
 

BASIC (A, B, C):

The fourteen words

Blood and soil

A very brief manifesto

 

BEWARE OF THE NEWSPEAK:

The “mantra”

The word “hate”

The word “racism”

Published in: on October 15, 2013 at 4:29 pm  Comments (18)  

The Champions

The_Champions


William Gaunt, Stuart Damon, and Alexandra Bastedo





When I was a kid my favorite TV series was The Champions (watch the 43 seconds of the opening titles: here). Recently, before an user’s YouTube channel was axed due to copyright infringement, I re-watched the first dozen episodes of the series.

After a little research, however, I was shocked to learn that Stuart Damon, good-looking 1967 is in fact Jewish. In his more recent pics in the internet his age unmasks better his ethnic origins.

The other two characters are whites. Alas, the gorgeous Alexandra Bastedo, a believer in animal rights, did not leave any children but instead purchased a bucolic farm in England and lives among her many pets. (Compare her behavior with what Nietzsche says about how Aryan men must force their women to behave.) Unexpectedly, William Gaunt, whom I most admired as a kid—believing that physically I resembled him but that my parents considered pompous and inflated—, is the only one whose conduct I could not censure with my standards of today: at least he did breed.

As to the episodes, I don’t remember most of Episode 1, for instance, the conversation between Gaunt and the wise man of an ancient civilization in the Tibetan mountains. More to the point, in Episode 7 the anti-German scriptwriting starts to become apparent. A former German soldier, who survived for decades, very angrily asks a former SS officer why on earth could he have chosen the SS? (Incidentally, after re-watching it I realized I remembered fragments of this episode and many others after more than four decades of not seeing them.)

Episode 8 starts with music in a London club where the name of Churchill can be seen. It is no coincidence that precisely in the decade that mass immigration started in the UK, English music—yes: The Beatles et al—conveyed the feeling that the English society’s mores had been extremely relaxed.

It is unnecessary to recount the episodes that recently I re-watched. Suffice it to say that, as a 10-year old kid I was obviously incapable to interpret correctly the subtle propaganda.

March of the Titans

The following sentences of March of the Titans: The Complete History of the White Race by Arthur Kemp caught my attention:

The isle of influence – England, Scotland, Wales
and the United Kingdom

• Æthelred II ordered the killing of all Danish men in England on St Brice’s Day, November 13, 1002.

• In 1189, the first anti-Jewish riot took place in London, which soon spread to York, where 150 Jews were killed by a mob after they took refuge in a local building, Clifford’s Tower, the ruins of which still stand to the present day.

1 Manuscript from The Chronicles of Offa that depicts Jews

• In 1290, all the Jews of England were expelled from the country, accused of exploitative financial practices related to their dominance of the banking business.

• Mary I restored the Roman Catholic church in England, violently suppressing the Anglicans, ordering 300 leading members of that church burned at the stake. [Her] bloodthirsty revenge upon the Anglicans earned her the title of Bloody Mary.

• In 1655, Cromwell also ruled that Jews could be allowed back into England in 1656, the first time since their expulsion in 1290.

• Elizabeth I, Queen of England, ordered the deportation of all Blacks from London in 1601, after objecting to the presence of approximately 20,000 Black slaves in the capital city. This single act ensured that Britain had no large scale Black presence until the late 20th Century.

• The occupation of India however led to a significant amount of racial mixing between British officers stationed in that country and Indian women—and many of these Indian wives were taken back to Britain (and Ireland, as Irishmen served in the British army at that time, the latter country also being controlled by Britain). The product of these mixed unions can still be detected amongst the modern day British and Irish populations.

• Politics in Victorian Britain became dominated by the liberal party under William Gladstone and the Conservative Party under Benjamin Disraeli, who traded places as prime minister and opposition leader twice during their long careers. Disraeli was a Christianized Jew whose writings on race were profound: they are however ignored by modern historians. In his book Tancred, published by Frederick Warne, London, in 1868, Disraeli wrote: “All is race—there is no other truth” (page 106). And in his book Endymion, published by Longmans, London, he wrote:

No man will treat with indifference the principle of race. It is the key to history and why history is so often confused is that it has been written by men who were ignorant of this principle and all the knowledge it involves… Language and religion do not make a race—there is only one thing which makes a race, and that is blood. [pages 249-250]

• The most important feature of post World War Two Britain has been the large immigration into that country from the Third World, a process which showed no signs of slowing down during the last quarter of the 20th Century. This process and its implications are discussed in another chapter.

Civilisation’s “Heroic Materialism”

Originally I posted this article on April 25, 2012. But now that I have been postulating that the One Ring of greed and power—that we might start calling “the Aryan Problem”—could be the main factor in the West’s darkest hour, I am moving it at the top of this blog.

Below, some excerpts of “Heroic Materialism,” the last chapter of Civilisation by Kenneth Clark. (For an introduction to these series, see here.) Ellipsis omitted between unquoted passages. Also, the headings don’t appear in the original text:

The westerners’ new god: Mammon

Imagine an immensely speeded up movie of Manhattan Island during the last hundred years. It would look less like a work of man than like some tremendous natural upheaval. It’s godless, it’s brutal, it’s violent—but one can’t laugh it off, because in the energy, strength of will and mental grasp that have gone to make New York, materialism has transcended itself. It took almost the same time to reach its present conditions as it did to complete the Gothic cathedrals. At which point a very obvious reflection crosses one’s mind: that the cathedrals were built to the glory of God, New York was built to the glory of mammon—money, gain, the new god of the nineteenth century. So many of the same human ingredients have gone into its construction that at a distance it does look rather like a celestial city. At a distance. Come closer and it’s not so good. Lots of squalor, and, in the luxury, something parasitical.


Blake’s Satan

One sees why heroic materialism is still linked with an uneasy conscience. The first large iron foundries like the Carron Works or Coalbrookdale, date from about 1780. The only people who saw through industrialism in those early days were the poets. Blake, as everybody knows, thought that mills were the work of Satan. ‘Oh Satan, my youngest born… thy work is Eternal death with Mills and Ovens and Cauldrons.’

The [slave] trade was prohibited in 1807, and as Wilberforce lay dying in 1835, slavery itself was abolished. One must regard this as a step forward for the human race, and be proud, I think, that it happened in England. But not too proud. The Victorians were very smug about it, and chose to avert their eyes from something almost equally horrible that was happening to their own countrymen.

In its early stages the Industrial Revolution was also a part of the Romantic movement. And here I may digress to say that painters had for long used iron foundries to heighten the imaginative impact of their work with what we call a romantic effect; and that they had introduced them into pictures as symbolising the mouth of hell. However, the influence of the Industrial Revolution on Romantic painters is a side issue, almost an impertinence, when compared to its influence on human life. I needn’t remind you of how cruelly it degraded and exploited a mass of people for sixty or seventy years.

What was destructive was size. After about 1790 to 1800 there appeared the large foundries and mills which dehumanised life. Long before Carlyle and Karl Marx, Wordsworth had described the arrival of a night shift ‘that turns the multitude of dizzy wheels, Men, maidens, youths, Mothers and little children, boys and girls, Perpetual sacrifice.’

The terrible truth is that the rise in population did nearly ruin us. It struck a blow at civilisation such as it hadn’t received since the barbarian invasions. First it produced the horrors of urban poverty. It must have seemed—may still seem—insoluble; yet this doesn’t excuse the callousness with which prosperous people ignored the conditions of life among the poor on which to a large extent their prosperity depended, and this in spite of the many detailed and eloquent descriptions that were available to them. I need mention only two—Engels’s Conditions of the Working Classes in England, written in 1844, and the novels written by Dickens between 1840 and 1855. Everybody read Dickens. But his terrible descriptions of poverty had very little practical effect: partly because the problem was too big; partly because politicians were held in the intellectual prison of classical economics.

The images that fit Dickens are by the French illustrator Gustave Doré. He was originally a humorist; but the sight of London sobered him. His drawings were done in the 1870s, after Dickens’s death. But one can see that things hadn’t changed much. Perhaps it took an outsider to see London as it really was.


Degenerate architecture

At the beginning of this series I said that I thought one could tell more about a civilisation from its architecture that from anything else it leaves behind. Painting and literature depend largely on unpredictable individuals. But architecture is to some extent a communal art. However, I must admit that the public buildings on the nineteenth century are often lacking in style and conviction; and I believe that this is because the strongest creative impulse of the time didn’t go into the town halls or country houses, but into what was then thought of as engineering. In fact, all modern New York started with the Brooklyn Bridge.

In this series I have followed the ups and downs of civilisation historically, trying to discover results as well as causes; well, obviously I can’t do that any longer. We have no idea where we are going, and sweeping, confident articles of the future seem to me, intellectually, the most disreputable of all forms of utterance. The scientists who are best qualified to talk have kept their moths shut.

The incomprehensibility of our new cosmos seems to me, ultimately, to be the reason for the chaos of modern art. I know next to nothing about science, but I’ve spent my life trying to learn about art, and I am completely baffled by what is taking place today. I sometimes like what I see, but when I read modern critics I realise that my preferences are merely accidental.

Western civilisation has been a series of rebirths. Surely this should give us confidence in ourselves. I said at the beginning that it is lack of confidence, more than anything else, that kills a civilisation. We can destroy ourselves by cynicism and disillusion, just as effectively as by bombs. Fifty years ago W.B. Yeats, who was more like a man of genius than anyone I have ever known, wrote a famous poem.

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.