Inland

Yesterday the image of The Fair Race still enjoyed the privilege of being up on the sidebar. Today I put Day of Wrath in its place and I would like to explain my reasons.

I did not write The Fair Race, I only chose the essays that appear between its covers. The Fair Race is for normies. It opens with an essay on how the founding myth of the post-WW2 West—the defamation of Germany—is lethal to the Aryan race. That essay, together with the review of Hellstorm that is also collected there, could perfectly be the first two stones for the normie to start crossing the psychological Rubicon. In The Fair Race there are many other essays by several authors that could be considered as the rest of the path stones that help the uninitiated to finish crossing the river.

Day of Wrath, on the other hand, describes the land on the other side of the Rubicon. Unlike The Fair Race, I wrote all the essays in Day of Wrath; most of them published in my two books in Spanish, and translated into English for Day of Wrath.

The typical normie needs the stones to be able to cross the river. I needed them myself. The normie would be frightened if we drove him to the other side without the proper preparation.

This uninitiated may need to listen to the proponents of Alt-Lite, who do not focus on racial issues, before moving on to the stone of race realism. But the latter consists of bare scientific facts that the normie will assimilate at some time, and he will want to know a meta-perspective that encompasses such facts; let’s say, the intellectual product of some pundits of the Alt-Right. Eventually it will be necessary to continue crossing the river and run into the Jewish question and White Nationalism. But White Nationalism is still a stone inside the dangerous waters. Only a few become familiar with the beach on dry land on the other side of the river, National Socialism. But the Third Reich was murdered almost in its origins by Anglo-Saxon traitors, and there is hardly anyone in the world who has explored the inland beyond the beach, on the other side of the Rubicon.

Day of Wrath explores these new lands. It is a text that carries the philosophy of Himmler and Pierce to its ultimate consequences. If one sees the images that I chose for the two books, The Fair Race and Day of Wrath, he will perceive that only by expelling non-whites from the continent (that the white god Quetzalcoatl has just discovered) it will be possible for nymphs as ethereal as the one painted by Parrish almost one hundred years ago, to flourish. In other words, the exterminationist ideology must come first, then the fourteen words will have a chance to be fulfilled: something that those who are stepping on the path stones cannot see.

For reasons that I do not understand, today I received the last edition of Day of Wrath by FedEx when I requested it by ordinary mail. As can be seen if we compare it with the image of the sidebar, only my initials appear in the November 2018 edition. It is a book about which only one review has been written. The review was very negative and I rebutted it (here). But the criticism had a valid point: my old version was riddled with syntax errors. I had to run a grammar correction program to correct them since English is not my mother tongue.

The corrected edition that came to me today, with its new glossy cover, looks better than the previous edition, distributed by Amazon. Compared to the racial issue, Day of Wrath addresses the greatest of taboos. As one German disciple of Alice Miller, whose father had an important position in the Third Reich, said, the subject of the psychic ravages caused by abusive parents ‘is the most potent taboo of mankind’.

On the other hand, racism was not a taboo for the white man. From the ancient Egyptians who put up signs so that negroes did not pass beyond certain latitudes, the Spartans so proud of their Nordic heritage and the Roman patricians, as well as the Visigoths who burned at the stake those who miscegenated in Hispania, until the first decades of the 20th century when eugenics was openly taught in the US, racism only became taboo since the Anglo-Saxons betrayed our dear Führer.

Yes, only for the new generations has racism become a taboo. But what has never been discussed before, until our times, is the horrific way in which parents have been treating their children—something that is still taboo today, as no one wants to see that those who become schizophrenic were driven mad by their own parents. (See e.g., the series on psychiatry that I’ve been reproducing every Friday.)

That is the central theme of Day of Wrath, combined with what I’ve said to bring Pierce’s exterminationism out from the mere novelesque genre: a great excursion, already inland, after we reach the other side of the river.

Julian, 46

Editor’s note: I am relocating the below post, already published last Sunday, to this Sunday to make a point.

Gregory of Nazianzus was a ‘saint’ that has been mentioned several times in this site, especially in Karlheinz Deschner’s historical series. But scholarly writing lacks the vitality of a literary recreation of an epoch. That is why historical novels are important as a literary genre.

The next step would be to recreate the epoch in movies and TV series (something that we would have today hadn’t the American and the British betrayed their own race in the Second World War). Gregory’s father ‘was part Jew and part Greek’ wrote Vidal, and he added about this Gregory:

He tapped the painting. A flake of paint zigzagged to the ground. “One day the whole thing will disappear and then who will know what Marathon was like, when this picture’s gone?”

Had the Third Reich been allowed to thrive, you can imagine the power that film scenes describing the Semitic takeover of our civilisation in the 4th century would have been causing in a Jew-wise, Aryan audience.

In his novel Julian, Vidal wrote:

 
As I stood there looking up at the tarry shields, a youth approached me. He was bearded; his clothes were dirty; he wore a student’s cloak and he looked a typical New Cynic of the sort I deplore. I have recently written at considerable length about these vagabonds. In the last few years the philosophy of Crates and Zeno has been taken over by idlers who, though they have no interest in philosophy, deliberately imitate the Cynics in such externals as not cutting their hair or beards, carrying sticks and wallets, and begging. But where the original Cynics despised wealth, sought virtue, questioned all things in order to find what was true, these imitators mock all things, including the true, using the mask of philosophy to disguise licence and irresponsibility. Nowadays, any young man who does not choose to study or to work grows a beard, insults the gods, and calls himself Cynic. No wonder philosophy has earned the contempt of so many in this unhappy age.

Without ceremony, the New Cynic pointed at the wall. “That is Aeschylus,” he said. I looked politely at the painting of a bearded soldier, no different from the others except for the famous name written above his head. The playwright is shown engaged in combat with a Persian. But though he is fighting for his life, his sombre face is turned towards us, as though to say: I know that I am immortal!

“The painter was self-conscious,” I said neutrally, fully expecting to be asked for money and ready not to give it.

The Cynic grinned at me. Apparently he chose to regard neutrality as friendship. He tapped the painting. A flake of paint zigzagged to the ground. “One day the whole thing will disappear and then who will know what Marathon was like, when this picture’s gone?” As he spoke, something stirred in my memory. I recognized the voice. Yet the face was completely strange to me. Confident now that we were friends, he turned from the painting to me. Had I just arrived in Athens? Yes. Was I a student? Yes. Was I a Cynic? No. Well, there was no cause to be so emphatic (smiling). He himself dressed as a Cynic only because he was poor. By the time this startling news had been revealed to me, we had climbed the steps to the temple of Hephaestos. Here the view of the agora is wide and elegant. In the clear noon light one could see beyond the city to the dark small windows of those houses which cluster at the foot of Hymettos.

“Beautiful,” said my companion, making even that simple word sound ambiguous. “Though beauty…”

“Is absolute,” I said firmly. Then to forestall Cynic chatter, I turned abruptly into the desolate garden of the temple. The place was overrun with weeds, while the temple itself was shabby and sad. But at least the Galileans have not turned it into a charnel house. Far better that a temple fall in ruins than be so desecrated. Better of course that it be restored.

My companion asked if I was hungry. I said no, which he took as yes (he tended not to listen to answers). He suggested we visit a tavern in the quarter just back of the temple. It was, he assured me, a place much frequented by students of the “better” sort. He was sure that I would enjoy it. Amused by his effrontery (and still intrigued by that voice which haunted me), I accompanied him through the narrow hot streets of the near by quarter of the smiths, whose shops glowed blue as they hammered out metal in a blaring racket: metal struck metal in a swarm of sparks, like comets’ tails.

The tavern was a low building with a sagging roof from which too many tiles had been removed by time and weather. I bent low to enter the main door. I was also forced to stoop inside, for the ceiling was too low for me and the beams were haphazard, even dangerous in the dim light. My companion had no difficulty standing straight. I winced at the heavy odour of rancid oil burning in pots on the stove.

Two trestle tables with benches filled the room. A dozen youths sat together close to the back door, which opened on to a dismal courtyard containing a dead olive tree which looked as though it had been sketched in silver on the whitewashed wall behind it.

My companion knew most of the other students. All were New Cynics, bearded, loud, disdainful, unread. They greeted us with cheerful obscenities. I felt uncomfortable but was determined to go through with my adventure. After all, this was what I had dreamed of. To be just one among many, even among New Cynics. The moment was unique, or so I thought. When asked who I was, they were told “Not a Cynic.” They laughed good-humouredly. But then when they heard I was new to Athens, each made an effort to get me to attend lectures with his teacher. My companion rescued me. “He is already taken. He studies with Prohaeresius.” I was surprised, for I had said nothing to my guide about Prohaeresius, and yet Prohaeresius was indeed the teacher of my choice. How did he know?

“I know all about you,” he said mysteriously. “I read minds, tell fortunes.” He was interrupted by one of the youths, who suggested that I shave my beard since otherwise I might be mistaken for a New Cynic and give them a bad name by my good behaviour. This was considered witty in that room. Others debated whether or not I should be carried off to the baths to be scrubbed, the traditional hazing for new students, and one which I had every intention of avoiding. If necessary, I would invoke lèse majesté!

But my guardian shoved the students away and sat me down at the opposite table close to the courtyard door, for which I was grateful. I am not particularly sensitive to odours, but on a blazing hot day the odour of unwashed students combined with thick smoke from old burning oil was almost too much for me. The tavern-keeper, making sure I had money (apparently my companion was deep in his debt), brought us cheese, bitter olives, old bread, sour wine. To my surprise, I was hungry. I ate quickly, without tasting. Suddenly I paused, aware that I was being stared at. I looked across the table at my companion. Yes?

“You have forgotten me, haven’t you, Julian?”

Then I identified the familiar voice. I recognized Gregory of Nazianzus. We had been together at Pergamon. I burst out laughing and shook his hand. “How did such a dedicated Christian become a New Cynic?”

“Poverty, plain poverty.” Gregory indicated the torn and dirty cloak, the unkempt beard. “And protection.” He lowered his voice, indicating the students at the other table. “Christians are outnumbered in Athens. It’s a detestable city. There is no faith, only argument and atheism.”

“Then why are you here?”

He sighed. “The best teachers are here, the best instructors in rhetoric. Also, it is good to know the enemy, to be able to fight him with his own weapons.”

I nodded and pretended agreement. I was not very brave in those days. But even though I could never be candid with Gregory, he was an amusing companion. He was as devoted to the Galilian nonsense as I was to the truth. I attributed this to his unfortunate childhood. His family are Cappadocian. They live in a small town some fifty miles south-west of Caesarea, the provincial capital. His mother was a most strong-willed woman named… I cannot recall her name but I did meet her once a few years ago, and a most formidable creature she was. Passionate and proud and perfectly intolerant of everything not Galilean.

Gregory’s father was part Jew and part Greek. As a result of his wife’s relentless admonitions, he succumbed finally to the Galilean religion. According to Gregory, when his father was splashed with water by the bishop of Nazianzus, a great nimbus shone all round the convert. The bishop was so moved that he declared, “Here is my successor!” A most generous-minded man, that bishop! Most of us prefer not to name our successor. In due course, Gregory’s father became bishop of Nazianzus. So his predecessor had the gift of prophecy, if nothing else.

All in a rush Gregory was telling me of himself. “… a terrible trip, by sea. Just before we got to Aegina, the storm struck us. I was sure the ship would sink. I was terrified. I’d never been (I still am not) baptized. So if I died like that at sea… Well, you must know yourself what I went through.” He looked at me sharply. “Are you baptized?”

I said that I had been baptized as a child. I looked as reverent as possible when I said this.

“I prayed and prayed. Finally I fell asleep, exhausted. We all did. I dreamed that something loathsome, some sort of Fury, had come to take me to hell. Meanwhile, one of the cabin boys, a boy from Nazianzus, was dreaming that he saw—now this is really a miracle—Mother walking upon the water.”

“His mother or your mother or the mother of Jesus?” I am afraid that I asked this out of mischief. I couldn’t help myself.

But Gregory took the question straight. “My mother,” he said. “The boy knew her, and there she was walking across that raging sea. Then she took the ship by its prow and drew it after her to a safe harbour. Which is exactly what happened. That very night the storm stopped. A Phoenician ship found us and towed us into the harbour of Rhodes.” He sat back in triumph. “What do you think of that?”

“Your mother is a remarkable woman,” I said accurately. Gregory agreed and talked at enthusiastic length about that stern virago. Then he told me of his adventures in Athens, of his poverty (this was a hint which I took: I gave him a good deal of money during the course of my stay), of our friend Basil who was also in Athens and was, I suspect, the reason for Gregory’s attendance at the University. Wherever Basil went, Gregory followed. At Athens they were nicknamed “the Twins”.

“I am expecting Basil now. We’re both due at Prohaeresius’s house this afternoon. We’ll take you. You know we live together here. We study together. We argue almost as a team against the local Sophists. And we usually win.”

This was true. Both he and Basil were—are—eloquent. I deplore of course the uses to which their eloquence is put. Today they are most active as Galilean apologists, and I often wonder what they think of their old companion who governs the state. Nothing good, I fear. When I became emperor I asked them both to visit me at Constantinople. Gregory agreed to come, but never did. Basil refused. Of the two, I prefer Basil. He is plain, like me. He is misguided in his beliefs but honest. I suspect Gregory of self-seeking.

Christianity’s Criminal History, 104


 Editors’ note: To contextualise these translations of Karlheinz Deschner’s encyclopaedic history of the Church in 10-volumes, Kriminalgeschichte des Christentums, read the abridged translation of Volume I.
 

The great Christian ideal:
The inversion of Greco-Roman values

Already at the end of the 4th century and only in the desert regions of Egypt, there were apparently 24,000 ascetics. They were buried in subterranean places, ‘like the dead in their graves’, they dwelt in huts of branches, in hollows with no other opening than a hole to creep up to them. They squatted like troglodytes on large rocks, on steep slopes, in grottos, in tiny cells, in cages, in dens of beasts and in trunks of dry trees, or else they were placed on columns.

In a word, they lived like wild animals because Saint Anthony, the first Christian monk known to history, had ordered ‘to lead an animal life’: a mandate that also the so often praised Benedict of Nursia adopted in his rule. And according to the currency of the ancient ascetics, ‘the true fast consists of permanent hunger’ and ‘the more opulent the body, the more minute the soul; and vice versa’. They limited themselves to picking out a grain of barley from the camel dung with their fingers, remaining, for the rest days or even whole weeks, in total abstinence.

Surely we should not always give credence to what the Christian chroniclers wrote. Some of these saints did not even exist. Some of these stories are of analogous nature of the ‘ancient Egyptian novels adapted to new ideas’ (Amélineau). Other stories, despite their propensity for hyperbole, are touching. Macarius of Alexandria, for example, kills a horsefly on a certain day and punishes himself. For six months he lies on the ground from which he would not move, in a wasteland ‘in which there are big gadflies like wasps, with stingers that pierce the skin of boars. His body is in such a state that when he returns to his cell they all take him for a leper and only recognise the saint by his voice’.

Whatever the degree of veracity of these stories, from them it clearly transcends everything that influenced, mislead and annoyed the Christians of that time and those of subsequent centuries: the sublime ‘ideal’ by which they had to abide. Those lunatics were idolised, celebrated, consulted and they and their peers passed for saints.

The Temptation of St. Anthony
by Matthias Grünewald.

Anthony wandered from one hiding place to another along the Libyan desert, attracting other anchorites, attracting demons and angels, having full visions of lascivious women, earning more and more the fame of sanctity, of the ideal (Christian) hero. Towards the end of his long life his stature literally grows, with so many miracles and visions, to enter heaven.

In relation to all this, the Vita Antonii (Life of Anthony) of that old forger that was Athanasius, exerted a most than nefarious influence. Written in Greek towards 360 and promptly translated into Latin, it became a popular success; even more, a paradigm of Greek and Latin hagiography.

And it is quite possible that, as Hertling praises, this fable of Anthony has been ‘one of those books that decide the fate of humanity’, since, according to Hartnack, ‘no other written work has had a more stunning effect on Egypt, Western Asia and Europe ‘that that despicable product which emerged from the pen of St. Athanasius the Great’, ‘perhaps the most fateful book of all that have ever been written’. That work is ‘the ultimate piece responsible for which demons, miracle stories and all kinds of goblins found their accommodation in the Church’ (Lexicon of Concepts for Antiquity and Christianity).

Throughout those centuries, most authors of primitive Christianity resolutely reject Greco-Roman culture, philosophy, poetry and art. In the face of all this, they maintained an attitude of profound distrust, of declared hostility: an attitude determined both by the resentment and the anti-Hellenic hatred of the more or less cultured Christians.

Smelling of blood

There is something that can trigger the (dormant) murderous spirit of the Aryan: the smell of human blood. I remember that when Bush Jr. invaded Iraq, for the first time on the Internet the hits stopped being the degenerating porn sites. Those who talked about the war got the first place.

What would happen to the Aryan psyche if my prophecy against the American dollar is fulfilled, leading to social chaos in the big cities? Yes: freedom of expression in the country of the First Amendment is constrained by law. The absolute limit seems to be the Brandenburg Law that allows the American to talk about the revolution—as long as it is an academic subject; never to incite an immediate act of violence.

Under that constraint, I ask English-speaking natives to write a novel inspired by the novels of Pierce, who died at the beginning of the century, and Covington who died this year. But unlike them the novel that I have in mind would be a sort of FAQs on how to lead a realistic revolution in our times.

It seems obvious to me that in that work of fiction the idea would be to win the first battle: to silence the media. All anchors would be threatened by the revolutionary command: ‘A single anti-white message that comes from your lips implies the death penalty for you, or your loved ones…’

The fictional work—which I cannot write because my native language is Spanish—could begin with the story that, in the near future, there are not many revolutionaries and such a civil war cannot be born. However, with the passage of time the Alt-Right movement would grow exponentially while the policies of anti-white genocide in South Africa, North America, Europe, Australia and New Zealand increase. In our hypothetical novel the moment would come when only the hardest core of such an expanding movement would be of the calibre of a Bowers. With two thousand tough guys the freedom fighters would begin to silence, through sheer terror, the MSM…

That would be the guiding principle of the novel that would have to be sold by a medium alien to Amazon or Lulu insofar as, although a purely fictional work does not violate the Brandenburg Law, the Silicon Valley and some corporations do violate your First Amendment rights.

Published in: on October 28, 2018 at 1:10 pm  Comments (30)  
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Julian, 45

Julian presiding at a conference of Sectarians
(Edward Armitage, 1875)

 
Just inside the wall of the city, I left my driver. Then like one who has gone to sleep over a book of history, I stepped into the past. I stood now on that ancient highway—known simply as The Road—which leads from gate to agora to acropolis beyond. I was now in history. In the present I was part of the past and, simultaneously, part of what is to come. Time opened his arms to me and in his serene embrace I saw the matter whole: a circle without beginning or end.

To the left of the gate was a fountain in which I washed the dust from my face and beard. Then I proceeded along The Road to the agora. I am told that Rome is infinitely more impressive than Athens. I don’t know. I have never visited Rome. But I do know that Athens looks the way a city ought to look but seldom does. It is even better planned than Pergamon, at least at its centre. Porticoes gleam in the bright sun. The intense blue sky sets off the red tile roofs and makes the faded paint of columns seem to glow.

The Athenian agora is a large rectangular area enclosed by long porticoes of great antiquity. The one on the right is dedicated to Zeus; the one on the left is of more recent date, the gift of a young king of Pergamon who studied here. In the centre of the agora is the tall building of the University, first built by Agrippa in the time of Augustus. The original building—used as a music hall—collapsed mysteriously in the last century. I find the architecture pretentious, even in its present somewhat de-Romanized version. But pretentious or not, this building was my centre in Athens. For here the most distinguished philosophers lecture. Here I listened three times weekly to the great Prohaeresius, of whom more later.

Behind the University are two porticoes parallel to one another, the last being at the foot of the acropolis. To one’s right, on a hill above the agora, is a small temple to Hephaestos surrounded by gardens gone to seed. Below this hill are the administrative buildings of Athens, the Archives, the Round House where the fifty governors of Athens meet—this last is a peculiar-looking structure with a steep roof which the Athenians, who give everything and everyone a nickname, call “the umbrella”. There used to be many silver statues in the Round House but the Goths stole them in the last century.

Few people were abroad as the sun rose to noon. A faint breeze stirred the dust on the old pitted paving. Several important-looking men, togas draped ineptly about plump bodies, hurried towards the Bouletrion. They had the self-absorbed air of politicians everywhere. Yet these men were the political heirs of Pericles and Demosthenes. I tried to remember that as I watched them hurry about their business.

Then I stepped into the cool shade of the Painted Portico. For an instant my eyes were dazzled, the result of sudden dimness. Not for some time was I able to make out the famous painting of the Battle of Marathon which covers the entire long wall of the portico. But as my eyes grew used to the shade, I saw that the painting was indeed the marvel the world says it is. One can follow the battle’s course by walking the length of the portico. Above the painting hang the round shields of the Persians, captured that day. The shields have been covered with pitch to preserve them.

Looking at those relics of a battle fought eight hundred years before, I was much moved. Those young men and their slaves—yes, for the first time in history slaves fought beside their masters—together saved the world. More important, they fought of their own free will, unlike our soldiers, who are either conscripts or mercenaries. Even in times of peril, our people will not fight to protect their country. Money, not honour, is now the source of Roman power. When the money goes, the state will go. That is why Hellenism must be restored, to instil again in man that sense of his own worth which made civilization possible, and won the day at Marathon.

Published in: on October 28, 2018 at 12:01 am  Comments Off on Julian, 45  
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Julian, 44

Julian presiding at a conference of Sectarians
(Edward Armitage, 1875)

 
The driver indicated a large ruin to the right. “Hadrian,” he said. “Hadrian Augustus.” Like all travellers, I am used to hearing guides refer to my famous predecessor. Even after two centuries he is the only emperor every man has heard of—because of his constant travelling, his continuous building and, sad to say, his ridiculous passion for the boy Antinous. I suppose that it is natural enough to like boys but it is not natural or seemly to love anyone with the excessive and undignified passion that Hadrian showed for Antinous.

Fortunately, the boy was murdered before Hadrian could make him his heir. But in his grief Hadrian made himself and the Genius of Rome look absurd. He set up thousands of statues and dedicated innumerable temples to the dead boy. He even declared the pretty catamite a god! It was a shocking display and permanently shadows Hadrian’s fame. For the first time in history, a Roman emperor was mocked and thought ridiculous.

From every corner of the earth derisive laughter sounded. Yet except for this one lapse, I find Hadrian a sympathetic figure. He was much gifted, particularly in music. He was an adept at mysteries. He used to spend many hours at night studying the stars, searching for omens and portents, as do I. He also wore a beard. I like him best for that. That sounds petty, doesn’t it? I surprise myself as I say it. But then liking and disliking, approval and disapproval depend on many trivial things.

I dislike Hadrian’s passion for Antinous because I cannot bear for a philosopher-emperor to be mocked by his subjects. But I like his beard. We are all so simple at heart that we become unfathomable to one another.

Published in: on October 21, 2018 at 12:01 am  Comments Off on Julian, 44  
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Julian, 43

Julian presiding at a conference of Sectarians
(Edward Armitage, 1875)

 
Athens. It has been eight years since I rode up to the city gate in a market cart, an anonymous student who gaped at the sights like any German come to town. My first glimpse of the acropolis was startling and splendid. It hovers over the city as though held in the hand of Zeus, who seems to say: “Look, children, at how your gods live!” Sunlight flashes off the metal shield of the colossal statue of Athena, guarding her city. Off to the left I recognized the steep pyramidal mountain of Lykabettos, a great pyramid of rock hurled to earth by Athena herself; to this day wolves dwell at its foot.

The driver turned abruptly into a new road. I nearly fell out of the cart. “Academy Road,” he announced in the perfunctory loud voice of one used to talking to foreigners. I was impressed. The road from Athens to the Academy’s grove is lined with ancient trees. It begins at the city’s Dipylon Gate—which was straight ahead of us—and crosses through suburbs to the green-leafed academy of Aristotle.

The Dipylon Gate was as busy in the early morning as any other great city’s gate might have been at noon. It is a double gate, as its name indicates, with two tall towers on the outside. Guards lolled in front, paying no attention to the carts and pedestrians who came and went.

As we passed through the outer gate, our cart was suddenly surrounded by whores. Twenty or thirty women and girls of all ages rushed out of the shadows of the wall. They fought with one another to get close to the cart. They tugged at my cloak. They called me “Billy Goat”, “Pan”, “Satyr”, and other less endearing terms. With the skill of an acrobat one pretty child of fourteen vaulted the railing of my cart and firmly grasped my beard in her fist. The soldiers laughed at my discomfort.

With some effort I pried my beard free from her fingers, but not before her other hand had reached between my legs, to the delight of those watching. But the driver was expert at handling these girls. With a delicate flick of his whip, he snapped at her hand. It was withdrawn with a cry. She leapt to the ground.

The other women jeered us. Their curses were vivid and splendid, Homeric! Then as we passed through the second gate they turned back, for a troop of cavalry had appeared at the outer gate. Like bees swarming in a garden, they surrounded the soldiers.

I arranged my tunic. The sharp tug of the girl’s hand had had its effect upon me, and against my will I thought of love-making and wondered where the best girls in Athens might be found. I was not then, as I am now, celibate. Yet even in those days I believed that it was virtuous to mortify the flesh, for it is a fact that continence increases intellectual clarity.

But I was also twenty-three years old and the flesh made demands on me in a way that the mind could not control. Youth is the body’s time. Not a day passed in those years that I did not experience lust. Not a week passed that I did not assuage that lust. But I do not agree with those Dionysians who maintain that the sexual act draws men closer to the One God. If anything, it takes a man away from God, for in the act he is blind and thoughtless, no more than an animal engaged in the ceremony of creation.

Yet to each stage of one’s life certain things are suitable and for a few weeks, eight years ago, I was young, and knew many girls. Even now on this hot Asiatic night, I recall with unease that brilliant time, and think of love-making. I notice that my secretary is blushing. Yet he is Greek!

Published in: on October 14, 2018 at 4:00 pm  Comments Off on Julian, 43  
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The Last Jedi

For boomers like me Star Wars was never the epic film that has been for younger generations. For me the master film was 2001: A Space Odyssey, which exerted a tremendous influence on my life, especially because of its philosophical implications.

The Star Wars saga lies not in the serious science-fiction league. Rather, it resembles the space fantasy comics that became fashionable in the 1950s and 60s. There is nothing wrong with the comics genre, if we take into account that in a 2018 interview George Lucas told James Cameron in Story of Science Fiction that he had designed his project for twelve-year-old children.

But that genre that Lucas chose, like the most serious science-fiction, can produce good or bad movies. I agree with Richard Spencer that, from the point of view of the messages, Star Wars: Episode IV: A New Hope, of 1977, is the best as the protagonists are white and coloured heroes are missing. In addition, in the final minutes Princess Leia awards Luke and Han with medals for their heroism: visually, with slightly fashy tones.

From the strictly cinematographic point of view I believe that Star Wars: Episode V: The Empire Strikes Back, that I saw with my family in 1980, is the only masterpiece of the eight episodes that have come out. It has a disadvantage: it introduces Lando Calrissian, a mulatoid character, as the administrator of Cloud City.

It was such an enthusiasm that that masterpiece caused me, that Star Wars: Episode VI: Return of the Jedi, which I saw on the big screen in 1983, caused me a huge disappointment. Darth Vader, so impressive in The Empire Strikes Back, here appears as the busboy of the emperor: an unpardonable blunder in Lucas’ story. I said above that the Star Wars genre was space comics taken to the screen. I still remember the American comics that came out in the 1970s and early 80s on Star Wars: infinitely better plots than the crap that occurred to Lucas when taking away all the aura of mystique from the figure of Vader.

So the series disappointed me since the eighties. When the first prequel was premiered in 1999, Star Wars: Episode I: The Phantom Menace, I was living in Manchester. If Lucas told Cameron that his original idea had been to make films for twelve-year-old children, in his first prequel he made it for children of even younger age: the age in which Anakin Skywalker appears in The Phantom Menace.

I saw on the big screen Star Wars: Episode II: Attack of the Clones, released in 2002. Although it seems more for teenagers, this second trilogy of Lucas can be summarized with these words: ‘Everything for the eye, nothing for the mind’. Unlike 2001: A Space Odyssey that can be described as ‘Everything for the eye and for the mind’, the new genre of space films do not leave food for thought.

When I saw the last of the prequels, Star Wars: Episode III: Revenge of the Sith, released in 2005, I told myself that the contemporary westerner knows nothing about the nature of evil (e.g., how Anakin became bad): a topic that I have pondered in my two books. That Lucas does not grasp evil is also apparent in his most recent interview by Cameron, another completely clueless guy.

Lucas is a white man. But since Jews bought the Disney Company, the messages have invariably become toxic. For that very reason I did not see, on the big screen, the sequels such as Star Wars: Episode VII: The Force Awakens, released in 2015.

At the corner of my house there is a travelling Mexican market of Indians every Monday, which includes stands of pirated DVDs. Only that way I dared to see part of The Force Awakens on my plasma television. Although Leia has behaved like a princess, in The Force Awakens the roles of the male hero are reversed to make room for a new heroine, the scavenger Rey. In this Greg Johnson, under the pseudonym of Trevor Lynch, has failed big time in his favourable reviews of the Star Wars sequels. With his tacit feminism Johnson seems to subscribe the Hollywood agenda of toxic messages.

Although Star Wars: Episode VIII: The Last Jedi was released in 2017, I saw it last week. For the ridiculous amount of $ 10 pesos (in dollars, 53 ¢) I bought a pirated DVD of The Last Jedi in the same travelling market (I would not give the Jews at so-called Disney more than a buck to watch both films).

There is something I would like to say about this latest movie. As I did with The Force Awakens, I did not even spend my time with the latest saga film, insofar as in most of these movies I used the fast-forward of my remote control! That’s how we should treat the films produced by Jewish firms: there is no point in pissing us off with their bad messages at normal speed. And regarding the special effects, we already saw all that in the pre-‘Disney’ Lucas prequels, right? So I still pressed the fast-forward button…

But that is not what I wanted to say. There are times that even in films with bad messages a master scene that contrasts with the garbage is sneaked. That scene happens almost at the end of The Last Jedi.

I refer when Luke appears to help escape the few remaining survivors of the Resistance. A frozen image after he walks straight ahead toward a row of Imperial Walkers, a few seconds after Kylo orders them to stop, is very artistic and deserves to be kept in our memories. (To me, it evokes the isolated white nationalist confronting single-handedly all the power of ZOG…)

Then the madman Kylo orders that all Imperial Walkers’ cannons shoot at Luke. But after an orgy of shots he appears unscathed among the reddish smoke that evaporates, slightly shaking something off his shoulder, in challenge to Kylo. The latter makes a gesture of shocked surprise, and decides to go down his haughty ship, against all advice from his envious second-in-command, to confront him alone.

He then engages Luke in a lightsaber duel never seen before in any of the other Star Wars films: as the swords never collide but Luke, wielding his blue lightsaber, deftly evades all the onslaught from the fire colour of Kylo’s lightsaber. There comes a time when Luke turns off his lightsaber to talk to him, and Kylo runs toward him to cut his body in twain. Upon striking Luke, in the climactic scenes of the movie Kylo realises he has been fighting a Force projection of Luke and shouts, defeated, ‘Nooo!’ as he comprehends Luke’s plan to save the Resistance (including his sister Leia) by buying time with the duel distraction.

In the subsequent scene, Luke, exhausted, becomes one with the Force and dies light-years away from his phantasmagorical encounter with Kylo, peacefully and purposely, on the planet of the first Jedi.

All those scenes I loved, but you have to see them ignoring almost the rest of the film to appreciate them—something very difficult, because in one of the climactic moments there is a cut and the white Rey girl allows a long hug from a Negro that has also been featured in another Star Wars film. (Sometimes I would like to edit my home DVDs and cut off all the offensive segments: about 95 percent, or more, from most films.)

Many fans have complained on YouTube that the personality of the Luke of the first films was betrayed in the latest film. I disagree. My previous entry referred to the life of Karlheinz Deschner, who was a parachutist who fought for the Third Reich as a young man and, much later, became a critical scholar of Christianity. I myself admired St Francis in 1974. But when I read the first Jedi books, so to speak, I transvalued my values and started to admire Himmler’s SS.

What Star Wars fans ignore is that the mind matures over the decades. If any of those who knew me as a teenager saw me now, they would be shocked by the changes, both external and internal.

If we think about the battles that Deschner waged as a young man in the Second World War, all that remains of the Resistance are a few nationalists. What happened in Charlottesville last year should move what’s left of the Jedi knights to consider that, perhaps, it is time for more reading rather than direct legal action. If they read the collection of The Fair Race (which includes a section from William Pierce’s Who We Are), along with Hitler’s Table Talk, Mason’s Siege (or The Turner Diaries); what Deschner and others unearthed from the true story of Christianity, and even Goodrich’s Hellstorm, the internal force that the initiate would develop would be equivalent to that of a hermit Jedi.

A single example will clarify the above. In The Fair Race it is explained that in the historical Republic blond and blue-eyed Romans were the good guys. When Rome became a racial melting-pot for all the peoples of the Empire, including the subversive Semites, they became really bad. Conversely, the later Star Wars trilogy depicts the Empire as whites and the Republic as practitioners of miscegenation: the exact opposite of what history tells us!

Internal Jihad (see Luke above with his books) must precede external Jihad. The time has come to do an internal work in the sacred island where the last Jedi became wise and powerful before confronting ZOG.

Julian, 42

Julian presiding at a conference of Sectarians
(Edward Armitage, 1875)

 

VII

I arrived at Piraeus, the port of Athens, shortly after sunrise 5 August 355. I remember every one of the forty-seven days I spent in Athens. They were the happiest of my life, so far.

It was a windy dawn. In the east, light tore at the dark. Stars faded. The sea was rough. It was like the morning of the world. The ship creaked and shuddered as it struck against the pilings of the quay. I had half expected to see a detachment of troops waiting on the shore, ready to arrest me on some new charge. But there were no troops in sight, only foreign merchant ships and the usual bustle of a busy port. Slaves unloaded cargoes. Officials of the port moved solemnly from ship to ship. Men with carts and donkeys shouted to those just arrived, promising to get them to Athens faster than that youth who ran from Marathon to the city in four hours (and fell dead, one would like to retort, but irony is lost on drivers, even Greek drivers who know their Homer).

Barefoot students in shabby clothes moved in packs from ship to ship, trying to sign up newcomers for lectures. Each student was a proselytizer for his own teacher. There was a good deal of rancour as each of these youths went about trying to convince would-be students (known as “foxes”) that there was but one teacher in Athens worth listening to: his own. Fights often broke out between the factions. Even as I watched, two students actually manhandled a stranger; each grabbed an arm, and while one insisted that he attend the lectures of a certain Sophist, the other shouted that the Sophist was a fool and that only the wisdom of his teacher, a Cynic, was worth a student’s time. Between them, they nearly tore the poor man in half. Nor would they let him go until he finally made it clear to them in broken Greek that he was an Egyptian cotton dealer and not at all interested in philosophy. Luckily, they did not get as far as my ship; so I was spared their attentions.

Usually when a member of the imperial family travels by sea, the dragon of our house flies at the mast. But since I was technically under “house arrest”, I was in no way identified to the people, which was just as well. I wanted to be free in Athens, to wander unnoticed wherever I chose. But unfortunately a dozen soldiers had been assigned to me as permanent bodyguard (they were, in effect, my jailers) and their commanding officer was responsible for my safety. I felt some obligation to him, though not much.

I made a bold decision. While the servants were busy with the luggage and the men who guarded me were all gathered on the forward deck of the ship in sleepy conference with the officials of the port, I scribbled a note to my head jailer, telling him that I would meet him at the end of the day at the prefect’s house. I left the note on one of our travelling chests. Then, student’s cloak securely wrapped about me, I swung over the side of the ship and dropped unobserved on to the wharf.

It took a moment to become accustomed to the steadiness of earth. I am not a bad sailor but the monotony of a long voyage and the continual slap and fall of a ship at sea tire me. I am of earth, not water; air, not fire. I engaged a cart and driver after considerable haggling (I was able to bring the driver’s cost down to half what he asked: good but not marvellous). Then I climbed into the little cart. Half standing, half sitting on the cart rail, I was borne over the rutted road to Athens.

The sun rose in a cloudless sky. Attic clarity is not just metaphor; it is fact. The sky’s blue was painful. One felt one could see straight to the farthest edge of the world if the mountain Hymettus, low and violet in the early light, had not blocked the view. The heat with each instant became more intense, but it was the dry heat of the desert, made pleasant by a soft wind from the sea.

My first reaction was delight at anonymity. No one stared at me. No one knew who I was. I looked a typical student with my beard and plain cloak. There were dozens like me. Some were in carts, most were on foot; all of them moving towards the same goal: Athens and the knowledge of the true.

On every side of me carts rattled and creaked, their drivers cursing and their contents, human or animal, complaining. The Athenian Greek is a lively fellow, though one looks in vain from face to face for a glimpse of Pericles or Alcibiades. As a race, they are much changed. They are no longer noble. They have been too often enslaved, and their blood mixed with that of barbarians. Yet I do not find them as sly and effeminate as certain Latin writers affect to. I think that the Old Roman tendency to look down on the Greeks is no more than a natural resentment of Greece’s continuing superiority in those things which are important: philosophy and art.

All that is good in Rome today was Greek. I find Cicero disingenuous when on one page he acknowledges his debt to Plato and then on the next speaks with contempt of the Greek character. He seems unaware of his own contradictions… doubtless because they were a commonplace in his society. Of course the Romans pretend they are children of Troy, but that nonsense was never taken too seriously. From time to time I have had a word or two to say about Roman character, not much of it flattering (my little work on the Caesars, though written much too quickly, has some point, I think). But then one must recall that even as I dictate these lines as Roman Emperor, I am really Greek. And I have been to Athens, the eye of Greece.

Published in: on September 30, 2018 at 12:01 am  Comments (4)  
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Julian, 41

Julian presiding at a conference of Sectarians
(Edward Armitage, 1875)

Two days later, I was visited by the Grand Chamberlain himself. I found it hard to believe that this enchanting creature with his caressing voice and dimpled smile was daily advising the Consistory to execute me. He quite filled the small apartment where I had been confined.

“Oh, you have grown, most noble Julian! In every way.” Delicately Eusebius touched my face. “And your beard is now most philosophic. How Marcus Aurelius would have envied you!” For an instant one fat finger rested, light as a butterfly, on the tip of my beard. Then we stood face to face, beaming at one another; I with nerves, he with policy.

“I don’t need to tell you how pleased I am to see you at court. We all are. This is where you belong, close to your own kind.” My heart sank: was that to be my fate? a life at court where the eunuchs could keep an eye on me? A swift death was almost preferable. “Now I suggest that when you see the divine Augustus, you will beg him to allow you to stay always at his side. He needs you.”

I seized on the one fact. “The Emperor will see me?”

Eusebius nodded delightedly, as though he had been entirely responsible for my amazing good fortune. “Of course. Didn’t you know? He made the decision at this morning’s Consistory. We were all so pleased. Because we want you here. I have always said that there should be a place for you at the side of the Augustus. A high place.”

“You flatter me,” I murmured.

“I say only the truth. You are, after all, an ornament to the house of Constantine, and what better place has such a pure jewel to shine than in the diadem of the court?”

I swallowed this gravely and replied with equal insincerity, “I shall never forget what you have done for me and for my brother.”

Tears came to Eusebius’s eyes. His voice trembled. “It is my wish to serve you. That is all I ask for.” He leaned forward—with some effort—and kissed my hand. The rhetoric of hate is often most effective when couched in the idiom of love. On a note of mutual admiration, we parted.

I was next instructed by one of the eunuchs in the court’s etiquette, which was nearly as complicated as what one goes through during the Mithraic mysteries. There are a dozen set responses to an emperor’s set questions or commands. There are bows and genuflections; steps to left and steps to right; alternative gestures should I be asked to approach the throne or merely to remain where I was.

The eunuch loved his work. “Our ceremonies are among this world’s marvels! More inspiring, in some ways, than the mass.” I agreed to that. The eunuch spread a diagram for me on a table. “This is the great hall where you will be received.” He pointed. “Here sits the divine Constantius. And here you will enter.” Every move either of us was to make was planned in advance like a dance. When I had finally learned my lesson, the eunuch folded his map with an exalted expression on his face. “We have considerably improved and refined court ceremonial since the divine Diocletian. I am sure that he never dreamed his heirs would be capable of such exquisite style as well as such profound symbolism, for we are now able to beautifully reflect the nature of the universe in a single ceremony lasting scarcely three hours!”

The cutting down of court ceremonies and the removal of the eunuchs was one of the first acts of my reign. It was certainly the most satisfactory.

Shortly after sundown, the Master of the Offices and his many ushers escorted me to the throne room. The Master of the Offices gave me last-minute instructions on how to behave in the sacred presence. But I did not listen. I was too busy preparing the speech I intended to make to Constantius. It was a masterpiece of eloquence. After all, I had been preparing it for ten years. Face to face, I intended to make Constantius my friend.

The Master of the Offices ushered me into a huge basilica which was once Diocletian’s throne room. The Corinthian columns which line it are twice the usual height and the floor is of porphyry and green marble. The effect is most splendid, especially by artificial light. In the apse at the far end of the basilica stands the throne of Diocletian, an elaborate chair of ivory decorated with gold plaques. Needless to say, I remember everything about that room in which my fate was decided. Torches flared between the columns while on either side of the throne bronze lamps illuminated its occupant. Not counting my childhood encounter with Constantine, this was the first time I beheld an emperor in full state. I was not prepared for the theatricality of the scene.

Constantius sat very straight and still, his forearms resting on his knees in imitation of the Egyptian kings. He wore a heavy gold diadem set with huge square jewels. On one side of him stood Eusebius, on the other the praetorian prefect, while around the room the officials of the court were ranged.

I was officially presented to the Emperor. I paid him homage. Only once did I falter in the course of the ritual; when I did, the Master of the Offices was quick to whisper the correct formula in my ear.

If Constantius was curious about me, he did not betray it. His bronze face was empty of all expression as he spoke. “We receive our most noble cousin with pleasure.” But there was no pleasure in that high-pitched voice. I felt myself suddenly blushing. “We give him leave to go to Athens to continue his studies.” I glanced at Eusebius. Though his own grim advice had not prevailed, he gave me a small delighted nod as if to say, “We’ve won!”

“Also…” But then Constantius stopped talking. There is no other way to describe what happened. He simply stopped. There were no more words for me. I stared at him, wondering if I had gone mad. Even the Master of the Offices was taken aback. Everyone had expected a full speech from Constantius as well as a response from me. But the audience was over. Constantius put out his hand for me to kiss. I did so. Then with the aid of the Master of the Offices, I walked backward to the entrance, bowing at regular intervals. Just as I was about to leave the presence, two squeaking bats swooped suddenly out of the shadowy ceiling, and darted straight towards Constantius. He did not move, even though one almost touched his face. As always, his self-control was marvellous. I have never known a man quite so deep or so cold.

I returned to my apartment to find a message from the Grand Chamberlain’s office. I was to proceed at once to the port of Aquileia. My belongings had already been packed. My servants were ready. A military escort was standing by.

Within the hour, I was outside the walls of Milan. As I rode through the warm night, I prayed to Helios that I never see court or Emperor again.

Published in: on September 23, 2018 at 12:01 am  Comments (2)  
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