“The European of history is best seen as a warrior bearing a sword, symbol of his will.”
My experiences have given me a far higher opinion of trade union militants and working class Bolsheviks than I’ll probably ever have of American conservative or racialist intellectuals. I also know if any fighting is ever to be done, I can count on one rather than the other.
The chasm that separates us from white nationalism (WN) is our meta-ethical POV, more formally known as “axiology” or set of primordial values. For example, every time that one of our street fighters makes a scene (the latest, Anton Lundin Pettersson) the reaction of American conservatives and most racialist intellectuals verges on hysteria.
I tried to describe the chasm in some pages of the books linked at the sidebar, below the Spartan banner. But after Anton’s fifteen minutes of fame I reread all the comments gathered in this site that Jack Frost originally posted on The Occidental Observer webzine. To those who have no time to study carefully the sidebar’s books I’d recommend reading at least some of these comments:
They’ll give you a taste of the flavor of what we mean by transvaluating the bourgeois values in American WNsm, mostly the by-product of their parents’ Christianity of Calvinist extraction, back to the values of the wild blond beast. This includes revaluating the WN notion of thinking like civilians (“good Christians”) instead of freedom fighters, especially now that the enemy is planning to close our only outlet, the internet, in places like Britain.
Ex Gladio Libertas
Freedom comes from the sword
Will be a century of iron and storms. It will not resemble those harmonious futures predicted up to the 1970s. It will not be the global village prophesied by Marshall MacLuhan in 1966, or Bill Gates’ planetary network, or Francis Fukuyama’s end of history: a liberal global civilization directed by a universal state.
The Third Age of European Civilization commences, in a tragic acceleration of the historical process, with the Treaty of Versailles and end of the civil war of 1914-18: the catastrophic twentieth century. Four generations were enough to undo the labor of more than forty. Europe fell victim to its own tragic Prometheanism, its own opening to the world and universalism, oblivious of all ethnic solidarity.
The Fourth Age of European civilization begins today. It will be the Age of rebirth or perdition. The twenty-first century will be for this civilization, the fateful century, the century of life or death.
Let us cultivate the pessimistic optimism of Nietzsche. “There is no more order to conserve; it is necessary to create a new one.” Will the beginning of the twenty-first century be difficult? Are all the indicators in the red? So much the better. They predicted the end of history after the collapse of the USSR? We wish to speed its return: thunderous, bellicose, and archaic. Islam resumes its wars of conquest. China and India wish to become superpowers. And so forth. The twenty-first century will be placed under the double sign of Mars, the god of war, and of Hephaestus, the god who forges swords, the master of technology and the chthonic fires. This century will be that of the metamorphic rebirth of Europe, like the Phoenix, or of its disappearance as a historical civilization and its transformation into a cosmopolitan and sterile Luna Park.
The beginning of the twenty-first century will be the despairing midnight of the world of which Hölderlin spoke. But it is always darkest before the dawn. Let us prepare our children for war. Let us educate our youth, be it only a minority, as a new aristocracy.
Today we need more than morality. We need hypermorality, the Nietzschean ethics of difficult times. When one defends one’s people, i.e., one’s own children, one defends the essential. Then one follows the rule of Agamemnon and Leonidas but also of Charles Martel: what prevails is the law of the sword, whose bronze or steel reflects the glare of the sun.
(Excerpted from “Mars & Hephaestus:
The Return of History” by Guillaume Faye.)
“The Sword of Elendil was forged anew by Elvish smiths, and on its blade was traced a device of seven stars… And Aragon gave it a new name and called it Andúril, Flame of the West.”
The Lord of the Rings
Sticky post of July 24
“Whites are dying because they have no defense in real life, just whining internet cowards. Every site that is pro White is White Nationalist infantile dribble. Until Whites can muster a defense without the vulgar and endless brooding [in] White Nationalism they will continue to die.”
It’s eight days now since I posted the “Syssitias” article. At a very generous estimate, pro-white discussion over the net, whether race realism, white nationalism, southern nationalism or neo-Nazism is only a mood, not a movement.
Unlike what can be read in Hitler’s biography, presently a sponsor for creating a boots-on-the-ground movement doesn’t exist. But what is really alarming is that thousands of pro-white men discussing in the internet don’t want to fight.
Jack Frost recently reminded us that William Pierce used to say that the only way to re-educate a brainwashed individual is with a stout oaken table leg. Nothing else will work. This is my take on the subject:
- 1.- Presently, whites are in Happy Mood (proof is that even white nationalists are unwilling to pick real fights, as Commander Rockwell did);
2.- Right after the dollar crashes, whites, in general, will be in Angry Mood;
3.- The following months, after hungry blacks chimpout and start attacking us massively in the big cities, in the countryside whites will switch their minds to Combat Mood, a mood that is basically defensive: they will defend their farms and families from feral niggers looking for food and white pussy;
My crystal ball cannot see beyond this scenario. But if racists were not as spineless as they are today, they would know that Chaos is Opportunity and that, if Syssitia-like groups were already formed, a big window of opportunity would be opened to form cadres for these whites in Combat Mood (which again, is merely defensive provided that private guns will not be confiscated). We would educate them about the causes of the unfolding societal collapse.
Combat Mood is preliminary. My ideal brothers-in-arms would be those who are so fanatic that they are already in:
- 4.- Killing Mood.
This mood has been illustrated in Pierce’s The Turner Diaries. The ultimate goal for those in this mood is fighting a guerrilla war, of decades if necessary, until obtaining control of the nuke bombs of a western nation. (Which is why I am not considering Covington’s novels, as he believes that a non-nuclear, neo-Nazi nation at the corner of the US, can survive without such weapons of mass destruction.)
I am already in this Killing Mood but, if I won’t become violent for the moment, it’s because the masses of westerners are in Happy Mood and wouldn’t understand such action. (See these excerpts of Pierce’s second novel that illustrate my point, and also his 1968 article.)
Forming Syssitias would be the first baby step in the direction of bracing ourselves, but isn’t it depressing that racially conscious whites are not preparing for The Day?
A passage from White Power
by George Lincoln Rockwell
Men will talk about almost anything. Men will fight for very few things. And men will fight to the death for only the most basic of motives. They will fight heroically (that is, with supreme self-sacrifice—which is what “heroism” means) only for idealistic aims they hold greater and more holy than their own personal survival.
Only when you can make a man feel, deep in his heart, that survival of his loved ones, his honor, or his whole people are in deadly danger, will he risk his life to do battle against overwhelming odds, where his own personal survival is unlikely.
“Names On The Wall”
It was now fifteen years since the bloody morning in Coeur d’Alene, when outraged white men had finally arisen in arms to strike at the bloody claw of Zion that sought the lives of their children. It had been ten years since the Tricolor had gone up over the Longview conference, and the Northwest Republic had proclaimed its independence. Hill still couldn’t quite grasp in his own mind the fantastic changes that had taken place in the Homeland since the Revolution. Wherever he went now, he looked out over a clean, peaceful and prosperous world that had overcome every obstacle to establish a society that was stable, just, compassionate, safe, and fearless, a nation strong with faith in the destiny of this land and her people.
Despite the sanctions and shortages of the early years, despite the monotonous threats of war and invasion from the rest of the world, despite the constant bombardment of screaming hatred from the media and the politicians from what remained of the world’s Judaic liberal democracies, despite all the problems, every year white people Came Home to the Northwest by the hundreds of thousands. They ran the barbed wire and the minefields in Aztlan, Canada, and the United States. They dodged the helicopters and the shoot-to-kill patrols. They snuck in via the cargo holds of blockade-running ships and planes. They used every conceivable subterfuge somehow to bring themselves and their families to this land where their present and their future had been won and secured by the sword, and where they were willing to die if need be to live among their own, and only among their own.
There was a knock on Hill’s door. “Come in,” he said. The door opened and Special Service General William Jackson walked in, wearing full black dress uniform with silver piping, Swastika armband, peaked cap and dagger. He had a paper file folder under his arm. “Hey, Billy. I see you’re all dolled up for your speech,” said Hill.
“Yeah, I have to go in a few minutes,” said Jackson. “NBA [Northwest Broadcasting Authority] is broadcasting it on the Government Channel.”
“And what’s your competition?” asked Hill with a smile. “A 1950s Western on Channel Four and cartoons on the Children’s Channel?”
“Actually, Channel Four is showing Braveheart, like they always do on Independence Day, and some of these new cartoons are actually pretty good,” said Jackson. “You’ve seen Kappy the Kike?”
* * *
Down on the wide green swath of the Capitol Mall, a number of veterans from the newly formed NVA [Northwest Volunteer Army] Old Fighters Association had gathered for the Independence Day holiday. The Memorial Wall stood before them in massive black basalt, bearing the inscribed names of all the NVA and NDF [Northwest Defense Force] personnel who had given their lives during the War of Independence. It had only been unveiled a few months before. A large Tricolor flag of blue, white, and green flew over it, on a stone pillar bearing the seal of the Northwest Volunteer Army. Along the base of the monument, chiseled into the finest Italian marble, were the words: “Beloved kinsmen, from the world of darkness into which we were born, from the time of struggle in which we laid down our lives that you and your children may walk in the light, we greet you.”
Many people were taking sheets of white paper and stubby soft lead pencils from a small kiosk off to one side of the monument. They mounted the steps and walked along the long row of alphabetically listed names, finding and tracing onto the paper in graphite the names of former comrades. Many of them were quietly weeping, men and women alike. In front of the monument dozens of children were running around on the grass, playing and screaming and hollering, mostly oblivious to the solemn adults around them. No one tried to hush them or shoo them off. It was for them that the people on the monument had died, after all.