Reflections of an Aryan woman, 34

Note that I say nothing about the political regime in this world of living automatons. I’m not trying to ask what it might be, because that question is irrelevant.

The deeper one sinks into uniformity from below, created and maintained by dirigisme with no other ideal than that of ever-increasing production, with a view to the well-being of the greatest number—in other words, the more it moves away from the type of hierarchical social organism that ceases to be a living pyramid as it once was in all civilisations and becomes a nameless, grey porridge brewed not by artists, still less by sages, but by clever people devoid of any awareness of extra-human values working for the immediate, in the narrowest sense of the word—the more it is like this the less the form of government matters.

There is still, theoretically at least, a difference between the condition of an assembly line worker in the Cadillac factories and that of an assembly line worker in some industrial complex in the Marxist world; between a saleswoman in a supermarket in Western Europe or the USA and that of a food distributor in a canteen anywhere behind the iron curtain. And the list of parallels could go on and on.

In principle, the worker in the ‘free world’ is not obliged to accept conditioning. When the siren sounds, or when the monster shop closes, he can do what he wants, go where he wants, use his leisure time as he pleases. Nothing forces him physically to buy drinks for his mates at the local café, or in monthly instalments the indispensable TV set or the no less ‘indispensable’ car. There are no political, or semi-political, semi-cultural meetings which he is forced to attend, on pain of finding himself, the next day, without a job or, worse still, suspected of deviationism and incarcerated—whereas in the USSR or China there are some and how! (according to the echoes we have of it; I repeat, I don’t know, first hand, the Marxist world).

Nothing would prevent a worker or an office employee or a saleswoman in the free world from using her leisure time as I would use it in his place if, for whatever reason, I had to work in a factory, an office or a supermarket to pay my bills. Nothing would prevent him provided that he finds a home secluded enough or soundproofed not to be bothered by the neighbours’ radio or television, and a manager or building owner complaisant enough to allow him to keep some domestic animal around, should that be his pleasure. Then perhaps his leisure hours would be truly blessed, and his modest flat a haven of peace.

Then perhaps he (or she) could, after spending an hour or two in silence, completely free himself entirely from the persistent noise of machines (or the light music imposed in certain workshops or shops); or the blinding glare of lights, of the atmosphere of people, have a quiet supper, alone or amid his family, walking his dog under the trees of some not too busy boulevard, and absorb himself, before the hour of sleep, in some nice read.

Then perhaps, but only then, the progress of machinery would guarantee him leisure, which he would use to cultivate himself, the more he would become ‘man’ again, in the most honest sense of the word; and the more one could, to some extent, speak of a ‘liberating technology’—although I could never be persuaded that even two hours a day spent in the depressing atmosphere of the factory or the office, or the modern department stores, are not, on balance, more exhausting than ten or twelve hours employed in some interesting work—in some art, such as that of the potter or the weaver of bygone ages.

But for this to happen, the worker, the proletarian, in the countries of the ‘free world’, who, in principle, can do what he wants after his working hours, would have to want something other than what he is conditioned to want. His ‘freedom’ resembles that of a young man, brought up since childhood in the atmosphere of a Jesuit boarding school, to whom one would say: ‘You are now of age. You are free to practice whatever religion you like’.

One student in ten million will practice something other than the strictest Catholicism; and the very one who breaks away from it will, most of the time, retain its imprint for the rest of his life.

In the same way, even in the ‘free world’ where, in theory, all ideas, all faiths, all tastes are accepted, the man of the masses and, increasingly, that of the ‘free’ intelligentsia, is, from childhood, caught up in the atmosphere of technical civilisation, and stultified by it and by all its ‘progressive’, humanitarian or pseudo-humanitarian, and pseudo-scientific publicity—the propaganda of ‘universal happiness’ by material comfort and purchasable pleasures. And he no longer wishes to break free of it.

One individual in ten million violently disengages from it, and turns his back on it, with or without ostentation, as the painter Delvaux did; as a few anonymous people do every day without even bothering to leave the banal building where they have made their room the sanctuary of a life that is anachronistic without necessarily appearing to be.

The only thing that might be said in favour of the ‘free world’, as opposed to its enemy brother, the Marxist world, is that it doesn’t take police sanctions against this exceptional individual—unless, of course, we express our hostility to today’s mores in the form of Hitlerism. And even in this respect there is a little less constraint than among the Communists in power: one can, everywhere in the ‘free world’, except, no doubt, in the unfortunate Germany, whose soul the victors of 1945 killed, have a portrait of the Führer on one’s bedside table, without fear of indiscreet inspections followed by legal sanctions.

What could be said in favour of the Marxist world, however, is that the latter has, despite everything, a faith—based on false notions and real counter-values, that is undeniable if we take a stand from the viewpoint of the eternal, which is that of Tradition, but finally, a faith—whereas the so-called ‘free’ world has none at all. The militant of values other than those exalted by official communist propaganda is likely to find himself one day in some ‘correction camp’ only if he pushes his temerity to the point of forgetting that he is in the underground, and must remain there.
 

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Editor’s Note: This interview with a Serbian intellectual who lived in the Spanish island Gran Canaria (where I lived for ten months) woke me up ten years ago to the fact that today’s West is more totalitarian than Eastern Europe in the time of Breshnev.

Savitri continues:

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But the mass of the indoctrinated, who form the majority of the population there, will have the impression that they are working—and working hard—for the advent of something that seems great to them and that they love, whether it be the world revolution of the proletarians, the union of all Slavs under the aegis of holy Russia (this ideal is, it seems, that of more than one Russian Communist), or the domination of the yellow race through universal Communism. Industrial or agricultural production—that in the name of which so much eminently dull work has to be done—leads, in the final analysis, to such grandiose goals. It’s more exciting than the safe and neat little life culminating in the Saturday or Friday night drive to Monday morning.

Both worlds are, in fact, abominable caricatures of the hierarchical societies that once claimed to be, or at least wanted to be, as faithful images as possible of the eternal order of which the cosmos is the visible manifestation. The technical civilisation of the ‘free world’ opposes the unity in diversity which these societies possessed with the despairing uniformity of the man who is mass-produced, without direction, without impetus—not that of the water in a river, but that of a heap of sand whose grains, all insignificant and all similar, would each believe themselves to be very interesting.

The dictatorship of an increasingly invasive proletariat, on the other hand, opposes it with a uniformity of marching robots, all driven by the same energy: robots whose absence of individuality is a wicked parody of the deliberate renunciation of the individual, conscious of his place and role, in favour of that which is beyond him. The zeal for work and the irresistible push forward of these same automatons who believe they are devoted to the ‘happiness of man’ counterfeits the ancient efficiency of the masses who built, under the direction of true masters, monuments of beauty and truth: the pyramids, with or without floors, of Egypt, Mesopotamia or Central America; the Great Wall of China; the temples of India and those of Angkor; the Colosseum; the Byzantine, Romanesque, or Gothic cathedrals…

Of the two caricatures, the second, the Marxist, is arguably more clever in its crudeness than the other. To see this, one need only look at the number of people of real human worth who have fallen for it and who, in all sincerity, convinced that they were guided by an ideal of liberation and disinterested service, have swelled the ranks of the militants of the most fanatical form of Anti-Tradition that has yet appeared. This can be seen in Europe as well as in other regions—in India, in particular, where the Communist leaders are recruited mainly from the Aryan castes, strange as that may be. There is something in the very rigour of Communism that attracts certain characters eager for both discipline and sacrifice; something which makes them see the worst kind of slavery under the disguise of self-sacrifice, and the most laughable narrow-mindedness under the guise of a sacred intolerance.

The caricature of the ‘free world’ is less dangerous in the sense that it is outwardly ‘less resembling’, and therefore less capable to appeal to elite characters. But it is more dangerous in that, being less outrageous, it is at first sight less shocking to those whom Marxism repels, precisely because they have discovered in it the features of a false religion.

Having none of the attributes of a ‘faith’ it reassures them, encouraging them to believe that thanks to democratic ‘tolerance’—a tolerance which, as I have said, extends to all but us Hitlerites—they will be able to continue to profess in peace all the cults (all the exoterisms) which are dear to them: Christianity or Judaism in the West; Islam, Judaism, Hinduism, Buddhism, elsewhere; even one of these in the historical domain of another—why not, when the individual believes himself to be everything, and arrogates to himself, therefore, the right to choose everything?

They don’t realise that the very mentality of the technocratic world, with all its emphasis on the immediately and materially useful, the ‘functional’, and therefore the increasingly extensive applications of the sciences and pseudo-sciences at the expense of any detachment, is the antithesis of any disinterested thirst for knowledge as well as of any love of works of art and also of beings because of their beauty alone. They don’t realise that it can only accelerate the severing of any exoteric religion or philosophy from esotericism, without which it has no eternal value, and thus precipitate the ruin of all culture.

They don’t realise this because they forget that disinterested knowledge, the blossoming of art worthy of the name and the protection of beings (including man insofar as he responds to what his noun, Anthropos, ‘he who looks or reaches upwards’ would lead one to expect) go hand in hand, beauty being inseparable from truth, and culture being nothing if it doesn’t express both.

They forget—or have never known—that, deprived of their connection with the great cosmic and ontological truths they should illustrate, exoteric religions very quickly become fables to which no one attaches credence anymore; degenerate philosophies become idle chatter and political doctrines, recipes for electoral success; and that the technocratic world, with its eminently utilitarian approach to all problems, with its anthropocentrism coupled with its obsession with quantity, diverts even the best minds from the search and contemplation of eternal truths.

Reflections of an Aryan woman, 33

You probably know what I get from the devotees of indefinite ‘progress’, Marxists or not. They say: ‘All this is temporary. Be patient! The machinery is only at its beginning; it has not yet reached its full potential’.

Today, of course, the multiplicity of new needs has resulted in the haste to earn money, and the fact that more and more people accept to earn money by engaging in the most dehumanising occupations. Today, it is true, more and more workers tend to become robots for a third of their lives, namely during their working hours; and, to some extent, after their working hours (by acquired habit). But let’s not worry! All this will change, thanks to the sacrosanct progress! Already we are in large companies, equipped with ultra-complicated machines—computers or ‘electronic brains’—capable of solving in a few seconds, automatically, from their data, problems that would take a man half a day to calculate the solution.

Less than a century ago, the worker worked twelve or even fifteen hours a day. Today, he works eight hours, and only five days a week. Tomorrow, thanks to the contribution of machines in all branches of his activity, he will work five hours, and soon two hours a day, or even less. The machines will do the work—machines so perfect that it will take only one man to supervise a whole team. In the end, man will hardly do anything. His life will be an unlimited holiday, during which he will have all the time he needs to ‘cultivate’ himself. As for the disadvantages of overpopulation, these will be remedied in advance by limiting births: the famous ‘family planning’.

At first sight, this is enough to seduce the optimists. But the reality will be less simple than the theory. It always is.

First of all, we must realise that no Malthusian policy can be fully effective on a global scale. It is easier to set up factories in technically least developed countries, and to give people who have hitherto lived close to the state of nature a taste for modern conveniences such as washing machines and television sets, than to encourage these same people to father only a limited number of children. Even the population of Western and Northern Europe, or the USA where the most modern methods of contraception are widely used, are growing, though not as fast as in other parts of the world—and will continue to grow as long as there are doctors to prolong the lives of the suffering, the infirm, the mentally retarded, and all those who should be dead.

The people of the so-called ‘underdeveloped’ countries are much less permeable than the citizens of Western Europe or the USA to anti-conception propaganda. If we really wanted to reduce the population to reasonable proportions, we would have to forcibly sterilise nine out of ten people, or else abolish the medical profession and hospitals, and let natural selection do its work, as it did before the madness of the technical age. But it is only us, the ugly ‘barbarians’ who would be prepared to resort to such measures. And we are not in power, and do not expect to be there any time soon.

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Editor’s Note: Precisely what in my soliloquies I call the extermination of the Neanderthals.
 

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The friends of man, who are at the same time fervent supporters of indefinite technical progress, will have to come to terms with a world in which human living space will become increasingly restricted, even if it means reducing to a minimum the areas still occupied by the forest, the savannah and the desert, the last refuges of noble living beings other than man, for the benefit of the so-called ‘thinking’ primate. It will no longer be the already swarming masses of currently overpopulated countries. These will be crowds twice, three times, ten times more compact than the one which today covers the immense ‘Esplanade’ of Calcutta around six o’clock in the evening, when the heat subsides. Wherever you go, you will be brushed against, elbowed, jostled—and occasionally, no doubt, knocked down and trampled on—by people and more people who, thanks to the machines, will have almost nothing left to do.

You have to be naive to believe that, as soon as the daily fatigue resulting from work ceases to exist for them, these billions of human beings will devote themselves to study, or to practise whatever pleasure art in which an important part of creation will enter. You only have to look around and see how today’s workers, who toil forty hours a week instead of ninety as they did a hundred years ago, use their leisure time.

They go to the café, to the cinema, attend some sports competition or, more often than not, listen to radio broadcasts at home, or remain seated in front of their television sets and avidly follow what is happening on the small screen.

Sometimes they read. But what do they read? What they find at their fingertips—because to know what you want to read, and to strive to find it, you have to be better informed than most people are.

What comes to hand, without their bothering to look for it, is usually either some periodical or book which, without being pernicious, is superficial and doesn’t make them think in any way, or a product of decadent or tendentious literature: something that distorts their taste or their minds (or both), or gives them inaccurate information, or info purposely interpreted in such a way as to inculcate in them a given opinion that the people in power want them to hold.

They read France-Soir, Caroline chérie, La mort est mon métier[1] or some pseudo-scientific article on the ‘conquest of space’ which gives them the impression of having been initiated into the mysteries of modern science, when in fact they have remained as ignorant as before, but have become a little more pretentious. There are, moreover, despite the enormous number of books which appear every year on every conceivable subject, fewer and fewer ‘books of substance’: those which a thinking man rereads a hundred times, always deriving some new enrichment from them, and to which he owes intuitions of great cosmic truths—even human truths in the name of which he would be able to start his life over again, if he could. The individuals who seek such books do not belong to the masses.
 

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Editor’s Note: This reminds me of my Sunday entry. As a teenager I asked in a bookstore: “¿Tienen libros en pro del nazismo? [Do you have books in favour of Nazism?]”. I still remember my exact words! Savitri continues:

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What will the billions of people of tomorrow’s world do with their time? Will they cultivate their minds, as our inveterate optimists think?

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Editor’s Note: When Savitri wrote her book I was a huge fan of 2001: A Space Odyssey. I was completely unaware that the novel’s author, Arthur C. Clarke, professed a starkly stupid optimism about technology. (Without exterminating Neanderthals, all technology does is launch human stupidity at the speed of light.)

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No, they won’t! They will do all day long what our good proletarians of 1970 do when they come back from the factory or the office, or during their month of paid leave: they will watch their small screen, and very obediently believe what the men in power will have introduced into the programmes so that they believe it.

They will go to the movies; will attend free conferences organised for them, always in the spirit of the leaders of the moment who will probably be the same as today, namely the victors of the Second World War: the Jews and the Communists, the devotees of the oldest and the most recent faith of our Dark Age, both centred on ‘man’. They will make organised trips with guides and light music, also indispensable, in transport vehicles, buses and planes, on the outward and return journey. In short, the life of perpetual or almost perpetual leisure will be regulated, directed, dictated by committees elected by universal suffrage, after adequate propaganda to the masses.

And that will be too bad for those who would have preferred to pursue in silence a creation they loved because they felt it was beautiful; or who would have liked to organise the world on other bases and according to another ideal. So much the worse for those—increasingly rare—who will refuse to let themselves be conditioned!

It will be, to some extent, Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World with the difference that instead of robots working in front of machines, it will be robots enjoying themselves on command and under the official planning of enjoyment, while the machines provide for their subsistence. One will no more choose how to use one’s leisure time than the majority of people today choose the occupation that will provide them with ‘food and shelter’. It will be presupposed—as is already the case, for example, in certain tourist buses, where one is forced to listen to the radio all along the route, whether one likes it or not—that all men have practically the same needs and tastes, which is in flagrant contradiction to the everyday experience among unconditioned people (fortunately, there are still a few of them today).

The aim is to give them all the same needs and tastes by means of ever more sophisticated, ever more ‘scientific’ conditioning.
 

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Editor’s Note: All this soft totalitarianism that we are already experiencing will collapse if Chris Martenson’s calculations on peak oil, which we have been advertising on this site, are correct.

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[1] By Robert Merle: a fanciful account of the German concentration camps.

Reflections of an Aryan woman, 32

It is natural that he should want to do nothing to help ‘save’ a civilisation whose demise he wishes to see, and that the people who admire it should, more or less vaguely, smell the enemy in him. It is no less natural that a doctrine that runs against the tide of Time—a doctrine that preaches, in the name of a Golden Age ideal, revolt, and even violent action, against the ‘values’ of our decadent age and its institutions—should arouse his enthusiasm and secure his support: he is himself an individual of those I have called ‘men against Time’.

But why do the people who are the submissive and obedient children of our time turn out to be so dissatisfied and anxious? Why is it that this ‘progress’, in which they so firmly believe, doesn’t bring them, in the exercise of their profession, that minimum of joy without which all work is a chore?

It is because the technical environment doesn’t only act on the masses; it creates them from scratch. As soon as technical development exceeds a certain ‘critical point’, which is difficult to define, the human community, naturally hierarchical, tends to break up. Little by little it is replaced by the mass; the mass, that is to say above all the great number, with little or no hierarchy, because of unstable, shifting and unpredictable quality.

Quality is (statistically) always in inverse proportion to quantity. And the most nefarious technique from this point of view—the one most directly responsible for all the consequences of the indiscriminate formation of human masses on the surface of the globe—is undoubtedly medicine: the most harmful because it is the one that is in the most flagrant opposition to the spirit of Nature from one end of the scale of living beings; that which, instead of seeking to preserve the health, and any kind of biological priority of the strong, strives to cure diseases and prolong the lives of the weak by keeping alive the incurable, the monsters, the idiots, the insane, and all sorts of people whose removal in a society founded on sound principles would take for granted.

The result of the progress made by this technique—achieved at the cost of the most hideous experiments, practised on perfectly healthy and beautiful animals, which are tortured and dislocated, always in the name of man’s ‘right’ to sacrifice everything to his species—is that the number of men on earth is increasing in alarming proportions, while their quality decreases. You can’t have quality and quantity. You have to choose.

It is now a fact that the population of the world is growing geometrically; that, above all, the population of the hitherto ‘underdeveloped’ countries is growing faster than any other. These countries have not yet reached the technical level of the industrialised countries, but they have already been sent a host of doctors; they have already been indoctrinated into taking ‘hygienic measures’ which they didn’t know about, when they were not outright imposed on them.

As a result, the traditional occupations like working the land or various crafts are no longer sufficient to absorb the countless energies available. There will be unemployment and famine, unless mechanised industries are installed everywhere, that is to say, unless the immense majority of the population, whose numbers have quadrupled in thirty years, are turned into proletarians; unless they are torn away from their traditions, wherever they have retained any, and are forced into factories and work that, by its very nature—because it is mechanical—cannot be interesting.

Production will then skyrocket. It will be necessary to sell what has been manufactured. To do this, it will be necessary to persuade people to buy what they neither need nor want, to make them believe that they need it and to instil in them the desire for it at all costs. This will be the task of advertising.

People will fall for this deception because there are already too many of them to be moderately intelligent. It will take money for them to acquire what they don’t need, but have been persuaded to want. To earn it quickly, to spend it right away, they will agree to do boring jobs, jobs in which there is no creative element and that in a smaller society, with a slower life, nobody would want to do.

They will accept them, because technology and propaganda will have turned them into an increasingly uniform, or rather formless, multitude in which the individual exists, in fact, less and less while imagining himself to have more and more ‘rights’, and aspiring to more and more purchasable enjoyments—a caricature of the organic unity of the old hierarchical societies, where the individual thought himself nothing, but lived healthily and usefully, in his place, as a cell of a strong and flourishing body.

The key to discontent in everyday life, and especially in working life, is to be found in the two notions of multitude and haste.

Reflections of an Aryan woman, 31

 

Chapter VI

Technical Development and Tradition

No more clattering sounds on the walls of the abyss;
Laughter, vile noises, cries of despair.
Between hideous walls, a black swarming,
No more arches of foliage at sublime depths.

Leconte de Lisle (‘La Forêt vierge’, Poèmes Barbares)

Since the disaster of 1945 we have been talking about the ‘free world’ and the ‘other world’, that is to say the world where Democracy reigns and the one dominated by Communism: the only totalitarian ideology whose adherents are in power anywhere, after the destruction of the Third German Reich.

I’ll tell you what I think of each of these enemy worlds. Their superficial differences strike you to the point of diverting your attention from their similarities, or rather their profound affinities. And you have been told and continue to be told about these differences and to insist on them, so that you don’t get where you are being led. And you are told again and again that you wouldn’t have been ‘any freer’ under the Hitler regime, as Germany knew it for twelve years, than you would be today under any kind of Marxist totalitarianism. We repeat this to you to remove in advance any possible nostalgia for this regime which we, who admired and supported it, present as based on ‘joyful work’.

If there is anything certain, it is that in the so-called ‘free’ world at least—I haven’t lived in the other, and know it only from the criticism of hostile propaganda and the praise of its propaganda—not one person in ten thousand ‘works with joy’, and this is because not one person in ten thousand really likes his livelihood or his ‘state’, to speak as in the old days. They don’t like it, and rightly so. For the activity that they’re obliged to do, during all the time of sells, to be able to live, to an individual employer, a collective employer (a public company for example) or to the State, is more often than not so boring that it’s impossible to like it.

And this is all the more general the more technically advanced a society is, that is, the more mechanised. Just think of the thousands of workers who have been condemned to ‘assembly-line’ work by a sinister fate: to the indefinite repetition, eight hours a day, of the same easy gesture devoid of any perceived usefulness (since the worker never sees the finished product, car, plane or improved machine, or the manufacture of which each of his monotonous gestures has contributed), of a gesture without any real meaning for the one who performs it. Just think of the woman sitting in some ‘box’ at the foot of a metro staircase, who punches tickets every day, eight hours a day, sowing around her as much beige confetti as people coming out of the staircase to get into the cars with automatic doors that will wait for them for a few seconds, every two or three minutes. Just think of the ‘typist’ who ‘types’ all day long letters whose content doesn’t and cannot interest her.

The list of work which, by its very nature, can be of no interest to anyone could be extended indefinitely. The number of such chores that are ‘indispensable’ to the economy of modern society doesn’t depend on the political regime under which people live, but only on the degree of mechanisation of the cogs of production and exchange. And if it is sometimes possible to remove one or two of them, by replacing a person with a machine—for example, by an automatic banknote punching machine, such as is now used in the buses of Germany and Switzerland—it will never be possible to eliminate them all. The development of technology will create new ones: workers will be needed to manufacture the parts of the ‘latest’ machines.

And these new machines will have to work under someone’s supervision. But it is impossible to make interesting the task of producing identical parts ad infinitum, or of supervising the same machine, let alone pleasant. And if one imagines this task performed under the blinding light of neon tubes, and in continuous noise (or with a background of light music and ditties, even more irritating, for some ears, than any roar of machines), one will agree that for a growing number of men and women earning a living is a chore, if not, a torment.

But it is not only the work that is boring in itself, and therefore exhausting despite the ease with which it can be done by anyone. There are jobs which would undoubtedly interest some people, but which don’t interest a considerable proportion of the employees who perform them, either because these employees haven’t chosen their professional activity, or because they’ve chosen it for the wrong reasons. And the question arises: How is it that at a time when (in the ‘free world’ at least) so much emphasis is placed on the ‘rights of the individual’ and when, in the technically advanced countries, there are so many institutions whose purpose is precisely to help parents guide their children in the direction in which they should be both happiest and most useful. How is it, I ask, that there are so many malcontents, failures, bitter people, uprooted people and downgraded people; in a word, people who are not where they should be and not doing what they should be doing?

The answer presupposes some observations, the first of which is that it is impossible to ask a mass of people, even of a superior race, to resist the pressure of their environment for a long time, or even only for a few decades. It is certainly wrong to assert with Karl Marx that man is no more than what his economic environment makes of him. Racial heredity and history play a part in shaping the personality of individuals and peoples.

This is undeniable. But it must be admitted that the more one deals with a mass, the more important is the influence of the environment, and in particular that of the technical environment, in the formation of the collective personality, or rather in the evolution which results, in people taken as a whole, in an increasingly striking lack of personality.

In other words, the more one deals with a mass, the more the basic proposition of Marxism—‘man is what his environment makes him’—tends to be verified in practice. One could almost say that Marx would be right, if humanity consisted only of the masses. And it is understandable that people who love man above all else, and who are not put off by mass life, should be Marxists. (In order not to be, and to be sure never to be tempted to become, one must love not ‘man’, whoever he may be, but the human elites: the aristocracies of race and character.)

The technical milieu acts on the masses: it dictates to them by advertising the ‘needs’ they must have, or hasten to acquire to encourage ever more advanced research leading to ever more varied and perfected applications of the laws of nature to man’s ‘happiness’.

It offers her real electrification of housework and leisure activities: the ideal modern house, where you only have to turn a knob to heat the soup, bought ready-made, to clean the floor, to wash the clothes, or to watch the day’s film on the small screen (the same one for fifty million viewers), and to listen to the dialogues that are an integral part of it. Only a man who knows in advance what he wants has no use for the technical environment all his life, or even be unaware of it because they are so irrelevant to him; a man who is much more aware of his own psychology (and in particular of his scale of values) than ninety-five per cent of our contemporaries; in a word: a man who, by the grace of the Gods, doesn’t belong to the masses.

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Editor’s Note. I would recommend the book Lord of the Rings to those who want to get out of the monstrosity that Saruman did with his arboreal destruction, iron industry, multiplication of Orcs, and technology like the ubiquitous cell-phones (which I don’t use since I have zero male friends in my native town).

If I were a film director and wanted to make a childrens’ TV series, I would bring LOTR to the screen by retrieving all those detailed descriptions of the bucolic fields in Tolkien’s prose, lacking in Peter Jackson’s strident trilogy after his first film.
 

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He will not ‘fit in’ in the modern world, and probably, whatever his profession may be. The mere fact of being happy where three-quarters of the people would be bored, and of being bored on the contrary, of having the most irritating impression of ‘wasting one’s time’ amid the distractions that the majority seeks, sets him apart.

He is really only at home among his few fellows, he who has no transistor, no radio, no television set, no washing machine, and that neon light hurts his eyesight and so-called ‘modern’ music ‘grazes his ears: he who persists in remaining true to himself and who refuses to love ‘on command’ what the advertisements and propaganda present to him as ‘progress’.
 

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Editor’s Note:

If there is one thing almost all white nationalists fail at, it is this. The pop music most of them listen to only degrades the Aryan spirit. The transvaluation of all values begins with the music we listen to: food or poison for the soul.

It is impossible to save the race if the white man enjoys the inane and grotesque melodies of the fallen West—often not even melodies, but the grossest and cacophonous ape rhythms we can imagine (just compare it with the film’s Evenstar).

Reflections of an Aryan woman, 30

He who has risen above time and who, in spite of this (or even because of it) has a mission to accomplish, sees fit to act in time, acts with the certainty of beings who do not choose; with that of the plant that grows towards the sun—what shall I say?, he acts as the magnet that attracts iron, or the elements that combine to yield the compounds that chemistry studies. With consciousness, certainly; but without deliberation or choice, since he clearly ‘knows’ and there is no choice except for the consciousness that doesn’t know, or that knows only imperfectly. (One doesn’t ‘choose’ between the two propositions ‘Two and two make four’ and ‘Two and two make five’. We know that the first is true, the second false. Nor do we ‘choose’ to think that an object is white, if we see it as such. We feel unable to make any judgement about it that would exclude its ‘whiteness’).

What can encourage a decision by someone who is still a prisoner of time—who doesn’t ‘know’, who doesn’t ‘see’, what the future will be to which he contributes, and who has the impression that he can ‘choose’ his action? What could motivate him, especially if he is ignorant of the whole future yet knows that it will go against him, what is dearest to him in the world, and that his action is, on a practical level, perfectly useless? What could sustain the attitude of men like Teia, last king of the Goths in Italy? Or like the Amerindian princes and warriors, who, in spite of the decree of their own gods, deciphered in the heaven by the sages of their lands, fought all the same, albeit too late—and with desperate heroism—against the Spaniards? Or, closer to us, like those thousands of Germans and Aryans from all over the world who, even though they knew that all was lost, even though there were only a few square metres left of the great National Socialist Reich that had been shelled by Russian artillery, continued to fight, one against five hundred, like lions? [1]

What can sustain them in their action, in their refusal to give in, in their defiance, in their useless attitude—not a martyr who foresees, beyond death, a future of beatitude which will compensate him for the worst torments in this world, but these iron winds of all lost causes which, who have no hope either in this world or in any other—who are not even enlightened enough to imagine the triumph of their truth at the dawn of a future time cycle and who, humanly speaking, should feel that they fight, suffer and die for nothing? What can they oppose to this nothingness that is worth all the sacrifices?

They can—and do, no doubt, if only in their subconscious—oppose it with the only certainty that remains when all else collapses: that of the irrevocability of the past.

For them, it is no longer a question of the future of their people and of the world, over which they will have no influence. It is even less about their personal future, which has long ceased to interest them. It is about the beauty of the moment they are going to live, right now, in a second, in an hour, whenever; it is about the beauty of that moment which represents, in endless time, the last scene of their struggle, a moment which, as soon as it has been lived, will take on that unshakeable stability which is the very essence of the past; which will still ‘exist’, in the manner of the whole past, millions and billions of years hence, when there will be no memory of it on earth for a long time to come: when there will be no more earth; no more solar system; when all the visible worlds of today will have ceased to exist materially.

They feel that this moment is all that still depends on them; all that is yet given to them to create. They feel that it is in their power to make it beautiful, or ugly: beautiful, if it fits into the very structure of their being, like the perfect detail that crowns a work of art, the last perfect phrase of a musical composition. Ugly, if it contradicts it, if it betrays it; if, far from completing and crowning it, it robs it of its value; if it destroys it, just as a last brushstroke can turn a smile into a grimace, or a drop of impure liquid can stain, destroy forever, the most exalting of perfumes.

They feel—they know—that it depends on them to make it beautiful or ugly, depending on whether they proclaim, and proclaim for eternity, their honour or their shame; their fidelity to their true raison d’être, or their disavowal. For what is it to disavow, as soon as they become unpopular, the principles that one has professed, a king or a leader whom one has pretended to love and serve as long as there was some tangible advantage in doing so? This is not to prove that one ‘took the wrong path’—otherwise one would have changed it sooner—but it shows that one values effort only for attaining purchasable comfort and pleasures, and that one is incapable of disinterested allegiance, not only to the leaders one has betrayed, but to anyone else; that one has neither honour nor courage, in other words, that one is not ‘a man’ even if one has human form. For a coward is not a man.

The horror of an eternity of ugliness—for the revulsion of a man of honour before a degrading action or attitude is nothing else— is perhaps more decisive even than the aspiration of the faithful one, vanquished on the material plan, to remain himself after the defeat. In fact, if it is rare that a man who knows himself before circumstances reveal his true scale of values, he at least knows himself, to a certain extent, negatively.

If he doesn’t know, in general, what he is capable of, at least he has—and this, apparently, from the moment of the awakening of his self-consciousness—a fairly clear idea or feeling of things that he would never do; of some attitudes that could never be his, whatever the circumstances. The man of good breeding spontaneously shrinks before a degrading action or attitude. He feels that once it has been done, or taken—once it has become part of the past, henceforth unchangeable feeling—it would mark him for eternity, in other words, it would sully him and scar him irreparably. And it is against this projection of his degraded ‘self’—against this contrast between the nobility, the beauty he feels in himself, and the image he has of the ugliness, inseparable from all cowardice, that his fallen being would put on—that he revolts. Anything, rather than this! Anything rather than to become so repellent!—and that forever, for no contrition can erase what once was; no forgiveness can change the past.

And what can be said of the vanquished of this world who act ‘against Time’—that is to say, futilely, from viewpoint of his hostile surroundings—is also true of those to whom all action properly speaking is forbidden, even though they have not necessarily transcended the temporal realm, and who continue to live, day after day, for years and decades, in the spirit of a doctrine that is against the current of Time.

They leave, by the mere unfolding of their existence, with their increasingly impeded expression, an unwritten page of History. The humblest of them could claim a spiritual kinship, distant, no doubt, but undeniable, with certain illustrious figures: with a Hypatia, in the Alexandria of the 4th and 5th centuries, increasingly controlled by Christianity; with a Pletho, in the 15th century, in the atmosphere of Byzantine Hellenism, all steeped in Christian theology.

He could, in his moments of depression, think of all those who, in a forced, almost complete inactivity—or a phantom of activity, that their persecutors try to render useless—continue, in an indefinite captivity, to be the most eloquent witnesses of their faith. (As I write these lines I am thinking of Rudolf Hess and Walter Reder, the former locked up for thirty years, the latter for twenty-seven, behind prison bars.)[2] He could rightly say to himself that he is, that his brothers in the faith are, and that forever; that everything they represent is extended in them, already in our visible and tangible world.

Ancient Hellenism lives on in Pletho, as well as in some other men of the 15th century, insofar as they preserved its spirit. In the same way, the ‘real Germany’, that is to say, the Germany which has, in Hitlerism, rediscovered its original spirit, lives in the cell of Rudolf Hess—and more invincibly than anywhere else, certainly, since the captive of Spandau is one of the spiritual initiators of the more-than-political movement that the ‘Party’ represented in its origins, and probably one of the Führer’s co-initiates.

It also lives on—their truth and vision—in Walter Reder and in all the faithful Germans still in captivity, if there are any, as well as in the immortal figures of the irrevocable past, such as Dr. Joseph Goebbels and his wife, who in their spectacular demise carried along the six children that they had given to the Third Reich rather than letting them survive it. Not to mention the Führer himself, whose whole life is that of Man both ‘out of Time’ and ‘against Time’—out of Time if we consider him from the viewponut of knowledge, against Time (against the current of universal decadence, which is increasingly evident at the end of our cycle), if we speak of him from the point of view of action. But I would add that unless one has transcended Time through direct awareness of ‘the original meaning of things’[3] it is impossible to draw millions of people, even for a few short years, into a struggle against the general trend of temporal manifestation, especially near the end of a cycle.
 

______ 卐 ______

 
Editor’s Note: This perfectly explains my loneliness in the raven cave behind the Wall during Westeros’ darkest hour.
 

______ 卐 ______

 
He who, still trapped in the ‘before’ and ‘after’, cannot objectively relate his action or attitude to the ‘original meaning of things’, can only justify himself by the beauty of that episode of unwritten history that is, and will remain, even if unknown forever, his own history. The awareness of this beauty of something that nothing can destroy is the most exhilarating thing for the individual—all the more so because all beauty is, even if he doesn’t realise it, the radiation of a hidden truth.

But as a lived experience, it concerns only him and those who accept the same values. It may be enough for him. For many of them, this immutably beautiful past will soon be only a past. Only he who, having risen out of Time, knows that his action ‘against Time’ reflects the truth of all time—the truth, whose Source is the divine order—can transmit to multitudes not this truth (which is incommunicable and moreover would not interest them) but his faith in the necessary action; his conviction that his fight against the inverted values long preached and accepted, against erroneous ideas, against the reversal of the natural hierarchies, is the only one worthy of all sacrifice.

Only he can do this because he has, at the same time as the joy of the fight, even if practically useless, on behalf of a true idea, the vision of our historical cycle in its place in the indefinite rhythmic unfolding of all cycles, in the ‘eternal Present’; because there is, in the objectivity of this vision, a light capable of being projecting, be it only for an instant—a few years—onto our world, like a glimmer heralding the dawn of the next cycle; a force capable for an instant of holding it back in its race toward disintegration.

The multitudes are seduced by this light, and feel this force—but not for long. Every mass is, by nature, inert. The man of vision, Adolf Hitler, for a time drew the privileged crowds to him, as a magnet draws iron. They felt that they had a God as their leader: a man in touch with the ‘original’ (eternal) ‘meaning of things’. But they didn’t understand him. With him gone, they became modern crowds again. They remained, however, marked in their substance by the memory of a unique experience, and imbued with an immense nostalgia: a nostalgia that the whirlwind of life haunted by the idea of money, production, comfort and over-saturated with purchasable pleasures cannot dispel. I have been told that more than thirteen thousand young people commit suicide every year in western Germany alone.

Fortunately, there are also young people who, knowing full well that they will never see the equivalent of what the Third Reich was, live with courage and conviction the faith against the tide of time—the faith in the eternity of the Race, the concrete symbol of the eternal beyond the visible and transcendent world—that the Führer left to them in his so-called ‘political’ testament. They live it with courage and without hope, in the manner of the Strong who need neither support nor consolation. When these young people, who are now twelve, fifteen or eighteen years old, have become old men and women, those of them who will have remained unwaveringly faithful all the days of their existence—in thought, in their silence, in their speech, whenever possible by their behaviour in the ‘little things’ as well as in the big ones—those, I say, will be able, even without ever rising above the ‘before’ and the ‘after’, to look at this page of unwritten history which their life will represent, and to be satisfied with it as with a work of beauty. To this page, their children will add another. And the faith will be passed on.

There are, finally, some very few faithful ones who, sensing in the Führer’s teaching a more-than-political doctrine, devote themselves to its study in order to discover what makes its unshakeable value independently of the lost war and the tenacious hostility of the whole world, conditioned by the enemy. They gradually realise that Hitlerism—Aryan racism in its past and present expression—is, stripped of the contingencies that marked its birth, nothing other than a path, which implies in its Founder the vision, in all those who follow him in spirit, the acceptance of the metaphysical truths at the basis of all ancient traditions, in other words, of the supreme truth.

And they strive to come closer to the departed Leader, by coming closer to the One he was indeed: to the One who, in the Bhagawad-Gita, teaches the Aryan Warrior the mystery of union with the infinite Self through violent action, freed of any attachment; to the One who returns from age to age to fight ‘for Justice’, i.e., for the restoration of the divine order against the tide of Time. In other words, they seek the eternal, certain that only they will find it.

_________

[1] Among others, the French members of the Waffen S.S., who defended Berlin to the end.

[2] This sentence was written in December 1970.

[3] ‘der Ursinn der Dinge’ (Mein Kampf, ed. 1935 p. 440).

Reflections of an Aryan woman, 29

Sometimes, even if his soul is less complex, that is to say, in this case, less divided against itself, the agent who senses, or even knows, what the inevitable course of events will be, will decide—and this, without any need for him to ‘deliberate’—in favour of the most useless action from the practical point of view. Teia, the last king of the Ostrogoths in Italy, knew that it was now impossible for his people to remain masters of the peninsula. This did not prevent him from launching himself without the slightest hesitation into the fight against Byzantium and finding a death worthy of him at the famous ‘Battle of Vesuvius’ in 563. He is credited with the historical words which, even if he didn’t say them, capture his attitude: ‘It is not a question of leaving or not leaving Italy; it is a question of leaving it with or without honour’. Words of a lord… words of a man ‘against time’, i.e. defeated in advance on the material plane.

One can say that to the extent that what the Sanskrit Scriptures call the Dark Ages unfold, and as a cycle of time draws to a close, more and more lords—both in the biological and psychological sense of the word—are men ‘against Time’, defeated in advance on the material plane. They don’t feel any less ‘free’ in their spontaneous choice of the practically useless act.

The impression of freedom is thus not at all related to hesitation and ‘deliberation’ before a decision. It has to do with the agent’s ability to imagine a future different from the one that will result from his act—the one that he would like to see result from it, if possible—and with the illusion that he is the source and principle of this act—whereas he is only the instrument of realisation of possibilities destined, in our world of time, to pass from the virtual to the actual, because they already exist, in the state of actualities, in the ‘eternal present’.

In other words, this impression of freedom is linked both to the agent’s thinking and his ignorance. For the man who acts in time, true freedom consists of the absence of external or internal constraint (i.e. from the deep contradictions of his ‘I’), and the total authorship of the ‘I’ concerning the decision and the act. Ignorance of this future—which sometimes partly follows from the act, but which cannot follow fully in the case of a practically useless act—may help some men to act. Was it not said that the foreknowledge of the fate that awaited their civilisation had broken the spirit of the leaders of 16th-century America, both Aztec and Inca, that they were unable to resist the Spaniards as quickly and as vigorously as they might have done, had they never known of the prophecies of destruction? It can give the illusion of an absence of constraint—a knowledge of the absence of the constraint of Destiny— and thus allow the blossoming of hope, which is a force of action.
 

______ 卐 ______

 
Editor’s Note: Once again, Savitri is assuming that precognition exists. Since I am more familiar with the 16th texts about the Conquest than her, and since for some years I read sceptical literature about the paranormal, I see things differently.

I don’t remember the source and I’m not going to dig for the moment into the literature I read when writing the section on pre-Columbian Amerindians for Day of Wrath, but I seem to remember that what the Amerinds began to say after the Conquest is that everything was prophesied. That is to say: it was not a real prophecy but vaticinium ex eventu: a psychological trick to better cope, based on the Mesoamerican worldview, with the trauma of the Conquest.

I mention this because it seems vital to me to question the existence of the extrasensory powers that came into vogue right after Savitri wrote her book. For the Westerner to regain his sanity, he cannot afford the slightest cognitive distortion of reality. This is why on this site we have been insisting so much on debunking the claims of the conspiracy theorists. Saving the Aryan race from extinction involves declaring war on all cognitive distortion, which includes blaming the Jews for everything. (Kevin MacDonald does generally a good job but there are quite a few racialists who, in their comment threads, blame Jewry for things they didn’t orchestrate. These guys would do well to read MacDonald’s trilogy, especially his first book, before keep seeing kikes under every stone.)

The same can be said of the American racialists who want to save their race but at the same time believe in the Hereafter, the existence of the god of the Jews and other paranoias. Savitri continues:

______ 卐 ______

 
But, as I said earlier, the Strong don’t need this help to do what the sense of honour dictates, which is always the consciousness of loyalty to a Leader, or an idea, or both, and the duty that this implies. Even in the full knowledge that the future escapes them, that their beloved truth will henceforth remain under a bushel and that, indefinitely, they will decide for action, useless certainly but honourable; for beautiful action, daughter of all that is most permanent, more fundamental in their lordly selves: an action for which they will be rigorously responsible and that they will never regret, because it is ‘them’.

They can, of course, imagine a future different from the one they only envisage with horror or disgust, and to which their whole attitude opposes them. But they cannot imagine themselves acting differently. In them, there is neither idle ‘deliberation’ nor choice, but a reaction of their whole being in the face of the elementary alternative: to be oneself, or to deny oneself; internal necessity—exactly like the sage ‘above Time’ when he acts.

The only difference is that, for those who do not yet ‘see’ the future from the point of view of the eternal, this internal need doesn’t necessarily merge with that which governs the visible and invisible cosmos, and the Being itself, beyond its manifestations. It can, by accident, merge with it. But it also can represent only the fidelity of action to the ‘ego’ of the agent, sages being rare, and a great character not always—alas!—being put in service of a true idea, an eternal cause.

This is enough to make the agent absolutely responsible. For one is responsible for everything with which one feels solidarity: initially for his action, insofar as it expresses his true ‘self’, and then for the actions of all those with whom one is bound by a common faith. So much the worse for the man who gives his energy to a doctrine that moves him away from the eternal instead of bringing him closer! No value of the individual as such, no nobility of character can make a false idea true and a cause centred on false ideas or half-truths objectively justifiable.

Published in: on October 15, 2021 at 1:23 pm  Comments Off on Reflections of an Aryan woman, 29  

Reflections of an Aryan woman, 28

‘But if’, I am told, ‘in the view of the man above Time, the future is ‘given’ in the same way as the past, what becomes of the notions of freedom and responsibility? If a wise man can see, centuries in advance, how long a civilising doctrine is destined to retain its credit with one or more peoples, what is the use of militating ‘for’ or ‘against’ anything?

I believe that there are, in response to this, a few remarks to be made. Firstly, it should be pointed out that all action—in the sense that we understand it when we speak of ‘struggle’ and ‘activists’, or when we have in mind the gestures of everyday life—is intimately linked to the notion of time (of time at the very least, if not moreover of space). We should then note that the philosophical concepts of freedom and responsibility only make sense in connection with an action, direct or indirect—actual or possible, or even materially impossible to direct or modify on behalf of whoever conceives it, as is for example the case of any action thought of in retrospect—but always with an action, which could or should have been thought of. Finally, it must be understood that, as a consequence of this, these notions no longer have any meaning when, from the temporal state, one rises to that of consciousness outside time.

For those who are placed in the ‘eternal present’, i.e. outside of time, there is no question of freedom or responsibility, but only of being and non-being; of possibility and absurdity. The world that we see and feel, that others have seen and felt or will see and feel—a set of indefinite possibilities that have taken or will take shape—is simply what it is and, given that the intimate nature of each limited (individual) existence cannot be anything else. The consciousness above Time ‘sees’ it, but does not take part of it, even though it sometimes descends into it as a clairvoyant instrument of necessary action.

The beings that cannot think, because they are deprived of the word, thus of the general idea, nevertheless act and are not responsible. They behave according to their nature, and could not behave differently. And ‘to be free’, for them, consists simply in not being thwarted in the manifestation of their spontaneity in the exercise of their functions by some external force: not to be locked up between four walls or the bars of a cage; not to wear a harness or muzzle; not to be tied up, or deprived of water or food, or access to individuals of the same species and the opposite sex, and in the case of plants not to be deprived of water, soil and light, and not to be diverted in their growth by any obstacle.

It may be added that most humans are, although they can speak, neither freer nor more responsible than the humblest of beasts, or even of plants. Exactly like the rest of living, they do what their instincts, their appetites, and the demands of the moment urge them to do, and this, insofar as external obstacles and constraints allow. At most, many of them believe themselves to be responsible, having heard it repeated that this is ‘the nature of man’, and they feel, among the fridge, the washing machine and the television set—well as in the factories and offices where they spend eight hours a day under the blinding neon light—that they are less captive than the unfortunate tigers in the Zoological Garden. This only tends to show that the tigers are healthier in body and mind than they are, since they are aware of their captivity, and suffer from it.

Freedom[1] and responsibility are to be sought in different degrees between these extreme planes which are either active in time without thought, or consciousness outside of time without action, or accompanied by a completely detached, impersonal action, accomplished per an objective need. In other words, in an absolute sense, no one is ‘free’, if ‘freedom’ means the power to direct the future as one pleases.

The future is all oriented, since few wise men know it in advance, or rather who apprehend it as a ‘present’. But it is undeniable that the man of goodwill who lives and thinks in time has the impression of choosing between two or more possibilities; that he has the impression that the future, at least in its immediate course (and also in its distant course if it is a question of a decision of obvious historical significance) depends partly and sometimes entirely on him. This is, no doubt, only an impression. But it is an impression of such tenacity that it is impossible to ignore it, psychologically speaking. It forms so much a part of the experience of every man who must act in time, that it persists, even if that man is informed in advance (either by an invincible intuition, or by the evidence of one fact after another, or by some prophecy to which he gives credence) of what the future will be despite his action.
 

______ 卐 ______

 
Editor’s Note:

When Savitri wrote her book the criticisms of purported precognitions had not been popularised.

As I already said a couple of years ago, when I lived in Marin County, in 1985 I had the opportunity to realise that the foundations of the ‘science’ I was studying were shaky. In a bookstore I saw that they sold the recently published A Skeptic’s Handbook of Parapsychology. Decades have passed since that night and I still remember the image of James Randi on the dustcover.

But as an immigrant who still had to get a job in the US for elemental survival, I thought I couldn’t afford it. If I had obtained a copy, years of my life would have been spared from my quixotic project of trying to develop psi and become a Bran before Martin wrote his novel!

(Left, the signature of the book’s editor on the first page when he visited Mexico City and I was, finally, able to purchase it at a reasonable price for my modest income.) The difference between the priest and the priestess, is that the priest already had the opportunity to read books like this one because he was born half a century after the priestess…
 

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[1] We are talking here, of course, about freedom in the sense that this word is generally understood, not about ‘freedom’ in the metaphysical sense in which René Guénon understands it, for example.

Reflections of an Aryan woman, 27

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

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

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

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

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

______ 卐 ______

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

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

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

Published in: on October 12, 2021 at 12:41 pm  Comments Off on Reflections of an Aryan woman, 27  

Reflections of an Aryan woman, 26

It should be noted that nostalgia is almost universal—not nostalgia for the same epoch, no doubt; and not necessarily nostalgia for a historical past, that the individual has learned to admire only by the testimony of other men. Some people would gladly sacrifice three-quarters of their hard-won experience to become young again, beautiful and healthy; full of enthusiasm too, in the ignorance of all that human society has reserved for them. Most of them would like to be able, without artifice, to keep the body and face of their twenties—or eighteen—and the joyous strength of youth, without having to pay for these treasures with the loss of their experience; to be able to retain both the wisdom of age and the freshness, health and strength of youth. But everyone knows that this is impossible—as impossible as actually placing oneself in a given historical epoch.

On the whole, it is doubtful that there would be any advantage in becoming young again at the cost of losing accumulated experience: he would make the same mistakes, commit the same errors, having become again what he had been and he would not enjoy the comparison between the two ages, having lost all consciousness of the state of old age.

It is certain, too, that ‘to return to Thebes in the time of Thutmose III’ would be to become an Egyptian, or even a foreign in Egypt, unable to appreciate the privilege of being there, and probably nostalgic of the time of the great Pharaohs who built the pyramids. What all those who aspire to return to the past really want is to go back without losing their current mentality and the memory of our time, without which no comparison is conceivable and no ‘return to the past’ is, consequently, of any interest. But then their aspiration seems absurd. Is it indeed absurd if, instead of looking at its content, we consider what I will call its meaning?

Apart from the 19th century—the 19th century minus those ‘dissidents’ of genius who are Nietzsche, Richard Wagner and, in France, Leconte de Lisle and perhaps a few others—there are, I believe, few eras as self-inflated as ours regarding their science and especially their technical achievements. There are two areas to which intense propaganda, on a world scale, draws the attention of the masses, to instil in them the pride of the present: that of the ‘conquests of space’ and the progress of medicine and surgery, the latter, perhaps even more than the former. The aim is apparently to make all the citizens of the ‘consumer societies’ proud, as far as possible, of being both ‘sicker and better cared for’, and to make the ‘intellectuals’ of the so-called underdeveloped countries adopt the humanitarian and utilitarian ideal of the consumer societies, as well as their preoccupation with the present and a future oriented in the same direction as the present.

Well, despite this propaganda which, in Europe, starts in primary school, what do we find if we ask fourteen or fifteen-year-old pupils, as the subject of French composition, the question: ‘In what era and where would you like to live, if you had the choice?

Three-quarters of the class declare that they prefer some past era to their own. I know, having made the experiment many times. And the responses would be just as conclusive, if not more so, if one addresses not young people, but to adults.

There is almost always a past that each person, from his viewpoint, considers better than the century in which he lives. Since the viewpoints are different, the periods chosen are not the same for everyone. But they all, or almost all, belong to the past. Despite the amazing achievements of our time in the field of technology (and in that of pure science, it must be said), and despite the enormous publicity given to this progress, there remains everywhere an immense nostalgia for what cannot return and an insurmountable sadness, that tedium does not suffice to explain, hangs over the world. And, what is more, it also seems that as far back as one can think, it has always been so.

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Editor’s Note: Italics in the last paragraph are mine. Melencolia is a large 1514 engraving by the German Renaissance artist Albrecht Dürer, about which Kenneth Clark said:

But if Dürer did not try to peer so deeply into the inner life of nature, as Leonardo did, nor feel its appalling independence, he was deeply engaged by the mystery of the human psyche. His obsession with his personality was part of a passionate interest in psychology in general; and this led him to produce one of the great prophetic documents of western man, the engraving he entitled Melancholia I.

In the Middle Ages melancholia meant a simple combination of sloth, boredom and despondency that must have been common in an illiterate society. But Dürer’s application is far from simple. This figure is humanity at its most evolved, with wings to carry her upwards. She sits in the attitude of Rodin’s Penseur, and still holds in her hands compasses, symbols of measurement by which science will conquer the world. Around her are all the emblems of constructive action: a saw, a plane, pincers, scales, a hammer, a melting pot, and two elements in solid geometry, a polyhedron and sphere. Yet all these aids to construction are discarded and she sits there brooding on the futility of human effort. Her obsessive stare reflects some deep psychic disturbance. The German mind that produced Dürer and the Reformation also produced psychoanalysis. I began by mentioning the enemies of civilisation: well, here, in Dürer’s prophetic vision, is one more way in which it can be destroyed, from within.

As he sailed for America, Freud said ‘We are bringing them the plague, and they don’t even know it’. Regarding technology, in Neanderthal hands it creates melancholy on a massive scale. Never have the masses of whites suffered as many mental disorders as they do in our empty, technological civilisation.

Technology only makes sense when overmen have political power. In the hands of the Germans of the previous century, atomic weapons would have produced a paradise for whites. But in our darkest hour Sauron found his ring—tec at the service of money—and the Shire’s fate is sealed. What white nationalists fail to understand, and I mean the dudes who run the main racialist forums, is that they didn’t choose Hitler but hell, as Savitri noted. She continues:

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As I said before, the Egyptian of the time of Thutmose III, that is to say, of the time when his country was at the height of glory, probably regretted the time when the Great Pyramids were built, and the time when the gods themselves governed the Nile Valley. All the ancient peoples, among whom Tradition was still alive—Germans, Celts, Hellenes, Latins, Chinese, Japanese, Amerindians—have longed for the reign of the Gods, in other words, for the dawn of the temporal cycle near the end of which we live today. And the younger peoples, even if they have forgotten the teachings of the sages and no longer believe in anything besides the power of human science, a source of indefinitely increased progress, cannot avoid the consciousness of a lack, impossible to explain, a lack that no material well-being, nor any improvement in the techniques of pleasure, can fill.

From time to time—and increasingly rare, moreover, as the world succumbs to the grip of consumer ‘civilisations’—a wise man (such as René Guénon or Julius Evola) denounce in his writings the true nature of universal dissatisfaction, or a poet (such as Leconte de Lisle, a few decades earlier), who reminds us of it by putting into the mouth of a character words with magical resonances that seem to come from the depths of the ages:

Silence! I see again the innocence of the world,
I will sing again with the harmonious winds
The forest spreads out under the glory of the skies;
The force and the beauty of the fertile earth
In a sublime dream live in my eyes.

The quiet evening unites, with the sighs of the doves,
In the golden mist which bathes the thickets,
The soft roars of friendly lions;
The Terrestrial Garden smiles, free of tombs,
With angels sleeping in the shade of palms.

and further on, in the same poem: [1]

Eden, O the dearest and most sweet of dreams,
You towards whom I heaved useless sobs…

It is the evocation of the inconceivable Golden Age of all the ancient traditions—and of those that derive from it—the remainder of the time when the visible order reflected the eternal order, without distortion or error, in the manner of a perfect mirror. And it is also the cry of despair of he who feels carried away in spite further from this ideal world, but inaccessible because it is past; who knows that no fight ‘against Time’ will return it to him. It is the expression of the universal nostalgia for the glorious dawn of our cycle, and that of all cycles: a nostalgia which is expressed in everyday life by the tendency of all men, or almost all of them, including most of the young themselves, to prefer at least one aspect of the past to the increasingly disappointing present.

He who declares that he would have liked to live in another time than his own doesn’t know what he is saying. It is probable that if he could (even while retaining his present personality and the memory of the ugliness of his time) transport himself into a past of his choosing, he would soon be disappointed. Once the effect of the contrast is tempered, he would begin to notice everything that, seen up close, would shock him in that past, which the distance allowed him to idealise. What he is really looking for, what he aspires to without knowing it, is that one age of our cycle (as of all cycles) that, being the faithful image of the divine order, visible perfection reflecting invisible perfection, could be idealised without any flattering perspective; the only one which cannot disappoint.

All individual nostalgia for the past encompasses and expresses the immense universal longing for the Golden Age, or Age of Truth (the Satya Yuga of the Sanskrit scriptures). Every melancholy of the mature man or the old man at the thought of his youth also symbolises, to a slight degree, the nostalgia for the youth of the world, latent in all living things, and more and more intense in some men, as soon as a temporal cycle approaches its end.

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[1] Leconte de Lisle, in the poem ‘Qaïn’ of the Poèmes Barbares.

Reflections of an Aryan woman, 25

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[1] This was written in 1969 or 1970.

Published in: on October 8, 2021 at 5:53 pm  Comments Off on Reflections of an Aryan woman, 25