Richard, Colin, and Andy discuss M. Night Shyamalan's unsung and underrated provocative allegorical film "The Village," and its thematic relevance to all those who strive to preserve safety and innocence in the midst of our dark and corrupt time:
Richard, Colin, and Andy discuss M. Night Shyamalan's unsung and underrated provocative allegorical film "The Village," and its thematic relevance to all those who strive to preserve safety and innocence in the midst of our dark and corrupt time:
At Emory University in Atlanta, Georgia-- my undergraduate alma mater-- President James Wagner is in hot water... make that boiling hot lava. He has ignited a furor not likely to die down anytime soon. Faculty, students, and administrators are all screaming at him like...well, to put it frankly, like a bunch of bitches. And when faculty, student, and administrative bitches be trippin', presidential heads are liable soon to be rollin'.
"Oh dear!" you reply, voice resonant with grave concern. "What ever has the man done?? It must be something really beastly... after all, those employed and enrolled at prestigious American universities never lose their heads and throw a collective PC-hissy fit over something utterly stupid and of no real moment and ultimately insubstantial! The president's transgression must be egregious indeed!"
And oh, it is! Wagner's act is in fact so stunningly wicked that before I relate it, you may just want to ready your smelling salts, in case you pass out from the shock. Consider this your "trigger warning," if indeed you are the type of person who cares at all about such things as decency, goodness, justice, and decorum.
Are you ready? Are you sitting down? Is your rectum good and clenched? Have you got a stong father figure by your side whom you can hug and on whose broad, strong shoulders you can cry copious tears of dismay and trauma?
Okay... here's what he did.
This dastardly man... flagrantly used a historical metaphor in a newspaper column in order to make a rhetorical point!
"So what," you ask?
Well, you see, it may not LOOK like a big deal, but it IS. Yea, verily, indeed. After all, the piece in question, which Wagner penned for The Emory Wheel, made reference to the "three-fifths compromise" following the end of the Revolutionary War, in which those pushing for black slaves to count the same as whites for the purposes of constituional representation, settled instead on letting each black vote count for 60 percent, or three-fifths, of the value of a white man's citizenship. Wagner cited this instance as a time when one political faction, believing strongly in the correctness of their cause, nevertheless made concessions for pragmatic purposes.
Here is a summary of the brouhaha, as reported by the Wheel, the student newspaper that once ran a few of my own strident post-adolescent editorials back in the day:
(Note the ample and pungently unfurling scent of relentless butthurt from the various student and faculty groups chiming in to condemn Wagner's oh-so-horrific words. Geez, what a campus of whiners!)
Yes, folks... that's what it takes to ignite a campus controversy these days. It's becoming easier and easier. To bring the militant multicultist mafia down on your head, you used to have to do something really provocative, like fly the "stars and bars" from your dorm room window, or refuse to spell "woman" with a "y," or smirk in the presence of an AIDS quilt.
Now all it takes for a university president-- a president, no less-- to be undone is for him to invoke an ostensibly infelicitous, even if accurate, metaphor relating to antebellum Negro slavery in the midst of an altogether rather bland newspaper column encouraging clashing departments of his college to unite despite their differences for the sake of a greater good.
The American academic gulag metastasizes into an ever-more absurdist caricature all the time. What will be the next overblown kerfuffle to roil the legions of left-liberal brainwashed goosestepping minions? Will the plague of political correctness finally run its terminal course and perish, even as it kills its by now thoroughly spent and useless hosts in the ivory towers it inhabits?
Richard, Colin, and Andy are joined by journalist Roman Bernard, who discusses his experiences with the French right-wing youth movement and his observations regarding a "generation gap" between aging old-school European nationalists and younger activists with a more pan-European perspective.
In this second segment of our "Author to Author" audio series, Andy Nowicki speaks with legendary and acclaimed Southern writer Tito Perdue regarding Perdue's latest: a surreal racialist-themed sci-fi dystopic freak-out/comic romp entitled The Node.
Then Tito turns the tables and grills Andy concerning his book Under the Nihil, a paranoid fable which charts one man's mental and spiritual collapse and his subsequent descent into pharmaceutically-induced terrorism.
Left-liberal attitudes and habits of mind may at one time have been radical, provocative, and gutsy, but today they are staid, stale, conventional, and boring. Any honest contemporary cultural Marxist will have to admit that, politically speaking, his side now holds all significant power. Those who openly decline to subscribe to the ideological establishment’s point of view on such matters as race, gender, and sexuality have in effect committed social suicide; having put themselves utterly at the mercy of the powers-that-be, such unfortunates have left themselves open to attack by legions of official Zeitgeist-enforcers and their numerous toadying minions.
Today’s thought-criminals and ideological deviants are liable to be thrown in jail or fined for indulging in so-called “hate speech,” or at the very least, to be subjected to harassment, humiliation, and deprivation of livelihood. It is, in short, a bad career move not to toe the company line. Even in a country where free expression is nominally protected, one still in actuality faces a stark choice: conform to the enforced conventional wisdom, or be thrust into the outer darkness.
For radical traditionalists, alternative rightists, race realists, and other such present-day thought-criminals, things seem dire indeed. Yet all is not lost, and much, in fact, has been won. For our adversaries’ victory on cultural matters is very much a pyrrhic one. In becoming the Establishment, the Left has hemorrhaged its mojo. To be a lefty today has none of the allure or glamour that it once possessed in halcyon times when one actually faced persecution and ostracism for taking up left-wing causes. In 2013, one who spouts liberal rhetoric and parrots politically-correct bromides doesn’t seem like a troublemaker, but rather a brown-nosing goody-goody. A defiant rightist, on the other hand, has gained the status of a dangerous outlaw; though reviled, feared, and loathed by the authority-fearing populace, such a one nevertheless exudes an exciting primordial appeal for his insolent refusal to curtsy before the almighty Zeitgeist.
What is more, oppression is often a boon to the cause of creativity. After all, complacency is typically the bugaboo of the ascendant, not the downtrodden. Those in control only have an incentive to play things safe, whereas the ideological outlaws have nothing to lose and everything to gain. Now, therefore, is the time to seize upon the opportunity with which circumstances have presented us. An artistic renaissance is in the works, blossoming ripely under the ongoing blizzard of scorn, revilement, and repression launched from official, sanctioned institutions of ideological dominion and control. A hearty harvest is being nurtured beneath the very steel-spiked boot of the tyrant’s heel which now threatens to crush us utterly.
Every significant and worthwhile social movement is not solely, or even primarily political in nature. Rather, it is buttressed by a spiritual understanding of man and the cosmos. Thus, the cluster of variously intertwining ideologies which make up the alt-Right must be represented in aesthetic form, as art must undergird any philosophical conception of reality. Art goes where rhetoric cannot go; art communicates by showing rather than merely telling; being properly understood as elemental, rather than simply rational, it speaks to the soul, not just the mind. A thousand well-worded, thought-provoking articles don’t have nearly the same psychic impact upon a reader as a single novel, play, or poem possessed of the spark of lusty inspiration.
In order for our vision to be properly promoted, we must frame our mental and spiritual revolt against the bankrupt morays of the modern world in aesthetic terms. This means composing works which enable readers, viewers, or listeners (depending on the medium) to see the truth behind the malignantly deceptive simulacrum that is post-modernity and the bogus, trendy, ascendant ideologies that infest nearly all aspects of our current day-to-day consciousness. We want to help modern man rip off his blinders so that he may apprehend reality and truth, and the most effective manner to accomplish such a goal is through the cultivation of an artistic counter-movement, one which aggressively challenges the dominant contemporary paradigm on its own terms.
Alex Kurtagic, Wermod and Wermod publisher and author of the anti-multicultural, anti-egalitarian dystopian novel Mister, has made the point that people seldom change their minds based on a confrontation with facts or reasoned argument. Rather, they adopt a different mindset through what could be called aesthetic initiation, a process that Kurtagic himself has associated with a type of seduction. And the best literature does indeed possess a seductive power; it woos and ravishes its reader, and causes him to fall in love with the truths it presents; it makes him want to live and die for the virtues it depicts; it makes him as passionate and devoted as any ardent lover.
Let us work to redeem the time by bringing forth a muscular legion of artistic works in any genre which suits our particular gifts. Let us fling forth our devout defiance, and raise a formidable army of books, dedicated to subvert, undermine, and overthrow the Zeitgeist. Our enemies have much to fear from us, for the pen is mightier than the sword.
For those not following the hype and hullaballoo surrounding the most overhyped and hyper-hullaballooed event in the history of the world, it seems that in the run-up to Super Bowl XLVII, a professional football player has expressed the simply unacceptable sentiment that he actually finds it quite undesirable to take showers and walk around naked in the company of gay men.
The offender is one Chris Culliver, defensive back for the San Francisco 49ers. Earlier this week, over the course of a lighthearted radio interview with a jocular interlocutor on press day, Culliver revealed that he has a strict no homo policy when it comes to goings-on in the locker room. He’d rather not be around any of those “sweet”-acting, lispy, limp- wristed characters while in a state of undress: “Uh-uh,” Culliver stated emphatically at the prospect, “no way!”
Needless to say, all progressive-minded folk interested in showing others how righteous they are immediately jumped all over the suddenly embattled NFL jock for saying such an outrageous, “ignorant” thing. Equally as predictably, soon afterwards a chastened Culliver, looking like a frightened little boy who’s been called to the principal’s office, issued a meek apology to all right-thinking people everywhere, whom he deeply wounded with his viciously hateful, awful, horrible, despicable, dastardly, and completely terrible remarks. (For his penance, he’s been assigned—what else—“sensitivity training,” with representatives of the San Francisco LGBT community! Will he be forced to strip in the company of a bunch of flaming, leering queens in order to demonstrate having conclusively overcome his homophobia? Enquiring minds wonder…)
Presumably, Chris Culliver ought to be perfectly fine with the notion of being in intimate quarters with men who embrace the love that, until recently, dared not speak its name (and now apparently won’t ever shut the hell up). He shouldn’t fret about being ogled, or fear being subjected to frisky, freaky episodes of frottage by fellow athletes who happen to be light in the cleats (not that there’s everything wrong with that). And if he’s afraid of dropping the soap in the shower, well, that’s just cuz he’s a reprehensible bigot. Once Culliver is properly sensitivity-trained, he’ll come to know that gay men don’t really like to look at naked men’s pecs, penises, and posteriors…
Oh wait; they do? Uh…
Well then, maybe he’ll learn that, even if gay men like to ogle his naked body, he just needs to deal with it, because they’re gay and they get to do that, and not liking it is hate, plain and simple. Fearing the (homosexual) male gaze is only baby steps away from digging up Matthew Shepard and Tyler Clementi, and killing them all over again; such a repulsive heterosexist proclivity towards gay zombie genocide must be eliminated so that tolerance can reign supreme.
Yeah, that’s the ticket.
(Cue the wank gesture and the insouciantly rolled eye.)
Richard, Colin, and Andy analyze two classic, controversial, shockingly violent "vigilante-noir" movies of the 70s: Death Wish and Taxi Driver, and discusss the surprising relevance of both films in the context of post-Newtown contemporary America:
In the first segment of our new "Author to Author" series, Andy Nowicki interviews Rachel Haywire (www.rachelhaywire.com) -- founder of the annual Extreme Futurist Festival and a seminal figure in the Transhumanist movement -- about her book Acidexia, a sort of "On the Road for the digital age." Then Rachel Haywire interviews Andy Nowicki about his 2011 novel The Columbine Pilgrim.
Acidexia talk: www.swarmstrategies.com/uploads/author-to-author-01.mp3
The Columbine Pilgrim convo: www.swarmstrategies.com/uploads/author-to-author-02.mp3
Purchase Acidexia at www.amazon.com/Acidexia-Rachel-Haywire/dp/0615739334
Purchase The Columbine Pilgrim at www.amazon.com/The-Columbine-Pilgrim-AndyNowicki/dp/1935965115
Many in the Alt-Right have grown quite angry with Quentin Tarantino of late, due to the subject matter of his latest two movies: Inglourious Basterds, which depicts a fictional Jewish squadron wreaking unholy (and ahistorical) havoc against the German high command during World War II, and now Django Unchained, which features a righteous black runaway slave exacting bloody revenge against a bunch of mean, depraved, and rapacious white slaveowners in the antebellum South.
We live in a time in which people have been trained to snap reflexively at the latest bit of pop culture red-meat fodder like hungry fish making a run at juicy bait. To say that we are easily manipulated by our masters would be an understatement: we are forever drooling, wagging our tails, and snarling menacingly on cue—Pavlov never had such influence over his dogs as current-day opinion shapers have over their mongrel minions in the general population. It seems that here is always some new enemy de jour, upon whom to heap hatred and about whom to post snarky Facebook memes. We think we’re fighting the power when we indulge in such petty campaigns, but all we’re doing is missing the substance of the matter and chasing after ephemera that no one will remember six months from now, much less acknowledge as relevant to the broad sweep of history.
In the case of Tarantino’s overall body of work, I think that such reactive condemnations badly miss the mark. Q.T. is a highly talented film director with a lot of annoying auteurial tics, to be sure; the value of his films are a matter of taste, but the notion of him as some kind of high priest of anti-white political correctness does not stand up to scrutiny.
I will introduce two exhibits to help make my case.
Exhibit A: Check out this fascinating commentary the Q-man makes on Martin Scorsese’s Taxi Driver in the video tab. While denying that this gritty and controversial movie is itself “racist,” Tarantino does own that it is a sympathetic portrayal of a “racist” character. But he doesn’t condemn Travis Bickle’s attitude towards blacks; instead, he declares it to be perfectly understandable, given the circumstances of being a white man living in the middle of a crime-and vice-ravaged “ghetto.” Even more interestingly, Tarantino mildly criticizes Scorsese for copping out in making Iris’s pimp Sport white, rather than black, in effect leveling the charge that in so doing Scorsese was being unduly sensitive to namby-pamby liberal racial sensitivities (see audio/video).
Exhibit B: I have not yet viewed Django, but maintain that Inglourious Basterds is not at all the rah-rah Jew-loving, German-hating movie its Alt-right critics say it is, once you’ve scratched below the surface and explored the not-so subtle subtext. I delve into the matter in my review and analysis of the movie written in 2009, posted at The Last Ditch.
Jack Donovan joins Colin, Richard, and Andy to discuss David Fincher's seminal mind-twisting masculinist cinematic epic, Fight Club.
As an author, I faithfully go wherever my flighty and unpredictable Muse leads me. This dedication to my ever-evolving, often elusive source of inspiration has led me down a winding and torturous path, lined with copious clusters of thorns, nettles, and poison ivy. It has most certainly not, thus far, brought me widespread recognition, fortune, fame, or glory. Yet I trust my Muse just the same, because really, when it comes to creative stimulation, who or what else do I have? Without her, I’m nothing.
I will not spill too much ink here investigating the identity, orientation, or overall reliability of the Muse, nor even exploring the question of whether she dwells within, capriciously stirring my consciousness when she feels the inexplicable urge (but always on her own terms) or if in fact she is a separate entity entirely, one who hovers above me, flitting about and occasionally whispering mischievous notions in my ear before withdrawing with a girlish giggle, darting away to a cleverly chosen hiding spot and teasingly mocking my efforts to find her again. Suffice to say that she moves in mysterious, and at times infuriating, ways. In the last couple of years, however, the Muse has proven to be a faithful helpmeet; she has sung to me freely, and I have translated her music into numerous works, some that I have managed to publish and others that have yet to find a suitable suitor.
A couple of years ago, for reasons unknown, my Muse became raunchy, ribald, and risqué: a saucy wench indeed. This is when I began writing literary erotica. In searching for possible publishers in this genre, I soon became aware of an undeniable fact: these days, erotica writers tend, overwhelmingly, to be women. This has certainly not always been so: men, in fact, created and helped to shape the course of this type of literature for centuries. (Forget De Sade; think of King Solomon, author of the most supremely sensual book of the Bible!) But today, male authors tend to write in other fields, and erotica has largely become a no-go zone for men.
It’s hard to say precisely why this trend has developed. But as a result of the clustering of female authors in this genre, a bewildering set of ideological assumptions have sprung up, usually unspoken, and laden with inconsistencies and double standards. Contemporary erotica is permeated with a feminist ethos, even as the subject matter of most popular erotic novels are strongly traditionalist when it comes to depictions of sex roles and gender relations. In spite of being a rather poorly written work, E.L. James’s Fifty Shades of Gray series has achieved immense popularity, and has spawned numerous imitators, all of which depict the beautiful heroine finding majestic joy and unbearable ecstasy submitting her body and soul to the whims of a dominant, powerful, exceedingly masculine man. Yet since the author of Fifty Shades and its knockoffs are all women, and since most of its readers are women as well, no disapproval is evinced from the cultural commissars of contemporary feminism. Instead, in writing and enjoying these books, women are seen as taking charge of their sexuality and embracing all of its fetishes and kinks: you go, girl! Never mind that what they are embracing is the very “antediluvian” notion of female submission, which apparently still seems to resonate with a great many women, perhaps largely because of its politically-incorrect “forbidden fruit” quality.
Yet, as I have learned, such exemptions are not granted to authors of stories with similar themes… if the author is a man. In fact, if my experiences are typical, and I strongly suspect they are, a man who writes explicitly sexual tales is largely treated with suspicion, if not thorough contempt. It matters not whether his stories are well-written, though of course reasonable people can disagree about the literary merit of any given piece. In my experience, even if the female reader/would-be publisher admits that the writing is good, the fact that a man would write such things is seen by her as deeply disquieting. The assumptions are rampant: he’s a despicable misogynist, a creepy pervert, perhaps a closet rapist or child molester. “He’s just writing to get himself off,” the scornful editors snort snidely, and that’s apparently a problem, since he’s a man; unlike female masturbation, which is a beautiful gesture of liberated womanhood (even if one is fantasizing about being dominated by a man), male self-stimulation is disgusting and perverted. No one is declaring “You go, boy! Embrace your sexuality, be liberated, throw off your chains of repression!” to the man who gets off on recording what turns him on; instead, he is just a sicko wanker: a loser, to be shunned and derided. The same encouraging “sex-positive” feminist, who fully approves of the Fifty Shades-esque fantasy indulged in by female authors, becomes a stern puritanical sex-negative schoolmarm, and a fierce and hatefully abusive bully to boot, when she discovers that a man is the author of the erotic work in question.
We hear a great deal these days from feminists who claim that men hate and fear “strong women,” and that open, frank depictions of female sexuality are anathema to our “patriarchal” culture. But in fact it is male sexuality that is commonly hated, feared, and anathematized. Far from being “phallocentric,” our culture today is in fact overwhelmingly phallophobic. We aren’t afraid of the turned-on woman, with her lovely, proud, wonderful feminine wetness between her legs; instead, it’s the horny dude with his awful, ugly, insufferable erection, that gives our misandric, feminist-indoctrinated culture the willies (pun intended). In short, feminists can only endure a sexually aggressive character with a penis if said character is written by an author with a vagina.
I will cop to some personal bitterness on this front: I have had (female) would-be editors greet my erotically-charged material with unjustified anger and defensiveness; they have treated me like a cad for even writing such stuff; how dare I? I don’t believe that interpretations of my work as woman-hating at all stand up to scrutiny, though admittedly an author isn’t necessarily the best judge of the meaning and message of his own stories.
I am thankful to www.erbooks.com (whose editor just happens to be a man… hmmm) for publishing my short story "Motel Memento Mori" as well as my novel Heart Killer. And I hope the future will reveal greater open-minded acceptance and less reflexive punitive derision for men who find their Muses leading them into gynocentric literary territory in the future. To use an ironically apt metaphor, I hope they don’t get dicked around like I was!
In his article “Police State Progressives,” Jack Donovan echoes so many of my own thoughts on the post-Newtown American Zeitgeist that I am tempted to quip that he stole my gunfire on the subject. Liberals, he finds, don’t really care for the notion of power being granted to “the people”—they have learned to stop worrying and love the state. Of course, were the face of Big Brother still revealed in the smirking frat-boy features of George W. Bush instead of the shining, godlike countenance of mulatto rainbow wonderboy Barack Obama, chances are the libs would have a far harder time carrying on their love affair. (Even though the policies of the two men aren’t markedly different, image is indeed everything when it comes to today’s facile state-smitten progressives.)
Pointing out the smelly hypocrisy of liberal-left rhetoric, of course, is a full-time job, and I am already gainfully employed, so I won’t delve too deeply into the bogus and tiresome invitations to take part in a “national conversation” on guns. Suffice to say that I respectfully decline the offer to join this so-called “dialogue,” because I know specious, disingenuous blather when I hear it. When media and academic elites wish to conduct town hall meetings in some quaint invocation of populist democracy, it’s easy enough to catch a whiff of the ubiquitous, proverbial rat. Liberals don’t want a “dialogue” on guns any more than they have ever really wanted to engage in a “dialogue” on race. Rather, they want to lecture us benighted ones (be we gun owners or race realists) on the error of our ways, and help us to see the light that they so graciously carry for our benefit.
In short, were the standard liberal more prone to enter into this “dialogue” with an open mind—i.e., with the idea that maybe, just maybe, he might learn something from the non-liberal, rather than merely entering the fray with the aim of being a “consciousness-raiser,” a conduit through which his enemy, whom he loathes and smugly regards as a stupid gun-toting racist redneck-- finally gets enlightened, then the prospect of engaging in a dialogue with said liberal would seem slightly more enticing. Until such time, I’d just as soon engage in “dialogue” with one of my gun range targets.
It is in the psychology of the self-righteous to be prone to rhetorical overreach. The Newtown massacre has brought out the human tendency towards scapegoating and witch-hunting which gets freely and hyperbolically indulged after a horrifying and traumatic event takes place. In a way, such reactions are understandable, and as a parent myself, I am willing to cut fellow raisers of children some slack on this front. No one wants to feel helpless, and everyone wants to “do something,” to “demand a plan,” particularly when we fear for the safety of the most vulnerable among us. Thus, when a upstate New York newspaper recently published the names and addresses of state-registered gun-owning residents in the area, it probably seemed like a good idea at the time. Why not shame these law-abiding people for being part of America’s “gun culture,” and thus complicit in the mass murder of 20 children by a deranged psychopath at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Connecticut? We have to “do something,” after all!
It probably surprised the originators of this idea when they discerned the massive backlash they’d provoked, and the likely harm they did to their cause, by treating gun owners as if they were vile people to be shunned and ostracized, something like child molesters. Reports on the story afterwards from other news outlets were a display in damage control: perhaps it was an error in judgment to run the report “outing” area gun owners, we were told, but after all, the news outlet meant well, so please forgive them!
We see a case-in-point here of hysterical sanctimony run amok, but of course as usual the controversy generates more heat than light. Much as this news station attempted to shame and vilify its “targets,” they probably did these people a service.
After all, for all of the tired talk of American “gun culture” being to blame for the random violent acts of lunatics, chances are that in a society experiencing upheaval, tumult, and chaos, having a gun handy in fact enhances one’s security a good deal. And I strongly suspect that, deep down, even the most vociferous gun-control advocates know that bad men, be they disreputable outlaws or tyrannical agents of the state, are far more likely to victimize and oppress the unarmed than those with a means of protecting themselves and their families from attack. Thus, in outing the dastardly possessors of firearms and attempting to tar them with an aura of ignominy, the overzealous New York newsmen inadvertently gave word to the criminal element: if you’re a ruthless, amoral creep with a yen to break into someone’s house to rob, rape, or otherwise wreak havoc, then for heaven’s sake don’t visit any of these addresses. You might, after all, get shot before you can carry out your depredations!
But perhaps I am wrong on this score. Maybe, in fact, those most zealous to disarm and render vulnerable their fellow citizens truly believe that being defenseless makes them safer. If this is so, I’d like to issue an open invitation to all gun-control enthusiasts. Stand up and be counted, oh annointed ones! Lead by example! If you wish to bring about universal disarmament, then in the comment section below, please let the world know who you are, where you live, and a full list of the valuables you store in your home. Please make it absolutely clear that you have no guns whatsoever anywhere on your person or your property... Surely you have nothing to fear in speaking up thusly, if, as you constantly tell us, the presence of guns in the hands of law-abiding citizens only makes the world more unsafe, and the absence of guns discourages the commission of violent crime!
The fact that Derek Turner’s magisterial Sea Changes is a deeply “relevant” novel ought not to fool the potential reader into thinking that it has the typical earmarks of a “timely” read. Though its multifaceted, intricately-weaved storyline perfectly embodies the “ripped from today’s headlines” cliché, Sea Changes also has the feel of a timeless work, written less for the day and more for the ages.
Indeed, though Turner is writing about events and phenomena that many find enraging—politically-correct British ethno-masochism, mass Third World immigration and the concomitant mounting threat of white extinction in England—Sea Changes is notable for not reading as an angry or incendiary novel. Those expecting a crudely cartoonish anti-anti-racism screed a la The Turner Diaries are sure to be disappointed. Though Turner clearly means to skewer and savage the anti-“racist” (read: anti-white) cant-driven dogmas and smelly little orthodoxies that saturate our era, he does so in a most elegant and compassionate manner, with malice towards none except the unforgivably disingenuous.
The plot of Sea Changes revolves around Ibraham, an Iraqi man who attempts, for perfectly understandable and sympathetic reasons, to illegally enter Great Britain. When the plan goes spectacularly awry, resulting in a shipwreck of which Ibraham is the sole survivor, the hapless man becomes a pawn of forces he never before knew existed: namely the left-wing anti-“racism” industry of contemporary England.
The narrative branches in a four-pronged direction, which tracks the parallel stories of 1) the reluctant immigrant himself, 2) a well-meaning but naïve English villager who witnesses the wreckage and afterwards becomes known in the media for making certain unfortunately impolitic pronouncements about foreigners, 3) a staid, aging Tory columnist, and 4) a supremely odious, but undeniably spirited, left-wing muckraking journalist.
Events unfold in a manner that is both depressing in its familiarity and fascinating in its detailed chronicling of various circumstances and personality types. Sea Changes is funny and sad, profound in its insight, and subtly devastating in its scathing portrayal of our intellectually bankrupt Zeitgeist. In short, it would make a terrific Christmas present for Alt-Right readers!
I recently caught up with Derek, a frequent Alternative Right contributor and editor of the acclaimed British journal The Quarterly Review, to discuss his book:
Before we begin talking about your powerful new novel SEA CHANGES, a general question on fiction writing in general with respect to the "Alt-Rightosphere"... You and Tito Perdue have been working for a long time, and in recent years you have been joined by novelists like Alex Kurtagic, Troy Southgate, and myself -- we are all writers of a paleocon or alt-right or nationalist or anti-modernist mindset of one stripe or another, yet we're writing *fiction*, and our concerns are *aesthetic*, not just political and social. What would you say is the importance of being able to maintain a vigorous aesthetic and artistic resistance to the Zeitgeist, as opposed to a mere *polemical* resistance?
Sea Changes is my first book, so you are being much too kind in saying I’ve been working for a long time devising “a vigorous aesthetic and artistic resistance” to anything! I am a natural flâneur and dilettante, and don’t really see myself as being a committed novelist per se, nor a member of any movement. Besides, political novels have a deservedly bad name, because the author usually wants to make at least one world-historical point in every paragraph, and usually gives in to the temptation! I have my own interests and sympathies, and I think these are evident in the book – but I hope it is also calm and fair. I like to see myself as resembling Cavafy, observed by E. M. Forster “standing absolutely motionless, at a slight angle to the Universe”.
But however committed or uncommitted I may be, it’s true that fiction is often a better persuader than fact, and has a longer-lasting effect. Even the most brilliant polemical writing dates horribly quickly, becoming of interest only to specialists. For example, most Britons see 19th century England through the prism of Dickens rather than through the prisms of the Quarterly Review or Edinburgh Review – yet those journals were contemporaneously regarded as august social forces and ornaments to English letters, existing on a far higher plane than Dickens’ didactic potboilers. Now these once-great magazines moulder on the shelves of country houses with just the clock ticking for company, while Dickens is revived for every generation. Similarly, moderns who want to find out about the Muslim world are more likely to resort to Salman Rushdie than read think-tank reports. So whether you want to change the world, or just comment on a few of its odder and less satisfying aspects, fiction can be an immensely powerful ingredient of the arsenal.
What inspired or compelled you to write SEA CHANGES?
Simply, I was interested in the subject matter – modern racial neuroses – and no-one else seemed to be taking much of an interest in this curious, cloying tangle of saccharine self-delusion and sheer fear. There seemed to be a lot of unexplored conceptual hinterland – unexplored presumably because of that sheer fear! The lurking suspicion, even amongst liberals, that mass immigration has been a massive mistake also explains the great frequency and fervency with which multiculturalism is often “celebrated” – a classic example of protesting too much. It is glaringly obvious that diversity is not, and never could be, a social strength. The left prides itself on breaking taboos, and yet they are too frightened to examine this particular psychological phenomenon.
There was also a lot of scope for satire, and I secretly enjoyed picking apart all the crashing clichés and PC pretensions that some people call analysis. I was startled to realize quite how easy it is to write leftist opinion-pieces. Our society is so suffused with this stuff that it is almost like the “automatic writing” beloved of mediums in séances – and it is of roughly equal usefulness. My opinion of leftwing scribes, which was never high, has sunk even lower as a result of dipping a toe into their demi-rational demi-monde. I have a lot of sympathy for what one might call honest liberalism, but I find that is very rare; most people, of Left and Right, prefer a crude schematic where all moral good is on their side and all moral evil on the other.
From a very young age, I have felt that immigration matters greatly to society – any society. In a way I couldn’t then explain, it mattered much more than the economy, or party politics, or the Prime Minister’s hairstyle, or lots of other things people get passionate about. People were obviously different both as individuals and as groups, and they seemed to stay largely different whatever was done to make them the same. And this mania for making people the same always seems to mean equalizing downwards rather than upwards – just as in L. P. Hartley’s Facial Justice, when all those who can’t be beautiful themselves want the next best thing, which is to make the beautiful more like them.
I have never understood why this difference is seen as a problem. Surely it is a wonderful evolutionary gift, lending colour and texture to the world. As far as I’m concerned, the more peoples, cultures, languages, countries, principalities, dukedoms, margavates, provinces and fiefdoms there are in the world the better. I dislike anything – whether mass immigration, big business, the EU, or neoconservative foreign policy – which seeks to make everything bland and boring.
I used to get very frustrated wondering why others couldn’t see this, and being called racist and fascist and so forth. I expect I was bad at explaining myself, and I was probably also a bore. Even now, it seems oddly difficult getting people to accept that the English people made England, and if they were replaced by non-English people it would not be England, but just a place. Most people often don’t wish to think about this, especially politicians who are here today and gone tomorrow and whose prime motivation appears to make their careers as pleasant as possible. Non-discrimination is a cult for an age that foolishly believes because it has dumped God it is governed by Reason. Yet in their way liberals are as superstitious as Salafists. Their frantic attempts to bring about human equality – despite the fact that there has never been an egalitarian society at any time in history, or in any culture – are as bootless as the Buddhists’ search for bliss, and infinitely more harmful.
You have had, to date, a highly successful career in journalism. SEA CHANGES, however, doesn't read like a book penned by a journalist. In fact, for all of its topicality, it has a literary quality about it that seems timeless. I daresay that even readers who don't share your perspectives on issues can still enjoy and appreciate SEA CHANGES for the beauty of the language, the sweep of the story, and the full development of the fascinating characters depicted. Who would you say are your literary influences?
I have certainly been published in lots of journals, but it hasn’t translated into influence or even a decent income! But thank you for what you say about the book. It is a big theme, which demands a degree of expansiveness.
As for my influences, it is difficult to answer, because I have always read voraciously, everything from comics to classics, Hergé to Homer. I like all kinds of genres, although clearly some books are more influential or loveable. I also write in several different styles, and working out which bits of which sentences in which articles might derive from which author would be impossible.
I go through phases of particular authors. When I come across a new writer who interests me, or about whom I feel I should know, I will often read several of their books one after the other, alongside related biographies and histories. Then I may go onto comparable contemporaries. For instance, I remember when I discovered the 18th century English novel I read, first of all, Johnson’s Rasselas (I had been going through a Johnsonian phase, from which I have never fully emerged) then in rapid succession all of Fielding, Smollett, Richardson and Sterne – plus essays about 18th century letters by critics like Augustine Birrell and William Hazlitt. When eventually I come up for air after such deep-sea dives, I am left with only an aggregated and slightly jumbled memory of plots, characters and other such details, but a strong and lasting impression of an author’s style, language, personality and preoccupations. I probably also copy some of their stylistic tricks for a time, without even realizing it. I am an impressionist rather than a precisionist.
It is much quicker to say what kinds of books I tend to dislike – abstract philosophy, celebrity memoirs, esotericism, health tips, mysticism, pop psychology, pornography, schmaltz, self-help (which is secretly self-pity), sports, theology, tub-thumping. I don’t enjoy the stripped-down Hemingway style much either; it’s too self-consciously macho, as you might expect from a man who suffered from impotence.
But even in that short list there are exceptions – I love for instance the gentle Anglican mysticism of Sir Thomas Browne, whose sonorous meditations vibrate through the troubled England of his time, a variant of religion as soothing and beneficial as perusing a few pages of The Compleat Angler. Certain subjects also turn me off – for example, I would probably never read even a very well-written book about football, or the “Arab Spring”.
You probably want me to offer a specific list of authors from whom I may have taken something. I am reluctant to do this, because such lists are often just snapshots, revealing the mood of a day rather than a lifetime of omnivorous and sometimes undiscriminating bibliophilia – but if you insist…
Please take all or most of “the classics” as read, but I would add in roughly chronological order Langland, Chaucer, Spenser, Marlowe, Browne (mentioned above), Walton (whose Compleat Angler I alluded to above), and Robert Burton, whose Anatomy of Melancholy is so determinedly plangent that it becomes deeply pleasurable. Moving on a hundred years or so, via Pope, Defoe and Addison/Steele, I could never tire of the company of Boswell’s Johnson, or Oliver Goldsmith, or even Gibbon. Jumping forward another century, I like stately historians like Motley and Prescott, the cynical sprightliness of Thackeray, the ponderous provincialism of Trollope, Dickens at times (Pickwick will always remain my favourite Dickens, because it is the least “Dickensian”). Into the last century, there is of course Proust and “the English Proust”, Anthony Powell – Conrad, Hardy, Golding, Faulkner, Leigh Fermor, Chatwin, Wolfe, Sebald…where to stop? Even now, having come up with such a list I regret countless wonderful writers unaccountably omitted. And I have not even started on the numerous non-English authors who have moved me.
Your writing is lovely, but SEA CHANGES is a kind of "downer," as well as a frustrating read, in the sense that the bad guys win and the good guys lose, and there seems to be little hope of the bitter tide ever being reversed. Are you as pessimistic about the future for your country as this book would seem to suggest?
I don’t think the ending is as gloomy as you suggest. It is much less gloomy than Camp of the Saints, for example, in which all of Europe is wiped off the cultural map by people pressure. And it is no gloomier than, say, Bonfire of the Vanities. I would say in many ways Sea Changes is inconclusive – but that is because life is usually inconclusive. It is very rare for there to be total cataclysms or completely clean breaks. Indeterminacy suits the book’s oceanic ambience. The beach is a metaphor for all borders – real but permeable, a dynamic place different with each tide, but which remains somehow the same, while immigration is an agglomeration of drifters, what Jonathan Raban has called “that archetypal modern figure – the man caught between frontiers”.
I did not want to Disneyfy (is that a word?) the book by tacking on a sugary ending, with white-hatted cavalry riding improbably to the rescue just when all seems lost. The book is about subtle changes – gradual erosion, accumulating alienation, growing grief, a death of a thousand cuts, population replacement one person at a time, one family at a time, one house at a time, one street at a time, one district at a time. Mass immigration is not an invasion – it’s more of an infiltration.
But the overall theme of English extrusion is desperately sad, and I wanted the sadness and waste of it all to register with readers who may not necessarily have thought about such things before. The downfall of a proud people, the end of an old line, seeing an old house’s furniture being sold off in front of the shuttered building, should always be cause for chivalric pity, even when they are not one’s own people (and I am not English). England is one of the most ancient nations on the face of the earth – Bede used the term English as long ago as the 8th century, and many people in England have ancestral roots in the country going back even further. Every inch of England is littered with English remains, and laden with English significance. To see such a people, such a country, so abased is a truly pitiable spectacle – as pitiable as the extirpation, penning and gelding of the Red Indians, or the ethnic cleansing of today’s Tibetans by the Chinese.
One of the major characters in your novel is John Leyden, a left-wing columnist and investigative journalist who is certainly one of the more obnoxious and loathsome characters ever written... I'm curious to know if this guy is based on anyone in particular who you may have met during your career... You're far too classy a person to “dish” or “name names,” I expect, but could you maybe just give us a *hint* concerning his true identity? Or is he a composite of despicable, self-righteous and morally bankrupt men you have known?
John Leyden was named in “honour” of John of Leiden, an especially obnoxious Dutch Anabaptist of the 16th century, whose inflammatory rhetoric, egalitarian politics and claim to a monopoly on moral virtue led to the deaths of many thousands of men and women in religious violence. My John Leyden is not quite in this noxious league, but I wanted to highlight the recklessness and unreason of some highly influential people, who do not stop to think what the consequences of their columnar incontinence may be on the streets of, say, Deptford or Brick Lane in London, areas where I used to live – which at the best of times are drenched in distrust. He is not modeled on anyone in particular, and I have exaggerated his ghastliness – although not by very much. I had imagined that as well as being repellent he was in some ways a pathetic, faintly ridiculous figure – an empty vessel, someone who believes he is a dangerous rebel when he is really a conformist who deals in clichés, who has never quite grown up, and in his thirties is still metaphorically begging the adult world to “look at me, look at me!”
A lot of "nativist" lingo or rhetoric lends itself to the perception that critics of mass Third World immigration hate and loathe the racial "outsider." But critics can't credibly make this claim about SEA CHANGES, since this book's most poignant and sympathetic character is Ibraham Nassouf, an Iraqi man who escapes the (largely West-created) chaos, illegally enters the United Kingdom and becomes a cause celèbre of white multiculturalist leftists, a sort of pawn in their endgame to further their own feelings of righteous superiority to their more "benighted" countrymen. What led you to create this character, and what function do you see him serving in your story?
I detest any kind of politics which dehumanizes people, or foments hatred. Immigrants are human beings, and in many cases they are only doing what we would do if we had been unlucky enough to have been born poor in Iraq during the Saddam period. One reviewer of Sea Changes averred that Third World immigrants were motivated by “envy and greed”. To me, this seems harsh – while some immigrants may be resentful and avaricious, most simply want a better hand than the one they have been dealt by the Fates. Who can blame them? What young man of spirit born into a cramped life would not seek new horizons? It is their moral right to seek them.
However, it is also the moral right of the recipient nations to decline to admit immigrants if they wish to do so, for any reason. European countries are not infinitely absorbent, and even if they were it would still be wholly legitimate for indigenous Europeans to demur at social revolution. But they should never do this on the basis of sour hatred. When it comes to immigration, people usually take sides for perfectly understandable reasons, whether their own ethnic interests or on some point of principle. The problem is not people, but rather a perverse ideology. As Meredith wrote in “Love’s Grave”:
“No villain need be! Passions spin the plot
We are betray’d by what is false within.”
If there are enemies as such, they are not immigrants, but a tiny number of indigenous operatives who use immigrants as ideological human shields. Some who might come close to “enemy of England” status might be those Labour advisers in the Blair era who apparently wanted to ramp up population replacement in order to “rub the Right’s nose in diversity” (and – purely coincidentally, of course! – reinforce Labour’s electoral coalition).
Immigration skeptics must make a positive case, using positive symbolism – global diversity, international co-operation rather than conglomeration, national and regional distinctiveness, local freedoms, local biodiversity, cultural cohesion, social trust, the common good.
What effect do you hope SEA CHANGES will have upon those who read it?
I hope it may make a few presently uncommitted people think about the truly revolutionary implications of the present process of population replacement going on in European (and European-descended) countries. I hope it may remind them that behind every politically correct platitude or abstract UN aspiration there are real people leading real lives in real places, and these people have at least as many natural rights as immigrants. Finally, I hope it may give them an insight into some of society’s most intractable problems – the gradual retreat into inner exile, the withdrawal of everyone from everyone else, the angst and alienation that pierce through public life like stigmata.
The Homo and the Negro, a provocatively-titled collection of essays recently published by Counter-Currents, reveals one of the more interestingly idiosyncratic, and thus far largely unsung, writers of the far right.
James J. O’Meara has called his own writing style “psychedelic,” and while I don’t know if this is meant to imply the actual influence of LSD in this Detroit-born, Canadian-educated baby boomer’s life, one can indeed sense quite a bit more of a Phillip K. Dick-vibe in his work than anything Evolian or Spenglerian. But maybe that’s just a roundabout way of saying that, while O’Meara has a profound interest in matters of intellectual substance, his writing is at the same time entertaining to read, and not in any way stuffy or stultifyingly academic-sounding.
In The Homo and the Negro, we see this pop-culture polyglot really go to town on various matters, from movies to music to fashion, making frequent reference to masculinity and the current, degraded state of the Mannerbund. His guiding thesis—regarding both homosexuality and negritude (hence the book’s title)—is sure to be controversial, even among much of its intended audience. Yet O’Meara’s accessible and witty prose has an undeniable insouciant charm. At times he even reads a bit like an alt-right version of humor columnist Dave Barry, particularly in one amusing essay in which he conducts a running, and increasingly scathing, meta-critique of another writer’s analysis of John Carpenter’s cheesy sci-fi cinema classic They Live.
I got together with James to run a few questions by him to ask, in the words of the late Gary Coleman, just what he’s talkin’ about in The Homo and the Negro, now available on Amazon and from www.counter-currents.com
Like Jack Donovan in THE WAY OF MEN, you are very keen on a restoration of a masculine ethos in an age of overweening feminism... Yet while Jack (who wrote a blurb for your book) very much favors a return to what could be called the "hardened" traditional manly-man male, you seem to pine for a time when men could be swanky, well-dressed, bookish, and even temperamentally effeminate, without immediately being tarred and feathered by certain know-nothing right-wingers as nancy-boy faggots. Could you elaborate on your view of this matter, as well as Jack's, so far as you know it?
I was thrilled to get a blurb from Jack, as his book Androphlia was the first quasi-mainstream (an actual printed book!) work I found, after discovering the online writings of Alisdair Clarke, that dealt with the same issues, which might be summed up as the non-Leftist or non-gay (hmmm, sounds like they’re synonyms?) sexual deviant. While on the subject of books and blurbs, let me add that I think his comment that reading my essays is “a psychedelic experience” shows a remarkable grasp of what’s going on in them. As I mention briefly in the interview with Greg Johnson at the end of the book, I’ve been very influenced by the work of Michael Hoffman (egodeath.com) on the roots of religion and culture in experiences induced by visionary plants. (As another interesting coincidence, I’ve also been influenced by the work of another Michael Hoffman, the historical revisionist, which the other Hoffman is in a sense as well). Hoffman locates artistic and scientific creativity in moments of what he calls “loose cognition,” in which cognitive networks are loosened and allowed to recombine freely. Rather than drug use as such, however, I’ve adapted—or weaponized for our struggle, as Trevor Lynch would say—Danny Drennan’s online next-day re-caps of episodes of Beverly Hills 90210 (the original, of course) with their run-on sentences and Valley Girl-esque idiom as well as their obsession with pop culture trash that by its very intensity becomes poetry (a notion I owe to England’s greatest living poet, Jeremy Reed)—Hunter Thompson’s Gonzo journalism updated for the 21st century—my essays on The Gilmore Girls and They Live are exemplars of this, the first in subject, the second in style.
But back to Jack. His more recent work, like The Way of Men, focuses on the question of ‘how to be good at being a man’ (rather than ‘how to be a good man’) and he acknowledges the need for a variety of skills and interests, even for what he calls ’the runt’ who can often make contributions in lieu of brute strength—the blind Homer is one of Jack’s examples.
The ancient Männerbund is very much a key concept in the work of both of us (as it was for Alisdair) and there the issue is ‘what can this person bring to the group’ rather than abstract, media-driven images of ‘what’s manly.’ If you think of the Norse gods, there is Thor, but of course there is also Loki, and even, for that matter, their ruler, the one-eyed Odin. In my essay on De Palma’s The Untouchables, I discuss how the eponymous crime fighters form a modern Männerbund which brings together not just the historical White nationalities, but also a wide variety of types of men, where, as Gurdjieff said about ‘work with groups’, one man helps another, while one man alone can do nothing—eager but naïve Ness is balanced by weary but wise Malone, while Wallace, the runt, not only contributes the way to get Capone—tax evasion, not gun battles—but also, inspired by his affection for Stone, becomes an effective killing machine, as Plato had predicted an army of lovers would be. In the book I also discuss masculine types as different as Noel Coward, Humphrey Bogart, and British war hero “Bunny” Roger, who said “Now that I’ve killed so many Nazis Daddy will have to buy me a sable coat.”
Perhaps this is a good place to point out that I have no particular interest in the ’plight of the homosexual’, which I argue is a Leftist myth anyway. “Gay” is a fake identity, like “the closet”, to enable homosexuals to join in the rainbow wrecking crew—perfected in the last election, a winning coalition of Negroes, Hispanics, Gay Marriage fetishists and Urban Sluts. This is not Leftist identity politics. This is the Rightist notion of how to create a great culture, and historically this has been done by Aryans in the form of male groups held together by bonds of affection. The Judaic notion of “family values” impedes that, by making all male ties suspect. It’s the effect of that on society in general—as we see in today’s thuggish, “no homo” culture—that is important, not taking pity on some sniveling queen in a closet demanding “my rights!” The Judeo-Christianity of the American Right not only prevents them from fixing society, it even gradually converts them into admiring it themselves. I’m waiting for the first rappin’ Randian to make his appearance.
One of the more arresting comparisons you draw is the transformation that has taken place in American conservatism, as signified in the fact that William F. Buckley used to be the iconic man in charge of the conservative movement back in the 50s and 60s, whereas today Rush Limbaugh fills that role. What does this transformation signify to you?
Buckley, of course, is not a perfect example. If you read Baron Evola’s discussion, in Men among the Ruins, of the differences between the virile Roman racial type and the almost effeminate Mediterranean type, and then watch the famous slap-fight between Buckley and Gore Vidal—I saw it as a kid, but it’s on YouTube now of course—it’s clear that Buckley is exhibiting the traits of hysteria, melodrama and theatricality, while Vidal, sitting back and smirking, is the calm, reticent Aryan. It’s clear that Vidal is the real American patrician, Buckley the jumped-up Irishman whose father paid for the right schools. Yet Vidal achieves his effect by mere words—the typical runt. Ironically, but significantly, although Vidal called Buckley a ‘crypto-fascist’ his Judeo-Christian family values “conservatism” became more and more neo-conned, while it became clear to many of us, such as Bill Kauffman, that it was the pagan Vidal who represented the real American conservative or man of the right.
More generally, the same thing has happened in political culture in general. Buckley’s momentary freak-out is now the de rigueur style of political “debate” : shouting over each other’s sound bites, which are meaningless anyhow. Limbaugh’s been at it so long that even he looks and sounds almost Buckley-esque compared to the more recent crop. And not just on the Right! I’ve noticed everywhere there’s a real type that I remember from the Irish wakes of my childhood, uncles and cousins, boozed up and telling one another to “straighten up and fly right” or “git wise to yerself” etc. It’s all blotchy-faced, thick-necked Micks screaming at each other, O’Reilly and Hannity on Fox, that Ed guy and Chris Matthews on MSNBC, and check out the neck on Maddow! The decline of physical standards and intellectual standards goes hand in hand (how ‘gay’ is that?) and also tracks the increasing dominance of the most decadent, passed-their-shelf-date Judeo-Christian notions—the last election was basically gay marriage versus sister marriage.
Yours is probably the only right-wing book anywhere with a section on the importance of fashion... Some will smirk at the inclusion of this subject. Why is it important to you?
Calling it ‘fashion’ kind of builds in the idea of transient and ephemeral. It’s also one of the ways I discuss of how the Left neuters homosexuality while supposedly “liberating” it, by channeling homoerotic interests from culture to “fabulous” things like fashion and decorating. However, viewing clothing and style as smirk-able is the flip side of the same coin. The first generation of Traditionalists included many who, unlike the more abstract and mathematical Guenon, directed their attention to every detail of Traditional culture, including clothing. I’m thinking of Coomaraswamy and Danielou, also Marco Pallis, and especially the not-quite kosher Traditionalist Alan Watts, who devoted a whole book to food and clothing called Does It Matter?, where he diagnoses our (already in the 1950s!) culture of ugly clothes and tasteless food as a “pseudo-materialism” that is actually an airy, disembodied abstraction-ism, rooted in Judeo-Christian body-hate, and contrasts it with “a thorough-going spiritual materialism.” But all of them recognized, to one degree of “seriousness” or another, that “clothes make the man.” Watts pointed out that Japan became mechanized and militaristic after adopting “modern” dress, and answered someone who said “How can I run for the bus wearing a kimono? with the reply “No real gentleman runs for anything, much less a bus.” Both he and Coomaraswamy recognized that Islam, positing the dignity of all men as vice-regents of Allah on Earth, had designed the most dignified of male attire, as homoerotic travelers from Gide to T. E. Lawrence to William Burroughs have discovered. And I would add, that one look at the pasty-faced, red-haired Hasids in their beaver hats and long black frock coats—the secular Israelis call them “the black coats”—tells you all you need to know about who really belongs in Jerusalem.
For a brief moment in the 60s male attire blossomed, but as Watts was already noting, it largely succumbed to a cult of griminess under the influence of Judaic notions of “real” and “authentic”—the fat, hairy Jewish “therapist” in the hot tub as the emblem of “letting it all hang out”—and musical culture moved from White musicians in tight denim or spandex pants to rappers “keeping it real” in baggy pants belted around the knees to exposed flowery boxers—surely the ugliest and stupidest attire ever worn, and the sure symbol of the “no homo” culture endorsed by the Left and Right. By contrast, as I discuss in the book, the real “hard men” of the American West, cowboys and gold miners, cheered Oscar Wilde on his lecture tour and welcomed him as one of their own, recognizing his long hair and velvet breeches as symbols of their shared casual, free lifestyle outside the “family values” world of Victorian labor.
You spend a good deal of time discussing the future of "white music," and you diss (to use a non-white word) Alternative Right writer and music enthusiast Alex Kurtagic's taste in orchestral heavy metal, saying that overall you dig the "futurist" vibe, which sounds cool (puts me to mind of Gary Numan's "Cars"), but what do you mean by it?
Mad props to Alex, of course, for his fine work, both in music and print, but as Nietzsche says in discussing his “untimely meditations,” one should confine one’s criticism to otherwise worthy targets. Here I am influenced by Baron Evola, whose Traditionalism was flavored with an uncompromising anti-bourgeois animus. He opposed the kind of “conservatism” which, like the Buckleys of the world, simply wants to preserve the ways Traditional principles happened to be embodied in their childhood, no matter how decadent or just imperfect, rather than seek new ways to present them for us today; “archeo-futurism” if you will. Let the opera houses burn! Thus, he agreed with the instincts of the “younger generation” that sought more authentic forms of music than Western, equal tempered music, as did Danielou. Unlike Danielou, he opposed the mania for jazz and later “beat” music. Rather than searching for their own roots, as Bartok did, they turned to the alien, dissolute, demonic culture of the Africans. Needless to say, this “turn” was made all the easier for them by Judaics—think, Adorno, and the aforesaid cult of dirty “authenticity.”
It’s a perfect example what I’m talking about throughout the book: a justifiable dissatisfaction with what passes for White culture is met with incomprehension on the Right, leaving the Left to offer the only alternative. It’s the Stupid Party versus the Crazy Party, and the Judaic is always there, blocking the way on the Right, offering the false alternative on the Left.
If one must have “soaring harmonies” etc. then I suggest in the book that we take a look at so-called New Age music, which I analyze as an “implicitly White” format, de-emphasizing Negroid rhythm and exploring new technologies, new instruments and new sound, in the Faustian Spirit of the Aryan race. Varg Vikernes, than whom there is no one more Metal, is the pioneer here, producing from his Norwegian prison what I call Aryan New Age Music; another suggestion is the work of Scott Walker, from wall-of-sound teenybopper hits to his more recent avant-garde productions.
You are strongly opposed to what you call "Judeo-Christianity," and at one point in your book you state a preference for Mithra-worship. I am a practicing Roman Catholic who overall sees the influence of Christianity in the West in a positive, not a negative light. Yet we, and others like us, find ourselves united, comrades in arms, in opposition to the Zeitgeist of our day... What do you make of this "big tent"? How did so many people with such disperate systems of belief get thrown together like this?
A thorny question! Here again, I take my inspiration from Baron Evola rather than Guenon, who had a much higher opinion of Christianity, or at least Roman Catholicism (but perhaps only because he had a loathing of Classical culture, due perhaps to his French schooldays, and on the other hand, thought there were still valid Traditional forms available, though apparently well hidden even from himself, in the 1930s Church). For Evola, just as every nation was a mixture of two or more racial types—like the Roman and Mediterranean types mentioned before—so the Roman Church was the remains of the Roman culture—the “Roman”—with the more primitive and alien Christianity—hence ‘Church’. The history of the West for Evola is the rise and fall of each influence‘s dominance; Catholicism, Empire, Authority on the one side, Protestantism, Nationalism, Free Thought on the other. I’ve simply extended that analysis into the contemporary scene, and address popular culture and even sexuality from that perspective; something not done since Coomaraswamy and Danielou in the first generation of Traditionalists, while the later ones have tended to follow, say, Frithjof Schuon into a haughty isolation involving vague mysticism, Native American-idolatry and dancing naked with little girls. I’ll let my readers decide which path is more productive—and less perverse!
As for Christianity, or Roman Catholicism, Evola eventually decided it was not just decadent but had never even been an authentic tradition in the first place—unlike the cult of Mithras. As Hoffman would say, they switched the authentic entheogenic sacrament of the Mystery cults with a phony “symbolic” substitute for general consumption, hence outgrowing their rival. It’s unlikely the actual Church today would change his mind. On the other hand, and in practical terms of “well, what next?”, the best strategy for Traditionalists, or archeo-futurists, or even pagans, might be something like political “entryism” where we reverse the Church’s infiltration of the Roman Empire and instead infiltrate the Church, gradually taking over and using its powerful existing structure—which olde tymey Protestants say is just paganism anyway—to rebuild the Heathen Imperium. The use of “Anglo-Catholicism” as a “public closet” for Catholics and Anglicans of a homoerotic persuasion—such as the great American architect Ralph Adams Cram and his Boston Bohemian circle, whom I wrote about recently on Counter Currents—would be the model here. The Church was, in the late 19th century and early 20th, a “more respectable” identity, or refuge, for a whole host, as it were, of social deviants; there’s no reason it couldn’t be the same for today’s Radical Traditionalists, as long as we are aware that our enemies—equalitarianism, feminism, etc.—are rooted there as well.
It's fascinating to chart the momentum of cultural trends. Sometimes a peek into even the rather recent past can be shocking for what it reveals.
Today, we all "know" (because we've had it endlessly drilled into our heads) that the period of westward expansion was a shameful era in American history, a time when greedy, scheming, and corrupt white men stole the noble and peaceable red man's land and imposed their wicked and vile Eurocentric rule over the sweet-natured, charming, spiritually-pure, and morally-superior indiginous population of North America.
Yes, we all "know" these things... after all, haven't you seen Dances With Wolves? Well, there you go. That proves it.
Dances With Wolves came out in 1991, establishing for good the standard white-guilt narrative that had in truth been rendered innumerable times before and which has been repeated innumerable times since, in books, movies, documentaires, and stale, doctrinaire academic lectures. You know, it's the "white man bad; red/black/yellow/brown man good" template, which prevails to an ever-so tiresome extent all across today's oppressive and intellectually-incestuous Zeitgeist.
Yes, trendy white ethnomasochism is nothing new... and yet, it really wasn't that long ago (1975, in fact) that the Saturday-morning Schoolhouse Rock series-- a consistently liberal children's indoctrination program, sharing much the same hippie-ish vibe of the Free to Be You and Me project of the period-- could offer a song like "Elbow Room," a fun, upbeat, uptempo, unapologetic apologia for the white quest for Lebensraum in the American West. It is, believe it or not, a tune utterly free of any shame-inducement or egregious guilt-tripping of its target audience.
Yesterday, California... tomorrow, the moon! Check it out, Whitey: a time when a national TV program invited you to feel proud, not ashamed, of your ancestors... rock, roll, and remember, fellow Gen-Xers!
In the following excerpt from Andy Nowicki's new novel Heart Killer, the protagonist-- a pathetic geek turned avenging Don Juan-- reveals his unorthodox methods of seduction, as well as his disturbing flair for exacting carnal vengeance. Heart Killer is now available as an e-book from Amazon (www.amazon.com/Heart-Killer-ebook/dp/B00ABO49P2) and can also be purchased directly from ER Books (www.erbooks.com), England's legendary publisher of elegant erotica.
Seduction isn't really difficult at all, once you've carefully excised all sense of shame, and indeed, all sense of self.
The fear of rejection is what prevents the typcial single man from straining too far beyond his zone of comfort. Even the man most desperate for female company often finds the burden of psychological exposure too much to bear; he makes a few, feeble tentative stabs at connecting with a desirable-looking girl, dashes out a "pick-up line" or two, trying all the while to disguise the artificiality of his manner behind a facade of casual apathy, the better to protect his ego.
Practiced faux-apathy is one thing, but actually not giving a good goddamn is something quite different. When I entered the bar that fateful night, I found myself utterly drained of all vestiges of my former self. I'd become a reptilian killing machine. I wasn't the least afraid of being turned down; in fact, I haughtily courted rejection. It wasn't that I felt like the smoothest, handsomest guy in the room; there could be no doubt that I didn't compare, looks-wise, to the soccer jocks of the world, for whom "poontang" came easily, and came in every sense of the word... Still, I had an advantage, in that, unlike them, I really didn't care one speck if anyone found me cute, charming, dreamy, or sexy.
It happened, somehow. Either due to my intense self-taught training exercises, or through a weird and perverse imposition of grace, which can after all take many forms, not all of them comely or pure. Regardless, it happened, like black magic. I was a changed man; I lived like one already dead. I strode right into the place, ordered a drink (being a non-alcohol consumer, I picked at random from the options), nursed the poison I'd selected, and surveyed the room with cold, reptilian eyes.
My potential prey needed to fulfill three requirements: she needed to be 1) beautiful, 2) stuck-up and full of herself, and 3) in a relationship.
Such a combination wasn't in the least hard to find; indeed, these three attributes usually go hand-in-hand among women. Beauty could easily be apprehended; haughtiness also announced itself without much of a struggle-- all I had to do was lock eyes with the lovely lady in question to discover how skin-deep hear beauty truly was; how mean, ugly, and cruelly rejecting was the soul beneath the painted, pressed, coiffed, and manicured exterior. Her initial response to me said it all: she was unimpressed, annoyed, even offended, by the attention of my unabashed stare. The first thought she telegraphed to me was, "Ew, what a creepy loser!" She betrayed this sentiment either by ignoring the lancing beam of my eyes, or by glaring back, or otherwise acting irritated. Thus, I was able to check off both of the first two boxes in my list of criteria: I knew she had looks and a bitchy attitude. Now I just had to discover if she was "taken" before I moved in for the kill.
Some women, of course, had "the ring," and with this rich-bitch type, it was almost always a gaudy diamond-studded affair, never a plain gold band. Other women hadn't yet taken the plunge into the whoredom of matrimony, but were nonetheless "taken," having snared a "serious" boyfriend who just hadn't yet "popped the question." This could easily be assessed in the opening stage of conversation, when I fearlessly, cold-bloodedly engaged her with an opening line.
"Pardon me, Miss, do you have a boyfriend?" I would straightforwardly ask. This would usually prompt my prospective lady in question to roll her eyes and answer in the affirmative, hoping I'd be deterred and slink away like a sick, mangy puppy. But it wouldn't deter me at all. I'd stay where I was, buy her a drink, and proceed to regale her with contempt. I'd point out her (real or invented) physical flaws, I'd inform her that her husband or boyfriend would no doubt eventually leave her behind for a younger model and she'd wind up dying alone... I'd explain to her that it was no use getting offended-- I only spoke the truth, the brutal, God's honest truth-- and that she ought not get angry with the impertinence of the messenger, but like Cleopatra after Anthony left her for Octavia, learn to reconcile herself with the factuality of the message. Then, I'd buy her another drink.
Oh, I got cursed out more than a few times; I got slapped, even punched, and yes, of course I got kicked in the groin on occasion, as one might expect; these women, after all, deplored my cruel honesty; moreover, it deeply disturbed them, because they couldn't abide the turning of the tables that it represented. They, being beautiful, were the ones who felt themselves entitled to be cruel. I, on the other hand, being un-beautiful, was supposed to be the one on the receiving end of such attacks; that one like me should become the attacker they could absolutely not abide; it reprensented a kind of existential turnabout that struck them as ghastly in its implications.
Many a time the lady in question flung her drink in my face, prompting me to dryly mutter, "How cliched..." And of course, many a possible prey stormed out after having pelted me with alcohol or bruised my cheek or injured my scrotum with a shapely knee. ("You like it rough? You'll still die alone, you stupid cunt," I'd fling back, undaunted, even while doubled over in pain.) I didn't care about the rejections; I never took it personally, never felt any shame; I persisted defiantly on my course; I moved to a different bar, found another beautiful, haughty, and "taken" girl to insult and abuse.
And at the end of the night, I never went to my motel room alone!
Always, always, always, it happened, though some nights it took several tries and the absorption of numerous blows to my person, and sometimes the taste of blood in my mouth. One night, I barely escaped a concussion when one screaming Mimi drunkenly swung a bottle at my head and narrowly missed. I was also, naturally enough, called every nasty name in the book that honest men have ever been called.
Yet... it "worked." I invariably "scored," as the Lotharios of the world would say. I "got some." I "tapped that."
Why did it work? Well of course it happened partly through my own stubborn doggedness; I never gave up, having been possessed by the demonic grace that permitted me to hurl abuse at beauty without shame-- that is to say, to speak truth to power.
But my success is also attributable to the challenge I represented to these women, at whom I took remorseless aim with my savagely unhinged tongue. They felt a need to restore the equilibrium of the universe as they knew it, and since I was the disturber of their universe, they could only effect this change by submitting to my imperious assault. Since I represented everything that they feared and loathed in the world, they found it necessary to forfeit their pride and allow me-- the very one who'd temporarily burst the dam protecting them from their subconscious anxieties of mortality and loss of power and control-- access to the most intimate recesses of their bodies and souls.
Another way to come to terms with this phenomenon is to acknowledge that within every woman-- even, and perhaps even especially, within every beautiful woman-- there exists a desire to be treated brutally; that all women, maybe even particularly the lovely ones, secretly despise flattery and hunger to be put in their place. Maybe the crueler-hearted the woman (and cruelty accompanies beauty as a stench follows death), the greater the corresponding desire to be one-upped.
Whatever the case may be, I never found any lack of drive, any dearth of passion, among these haughty "taken" beauties, once I brought them back to my motel room and intensified my attack from the verbal to the physical level. I don't claim to be any sort of master of technique; indeed, the first couple of times, I scarcely knew what I was doing. Still, there was no absence of screaming, moaning, and gasping on their part. The release they found, in fact, always seemed to border on positive hysterics. They truly lost control, truly plunged into ecstasy, truly exploded all over; it was a sight to behold. I myself, however, never climaxed in their presence. For this reason, they couldn't help but feel one-upped afterwards. They had bared themselves in every way, yet had failed to get to my core. I tipped them over the edge into oblivion, into the frightening depths of pleasure... and once our ferocious coupling was finished, I dismissed them with barely another word. Yet they never protested my perfunctory brusqueness; instead, they slunk out like guilty children nursing a secret.
Yet even then, my brutality had not reached its limit. My master stroke hadn't yet been enacted...
Before the lady of the evening had left my presence, I would take advantage of an opportune time to steal a glance into her purse or pocketbook, wherein I would find her driver's license, which of course would contain her name and home address. A short time later, from a remote location, I would call the phone number that accompanied the name and address listing in the White Pages. If a woman's voice answered, I would hang up, then call back a short time later. When I first got a man's voice, I would ask, "Is ___ your wife/girlfriend?"
After a tense pause, the man would answer, "Yes, she is... who the fuck is this?" or something similar. (A man always cusses to compensate when his gut tells him he's about to suffer a sucker punch to the ego.) I'd always wince at this, feeling sorry for the poor guy, before going forward. I would say, "Ask your wife/girlfriend what happened in Room ___ of the ___ Motel last Friday night."
"What?" he would then all but yell. "Who the fuck is this? Just what are you implying, pal? I oughta--"
"Just ask her, sir," I would break in, politely but firmly. "Ask her to tell you the truth. No lies, no games. You have been cuckolded, sir. Your woman is a whore."
Then I'd hang up, chuckling dryly. Mission accomplished.
I am not stoical by nature, by temperament, or by habit. To my everlasting exasperation, I find that I continue to crave the applause, admiration, and approval of my fellow man. Horrifically enough, I still have hope for the future. I still cross my fingers, hold my breath, and get butterflies in my stomach when I anticipate the possibility of obtaining some manner of temporal success or victory in life. When someone pays me a compliment, I find my inner Sally Field-- "You like me; you really like me!!"-- annoyingly asserting herself. (Yes, the part of me that gushes in such a manner is unquestionably a woman.)
I have long held hardy, unyielding stoicism in the highest regard, but Epictetus I ain't. I talk a good game, and perhaps even project a convincing image, but deep down-- well, not really even that deep down-- I still cannot resign myself to reality with manful resolve. I find myself more often raging against the inevitable than accepting it.
The problem is, of course, that all the hope in the world doesn't turn the inevitable into the evitable. There comes a point when one must simply understand that one's efforts are largely for naught. Acknowledging this fact doesn't mean succumbing to fatalism or giving in to one's enemies; in fact, stoic resolve is ultimately the only sure defense against defeatism. There is even a breath of stoicism in the first statement of the "serenity prayer" invoked in 12-step programs and other contemporary pop-psyche venues: "God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change." If one can be "serene" about one's essential impotence, one can in turn cultivate a cheerfulness in one's everyday efforts to do what is right and to shun what is wrong, meager though such efforts might be in the grand scheme of the cosmos.
No stoic am I; however, I am learning-- slowly but certainly-- to wean myself from my pathetically primal, idiotically adolescent hunger and thirst for popularity and acclaim. It has taken a while, and it will surely take a good while longer, perhaps the rest of my life, to rid myself of this inborn Sally Field-ish proclivity to give a damn, and then some, what others think of me.
I hesitate to universalize my own embarrassing struggle with the need to be "liked," both on Facebook and elsewhere. I will, however, go so far as to say that there is something inherent in our shared human consciousness which pushes us to follow the herd, to court the favor of our peers and the powers-that-be, and otherwise to show ourselves worthy objects of admiration to the world. Yet there is also, I have found (and perhaps you have, too), a liberating, even deliriously intoxicating sense of release and relief that accompanies the conscious decision to forego such approval-seeking pursuits, and instead to fling oneself headlong into sheer, glorious disrepute. There is a delicious delight in ceasing to even try to be attractive or appealing to others, but rather to cutlivate a positive disdain for what the world in its foolishness deems to be "attractiveness"-- to jilt the Zeitgeist and all of its guardians, to hurl defiance into the teeth of all of the principalities and powers of the age, in the haughty manner of a prom queen, yet in the mien of a shabby, smelly, spat-upon, shat-upon outcaste; in short, to uspset the balance of corruption and deceit in this world of naught.
Here in the United States, it is almost Thanksgiving Day, when Americans are asked to count their blessings. This year, I give positive thanks for nothing. That is to say, I am thankful for the blessed void into which the truth-teller can safely and securely tumble, a pit of social ostracism and glorious squalor into which he may disappear, and from which he may spit holy hellfire into the ears of the complacent, the status-hungry, the cowardly, and the conformist.
This nothing will never let us down. Thank God for it! Let us cleave to it, not forsake it; let us openly embrace our disrepute and never settle for less than the glory that accompanies our mission to speak the truth in a truth-forsaken age!
The following excerpt is taken from the pages of Heart Killer, an erotic, time tripping crime thriller by Andy Nowicki, now available for purchase from ER Books (www.erbooks.com), the legendary London publisher of elegantly racy and ribald literary fare. Heart Killer is Nowicki's fifth novel, with close thematic links to his controversial 2011 novella The Columbine Pilgrim (www.counter-currents.com/the-columbine-pilgrim) . See www.erbooks.com/books/heart-killer to find out more about Nowicki's new novel.
In the passage below, we visit the mind of the novel's anti-hero Johann Salvadous-- a former high school geek, outcast, and loser turned ruthlessly successful pickup artist. Johann has travelled back in time from the present to the 80s, having been mystically transported away from milddle-aged paunch and baldness and returned to the skinny 16-year old body of his youth. Revisiting the hallowed halls of his hated high school, he sets out to seduce Mary Wasteborn, the beautiful girl who spitefully rejected and humiliated him the first time around.
Little does Johann know the history-altering chain of events which will follow in the wake of his vengeful, seductive depredations...
It was a Friday. Mary, like the rest of her ilk, was decked out in ostentatiously fastidious, yet contrivedly tarty, cheerleader gear. There was a football game that night, but it hardly mattered; the sport, be it football or basketball, was nothing but an excuse. Fridays at Cordelia Academy weren't really about celebrating any sports team; that was a mere facade. No, Fridays were all about working our blazing adolescent hormones into a frenzy, the better to exploit our adolescent ardor and direct it towards worthless ends: "school spirit," and all of that contemptible rot... School-spiritedness is simply the foolish "patriotism" of one's youthful years; being "true to your school" leads seamlessly into all of the brainless Fourth of July rah-rah hooah when the latest little war ramps up against the newest conveniently nefarious, terroristic, freedom-hating foe it becomes necessary to invade and conquer.
The loins, in turn, are the means through which such foolish sentiments enter one's consciousness, and the barely-disguised Dionysian orgies of the Cordelia High "pep rallies" were the means through which this reprehensible swill was pumped into our collective crotch.
The fact that it was Friday already lent a savory air of promise to the morning (and when you're a teenage boy, "promise" usually reduces to prospects of carnality). Naturally, the administration chose to throw us all together in one big, hot, horny, sweaty pile in the dank high school gymnasium-- for the purpose of watching a group of sexy girls in revealing clothes do a bunch of suggestive chants accompanied by gyrating moves and leg-splaying leaps in the air... Yeah, that "peps" things up, all right. And it did indeed juice my loins that morning, as might be imagined, to witness my big-haired, long-legged, tawdrily tempting obsession cavorting about on the hardwood, holding a fuzzy pair of pompoms with a coy little grin animating her face, one which cruelly holds you at a distance, even as it teases and titillates.
In my previous incarnation as a teenage boy, such performances both inflamed and cowed me, left me feeling simultaneously energized and enervated, keyed-up and used-up, excited and depressed. My solitary orgasms were thus ever infused with a spasmodic despair born of knowing that I'd been born into the "less fortunate" caste; when it came to girls like Mary, I could look but never touch... Of course, I'd get regaled with scorn even for looking, while soccer jocks with poofy new-wave hairdos could openly grope her in the hallways with utter impunity, with Mary's own gleeful, only half-disguised complicity and barely-concealed delight at being the object of such bold lechery.
Yes! But in my reincarnation as a teenage man, I'd managed to transcend such petty limitations. I'd beaten up the poofy new-wave hairdo boy and had drained out his essence in the process, furtively absorbing his suave confidence into my own guts before digesting it, then disdainfully flinging it from my system as vile refuse, unworthy of my attention. I'd ascended from my low caste status; now I'd become an avenging dalit with an attitude. There was nothing I wouldn't do; nothing I couldn't do.
Though she didn't yet know it, Mary Wasteborn was pretty putty in my hands, just waiting to be twisted every which way, to be ferociously torn apart, put together differently, then torn apart yet again. I couldn't, wouldn't be impeded from my destination-- I would plunge right into the dark heart of the matter; I'd penetrate ruthlessly to the fiery core, upsetting the crust and the mantle and uprooting all that now lived peaceably on the face of the earth. No one and nothing would be the same afterwards, least of all poor Mary, who'd wind up buried under the charred, smoking rubble before she'd even known what had hit her.
Of course, I snuck up from behind. How could I have proceeded differently?
That day, sitting alone in the lunchroom after the pep rally, I was bold to catch Mary's eye as she swept past my table; her glance met mine briefly, as before in Coach Sallow's class, and then her eyes immediately turned disdainful and indifferent, coupling two seemingly irreconcilable sentiments in one glance before finally deciding to forget the entire unpleasant but trivial matter of my gaze, because an insignificant nub like me wasn't worth the outrage she'd briefly contemplated... I witnessed all of these thoughts flash across her lovely face, which today was crowned by hair arranged in a garishly elaborate bun, with numerous "scrunchies" in various places, the better to keep her lustrous locks from falling into her eyes while she leapt and high-kicked in her skimpy, fetishistic costume. Her breasts, I recalled, had bounded lasciviously in her tight, midriff-baring top like two highly-inflated footballs, ripe to be plucked out of the air...
I shook myself. Mary had disappeared through the cafeteria doors, and I knew she must be headed to the bathroom. This was my cue. Without a second's hesitation (why delay what was proper and inevitable?) I arose, flung away my mostly-unconsumed lunch and strode in the direction of her exit. I entered the hallway just in time to see the turn of Mary's hip and the flutter of the hem of her cheerleader miniskirt as she spun gracefully-- flowed, really-- into the girls' room doorway, vanishing like a sacred vision into the foul, unredeemed ether.
After she left my line of vision, I suddenly felt fatigued and nauseated, awash with vertigo. The distance between where I now stood in this hallway and where Mary dwelt beyond the bathroom door, I became aware, was all that stood between what I knew of history and the thrilling and terrifying unknown. If this distance were traversed, and Mary and I connected with one another, formerly parallel lines would now intersect, disturbing the universe mightily, reversing polarities, sending everything lurching down a path of divergence. What was more, I sensed that souls stood in the balance-- not just mine, but those of numerous other people as well. Was this all some kind of test? If so, did the Almighty not already know that I'd fail it, demonic as I was, predestined to choose evil over good?
Briefly, I hesitated, mentally faltering outside of that girls' bathroom door like a man marooned in a nightmare, wistfully wondering if I could be saved, if any divine, redemptive power could restore my innocence after I'd finished what I now hungered and thirsted-- actively salivated, like an infernal Pavlovian dog-- to carry to completion.
What had been, had been, I dazedly determined. What would be, would be. And what will be, will be. I'd gamely play my part. If I were indeed damned, I'd get at least some hellish payback, instead of going out like a chump to face my fixed reward. With a flourish of unrelenting fatalism soaking through all the pores of my body, I strode through the doorway to meet my destiny.
As election day nears, you the American voter must realize the immense power you have been granted by your dear, beneficent rulers to make a difference in this world.
(Don’t you dare roll your eyes at my use of that admittedly overwrought cliché—what are you anyway, some kind of miserable elitist who disbelieves in the inherent goodness of the common voter or the efficacy of the democratic process or the wisdom of the majority or something? Oh, you say you didn’t really roll your eyes, you just cast a reverent look upward to Heaven to thank God you were born in the United States of America? That’s good. Maybe I’m just a little oversensitive. I do get passionate about this stuff. Can you blame me?)
Yes, the crucial day of decision is Tuesday, November 6, so remember, please, to report to your local polling place on that day and cast your vote for the candidate I’m endorsing, the one who represents purity, goodness and integrity, the one whose party is striving mightily to put a stop to the wickedness and skullduggery so prevalent in American politics today. Unfortunately, the opposing party just keeps on ruthlessly promoting their own corrupt self-interests and resolutely refuses to do the will of the American people (which of course is always of necessity the right thing—see the note regarding the “wisdom of the majority,” above). But this can all change, if with your help we elect the candidate and the party that I’m endorsing, whose identity should by now be perfectly clear.
Remember, first of all, that your vote matters. Oh, yes. Yea, verily. It does. Only annoying, freedom-hating pukes would draw attention to the proclivity of crooked officials from both parties to commit election fraud, discounting as many inconvenient votes as possible whenever they can get away with it. No, this is America (fuck, yeah!); persisting in cynicism about how our great system works is simply unpatriotic; in fact, such dastardly skepticism amounts to the blatant commission of a repugnant hate crime against all the heroic American warriors who gave their lives at Guadalcanal and Normandy Beach and Fallujah and other far-flung places across the world. If you don’t vote, or worse, if you disparage the very act of voting, that means that these brave men died in vain, and their blood is on your hands, you pathetic, apathetic reprobate!
Refraining from voting is, in fact, like spitting in the faces of the firemen who died on 9/11, while slapping a high-five with Osama Bin Laden, while urinating copiously on the Stars-and-Stripes, while blowing your nose on the Declaration of Independence, snickering maliciously all the while. Not rocking your “I Voted” sticker on election day is morally equivalent to shooting Martin Luther King in the face whilst raping Anne Frank’s corpse. You really don’t want to be seen as that kind of asshole, do you? So just vote already, will ya?
One thing you can bank on: your vote, once cast, will almost certainly make a decisive difference in the outcome of the election. In fact, plenty of presidential and congressional contests have been decided by exactly one vote. (“Which ones,” you ask?... and, “When has such a scenario ever come close to occurring?” you querulously prod, like the smartass freedom-hating puke that I imagined you were when you first rolled your eyes at me. Well, don’t trouble me with demands for particulars, you cursed troublemaking nitpicker! I’m only making a rhetorical point here….)
Finally, please remember that this is the most important election EVER!
The stakes have simply never been higher… Oh, I know I said this in ’08, ’04, ’00, ’96, ’92, and ’88 too (as well as a few times before then as well), but this time I really mean it, and this time, it’s really true. (I know I said that same thing all those other times as well, but this time I’m really lingering on the point, which makes the urgency more palpable and helps to really demonstrate my sincerity.)
Today, after all, we stand at a crucial turning point as a nation. If we get our guy elected, then there is still time to stem the dark, sinister tide of infernality that threatens to engulf us all, but if the other guy wins… well brother, you may as well gather your family, break out the Jonestown koolaid, and make a toast. It’ll all be over but the shoutin’.
Yes, the choice is a stark and simple one. After all, our political party is good, and our rivals are bad. If our candidate doesn’t win, and the bad guy candidate does, then evil will be enabled to establish a beachhead that will henceforth prove impossible to repel. A Manichean fight to the finish is about to ensue, the outcome of which will determine the survival of everything holy and decent. So be sure your stomach gets tied up in knots as you ponder the grave implications of the nearing apocalypse. God bless America, land that I love.
Now stop rolling your eyes at me and smirking and refusing to get caught up in the hype. And quit making that rude, obscene wank-pantomime with your hand. This is serious, I tell you. Hear me now, believe me later!
After receiving numerous recommendations from many and varied sources, I finally purchased a copy of Mark Ames's 2005 book Going Postal. I am about two-thirds of the way through this controversial, flawed but rather compelling work-- perhaps once I've finished I'll compose an "official" review (tardy as such a write-up will be, given that the book was published seven years ago). Suffice it to say right now that Ames strikes me as a non-doctrinaire, and at times astoundingly politically-incorrect leftist, which makes him quite interesting.
Yes, Ames hates big businesses, and yes, he seems to think that unions can do no wrong (except when they compromise with big business owners, which Ames thinks that they do far more often than not). Not to mention that he appears to hold that nearly every office worker who has ever gone on a homicidal rampage was in fact goaded into such behavior by cruel and sadistic employers, who, as the Chicago showtune goes,"had it comin'." And of course, Ames holds Ronald Reagan responsible for nearly everything any psycho has done in the past 30 years, which is supremely tiresome.
But Ames is not your typical drearily droning sociology professor or otherwise unimaginative liberal scold. His reflections on white malaise and habitual self-deprecation-- i.e., trendy ethnomasochism-- show real insight and flirt, in fact, with white ethnic advocacy. Consider the following remarkable passage:
"Today's white middle class must be the only socioeconomic group in mankind's history that not only doesn't recognize its own miseries as valid, but reacts dismissively, sarcastically... even violently against anyone from their class who tries to validate their misery... It is more comforting (for the white middle class) to believe that they aren't really suffering, to allocate all official pathos to the misery of other socioeconomic groups, and it's more comforting to accuse those who disagree of being psychotically weak whiners. Despite its several hundred million strong demographic, the white bourgeoisie's pain doesn't officially count-- it is too ashamed of itself to sympathize with its own suffering." (bold mine)
Ames has his finger on something truly profound here. Indeed, how often have we observed the tendency to deride the complaints of whites as irrelevant, to depict their suffering as insignificant, to dismiss their claims of unjust treatment vis a vis quotas and affirmative action as at best mere whining, at worst disguised racial hatred? How often does white opposition to mass Third World immigration get impugned as a mere tacky display of white "racism" with no real substance behind it? And how often are such dismissive and derisive statements made... by whites themselves? Even at times by whites who call themselves "conservatives"?
I will give Ames's larger thesis a more considered critique at a later time, but thought it worthwhile to call attention to some of his edgier, more alt-right friendly rhetoric here...