I read the Salvador Borrego excepts shared yesterday on Allied criminality on The West's Darkest Hour blog and thought sadly of Hitler’s magnanimous optimism, and his grace towards Germany’s reluctantly engaged enemies, more a beautiful, radiant Sun personality than quite enough of a Lightning one, as Savitri Devi describes it. Certainly, there should be no tolerance of historical national pride for modern Anglo European countries. By coincidence this week I had been reading a copy of F.J.P. Veale’s Advance to Barbarism in the background having just finished Ulrich Merten’s The Gulag in East Germany: Soviet Special Camps 1945-1950. I have a copy of Forever and Ever, Savitri’s Hitler-dedicated devotional poems and laments arriving shortly.
As I am accustomed to a few times a week, I checked in at the Unz Review. I rarely find anything of interest that I want to read there, always put off by the Christianity and the standard Conservatism, and with little to no interest in internal American politics and current affairs. Andrew Anglin’s titles and crass, irreverent writing style jar with me, as does any support of Third Worldism or complimentary affection for non-Aryans.
I saw there was a fairly recent article discussing ‘Anglophobia’ with a photo reference to the BLM vandalism and removal of British statues, such as a figure of Winston Churchill, and the American confederacy and founding fathers' monuments. I had no interest in reading that as I imagined it would be full of indignant, self-pitying excuse-making and a defensiveness regarding Neochristian miscegenators and classical liberal friends of Judaism, small-town rural Trump supporters and Bible belt conservatives nostalgic for the 1950s, and all our unpunished war criminals.
I hate their ignorance and their smugness, yet more confident boors convinced that they are good people, acting steadfast as their own defence lawyers, just like all the terrible, cruel, lazy acquaintances and cowardly, dispassionate friends across my own life who have always been convinced instinctively that they are good people, and will not hear otherwise or accept fault for anything. All these ideologues of the right-wing have beyond anyone else is a superficial awareness of race at all. If appalling action can’t be denied altogether then we are told only that it doesn’t matter, and that whites – always in a big, equivocated line – have nothing to be ashamed of.
So very much of society is lost to me, so dispassionate and feral and moronic, all these proud good people and their pathological face-saving. It’s the same with Patriotic Alternative, who occasionally send a newsletter to my email box. They have a recent campaign browbeating their audience with moralist propaganda. Today’s letter informed me that a 98-year-old Second World War veteran has been forced out of his home into a temporary shelter at the same time as the debilitating long-term government immigration policy increases exponentially, all hostile aliens granted preferential accommodation and fast-tracking into the benefits system. Much is made of his war veteran status. I don’t deny that the government’s cruelty towards any very elderly native man would be completely unacceptable, just as everything else they do to us is completely unacceptable, but I wish there was no patriotism and respect for these veterans among nationalists, and indeed no support of the modern British Army either, given its sole operation in unnecessary anti-white puppet wars, and its subversive presentation, and the readiness with which it could be turned on the citizens.
I found myself wondering what this old veteran had done in the war, what crimes he may have committed or covered for, and what he may have turned a blind eye to, or just gone along with and never reflected on at all, and been praised for then, and been praised for now, and at all times in between, having served a murderous traitor alliance above the wellbeing of his own European folk, utterly devastating a far superior society with infinite cruelty, and damning the future, razing European hope. What he did do (or didn’t do), for Jews, capitalist Christians and the competitive warmongers of greedy Anglo-Saxon empires.
I don’t see any hope for these people. Their hideous pride cannot be knocked from them. When the global economic system does fall apart, in the true onset of an openly collapsing environment, I dread what they will do, as inimical to the health of their own people as any immature leftist movement, or any activism on any matter, another subset of normal people filled with that vast unemotional ignorance and all the brute carelessness of the orthodoxy. I forever hope that they remain disorganised, and most certainly never bring themselves to a position of power. I know they will make it dangerously worse as everything becomes unmanageable.
Having bought some 2×4 gravel-board planks, I’m dedicating the next few days to designing and building a couple of garden chairs from scratch. Something long-lasting as plastic chairs are flimsy and unattractive.
I went for a long walk into the Mistley woods today with Abby. A large, beautiful, hilly woodland. The centuries-old trees were awe-inspiring, stretching numerous and tall into a thick leafy canopy, natural colonnades of elms and hazels and ash trees and the giant desiccated trunks of ancient English oaks, and I appreciated that opaque softness to the misty air, and the brilliant white sun in a pale off—white sky falling into the pastel clearings in straw—hued beams, from between dark rainclouds in pleasing chiaroscuro, an abundance of subtle green shades to the deeper foliage and a coldness and freshness to the forest air, up and down hills and beside little freshwater trickles, away from people and everything urban and modern, the only sound being the creaking of branches, the chirps and calls of birds high above, and occasional rustling in the leaves; and that intangible natural sound beyond placement that one only experiences in the very depths of woods when anything of human imposition is no longer present.
Perhaps the private sound of the woods themselves, essentialized. There were black and white cows sheltering in the gloom among the chestnut trees at the edge of the lower meadow. Some young rabbits grazed near the blackberry brambles. A cricket hopped across our path and into the ferns. I relish time in the woods as a somehow sacred feeling. Relaxing as much as the only experience that brings me genuine psychological healing, rarely present in my life. I despise this society, and the huge, sprawling mobs of cold, desensitized, destructive people, the multitudinous rabble of subhuman slave beasts with European skins, none of whom really give a shit about each other beyond the maintenance of their personal bourgeois comfort and their self-serving careers. I wish I was strong enough even to hate them more effectively.
In all my life in this country I have met no more than two single solitary people genuinely worthy of brotherly love, honour, and respect, both unconnected men, both long dead at their own hands, and with long tearing grief on my part, realising over cruel spans of pain that I can no longer find human racial compassion here, in a nation of some money and no love.
Afterthoughts
On 2nd of September 2024, I mulled over some ideas posted a few days before, on the 31st of August, wondering what my own perspective was on the matter (was it not obvious already?) and how to phrase it. I interjected in the commenting box with a reply of my own. Bolstered slightly now with a short extrapolation, this is the full depth of my response, to myself, and to the world at large.
The commenter wrote to the blog owner (with paragraphing added by me):
If I have what are, in your estimation, incorrect views, that is one thing, but it is not necessarily a ‘character flaw’ on my part, it is just a difference of opinion. It should be left to that. I would not be visiting your blog if I were a stupid or close-minded person.
The difference between us seems very narrow anyway. You are making heavy work of a nuance. The British men who fought in the War were simply doing as they were told. They had no understanding of world historical events or Aryan destiny, etc. To hold them accountable to history seems to me unfair, given the circumstances.
I agree with you that they were wrong, and personally I found that generation of British men annoying and insufferable. When I later encountered them (I was born in the late 70s), they were already elderly, had raised our boomer parents, and were already being called the Greatest Generation. They were prone to lecturing my generation about how great they were and that we didn’t have it as hard as they did, etc., etc. I didn’t like them and I regard them as the Worst Generation, and frankly I wish most of them had not come back.
But if that had happened, and they had not come back, I should not have been born, so what am I supposed to say about it? They were our grandparents, so as smug, insufferable and dislikeable as they were, I am morally obligated to enter a small caveated defence for them. I acknowledge that they were, for the most part, just ordinary men and I’m simply being realistic about what we can expect from people. It’s not intellectually honest to monsterise people – even if perhaps they do deserve it a little bit.
A few days later, when I discovered the post, I chipped in (again with my paragraphing):
Personally, what would I think myself, I ask myself? I think in the grander picture I would have wished, though I would indeed not be typing this now were it so, that they did not win, much as the chances then of coming back would be lessened, if [still] not entirely unlikely.
[Not entirely unlikely] as by the devastation of the Morgenthau Plan on post-war Germany, along with the mass rapes, sordid tortures and sadistic violations, and the burnings with fire, and all of the unspeakable, unspoken war crimes. Monstrous is not too strong a word for me. I’ve seen it applied by the conservative type to ‘schizophrenics’ as much as to 'Dahmers'. What of Dresden, Hamburg, Phorzheim, etc.? Of the Nineteen Meadows. And these men were complicit. What to compare? Nothing that I can see, with Hitler’s deeply considerate, sensitive Sun personality (as reported by his childhood friend's account [The Young Hitler I Knew by August Kubizek] as much as Savitri Devi).
Better these men had lost and been obliterated, for all the loss of their eunuch descendants, for a dying Aryan flame, that last spark of a chance, obliterated now, and a darkest hour.
I wouldn’t be typing this, that’s almost for sure (much as my grandfather and his brother were good swimmers and had survived torpedoing more than once; [my father's uncle] well used to prisoner of war camps in the Far East, and the knowledge that Hitler’s armies were kinder) but there would have been a good world [with a great number of strong, healthy Aryan descendants from the victorious Germans, and probably enough from the English survivors to compensate for the loss of one measly perception].
There isn’t much done now that isn’t unnecessary suffering, and again with the world’s animals too, who would without fail see us as their devils on the whole. I’m not great with differences of opinion [how many realities are there? One surely. Meaning is multiplicative, and not linear, but there is such thing as eternal truth to strive towards, so to regularly cling to unevaluated falsehoods on a 'No, no, no that can't be because I'm!...' basis is indeed interrupting that process], much as I get things wrong at times, and hope that’s tolerated.
So what for their pathetic, servile nature [and their unremarkable ordinary characters]? [is being mediocre an accolade now, and a trait to console?] Why pity them for their weakness and ignorance, and why given this? Why forgive them for that, this barbary? I’m not sure it could be something I could be made to understand in words, and a logician’s detachment, or by rationality [how does one inform the prideful brute of their incessant (insensate) brutishness?]. That’s just my thoughts though. I hope this response is not processed as too unrealistic, or too obtuse.
The English should relinquish their pride ultimately, and yet they do not, and can never be predicted to in anticipation in any new interaction. That’s been the same from then until now, in the Table Talks (or even just Roger Scruton’s Elegy). They’ve got what they did spread out before them now, and still it’s the passing of the buck, left, right and centre. I find them no less insufferable than those smug, remorseless old men. They’re annoyed and upset ‘it didn’t work’ and ‘why did we bother?’, and not that they did, and over what they did.
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