For Spanish readers


At last I have finished the first book in Spanish of my Extermination series. I did major changes regarding the drafts I translated to English since the last year; translations reproduced in this blog. For example, I eliminated some personal vendettas with Latin Americans (e.g., the section about my misadventures in London).

Kevin MacDonald believes that understanding ethnosuicidal whites “is the toughest intellectual problem there is; psychology, studying Jews is easy by comparison.” I cannot agree more with this statement.

I invite those Spanish-speaking visitors unsatisfied with single-cause explanations of Western malaise to venture in my new book about the monsters from the Id that are capable of destroying not only families, but civilisations alike. La Muerte de Papá, the first volume of Extermination, is now available from Lulu (here).

César Tort’s “El Orador”


Before I was born my mother used to practice El Orador (YouTube audio here): a piece for piano composed by my father, the late César Tort.

Throughout her pregnancy I happened to be a couple of inches from the piano’s keys, in embryonic state! My mother once told me that while practicing that piece I moved vigorously in her womb. I have this music amalgamated to my soul…

El Orador (The Orator) is a fantasia for piano that my father composed in 1952 and was performed for the first time by María Teresa Rodríguez, and then by my mother (photo above) in 1958, in private gatherings, after I was born.

Father Vértiz, a Catholic priest with eloquent oratory power had inspired the music of my father. According to my parents, the priest’s sermons were like a parable: they initiated in adages and after crescendos culminated in a violent rhetoric that captivated the faithful.

Published in: on September 30, 2015 at 12:02 am  Comments (15)  
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This 78 x 64 cm. framed illustration in my bedroom is a slightly modified copy drawn by my father in 1957 of Gustave Doré’s illustration of the most famous fratricide in Christendom.

Published in: on September 27, 2015 at 7:48 am  Leave a Comment  
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César Tort (1925-2015)

César Tort Sr., my father, died tonight at ninety.


junto al padre Mtz

My father in Madrid, Spain with Father Martínez, a teacher of the Madrid Royal Conservatory, a music college (ca. 1949-1950).


con reina Isabel

My father with Queen Elizabeth (1975). This is a low-quality photo because it has been scanned from a newspaper.


Hazme llorar (literally, “Make me cry”) is a piece composed in 1962 by my father for a duet of soprano, contralto and harp. The above is a 2014 performance at the Palace of Fine Arts, a few months before my father’s liver cancer was detected.

Published in: on September 23, 2015 at 9:57 pm  Comments (18)  

Uncle Adolf’s table talk, 21



Night of 25th-26th September 1941

Preservation of the Germanic peoples.

The revelation that her encounter with her first man is for a young woman, can be compared with the revelation that a soldier knows when he faces war for the first time. In a few days, a youth becomes a man. If I weren’t myself hardened by this experience, I would have been incapable of undertaking this Cyclopean task which the building of an Empire means for a single man.

It was with feelings of pure idealism that I set out for the front in 1914. Then I saw men falling around me in thousands. Thus I learnt that life is a cruel struggle, and has no other object but the preservation of the species. The individual can disappear, provided there are other men to replace him.

I suppose that some people are clutching their heads with both hands to find an answer to this question: “How can the Fuehrer destroy a city like St. Petersburg?” Plainly I belong by nature to quite another species. I would prefer not to see anyone suffer, not to do harm to anyone. But when I realise that the species is in danger, then in my case sentiment gives way to the coldest reason. I become uniquely aware of the sacrifices that the future will demand, to make up for the sacrifices that one hesitates to allow to-day.

Published in: on September 22, 2015 at 8:55 pm  Leave a Comment  

Uncle Adolf’s table talk, 22



Night of 27th-28th September 1941

Misery—Social discrimination
—Organisation of study.

If my parents had been sufficiently well-to-do to send me to a School of Art, I should not have made the acquaintance of poverty, as I did. Whoever lives outside poverty cannot really become aware of it, unless by over-throwing a wall. The years of experience I owe to poverty—a poverty that I knew in my own flesh—are a blessing for the German nation.

We must pay attention to two things: 1. That all gifted adolescents are educated at the State’s expense. 2. That no door is closed to them.

Since I hadn’t been able to finish my secondary studies, an officer’s career would have been closed to me, even if by working I had learnt more about it than is proper for a boy who has matriculated to know. Only an officer could win the Pour le Mérite. And at that, it was quite exceptional for an officer of middle-class origin to receive it.

In that closed society, every man existed only by virtue of his origin. The man who lacked this origin, and university degrees into the bargain, could not dream of becoming a Minister, for example, except by the short-cut of Social Democracy.

The view that suppression of these discriminations would be harmful to authority proved to be without foundation. A competent man always has the authority he needs. A man who is not superior by his talent invariably lacks authority, whatever his job may be.

Published in: on September 22, 2015 at 8:35 pm  Leave a Comment  
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Why I Write

by Roger Devlin

I came late to the issues characteristically discussed in The Occidental Quarterly.

I had no interest in politics during my early adult years, a circumstance for which I am now grateful. Like most Americans, I assumed that “politics” meant electoral contests between hardly-distinguishable parties.

In early adulthood I encountered The Gulag Archipelago and gained a proper appreciation of just how high the stakes of politics could be. Initially, I gravitated toward that combination of anti-Communism and status quo Social Democracy known as neo-conservatism. In the academic bubble I then inhabited, such a stance was viewed as radical.

As a college instructor, I was baffled to receive student essays vehemently maintaining the “equality” of black and white, or singing the heroism of Rosa Parks. My classes were in philosophy, and I never mentioned race at all. Clearly, this was the stuff students had been taught to write for their professors before they got to me.

The stridency of their language suggested they were defending an idea under heavy attack. But where was the attack? All I had ever heard anyone say about races is that they were “equal.” If this is all the students wanted to say, what were they getting so worked up about? They wrote as if they were trying to scratch an itch.

I wished to devote my life to learning and scholarship, with no thought of practical application beyond eventually sharing my knowledge with the generation that came after me. Of course, I quickly learned that few of my colleagues shared this elevated, quasi-monastic notion of the scholar’s calling. Some turned out to hold beliefs weirdly similar to the jailors described by Solzhenitsyn; many more did not, but were untroubled by—or afraid of—those who did.

Accordingly, my first practical cause belonged to the realm of academic politics: defending the life of the mind from ideological corruption. I was also fascinated by the sheer power which ideology exercised over many men’s minds, and by how a band of resentful mediocrities armed with little else had infiltrated and virtually subjugated an institution made up of highly intelligent people.

The ideologues talked a great deal about race, of course; but this did not lead me to take any interest in the subject myself. I vaguely hoped that once the imposters had been purged from the academy we could forget about race and get back to learning and teaching.

I devoted several years to investigating the first principles of modern “progressive” thought, publishing a little philosophical primer on the subject (Alexandre Kojève and the Outcome of Modern Thought). But this still did not lead me to the issue of racial differences, which are an empirical rather than philosophical matter. The entire drama of ideological politics can be played out within a homogeneous society, as students of the French Revolution know.

Nevertheless, I have come to the point where I prefer to publish even purely sociological analysis (e.g., “From Salon to Guillotine,” Summer 2008) in an explicitly racial-realist venue such as The Occidental Quarterly.

Here is why. Those traditional conservatives who continue to admonish us against the dangers of “biological determinism” are increasingly condemning themselves to irrelevance. The plea that “race isn’t everything” is valid per se, but not especially germane to the situation in which we find ourselves. For we are not the aggressors in the battle now being fought. And in any battle, it is the aggressors’ prerogative to choose the point of attack: if they come at you by land, you do not have the option of fighting them at sea.

Race is everything to our enemies, and it is the angle from which they have chosen to attack our entire civilization. It is also where they have achieved their greatest victories: you can see this from the way “conservative” groups feel they must parrot the language of the egalitarians just to get a hearing (see: here). Such well-meaning but naive friends of our civilization are in effect consenting to occupy the status of a “kept” opposition.

The more we try to avoid confronting race directly, the more our enemies will press their advantage at precisely this point. Tactically, they are correct to do so. And they will continue until we abandon our defensive posture and turn to attack them on their own chosen ground.

The Occidental Quarterly is blessed with contributors who have made racial differences and ethnic conflict their lives’ study, and I cannot match them in their own fields. But I prefer to throw in my lot with them because they are unambiguously not part of any “kept” opposition. Being a pariah at least keeps one honest.

A turning point for me was reading Glayde Whitney’s “The Biological Reality of Race” in American Renaissance (October 1999). Like everyone else in America, I had been subjected to years of race-talk, but the aim had always been to lead me to “feel” in a predetermined way. Even my students’ papers had been apprentice work in this genre. Whitney, by contrast, was simply setting forth information. Reading him was like being addressed as an adult after years of being talked down to. This by itself was enough to get me to sit up and take notice of what he was saying.

Moreover, he contradicted everything I had ever been told. And he did so while showing that race could be as interesting as any other scientific topic. I had never seen anyone actually diagram the human family tree, showing which groups were most closely related and which most distantly separated. I was particularly struck by the revelation that the deepest evolutionary cleft within the human race was that between black Africans and everyone else.

But even a complete racial science based upon exhaustive knowledge of the human genome would never make a dent in anti-white ideology. This is because ideologies are not scientific theories: they are systems of ideas mobilized by groups of men in their struggle to acquire or maintain power over other men. They are a misuse—a prostitution—of the faculty of human reason, whose proper end is the discovery of the true. Ideological doctrines are true, in the best of cases, only per accidens; more often they are falsehoods publicly maintained through violence and intimidation.

Not being based upon knowledge, the content of ideologies change with the elites and counter-elites which champion them. Past ideological regimes have been governed by Marxists who spoke of class rather than race. Still earlier regimes (and revolutionaries) invoked religious concepts. And, yes, racial science itself has been prostituted in the service of what was essentially a political ideology.

The masters of the West long ago ceased performing even the minimum function required of any governing elite: seeing to the physical survival of the people it rules. Instead, it maintains its power by setting its clients (“designated victims”) against the rest of us. “Antiracism” is the ideology, but what is really going on underneath is the mobilization of envy, covetousness, and the libido dominandi.

Much of the elite itself is white, of course. But this is really no more paradoxical than a company getting rich by staging a “going out of business sale” that never ends. Except, of course, that the “white anti-racism” game will have to end soon.

The regime’s greatest crime, however, lies not in setting its clients against us; it is what it has done to our own young people. Those indoctrinated students whose essays so perplexed me had been formed into instruments of an alien will: pawns in a struggle inimical to their own interests, and whose real nature they could not grasp. They were no less victims for being willing.

Writing for The Occidental Quarterly is essentially a continuation of the work I had always intended to do, adapted to a hostile political situation I have come to understand better. In the most general terms, this work remains: the pursuit of knowledge, teaching, and the fight against the same ideological enemies I encountered in the academy. For a professor-manqué, writing for an independent journal is the equivalent of what home-schooling is for a parent: a quiet revolt against institutions which have lost all claim to allegiance.

TOQ Online, October 1, 2009

Uncle Adolf’s table talk, 64



Night of 8th-9th January 1942

Childhood memories—Religious instruction—The Abbé Schwarz — “Sit down, Hitler!” — The story of Petronella.

In Austria, religious instruction was given by priests. I was the eternal asker of questions. Since I was completely master of the material, I was unassailable. I always had the best marks.

On the other hand, I was less impeccable under the heading of Behaviour. I had a particular liking for the delicate subjects in the Bible, and I took a naughty pleasure in asking embarrassing questions.

Father Schwarz, our teacher, was clever at giving me evasive answers. So I kept on insisting until he lost his patience. One day—I’ve forgotten with reference to what—he asked me if I said my prayers in the morning, at midday and at night. “No, sir, I don’t say prayers. Besides, I don’t see how God could be interested in the prayers of a secondary schoolboy.” “Sit down, then!”

young adolph

Every pupil took to some new occupation. For my part, I used to excite him by waving pencils in the colours of Greater Germany. “Put away those abominable colours at once!” he’d say. The whole class would answer with a long howl of disapproval. Then I would get up and explain to him that it was the symbol of our national ideal. “You should have no other ideal in your heart but that of our beloved country and our beloved house of Hapsburg. Whoever does not love the Imperial family, does not love the Church, and whoever does not love the Church, does not love God. Sit down, Hitler!” If there hadn’t been a few teachers who would intercede for me on occasion, the affair would have ended badly for me.

Before Easter we had lessons to prepare us for confession. It was a tremendous rag. Often I promised myself to moderate my ways, but I couldn’t help it, I couldn’t endure all those hypocrisies. I can still see that Schwarz, with his long nose. I saw red when I looked at him. And I retorted as best I could! One day my mother came to the school, and he took the opportunity to pounce on her and explain that I was a lost soul. “You, unhappy boy…” he apostrophised me.

“But I’m not unhappy, sir.”

“You’ll realise you are, in the Next World.”

“I’ve heard about a scientist who doubts whether there is a Next World.”

“What do you (in German, ‘Du’) mean?”

“I must inform you, sir, that you are addressing me as ‘thou’.”

“You won’t go to Heaven.”

“Not even if I buy an indulgence?”

I was very fond of visiting the cathedral. Without my realising it, this was because I liked architecture. Somebody must have informed Father Schwarz of these visits, and he supposed I went there for some secret reason. The fact was, I was full of respect for the majesty of the place. One day, on leaving, I found myself face to face with the priest. “And there was I thinking you were a lost soul, my son! Now I see you’re nothing of the sort.”

At Steyr we had a Jew as teacher. One day we shut him up in his laboratory. In his class things were like in a Jewish school— everything was anarchy. This teacher had no authority at all. The boys were afraid of him at first, so it seems—because he used to howl like a madman. Unfortunately for him, one day he was caught laughing immediately after being angry. The boys realised that his bouts of anger were mere play-acting, and that was the end of his authority.

I always had the habit of reading during lessons—reading books, of course, that had nothing to do with the aforesaid lessons. One day I was reading a book on diseases caused by microbes, when the teacher pounced on me, tore the book from my hands, and threw it into a corner. “You should take an example from me, and read serious works, if read you must.”

Steyr was an unpleasant town—the opposite of Linz. Linz, full of national spirit. Steyr, black and red—the clergy and Marxism. I lodged with a school-companion in Grünmarkt, No. 9, in a little room overlooking the courtyard.

After the examinations, we organised a great party. It’s the only time in my life I’ve been drunk. I had obtained my certificate, next day I was to leave Steyr and return to my mother. My comrades and I secretly gathered over a quart of local wine. I’ve completely forgotten what happened during that night. I simply remember that I was awoken at dawn, by a milk woman, on the road from Steyr to Karsten. I was in a lamentable state when I got back to the house of my crux. I had a bath and drank a cup of coffee. Then Petronella asked me whether I had obtained my certificate. I wanted to show it to her, I rummaged in my pockets, I turned them inside out.

Not a trace of my certificate! What could I have done with it, and what was I to show my mother? I was already thinking up an explanation: I had unfolded it in the train, in front of an open window, and a gust of wind had carried it off! Petronella did not agree with me, and suggested that it would be better to ask at the school for a duplicate of the document. And, since I had drunk away all my money, she carried her kindness so far as to lend me five gulden.

The director began by keeping me waiting for quite a long time. My certificate had been brought back to the school, but torn into four pieces, and in a somewhat inglorious condition. It appeared that, in the absent-mindedness of intoxication, I had confused the precious parchment with toilet paper. I was overwhelmed.

I cannot tell you what the director said to me, I am still humiliated, even from here. I made a promise to myself that I would never get drunk again, and I’ve kept my promise.

(G. D. asked whether any of Hitler’s teachers had witnessed his rise to power.) Yes, some of them. I was not a model pupil, but none of them has forgotten me. What a proof of my character!

Published in: on September 14, 2015 at 12:25 pm  Leave a Comment  

This Time, 6


A passage from This Time the World
by George Lincoln Rockwell

But Allen’s wife, Portland, gave me the shock of my fourteen or fifteen years when she was the first woman I ever heard say a filthy word—and in our living room, at that. She used the Anglo-Saxon word for body waste to express her distaste for some idea or other—and I will never forget the experience. Never, in all those young years, had I heard a female say such a word and I thought of her immediately as an object of unbelievable disgust. In discussing the matter later, with my father, I learned that she was Jewish. I asked him if Jewishness had anything to do with it and he said they were very “sophisticated people” who meant no harm by it. But he also told me of Henry Ford’s accusations against the Jews and how they forced him to apologize, and said there was no getting away from the power of the Jews, “They’re too smart.”

Except for the permanent memory of my shock at hearing that awful word from a lady in our family drawing room, I thought no more of it and don’t even remember thinking of Portland as anything but a woman who said a horrible, vulgar word for the first time in my presence.

I know the Jews and ‘liberals’ and Freudians will once again leap like trout to the fly here, and be sure this is the source of my ‘hatred’ of Jews. But it is simply not true. I assimilated this experience with millions of others and did not even notice whether the hundreds of Jews in Atlantic City High School, where I went for four years and many of whom were my best friends, were Jews or Hottentots. That may be an unfortunate choice of words, because hundreds of my school comrades in Atlantic City were Hottentots! And I didn’t particularly notice or care about this either.

The Jews simply cannot accept it, of course and the brainwashed will not accept it, but my hatred of organized Jewry stems directly and only from the discovery of what most—but not all—Jews are doing to the Nation and the People I love. There may have been some slight vestiges of prejudice in my upbringing, but no more than in the upbringing of millions of other American boys who are not leading Hitler movements.

Published in: on August 25, 2015 at 11:16 am  Leave a Comment  
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This Time, 3


A passage from This Time the World
by George Lincoln Rockwell

In addition to this positive motivation for my activities, there is a negative hate—a burning hate which alone can drive me to lose my temper, a thing I almost never do. Bullying—the beating or torturing of an innocent or helpless creature by an overpowering creature or group of creatures, for the sheer pleasure of bullying and torture, drives me to a frenzy such that it is difficult to control myself.

The combination of these two overpowering drives from deep within me, I believe, are the underlying motivations which sent me down to the mail, wearing a Swastika armband, ready to die, if necessary and dumped me, for the moment, in the smelly little cell in the basement of the Washington, D.C., Police Headquarters.

Published in: on August 11, 2015 at 6:12 pm  Leave a Comment  

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