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.

Spartan nostalgia

In his latest comments, Robert Morgan made a few remarks about why conspiracy theories, so popular in the comment sections of racially conscious whites, bother me so much:

Linh Dinh: ‘When your tyrants can’t even be identified, much less found, no coup, uprising or revolution is possible…’

Exactly. Preventing revolutions is the purpose of conspiracy theories. People who imagine they are being controlled by nameless others have the perfect excuse to continue doing what they are doing, which is making up conspiracy theories, or in other words, nothing.

You can score cheap moral points by denouncing vague conspiracies, attributing to them anything you don’t like. You avoid blaming the people themselves, because they’re only puppets! That’s the attraction of conspiracy theories.

I, on the other hand, do blame the people themselves. As I see it, America is just suffering the painful consequences for centuries of Christian delusions. They themselves imported negroes to their shores, and then fought a war to set them free and make them fellow citizens. Thinking this is the result of a conspiracy is ridiculous. To do so is just a transparent attempt to evade responsibility.

At another site, Counter-Currents, also in one of the comments sections a woman just recommended The Turner Diaries.

It is very positive that at least in the comments section, someone mentions Pierce’s novel. In one of the passages of that novel, blacks took a white woman in front of the police to rape her and when a white man complained, the policemen fled embarrassed by the complaint, since defending the white woman would be ‘racist’. As the negrolatric religion grows, it won’t take too long to reach that neo-Orwellian level. But I wanted to say something else about that comments sections.

A couple of CC commenters have just complained that it was useless to talk (for example, about the recent murder of a white woman by BLM) with their wives, that wives don’t get what’s happening.

Since I was liberal in the past, I treated women as if they were regular blokes. Over the decades, in my family I could only talk about the family tragedy with the direct victims of the perps: a couple of women (who, incidentally, have already died). But when speaking brutally with one of them, as we blokes do, my female cousin freaked out and for a few years we weren’t on speaking terms. Only after discovering the manosphere did I realise that I had done something wrong. If I had known what I know today, I would have refrained from talking about little red riding hoods and wolves in my dealings with my poor cousin, who had been a victim of molestation.

I don’t blame myself for that way of speaking because I was brainwashed. Twenty years ago, when I corresponded with my cousin, I had internalised the ethno-suicidal propaganda that guys and gals are all the same. Now I see more than ever that the first guideline I devised for the priest of fourteen words is really adequate: let’s try to talk about transcendental issues only with white males. For example, there is absolutely no point in trying to convey to a woman the fact that we have about ten times more sexual drive than they feel. Since they have never felt such a thing, we can’t create a bridge of true communication.

There are exceptions of course. In this site I’ve mentioned a female friend with whom I can communicate. But she is the exception that confirms the rule. Although as a woman she doesn’t have the impulse I have, her empathy is such that she once told me an anecdote. Apparently, a woman experimented with some male hormones and she felt, for a few days, a tremendous sex drive. As my friend confessed to me when assimilating the anecdote, she finally felt respect for men because we repress our sexual drive not only a few days, but throughout the years. It doesn’t matter that my friend hasn’t done such a hormonal experiment. Just by telling me that anecdote she transmitted that thanks to it she could finally understand men. But as I said, she’s the exception.

Commenters complaining on CC about their wives don’t follow the priest’s guideline. They try the impossible: to communicate with them. The ideal would be to have such guilds only for males as the Spartans had, in which all young men were forced to eat together, even after marriage in order to create the necessary mannerbund. This, in spite of the fact that eventually all Spartans had to marry.

Today’s feminised men, including many racialists, don’t even realise that, in some matters, it’s impossible to build communication bridges with the fair sex. Yes: women could be serving at the table of the Spartan warriors, but not get into discussions or camaraderie.

On the ‘Atomwaffen Division’

‘Satanism is alright. Depends on how you go about it. But then again, I’m more well read on the subject than most people. Most people get scared away and only go into the crust, rather than down to the core’. —Rape [penname], AWD Discord server, November 9, 2017.

Using a negative Christian symbol (Satan) to scare Christians, as the so-called Atomwaffen Division (AWD) does, should trigger the alarm signal in anyone wishing to recover the West. It is the reverse of using a positive Christian symbol (the hymn that Martin Luther composed) to please Christians, as in the case of another failed revolutionary, Harold Covington.

AWD with James Mason at the centre

When I see someone using satanic symbols the first thing that comes to my mind is: ‘A mental infant…!’

It should be obvious that if someone wants to start distancing himself from the religion of our parents, the distancing mustn’t be done childishly but maturely: assimilating books like that of the Spaniard Evropa Soberana about the psychological warfare that Judea fought against Rome after the destruction of Jerusalem; what I translated from the German Karlheinz Deschner, or even a book written by a liberal English, like Catherine Nixey’s.

But no: these neochristian Americans, unlike the Europeans mentioned above, make a teenage tantrum with Christian symbols that only denote their inability to reach adulthood.

If a revolutionary man wants to do something against Christianity, adulthood begins by reading, say, Uncle Adolf’s table talks. On this site I still have to collect the remaining of Hitler’s anti-Christian pronouncements in my cited quotations (I am missing another seven citations).

The tragedy I see with these groups who aspire to revolutionaries is that they don’t seem to realise that, given that the ethnosuicide of the West has to do with Semitic psyops, it’s more urgent to imitate Athens than Sparta at the moment; more important to philosophically understand the psyop than to do a military career. Otherwise one ends up playing with unassimilated forms of Christianity either with Satanism (which circumscribes an Abrahamic religion although negatively) or with the Luther hymn.

What kind of ‘anti-Semitic’ revolutionaries are these who cannot encapsulate the virus of Judeo-Christianity in their minds? Why don’t they follow the commandment of the Oracle of Delphi, an Apollonian oracle uncontaminated by Abrahamic religions (cf. my forthcoming translated autobiographical book)?

A Satanist would not scare the educated Christians of the racialist movement in the US. He would only inspire pity, as if he were a mentally ill person, a schizo individual. However, when I discuss with a Christian, as I recently did in Unz Review, he resorts to wanting to psychoanalyse me with my father because the objective information I represent he cannot answer.

Today’s Europeans

Let us compare today’s Europeans with the Spartans. We feel panic when encountering such physical, mental and spiritual degeneration; such stultification. European man, who used to be the hardest and most courageous of Earth, has become a weakling rag and degenerated biologically as a result of comfort. His mind is weak; his spirit fragile, and on top of that he considers himself the summit of the creation. But that man, just because of the blood he carries, has enormous potential.

The rules on which Sparta was seated were eternal and natural, as valid today as yesterday, but today the dualistic mens sana in corpore sano has been forgotten: the physical form has been abandoned producing soft, puny and deformed monsters; and the mental poisoning has produced similar abominations in the realm of the spirit.

The modern European knows no pain, no honour, no blood, no war, no sacrifice, no camaraderie, no respect or combat; and thus he does not know the ancient and gentle Goddesses known as Gloria or Victoria.

(Passages from one of Evropa Soberana’s essays in The Fair Race’s Darkest Hour.)

Forbidden love

The relationship between man and teenager in Sparta was that of teacher-student, based on respect and admiration: a workout, a way of learning, instruction in their way. The sacredness of the teacher-student or instructor-aspirant institution has been challenged by our society, just as the männerbund. Yet, both types of relationships are the foundation of the unity of the armies. Today, children grow up in the shadow of the feminine influence of the female teachers, even through adolescence. It is difficult to know to what extent the lack of male influence limits their wills and ambitions, making them gentle beings, malleable and controllable: what is good for the globalist system.

Others spoke about the Spartan institution of love between master and disciple, but always made it clear that this love was ‘chaste’. The Roman Aelian said that if two Spartan men ‘succumbed to temptation and indulged in carnal relations, they would have to redeem the affront to the honour of Sparta by either going into exile or taking their own lives’ (at the time exile was considered worse than death).

It is noteworthy that if homosexuality was indeed so natural to the original Hellenes as it was for the Greeks of decadent states, Hellenic mythology would be infested with explicit references to such relationships, which is not, as homosexuality was a plague outside the Hellenic spirit that appeared when Greece was already declining. By the time of Plato, for example, homosexuality was beginning to be tolerated in Athens itself. However, ancient and even some modern authors make it clear that Sparta did not fall in this filth.

(Passages from one of Evropa Soberana’s essays in The Fair Race’s Darkest Hour.)

If everyone is blonde who needs hair dyes?

Another Spartan law with racist connotations was to prohibit hair dyes. In the rest of Greece dyes were common, as were blonde wigs, the methods of hair bleaching and the elaborate and extravagant hairstyles like those of Babylon or Etruria (and later in decadent Rome). At one stage of the devolution, when the original native breed in Greece was being diluted by miscegenation, the dyes and the concoctions for hair bleaching were highly prized, especially among women. The same would happen in decadent Rome: Roman wigs were made with the golden hair taken from female German prisoners.

In Sparta the influx of foreigners was jealously limited. It was only possible to visit Sparta for pressing reasons. Similarly, the very Spartans were rarely allowed to travel abroad, and even the slave trade was banned. This was motivated by the interest of the elite that its core would not be corrupted by the softness of foreign customs. The Spartans undoubtedly were great xenophobes.

(Passages from one of Evropa Soberana’s essays in The Fair Race’s Darkest Hour.)

The most famous

There was a latent rivalry between the Ionian people of an Athens influenced by Asia Minor, and the Dorian people of Sparta directly influenced by their Nordic heritage, who never stopped being governed by anything but their ancestral tradition and their popular consciousness.

Except for Athens, which saw herself as the best, all other Hellenic states reserved their admiration for Sparta, seeing it as a shrine of wisdom and justice: the true repository of primitive Hellenic tradition. Sparta was always the most famous and respected city among the Greeks. They always resorted to her to arbitrate interstate disputes, and most of the times they not even had to resort to force: Sparta sent an ambassador to which everyone would voluntarily submit, like a divine envoy.

(Passages from one of Evropa Soberana’s essays in The Fair Race’s Darkest Hour.)

The supremacy over Athens

At this point, we must address the issue that will certainly be around the heads of many readers: the comparison Sparta-Athens. What city was better?

Often we are told that Athens represented the artistic and spiritual summit of Greece and Sparta the physical and warrior evolution. It’s not as easy as that. We must start from the basis that it is a great mistake to judge the development of a society for its commercial or material advancement. This would lead us to conclude that the illiterate Charlemagne was lower than anybody else present, or Dubai the home of the world’s most exalted civilisation…

Thus we come to the important subject of art. It usually happens that it is a common argument to vilify Sparta. The Spartans used to say that they carved monuments in the flesh, which implied that their art was a living one: literally them, and the individuals that composed their homeland.

But Sparta also had conventional art as understood in the present. It was famous throughout Greece for its music and dance (of which nothing has survived), as well as its highly prised poetry that has come to us fragmented. Its architects and sculptors were employed in such prestigious places as Delphi and Olympia, and imposed a stamp of straight simplicity and crystal clarity in their works.

The best example of this is the sober Doric style, a direct heritage of Sparta that became a model not only for countless temples throughout Greece, as the Parthenon in Athens itself, but also for the classic taste of later Europe that has endeavoured to continue the legacy of Greece and Rome.

(Passages from one of Evropa Soberana’s essays in The Fair Race’s Darkest Hour.)

The best whites

All these elements contributed to form a highly spiritual feeling: the Spartan felt himself as the summit of the creation, the favourite of the Gods: a privileged, magnificent, splendid, arrogant and godlike creature; a member of a holy seed, a holy race and a lucky ‘link in the eternal racial chain’, a protagonist of an unparalleled feat of an extremely profound mystical experience that he was convinced would end up leading him directly to the immortality of Olympus, as the semi-divine heroes he worshiped. He was proud of being a Spartiate because precisely the fact that to become one of them it was necessary to overcome the hardest ordeals made him feel a holder of the privilege.

Nietzsche said, ‘For a tree to reach Heaven with its branches, it must first touch Hell with its roots’, and it is said that Odin went down to the huts before ascending to the palaces. This implies that only after passing the most terrible tests the warrior has earned the right to access to higher states. No pain or suffering leads to the drunken arrogance of the one who has not hardened and is unable to take the pleasure, power and luxury with respect, care, gentleness, veneration, humility and an almost apprehensive appreciation. The Spartans had reached the bottom, sinking into the whole tragedy of their atrocious instruction, and also had passed through all the manly sensations of fullness, health, vigour, strength, power, force, dominion, glory, victory, joy, camaraderie, reward and triumph. Having covered the whole emotional range that goes from pain to pleasure made them possessors of a wisdom exclusive for the heroes and the fallen, and surely no one could appreciate more the significance and importance of pleasures than the Spartans.

It existed in Sparta, as in other places, an initiating circle of priests and priestesses. Little is known about them except that they were selected men and women, initiated at specific sites in secret ceremonies called ‘mysteries’, which made them the repositories of ancient wisdom and esoteric mystical orientation. In Greece, the mysteries represented what could not be explained rationally with words, but that was necessary to see and live it. The mysteries (of Delphi, Eleusis, Delos, Samothrace, Orpheus) became prestigious initiation schools, with important people attending from all Hellas with the intent of awakening the spirit.

(Passages from one of Evropa Soberana’s essays in The Fair Race’s Darkest Hour.)

Choose your future spouse

The city of Sparta had forty-three temples dedicated to various Gods and twenty-two temples dedicated to the heroes (including those of the Iliad), whose deeds inspired the flourishing generations; more than fifteen statues of Gods, four altars and numerous funerary tombs. There was also a temple dedicated to Lycurgus, worshiped as a god. In a city the size of Sparta, the number of religious buildings was very noticeable.

In religious ceremonies, men and women—particularly those in the age of dating—attended, entirely naked as they did during the processions, the tournaments, the beauty contests and the dances. This already implies that the Spartans were not ashamed of their bodies, but that proudly displayed them whenever they could because they were robust, well-formed and harmonious. These events were festivals of beauty, Dionysian ceremonies in which the body was worshiped and beautified by effort and sacrifice. According to Plato, a beautiful body promises a beautiful soul and ‘beauty is the splendour of truth’.

The athletic custom of shaving the body hair and smear oneself with oil before a competition was of Spartan origin, although the Celts were given to body shave before battles. They sought thereby to extol the body; give relief, volume, detail, brightness and ‘life’ to the muscles, thus proudly displaying the result of years and years of gruelling physical training and strenuous efforts, probably to find the best partner and/or gain prestige.

The guilt and sense of sin that Christianity tried to impose in the field of body pride, made a man ashamed of the very things he was proudest. Judeo-Christian morality, by condemning hygiene, care, training and the preparation of the body as ‘sinful’, ‘sensual’ and ‘pagan’ gradually achieved that the European population—converted into an amorphous herd whose attitude to any hint of divine perfection was met with resentment and mistrust—forgot that their bodies also were a creation and a gift from the Gods.

For young people of both sexes such festivals served to become familiar with each other, because we think that Sparta was a city with few inhabitants; where, thanks to public ceremonies, everyone knew everybody by sight and was integrated into the popular. It was at these events where you watched and choose your future spouse.

(Passages from one of Evropa Soberana’s essays in The Fair Race’s Darkest Hour.)