Cambria Will Not Yield

Sunday, October 28, 2007

Reclaiming White Civilization

The "racist" remarks of John Watson hit the liberals hard because John Watson was a member of the liberal pantheon, a Nobel Prize winning scientist. A scientist! One of the elect!

The traditional condemnations by white liberals and black leaders followed quickly upon the heels of Watson's remarks. And of course we know that the white liberal outrage is feigned. They all know Watson's claims are correct; there already have been an infinity of "scientific" tests showing that blacks are less intelligent than whites. The white liberals have been hoisted on their own scientific petards. They made a god of science, and their god constantly embarrasses them by presenting them with findings that support "racists."

This "more intelligent" debate is not something a white European should engage in. It is tempting, when the enemy will accept no evidence that is not empirical, to cite intelligence tests in arguing the case for segregation and white autonomy. But that is not why we should segregate, and defend to the death white civilization. It is the European's spiritual sense of life which sets him apart from the other races. And that spiritual sense of things cannot be quantified or measured by any empirical study. It is simply there, part of the fabric of reality. And when we deny it, we are in a flight from reality.

Which brings us to the professed white Christians. They are adamant that the hatred of the white race and the love of the black race is mandated by Christianity. But did not Jesus Christ claim He was the truth and that same truth would set us free? Is there anything truthful in the liberals' racial Babelism? No, there is not. The races are not equal. The races were not designed to be mixed. And yet the white Christians aggressively assault every white Christian who refuses to bend his knee to the multi-racial idols of liberal Christendom.

In my early, zealous days in the Catholic Church (1), I taught C.C.D. classes on Sunday. I vividly remember going through the various Church Councils listed in the textbook, and explaining what each did. Every council, with the exception of the Second Vatican Council, was associated with the condemnation of a particular false doctrine, which was listed beside its name. But the Second Vatican Council had no such condemnation of a heresy listed by its name. That Council's summation read, "Condemns racism."

That's what it all comes down to? Two thousand years of Church history amounts to "Condemns racism"?

And of course this Christless, black-worshipping Christianity is not confined to just the Catholic Church; the Protestant churches are equally culpable. The Christless Christian churches have spent that "unbought grace of life" that Edmund Burke spoke of. We are no longer in a position of "if these shadows are not altered" our white civilization will be destroyed. Our civilization has been destroyed.

So we are facing a different situation than the white Southerners of whom John Sharp Williams wrote about, and even a different situation than Anthony Jacob wrote about in 1965. We are no longer talking about saving white civilization; we are talking about reclaiming it. Of course, any Spenglerian student of civilization will tell you that no civilization, once dead, has ever been reclaimed. But when talking about European civilization, we are talking about a completely unique civilization. No civilization was ever built on the premise that one man, who was also a God, broke the chains of mortality and rose from the dead. The type of men and women who believed, in the depths of their souls, in that miracle are not men and women who can be defeated by some mathematical, Spenglerian process of history.

That passage from the Psalm 130 always comes to my mind when I think of the white race: "Out of the depths have I cried to thee, O Lord." Spiritual depth is what distinguishes the European from all other peoples, not scores on some pseudo-scientific intelligence test.

Most white people today are soul-dead zombies. I don't say brain-dead, because you can still meet many brilliant, but soulless, white men. But occasionally you meet one of the remnant. Do you recall Kipling's "One in a Thousand"? It always seems like a miracle: "A man with a soul, a European!" Europe was the Round Table and Christ was our Arthur. His knights are certainly a wandering remnant now. But whenever they meet ("where one or two are gathered together in my name"), they form Europe. And from such meetings, a great civilization, the only civilization, will be rebuilt.

European civilization was based on a communion of souls. Whenever depth spoke to depth, He was present. And link by link an invisible chain was forged that bound European civilization together. The white technocrat must prevent white people from forming the type of bonds that would reconnect the chain. Their rule can only continue so long as European culture remains an anti-civilization which worships the generic technocratic man over the man of flesh and blood. Everything that stinks of humanity – ties to kith and kin, loyalty to a personal, humane God – must be systemically eliminated. I don't suggest that there is a conscious conspiracy to eradicate that element of the European, his spiritual depth, which connects him to God. It is more effective than a conscious conspiracy; it is a satanically inspired conspiracy (when the European rejects Christ, he is open to the satanic whisper). In the name of equality, brotherhood, rationalism, science, etc., we must all forgo communion. We must never gather together in His name, because he (the satanic 'he') forbids it.

The reason that only white men are forbidden to form ties of blood is because it was only white men who linked their blood with the spirit and blood of the God-man. That type of blood faith is anathema to the technocratic man, who wants the non-white cultures to be immersed in the pride of blood, because their blood is linked to the altars of the Aztecs and the magic of the voodoo priests. The religions of the colored tribes are generic; they all come from hell. Only the civilization of the European had a religion that was non-generic and personal and that was connected to heaven and not to hell.

This is why the technocratic white must always support the colored, and not the white. His coreligionists are the satanic colored and not the white Europeans.

We cannot see the divine links of the chain being reforged to recreate Europe. But we know the links are being forged every time Europeans of depth, of blood and spirit, come together in His name.
(1) Once, after working past the dinner hour at a Catholic College, I stopped at the chapel for the usual reason one stops at a chapel. But I was surprised to see a nun in the chapel (normally, the nuns avoided the chapel.) The nun informed me that I couldn't use the chapel that evening because they, the nuns, were expecting a busload of blacks to visit them. "We are bringing some blacks up from the city," the nun said, with ecstasy in her voice.

Now, you might defend the nuns by claiming, "What is more natural; they are trying to convert the heathen." But that would be disingenuous of you. The nuns were bringing the blacks into the church to worship them. And by so doing, they were worshipping themselves, for what is the essence of the new Christianity? It consists of taking the correct stance on the racial issue. If you worship blacks, you are a saint, and you then have leave to worship yourself.

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The Last European. Chapter Two.

Previous: Chapter One

The weight of this sad time we must obey;
Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say.
-- Shakespeare

I was in danger of becoming a Bartleby-type figure, unable to leave my room, so it was probably a good thing I had a job to go to. It's amazing that once you've absorbed some Shakespeare into your system, how often his lines come to mind. As I went to work I couldn't help thinking of those words of Hamlet: "If it be not now, then it will come; if it be not to come, then it will be now. Since a man has naught to leave betime, what is to leave betimes? The readiness is all."

I worked the 4 PM to 12 AM shift the day following Rankin's visit. Sean was the other officer on the shift with me. I'd like to work with him every shift, but the way the schedule works out I generally work with him about six shifts per month. Even though he's in another patrol car, it's good to know I've got him for a backup and vice versa.

We had an incident on that shift that I thought was Rankin-related. Sean said (yes, I had told Sean and Mary about Rankin's visit) that it could be just a coincidence. But I wasn't buying the coincidence theory.

What happened was this: six weeks prior to the incident one thousand black Africans were imported to the town of Lancaster. They were imported to Lancaster by the Federal government under some kind of refugee plan. Their own country was embroiled in some kind of civil war where unbelievable atrocities (what else is new?) were being carried out every day. So, a number of small towns throughout the U.S. were selected as new homes for the refugees.

At the risk of sounding prejudiced (and God forbid any of us should be prejudiced), I must say that I don't think the injection of one thousand black Africans into a town of ten thousand white New Englanders is a very good thing. The fabric of every community in America is already fragile enough from the ongoing cultural wars between the New Age zombies (the majority) and the remnant of individuals from the Christian era. To throw one thousand Africans, practitioners of voodoo and cannibalism, into the mix is to pour fuel on the proverbial fire.

But of course the social fabric of our nation is not something our Federal or local governments are concerned about.

I don't say that Rankin used extraordinary means to infest the town of Lancaster, but I do think that he whispered a timely suggestion in some bureaucrat's ear that resulted in Lancaster being selected over some other U.S. towns.

At 9:30 that evening, Sean and I received a call from the radio room reporting that a domestic dispute was in progress at one of the apartment complexes in town. I was closest to the apartments, so I got there first.

It is best, when handling a domestic crisis, to wait for backup if at all possible, the reason being that more times than not there is an aggressor-victim-rescuer scenario that is played out. It goes like this – the police officer arrives on the scene, and the husband is beating his wife (it could be the other way around and it is the other way around more times that is generally known, but let's stick with the slightly more typical scenario). The husband is the aggressor, the wife is the victim, and the police officer is the rescuer. The police officer starts to wrestle with and or punch the husband; now the police officer is the aggressor and the husband is the victim. What role is left for the wife to play? Yes, you guessed it, she now plays the role of rescuer and tries to stick a knife into the arresting officer.

So, I waited for Sean and he pulled up about three minutes after I did. I knocked on the door, keeping my body clear of the door.

"Police, open up, we've had a complaint." There was no answer, so I knocked again and repeated my demand to be let in. This time I got a response. The door was opened a crack, and I saw a black face peering out at me. I didn't have to be Sherlock Holmes to figure out that the apartment was occupied by one of the new African refugees.

"What want?" a masculine voice asked.

"We are the police, and we've had a complaint about a disturbance in this apartment, and we need to come in and check it out."

"No disturbance here, you go away."

"I'm sorry, sir, we must come in. If everything checks out, we will leave. But you must let us in or we will have to break the door down."

The door opened, revealing a very large black man wearing khaki trousers but no shirt. He was sweating profusely which indicated to me that he had been doing something physical in the last half-hour, because it was still winter in Maine during March and the apartment was not excessively heated.

I don't intend to write an essay on police procedures, but I must clarify a few things in order to make what follows intelligible to those unfamiliar with the rules and regulations the police work under regarding domestic violence cases.

The law involving domestic abuse has changed in the last twenty years. The law used to allow for police discretion; if the abused spouse or girlfriend did not want to press charges, no arrest was made. But under the new law, the police officer, if he sees signs of physical abuse, must arrest whether the injured spouse or significant other wants to press charges or not.

In this case there was indeed evidence of physical abuse. When the Mogombi native opened the door to the bedroom, we found a young white woman. I won't describe the bruises. Let's just say they were severe. It was a sickening sight.

When I informed the African that he was under arrest, he went berserk on us. Eventually Sean and I got the cuffs on him but not before we had sustained some bruises and inflicted a few as well. The young woman pleaded with us not to arrest her dream man, but I explained to her why we had to. She didn't seem to comprehend anything I said. I thought she was either on drugs or in a state of shock. Sean suggested that she get some medical treatment for her injuries, but she refused. I didn't like leaving her like that but she was adamant about no medical treatment. What could we do? I put the Mogombi in the back of my patrol car and headed to the station to process the prisoner.

Without the woman's testimony, it was not likely that the Mogombi would spend more than a night in jail. The judge would release him when he came in the morning. But he didn't even spend the night in jail.

At 11:30 p.m. a cadaverous white man in his late forties entered the station. He said he was the Mogombi tribe's lawyer. Where the tribe got the money for their own lawyer is something I'll let the reader speculate on.

"I understand you have Knana Kowanna here under arrest," was the lawyer's opening gambit. "Well, I spoke to the woman involved, and I spoke to Judge Grady. And Judge Grady has signed a release order for Knana. You now have no legal right to hold him.

I wasn't all that surprised. Judge Grady was known around the police station as "Come with the Cash Grady." I once went before him with a D.U.I. arrest. I had the blood alcohol reading listed in my report; it was way above the legal limit, and I had crossed all my Ts and dotted all my Is in making the arrest. But the verdict came back, "Not guilty." When I asked one of the veteran officers what had happened, he just rolled his eyes and said, "Somebody came with the cash."

I knew Knana should not have been released that night. There is supposed to be a cooling off period when a domestic erupts in violence. But Mr. Cadaverous had a signed release form.

"Okay, you've got the release form so we'll cut him loose. But I think it would be advisable for him to go somewhere besides the apartment to sleep tonight."

"My client can sleep anywhere he likes tonight or any other night, Officer…"

"It's 'Duncan'."

"Officer Duncan, then. He can sleep anywhere he likes."

"Yes, he can. I was only making a suggestion."

"My client doesn't need your suggestions."

"That's fine. There he is." I opened the cell. "Take him out of here."

"What's this? He looks like he has been beaten."

"Hardly beaten, he gave as good as he got, but then I guess you're not concerned about our bruises."

"Is that why you beat him, because you claim he resisted arrest?"

Since I was the arresting officer, Sean had been trying to do some business at the other end of the office, but he heard everything that was said. He couldn't keep quiet any longer. Striding quickly across the room, he addressed Mr. Cadaverous, whose last name was – I'm not joking – Brinkerhoff.

"Officer Duncan explained to you that we didn't beat him. He resisted arrest and we did what was necessary to arrest him. Ask him, he'll tell you."

Knana started to talk, but Brinkerhoff silenced him with a gesture. "We'll see about this."

I could see Sean was at the boiling point, and I should have tried to stop him from speaking, but I didn't. Just as Brinkerhoff and Knana Kwanna were opening the door to leave, Sean called after them, "If you go back and beat that woman, we'll be back for you. And no liberal A.C.L.U. lawyer is going to save you."

Brinkerhoff turned away from the door and walked toward Sean. "I'm beginning to suspect that this arrest was racially motivated. Your concern for the woman in question, who has lodged no complaint herself, probably stems from racial prejudice. You object to interracial couples, don't you, officer?"

"Don't bother answering him, Sean, he's just trying to get you in trouble."

"No, I'll answer him. Listen, Mr. Big Shot Liberal, if the man was a white beating a black girl or if he was a green man beating an Indian girl, or whatever, I would treat it the same. But as a matter of fact, I don't approve of interracial marriages, or interracial cohabitation, or interracial anything. And you know what else? I'd like to stuff all the slimy A.C.L.U. lawyers into trash cans and ship them back to hell."

"Thank you, officer, for that most edifying and illuminating speech. Good night."

"Now you've done it, Sean. He's not going to let those remarks slide. There's going to be trouble."

"Let there be trouble then, James. How far are we supposed to crawl for dirtbag lawyers and filthy savages?"

"I know, Sean. But I'm worried about your job. There isn't a lot of work out there for either of us."

"Well, let's see what comes before we panic."

"Okay, Sean. Are you staying the night with me or heading back to Linwood.?"

"I'll stay with you tonight if it's all right. Maybe I'll get lucky and see your buddy, Rankin."

"Very funny."

Continue to Chapter Three


Sunday, October 21, 2007

Dauntless Christianity

’Twas the hour when rites unholy
Call’d each Paynim voice to prayer,
And the star that faded slowly,
Left to dews the freshen’d air.

Day his sultry fires had wasted,
Calm and cool the moonbeams shone;
To the Vizier’s lofty palace
One bold Christian came alone.

– Sir Walter Scott
I have nothing in common with (indeed I consider them my enemies) professed Christians who support integration and massive colored immigration. With such people, one cannot form alliances because they stand for the complete annihilation of the white race.

Opposed to the white (yet anti-white) Christians is the right wing. There is a small right wing in this country and slightly larger right-wing groups in Europe. A Christian can form alliances with such groups because they are opposed to the barbarian takeover of the West. But unfortunately the majority of the right wing opponents of racial Babelism are pagans. They seem to be noble pagans, but they are pagans. It is easy to see why a noble pagan would reject the type of Christianity on display in the organized churches, but if we look at the Christianity of our ancestors prior to the 20th century we can see a religion that is certainly a faith that a noble pagan, such as Harold the Dauntless, would be willing to embrace.

When Christianity thrived in Europe prior to the 20th century, it was as a hierarchical religion. Christ was the Truth, the objective standard for every value on earth. Cultures and individuals were judged according to their adherence to His principles. Whites, by necessity, had to rule because the whites were Christian. Whites, of necessity, had to separate themselves from non-Christians lest they be polluted. If whites had not been Christian, there would have been no reason for the segregation that the right wing pagans quite properly want to revive. So Christianity is the reason for segregation, and it is the reason for the suppression of non-white immigration.

For all its greatness, the Greek civilization was still a pagan civilization. It differed in degree from African paganism but not in kind. There is no reason to segregate pagans. Christianity differs in kind; it is not the same kind of religion as paganism, Greek or African. And the key element that makes Christianity different from paganism is a personal God above nature. We pray to our Father who art in heaven, not to the genes in our biological makeup or to the great bush god in the brush.

Why then, if Christianity is the reason for the separation of the races into a hierarchical structure, are Christians the driving force behind all the anti-segregation movements? Because the anti-segregationists are not Christians. Certainly they have retained some vestiges of Christianity – how could they not retain something of it after two thousand years of tradition – but they no longer believe in Christianity as a religion distinct from and superior to all other religions. Modern Christians have returned to the same religion the right wingers would have us adopt – paganism. It is not quite the pure paganism of the Greeks (I call it techno-barbarism) because it is now colored with the vocabulary of Christianity, but it is paganism nevertheless. And this Christian paganism allows liberal whites to convert the heathen to Christianity because the heathen do not really have to convert. The Europeans have not Christianized the pagans; they have simply, by mixing with the pagan, paganized Christianity. Just take a look at one African mass or a black Baptist revival if you want to see the embodiment of paganized Christianity. Right wingers, if they are genuine men of the right, should seek to restore Christianity as the religion of the white man if they truly want to solve the “race problem,” because white Christians will segregate and make distinctions between cultures in order that they may all the better protect and serve, like the suffering servant who stands above all the pagan cultures including the Greek.

The historical record makes it clear that Christianity is the white man’s religion. Only the white man put the true religion into practice. There is no concept of charity nor even a word for it in the pagan religions. Does that mean non-whites can never be Christian? No, it means that non-whites can only be Christian when they have Christian whites to imitate. They cannot, on their own, become Christians. This is why whites should never integrate and never eliminate the white hierarchical structure of civilization. The results of the abolishment of the white hierarchy are being painfully revealed in our present Christ-hating, white-hating society.

I sympathize with the right wingers who are appalled at the death of the white culture. They have good instincts. But the restoration of white civilization depends on right wingers picking up the mantle of their white, Christ-bearing forefathers and restoring it to its former position of glory, and not on their invoking the ancient gods of Greece and Rome.

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A Song of the White Men

Now, this is the cup the White Men drink
When they go to right a wrong,
And that is the cup of the old world's hate--
Cruel and strained and strong.
We have drunk that cup--and a bitter, bitter cup--
And tossed the dregs away.
But well for the world when the White Men drink
To the dawn of the White Man's day!

Now, this is the road that the White Men tread
When they go to clean a land--
Iron underfoot and levin overhead
And the deep on either hand.
We have trod that road--and a wet and windy road--
Our chosen star for guide.
Oh, well for the world when the White Men tread
Their highway side by side!

Now, this is the faith that the White Men hold--
When they build their homes afar--
"Freedom for ourselves and freedom for our sons
And, failing freedom, War."
We have proved our faith--bear witness to our faith,
Dear souls of freemen slain!
Oh, well for the world when the White Men join
To prove their faith again!

-- Rudyard Kipling

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Capitalism, School Shootings, and Warehouses

The capitalists made their first breach in the wall of the traditional family when they took the father away from the farm and away from the family business. The second breach was made when they took the woman away from the home to work for wages beside her husband. Massive immigration has made it impossible for the working poor to raise a family on one income. As long as the capitalists have an endless supply of cheap labor, they will never pay a family wage to one of their workers.

And yet the pernicious poor people will reproduce. And then the warehousing of children begins, and then the shootings in the schools occur, and then several corporate giants donate large sums of money to schools to build athletic facilities to keep the kids off dope and out of trouble. Does anyone see something wrong with this picture?


The Last European. Chapter One.

Note to the reader: The Last European is a sequel to a novel I wrote a few years back called The Mortal and the Demon, but it is not necessary to have read the first novel in order to understand the sequel.
That Gnome was scarce an earthly man,
If the tales where true that of him ran
I will not presume to take the central part in the drama I intend to relate in these pages, but I hope that I can at least, like Horatio, render an accurate account "to th' yet unknowing world, How these things came about."

Eight years ago at age fourteen, I wrote about something that happened to me between the ages of twelve and thirteen. What happened, in plain English, was that I gave my soul over to the devil through an intermediary, an evil gnome named Rankin. A man named Bulkington placed himself between me and Rankin and the devil. At great risk to himself, Bulkington managed to free me from Rankin and Rankin's superior. I was an atheist prior to my experience with Rankin and a convert to Bulkington's Christian faith after my rescue.

At first I was a member of the Catholic Church because a priest named Father Gordon had attempted to aid me in my struggle with Rankin. But when Father Gordon was removed from his parish for 'disciplinary reasons' which, as far as I could see, amounted to nothing more than a love for Christ and his fellow man, I ceased attending their services. I was seventeen at that time. Since then I have been, for want of a better term, an unchurched Christian. There are a lot of people out there, some well-meaning and some not so well-meaning, who will tell you why you must attend their church. But I prefer having some faith and remaining unchurched to joining a church and losing all of my faith. But I really do not intend to get into a big argument over the pros and cons of church attendance. I just put it out there for those people who don't like to read anything until they know the religious denomination of the author.

Two other people were directly involved in my previous adventure. They were Sean and Mary Fitzgerald. They both are my age and they both suffered for my sake. I consider them my sister and brother just as much as I would if they were blood.

Sean and Mary, like me, were without a father growing up. In Sean and Mary's case, it was because their father died when they were quite young. In my case, my father left my life on the day I was born. My mother handed custody of me over to Mrs. Fitzgerald when I was thirteen, and she now lives in Canada. If you read the first Bulkington narrative, you will know that I was born and raised in Linwood, a town off the coast of Maine, and that my name is James Duncan.

Linwood is a small town with approximately 1,000 people living in it. I moved to Lancaster, a somewhat larger town with a population of 10,000 last year, because I simply couldn't get anything but part-time jobs in Linwood. Lancaster is about 40 miles west of Linwood. I've been a police officer here for the last eight months. The work so far has not been difficult.

Lancaster, although bigger than Linwood, is not a metropolitan area. The police force provides two car coverage, one man per car, twenty-four hours a day. I've made four D.U.I. arrests, six disorderly conduct arrests, and written some fifty plus traffic tickets, but I have yet to handle anything (and I hope I never will) that would get me on one of those reality cop story shows.

Before I explain why, having no interesting cop stories to tell, I've taken pen in hand after a eight year hiatus, I want to say something about the Fitzgeralds and Bulkington.

I did not say a whole lot about Mrs. Fitzgerald in my narrative eight years ago because I didn't know her that well at the time and because I was principally concerned with presenting the true story of Bulkington's encounter with Rankin and the devil. Now, having lived with Mrs. Fitzgerald for seven years, I can see her more clearly. I won't call her a saint because that word has been overused, but I will call her a loving, caring, Christian woman. She married Sean Patrick Fitzgerald, a writer, when he was 50 and she was 30. Six years later, Mr. Fitzgerald died, leaving her with four-year old twins.

She saw the way the world was going and steadfastly refused, despite the constant harassment of school and church, to send her children to school. She educated them at home and kept a roof over her and her children's heads with a home-based arts and craft business and the interest from Mr. Fitzgerald's life insurance policy, which she had invested.

Fidelity and charity are the words that come to my mind when I think of Mrs. Fitzgerald. Fidelity to her dead husband, whom she never regards as dead, fidelity to her children, and fidelity to her Lord. I love the woman. She has shown me an unfathomable charity that I did nothing to merit.

Mrs. Fitzgerald's maiden name was Elizabeth Grenville. She came from High Church, English stock. She never converted to her husband's faith but always joined in on the family rosary and often attended mass with her children until the situation in the Church became intolerable. Of course now she no longer attends either the Anglican or the Catholic churches. Her Christianity runs deeper than the Christianity of the various modern churches.

Mary has many of the qualities of her mother. She is fiercely loyal to those she loves and intensely fierce towards the forces aligned against those she loves. One trait that Mary shares with her father and not her mother is an unquenchable thirst for the stories and folklore of old Europe. Her father wrote his own fairy stories based on the old folklore of Europe, and he also did illustrations for some of the classic tales such as the ones found in the Brothers Grimm. In many ways, but particularly in her love for the old folkways and faith of the European people, Mary is a kindred spirit to Bulkington.

Mary has not changed one bit in the last eight years. Yes, she has blossomed into a full-grown woman, but her spiritual makeup has remained the same. She reminds me (Bulkington introduced me to Walter Scott's novels) of Flora MacIvor from Walter Scott's novel, Waverly. In that novel, Flora MacIvor gave her heart and soul to the Stuart cause. When the cause failed, she entered a convent. I think if there were real convents still, Mary would do the same as Flora MacIvor when her cause failed. Only in Mary's case, the cause is not just one royal line, it is the whole of old Europe – the Europe of chivalry, of noblesse oblige, and above all, of Christianity. But the cause, in Mary's eyes, is not yet lost. Not as long as Bulkington lives. That might seem like a ridiculous notion, that the European cause and one American fisherman named Bulkington are synonymous, but it would not seem that farfetched to you if you knew Bulkington.

Is Mary in love with Bulkington the man or with the cause he represents? I'm not an expert on such matters, but I know that what Mary loves about the old Europe is that it was anti-abstraction. Old Europe championed the personal God over the abstract gods and the particular human being over humanity as an aggregate herd. So if one fully absorbs old Europe into one's blood, then such a person can never love in the abstract but only in the particular. Am I raving? I don't think so. And in a few pages, I'll tell you why I'm not raving. In the meantime, how would I answer the question: Is Mary in love with Bulkington the man or with the cause of old Europe? I would say both – for the cause and the man are one.

Whether Bulkington feels anything of a romantic nature for Mary is more than I can gauge. But should they marry, I would be delighted. I love Mary, but as a sister. And I love Bulkington as the heart of my heart and the blood of my blood.

It doesn't mean I look on Sean as Sean the lesser if I give him less space in this introduction than the rest. Sean is Sean. He is the straight-forward, "stout lad" type that every Robin Hood and Scarlett Pimpernel-type band needs if its counterrevolution is to succeed. He would march into hell for my sake, and as a matter of fact he did, some nine years ago.

And now for Bulkington, who was and is the subject of my narrative. I first met Bulkington ten years ago when he saved me from a beating by a local bully. He was thirty then and I was twelve. Today at 40, he seems the same man spiritually and physically that he was at age thirty. He still lives on the outer rim of Linwood, still makes a meager living as an independent fisherman, and still fights battles with the powers of darkness. He was fighting Rankin when I first met him, but Rankin has not been around Linwood for some time now. I think after his failure in the case of James Duncan, he was demoted or something. But I really can't say for sure. Bulkington still does battle with Satan's minions though. He just doesn't fight Rankin any longer.

Why does Bulkington do battle with demons? Because he feels it is his vocation to do so. And why is that, you ask? Well, if you sit back in your easy chair for a few moments, I'll tell you.

I didn't hear all I'm about to relate about Bulkington in one day. He told me bits and pieces of his life story over the course of ten years. What follows is a bare sketch of his life as he related it to me.

Bulkington does not know precisely where he was born. Nor does he know who his parents were. His earliest childhood memories were of a dock along a waterfront. He later came to know that the dock was in Wooten, Maine, a coastal town north of Linwood, near the Canadian border. He grew up like Magwitch of Great Expectations as a 'varmint.' Magwitch was a streets-of-London varmint and Bulkington was a waterfront varmint. From a woman, quite old, Bulkington knew his birth date and the fact that his mother was an American of Welsh descent and his father was an American of Scottish descent. Their names were either not known by the old women or else she didn't care to divulge them.

The old woman (he never knew her name) took care of him as a child, but at her death, which Bulkington witnessed at age seven, he became a child of the wharf. He picked seaman's pockets, fished, and stole to keep going. Why his parents abandoned him is something Bulkington never discovered. Did they both die at sea or in some other accident? Or did they simply leave him with the old woman and relocate? The second alternative seemed too inhuman for Bulkington to accept. He always believed that his parents had died tragically, and that the old, somewhat addle-headed woman had taken care of him to the best of her limited capacity.

So from age seven on, it was a varmint's life for Bulkington. During the warmer months, he slept out, and during the colder months, which are numerous in Main, he figured out what houses he could sneak into in order to get a warm night's sleep in the basement. It seems incredible that in this day and age when everyone is catalogued and numbered someone could grow up as Bulkington did, uncategorized and unsocialized, and without any ties to the community or nation in which he was born.

Bulkington started going to sea as a cabin boy when he was ten. He went out on predominantly foreign ships or fly-by-night American ones that didn't care about parental permission and didn't ask any questions about him. He didn't even have a definite name at the time. The old woman had alternately called him Bill and Ed.

His cabin boy status changed from cabin boy to seaman as he grew up. And he certainly did grow up. By the time he reached manhood, he was 6'8" tall and weighed 265 pounds. He learned to read and write through a fortunate misfortune. At eleven he fell overboard while working on a fishing schooner doing some illegal fishing off the coast. When Bulkington was fished out of the water it was obvious that his injuries were not slight. The captain, a man who knew what his priorities were, shipped Bulkington off to his sister's house in Linwood rather than to a hospital because he feared "questions."

The sister was a 60-year-old retired maiden librarian. During the six-month convalescence period, the Captain's sister taught Bulkington to read and write. When he went back to sea, he went back with a love for reading and with an undying love and affection for the Captain's sister. He never failed to take two or three books with him on every sea voyage and never failed to stop in and see the maiden librarian when he returned to shore. Linwood became his home base.

Bulkington's taste in reading, which was strongly influenced by the Captain's sister, tended toward the old books. He read all of Scott, Dickens, Shakespeare, and the Brothers Grimm. He also read the King James Bible as well, but I don't think he made any conscious commitment to Christianity during those formative years. He was still very much a varmint (his word) despite all of his reading.

He also read tales of the sea, which is how he came to be called Bulkington. At age 14 he read Herman Melville's Moby Dick. In that book there is a character named Bulkington who Melville used to symbolize the spiritual side of man. Bulkington, the Bulkington of Moby Dick, finishes a long sea voyage and immediately signs up for another voyage.

The Lee Shore.

Some chapters back, one Bulkington was spoken of, a tall, newlanded mariner, encountered in New Bedford at the inn.

When on that shivering winter's night, the Pequod thrust her vindictive bows into the cold malicious waves, who should I see standing at her helm but Bulkington! I looked with sympathetic awe and fearfulness upon the man, who in mid-winter just landed from a four years' dangerous voyage, could so unrestingly push off again for still another tempestuous term. The land seemed scorching to his feet. Wonderfullest things are ever the unmentionable; deep memories yield no epitaphs; this six-inch chapter is the stoneless grave of Bulkington. Let me only say that it fared with him as with the storm-tossed ship, that miserably drives along the leeward land. The port would fain give succor; the port is pitiful; in the port is safety, comfort, hearthstone, supper, warm blankets, friends, all that's kind to our mortalities. But in that gale, the port, the land, is that ship's direst jeopardy; she must fly all hospitality; one touch of land, though it but graze the keel, would make her shudder through and through. With all her might she crowds all sail off shore; in so doing, fights 'gainst the very winds that fain would blow her homeward; seeks all the lashed sea's landlessness again; for refuge's sake forlornly rushing into peril; her only friend her bitterest foe!

Know ye now, Bulkington? Glimpses do ye seem to see of that mortally intolerable truth; that all deep, earnest thinking is but the intrepid effort of the soul to keep the open independence of her sea; while the wildest winds of heaven and earth conspire to cast her on the treacherous, slavish shore?

But as in landlessness alone resides highest truth, shoreless, indefinite as God--so, better is it to perish in that howling infinite, than be ingloriously dashed upon the lee, even if that were safety! For worm-like, then, oh! who would craven crawl to land! Terrors of the terrible! is all this agony so vain? Take heart, take heart, O Bulkington! Bear thee grimly, demigod! Up from the spray of thy ocean-perishing--straight up, leaps thy apotheosis!

From the moment he read that passage, the varmint with the two indefinite first names became Bulkington. The sea was his livelihood, but the maiden librarian was his soul. When he wasn't at sea, he was with her. Her full name was Elizabeth Ashley McKenzie. To Bulkington, Miss McKenzie was the mother he had never had. The old woman who raised him till he was seven, he reflected later, had to have had some good traits in order to have taken care of an orphaned child for seven years, but Bulkington's memories of her were tainted with the memory of her drunken, violent rages. With Miss McKenzie there were no such harsh memories. The only loving kindness he had ever experienced came from Elizabeth McKenzie, which is why Bulkington took her death, when he was twenty, so hard.

When he told me about it he made no attempt to excuse what he became. "I was a wild, enraged man, actually more beast than man, who wanted to strike back at God for killing Miss McKenzie. And since I couldn't hit back at God directly, I decided to strike back at Him by striking His creatures."

For two years Bulkington carried out his "program of vengeance." He chopped up stones from Fisherman's Point and loaded them into an old army surplus backpack. Then he would run with the pack on his back up and down the rocky hill leading to Fisherman's Point. He did pushups at the top of the hill and pushups at the bottom of the hill. And he ran up and down that half-mile hill at least 25 times a day.

At night Bulkington went into the bars to start fights. He didn't care how many men he fought or how hard he got hit, so long as he got a chance to hit back. And hit back he did. But it started to get too easy. Right from the start he had the size and power to make a formidable fighting man, but as he gained experience he became virtually unconquerable in any type of 'no holds barred' brawl. It didn't matter after awhile whether there were two men, three men, or a small mob; Bulkington after two years experience found that he could defeat his opponents with ridiculous ease. He needed a bigger challenge.

So at age twenty-two, he decided to stop venting his rage on God's creatures and to go after God instead. He signed on to a ship scheduled to be at sea for six weeks. On the second night out, Bulkington slipped overboard and issued a challenge to God. "Take whatever form you will, be it shark or whale or worse, just let me have at you."

Now, I know this all sounds quite absurd to the enlightened 21st century mind, but you must remember that Bulkington was not really a man of the 21st or the 20th century. He certainly knew what we call the facts of life, but he had only a rudimentary knowledge of science. He knew Walter Scott and the fairy stories of Europe, but he knew nothing of the Western philosophical or scientific heritage. And because of his lack of "scientific" knowledge, Bulkington believed, much more firmly than anyone else born in the 20th century, in a personal God. But because of Miss McKenzie's death, he believed in a personal, malevolent God. And he believed that such a malevolent God would accept his challenge and meet him in hand-to-hand combat in the middle of the ocean.

He swam for hours without feeling any fatigue and without encountering any creature of the sea with whom he could do battle. But during the 12th hour of his swim, he had what he described to me as a "Road to Damascus experience."

Bulkington has only told a few people about his experience that night (I was the first person he told), and it's funny – no one is more apt to deride the type of spirituality that needs a daily dose of private revelations to sustain it than Bulkington – but it was Bulkington who was granted a private revelation. He doesn't expect anyone to believe in his private revelation, nor is he offended if they don't, but he has quietly related to a few of his close friends that it was indeed Him he heard and saw that night and not the fantasies of an exhausted swimmer.

As he said, "I was not exhausted; in fact I felt quite fresh. All of my senses were functioning. I was still hoping to encounter Him in the form of some deadly sea creature. Then, from some part of the ocean which seemed miles away, I heard a voice calling my name. It was a gentle but at the same time insistent voice. I strained my eyes trying to find the source of the voice. I found it. It was Him. He was walking toward me. I kept swimming toward Him. When I came to within a yard of him, I stopped swimming and merely treaded water. He was not a shadowy, ghostly figure. He was a man of flesh and blood. And the eyes… I shall never forget the eyes. He didn't speak once I was near Him. He didn't have to. I knew what He was saying. And I knew who He was. I stood up on top of the water and then immediately dropped to my knees before Him. I felt so ashamed. This was the man I had hated? This was the man I had blamed for Miss Mackenzie's death? Oh, No! I knew Him now. I had always known Him. Every line Shakespeare ever wrote pointed to Him; every Walter Scott hero pointed to Him. The great destroyer? No! He was the greater preserver. Miss McKenzie, my parents, and every soul ever born, lived and breathed because of Him. And yet there was an incredible loneliness surrounding Him. He needed my love. Incredible as it might seem, I knew he needed me. My existence depended on Him, and His existence did not depend on me, but He needed me. All of this and more, more than I can describe, I saw in His eyes.

"I know what people would say if they heard that story, James. They wouldn't believe it, or they would say I had been hallucinating. And I don't blame them. But I'm telling you James, because you were there when He came to me a second time, and because you're my friend. But I've got to tell you, James, that our Faith can't be based on divine revelations. First comes belief, a belief that He planted in our hearts, and then, if He so chooses, comes the private revelations. But the private revelations are useless without that divine presence, His divine presence, in our hearts. He's there. Come hell or high water, He is always there."

Swimming to shore was a feat beyond even Bulkington's capacity, but it was not beyond his capacity that night. He swam back to shore without fatigue. And he walked back to his house in Linwood with the determination similar to that of Saul of Tarsus after he became St. Paul.

There was still the question of "How should I then live?" Bulkington had the zeal to serve His Lord, but what skills did he have? He was twenty-two and he knew how to fish and how to fight. Could the Lord use such a man? Six months later he got his answer. A friend came to him with a problem that involved a devilish gnome named Rankin.[1] Bulkington had his vocation.

It's a funny thing about Rankin. He stayed on the devil's staff for about a year after his failure in the case of, well, in the case of me, James Duncan. But after that he disappeared. For the last eight years, Bulkington had not seen Rankin, nor had I. Bulkington thought the devil had kept him on for a year until he found a suitable replacement. For awhile I was haunted by the thought of seeing Rankin again, but he had long ceased to haunt my dreams when there he was standing right in front of me in the bedroom of my apartment.

"Hello, James. Long time no see."

"Yeah, it has been a long time and I want you to make it a longer time. Get out."

"Now, James, that's no way to talk to an old friend."

"Won't you ever cut out the garbage talk? We are not old friends and you know it. Get out!"

"You're right, that good ol' pal stuff is my traditional palaver, but we're past that. And I'll get out if you say so. But I just thought you'd like to hear about what's coming your way."

I wasn't sure what to do. I wanted him to get out of my sight, but I also wanted to know what he was doing back here again. I decided I had to know.

"What is coming my way?"

"More than you can handle, Mr. James Duncan."

"Don't pull that superior and mysterious nonsense on me, Rankin. The last time I saw you, you were foaming at the mouth and kicking beer cans in impotent rage. And your boss ended up lying flat on his face."

For one instant I saw anger flash in Rankin's eyes, but he quickly got control of himself. And that got me worried. The old Rankin would have indulged his anger and tipped his hand regarding his intentions.

"It's true, James, I suffered a little setback in your case. But let's be honest. You didn't do much. It was Bulkington, not you, who set me back."

"I don't deny that. And it was our Lord who put your master on his face."

"Well, that's true, too. But you must realize, James, that one skirmish does not constitute a war. Your God is not all powerful. He is not holding a winning hand."

"Do you seriously believe that Rankin?"

"Yes, I do, James, and you are going to believe it yourself someday. I'm going to help you believe it. And in order to start you on the road to a new belief, I'm going to be completely candid with you.

"Now, don't get that look on your face. I know exactly what you are thinking. It's that old Shakespeare stuff, isn't it? 'But 'tis strange; And oftentimes to win us to our harm, The instruments of darkness tell us truths, Win us with honest trifles, to betray's In deepest consequence.' But that's not how it works in real life. Shakespeare presupposes that the devil is the bad guy, and that is not so. Look, I'm going to level with you, James."

"I don't trust you for one second, Rankin, but go ahead and level with me."

"Well, it was like this, James. The devil was forced to intervene in your case in a way that was not advantageous to him. So he was boiling mad, if you'll pardon the pun, at me. He replaced me about a year after the incident. I was shipped out for retraining. At first I didn't like it. I was in class with a lot of young devils, little upstarts. And the instructor himself was also younger than I was. But he started to make sense and I started listening.

"I learned that my methods were too old-fashioned. It wasn't necessary for me to get people to deny Christ or to get them to refuse to invoke His aid. All I had to do was to get people to think of him in a new way. A new way that isn't that new any more, but I was not aware of that."

"I don't follow you."

"Well, James, the truth of the matter is that the old Roman way, with some slight modifications, is the new way. Whenever a new god came along, the Romans just included him in the pantheon. So long as the new god was subordinate to the Roman State, he was welcome in the pantheon."

"But the Christians wouldn't accept that."

"No, they wouldn't. Not at that time. But what I didn't realize is that now the Christians are willing to keep their God subordinate."

"Not to the old Rome?"

"No, James, not to the old Rome, but to the only real God there is, to nature. I never really lied to you, James. We do belong to the universe, to the natural universe. Your God is dependent on nature just as much as my God, only my God is willing to submit to nature and use its power while your God tries to defy nature. And He is losing big time. You think you saw something nine years ago. You think Satan is weak. But he isn't. He's growing stronger and stronger while your God is getting weaker and weaker. Soon he will be powerless."

"How can you spout such nonsense? Satan has already lost; he's just playing out the hand. You know that. Everybody knows that."

"Do I? Do you?"


"And who, may I ask, told you that fact?"

"It's traditional Christian teaching. Christ conquered death when He rose from the dead and freed us from the effects of original sin…"

"Stop right there, James. I know the story. But if you take the time to look around you, you'll find that the story has been changing. As that old song says, 'These times, they are a changing.' Even your Christian churches don't put out the old story anymore."

"I don't have much to do with the Christian churches."

"Well, there you are, James. If the Christian churches can't say what Christianity is, why should you be so sure you know what it is."

I was becoming increasingly frustrated with my inability to form a coherent argument to defend what I knew in my heart was true. It was then that I realized the truth of something Bulkington once told me: "You can't debate with the devil, James. He will always win. You either beat a hasty retreat or invoke the aid of our Lord and punch him in the nose." I didn't want to retreat from my own apartment, so I punched the devil's gnome in the nose.

Physically, I'm not the pushover I once was. I stand 6'4" tall and weigh 215 pounds. Sean and I have been following the Bulkington fitness program for the last six years: up and down the rocky hill at Fisherman's point, with pushups in between. But still I was no match for Rankin. After I hit him, he delivered a counterpunch to my belly that dropped me to my knees. He then worked his way behind me and clamped a full Nelson on me, while shoving my face into the floor.

"Don't ever try that rough stuff on me, Duncan. Now here's the rest of the story – Satan owns this earth like he has never owned it before. The churches are his and the schools are his. It's not necessary, as I thought, to bring out dragons and giants. I'm going to send out quite ordinary earthlings against you, your friends, and Mr. Bulkington. But when I'm through with you, you'll be begging me to let you worship at Satan's Shrine."

At this point in his monologue, he let me up.

"Why, Rankin? Why all this bother about me?"

"It's not about you, Duncan. You're nothing. It's about Bulkington. He's the last one. From some stupid string of circumstances, he has grown up with a mind and heart that is straight out of Grimm's Fairy Tales. He is truly the last European. And when old Europe dies, Christianity dies. But it's not enough, they tell me, to just kill him. And that's where the modern training comes in. In order to fight modernity, he'll be forced to adapt to modernity. And then we'll have him. I'm telling you this because you can't do anything to stop it. It's inevitable. It's mathematical. Through you, and Sean, and Mary, the people he loves, we'll get him. Good-bye, Duncan."

He slammed the door.

Well, what was I to make of Rankin's visit? He certainly didn't visit me to renew our fine and beautiful friendship. His visit was obviously an opening gambit in a new assault on Bulkington. But what did he hope would be the result? I was afraid. How does that Psalm go? "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil." Well, I feared it. There is no use denying it. I prayed, but let me tell you, it's awful hard to believe in the efficacy of prayer when you feel alone against all the forces of hell.


[1] See The Mortal and the Demon

Continue to Chapter Two


Sunday, October 14, 2007

"Incomparable in Its Symmetry"

On the 4th of August, 2007, R. Jamison posted a remarkable speech by John Sharp Williams on the blog Spirit Water Blood. Williams was a U. S. Representative and U. S. Senator whose father was killed at the Battle of Shiloh. The speech was published in the Confederate Veteran magazine in 1904 (Vol. XII, No. 11, November 1904, pp. 517-521).

The speech is magnificent. It is impossible to imagine any U. S. politician of the last fifty years speaking with such depth and insight.

Let me just quote a few passages to illustrate Mr. William's profound insights.

On the subject of fighting --

"Mere fighting is no virtue; far from it. Indeed, the man who is not great enough and brave enough not to fight when he ought not to is a poor excuse for a man. Speaking for myself, I have no admiration of the professional fighter, whether he be a Texas cowboy or a West Point graduate…"
Williams expresses my own feelings about war and fighting. I have no respect for "our troops" because they are not fighting for a cause I respect.

Why did the South fight? –

"But there was something else, and even a greater cause than local self-government, for which we fought. Local self-government temporarily destroyed may be recovered and ultimately retained. The other thing for which we fought is so complex in its composition, so delicate in its breath, so incomparable in its symmetry, that, being once destroyed, it is forever destroyed. This other thing for which we fought was the supremacy of the white man’s civilization in the country which he proudly claimed his own; 'in the land which the Lord his God had given him;' founded upon the white man’s code of ethics, in sympathy with the white man’s traditions and ideals."
Yes, it is the same today. We are not fighting for free trade, capitalism or the U. S. Constitution. We fight for white civilization.

The great struggle during the "Reconstruction Era" –

"There is no grander, no more superb spectacle than that of the white men of the South standing from ’65 to ’74 quietly, determinedly, solidly, shoulder to shoulder in phalanx, as if the entire race were one man, unintimidated by defeat in war, unawed by adverse power, unbribed by patronage, unbought by the prospect of present material prosperity, waiting and hoping and praying for the opportunity which, in the providence of God, must come to overthrow the supremacy of 'veneered savages,' superficially 'Americanized Africans' – waiting to reassert politically and socially the supremacy of the civilization of the English-speaking white race. But what gave them the capacity to do this sublime thing, to conceive it and to persevere in it to the end? To wait like hounds in the leash – impatient, yet obedient to the call of the huntsman’s horn – which came upon the heels of the autumn elections in the Northwestern States in 1874? What gave this capacity to the 'easy-going, indolent, life-enjoying' Southerner? What if not four years of discipline, training, hardship? Four years which taught the consciousness of strength and mutual courage, the consciousness of capacity for working together, the power and the desire of organization, and which gave them, with it all, a capacity for stern action when required by stern events? But for the war – the lessons which it taught, the discipline which it enforced, the capacity for racial organization which was born with it – I, for one, do not believe that conditions in Louisiana, South Carolina, and Mississippi to-day would be very far different from what they are in Hayti, Cuba, or Martinique."
Alas, the fruits of that great victory were squandered. By the 1950's the "veneered savages" were ushered back into white civilization. Yes, it was often at the end of a Northern bayonet, but that doesn't explain the South's capitulation.

In the past, as Williams points out, the white Southerners stood shoulder to shoulder against the racial universalists. What happened? I think the South succumbed to the great seduction. They learned to love Big Brother. It gets rather tiresome to always be contra mundum.

And once the incomparable symmetry of white civilization is destroyed, can it ever be regained? The answer is no, if we think like the walking universalists. There is no system, no magic talisman that will restore white civilization. It's not a question of restoring the Latin Mass or voting for a president who is "born again." The princess in the fairy tale remains in a death-like slumber because no one loves her. She will be restored to life when she is loved. The love that brings even the dead to life comes only from those men and women who are connected, through their spirit and blood, with His civilization. Nothing is impossible to such men and women.

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Sunday, October 07, 2007

Grim Statistics

The statistics that we see in the 'Death of the West' publications are pretty grim. One doesn't have to be a prophet to see that the white race is facing the end of the line. It would be somewhat less grim if it were only the white race in America which was finished, but it is a worldwide racial suicide we are witnessing, not just a national suicide.

The late Malcolm Muggeridge used the term 'the great liberal death wish' to describe the suicide of the European peoples. And at first glance that seems like an apt description, for is not suicide a death wish? Yes, it is. But the white liberal death wish is not your typical death wish. The white liberal wishes for the death of white civilization, but he doesn't wish for his own death. The obvious question to ask the white liberal is, "Don't you realize that the destruction of white civilization will also mean your own personal destruction?" The white liberal's answer to that is, "No." And he answers no because he is delusional. He has an Atticus Finch complex. White is evil, black is good, with the exception of Atticus Finch. He has fought the good fight and defended the good darky, and he will be worshipped by the darkies.[1] Every white liberal would deny that such vain impulses motivate him, but it is the reality. Overweening, egotistical pride is what motivates the white-hating white. And he hates, with satanic fury, any individual and any group of individuals that would challenge his delusional faith in his vision of himself as Atticus Finch.

An image has stayed with me from my freshman year in college. It is an image of a T-shirt with a picture on it of a black youth stabbing a white youth. The lettering on the T-shirt said something about slaying the oppressors. One would think that the T-shirt was worn by a black man, but it was not. A tall, blue-eyed, blonde boy (he could have been a poster boy for Hitler's youth movement) wore the T-shirt wherever he went. The young Aryan had a few black friends who he partied with and introduced to his white girl friends. If one of his black friends had actually stuck a knife in him, he would have been (if he lived) shocked and offended, because he was not the white on the T-shirt. That white deserved to be killed; he was 'thee and me.' But Atticus Finch? He deserves to be worshipped. "Stand up, your father is passing."

The white-hating white has abandoned his race because he has abandoned his faith. It is true there are many white-hating whites in organizations such as the Roman Catholic church or the Methodist church or the Baptist church, etc., that claim to have some connection to Christianity, but we cannot countenance such a claim. And we cannot do so because the entire Christian tradition warns us that pride, the overweening pride displayed by the white-hating, church-going whites, is the mark of Satan.

The great evangelist, St. Paul, and the greatest Christian poet, Shakespeare, speak with one voice about man. Man is a self-deceiver, who piles layer upon layer of falsehood over his heart. If he does not see himself as a self-deceiver who needs to clear away the sludge of deceit from his heart on a daily basis, he will destroy himself and those around him. He will be like King Lear prior to his repentance: he will be a great destroyer of himself, his family, and his countrymen.

It is possible for an occasional King Lear-type conversion, but we should note that Lear's conversion occurs after it is too late to salvage his kingdom. Which, I fear, is the only type of conversion that we are likely to see in the ranks of the white-hating whites. And even that type of conversion is highly unlikely. It is far more likely that the white-hating white will maintain his delusion even as the barbarian knife is piercing his heart.

Because the white-hating white worships the image of himself as a glorified Atticus Finch, he does not respond to a clarion call to arms based on the reality of the barbarian threat to the white race. Tell him what happened in Haiti when blacks actually had power, and he will yawn with indifference or scream "racist" at you. "That happened to bad whites, to oppressive whites. In the new world, organized by white Atticus Finches, there will be no oppression, so there will be no vengeful blacks." If you show him film footage of La Raza screaming for the heads of whites, his response will be the same as it was to the murderous actions of the blacks in Haiti. There is nothing that will alter the delusional mania of the white-hating white.

It is not, as Anthony Jacobs has pointed out, that the colored races are on the march, it is that the white race is on the run. If the white race would stop running, the colored invasion would end. But of course the white race will not turn and fight because the white-hating, white technocrats are the leaders of the colored invasion. They, in their hearts, have said no to the Christian society of the plowed field and the evening lingerings. Their hearts do not "receive Him still" because they have no hearts.

Look at the white technocrats. They are obsessed with theory: the cleric, damning with joyful glee, the "Anglo-Saxon race"; the capitalist, also damning with glee, the "lazy" whites who will not "work" in his sweatshops as he imports thousands of Aztecs to do his bidding. Behind all of this is the delusional belief of the white technocrats that they can achieve divine status by sacrificing white people to the colored hordes. And for a time they will be successful. The coloreds can be appeased by the sacrificial offering of non-technocratic whites. But eventually, when they have run out of white sacrificial victims, the technocratic Dr. Frankensteins will face the monster they have created. And then, they will face the long night of the knives.

I don't quarrel with the statistics compiled by the 'death of the West' authors. I don't need to see the actual numbers to know that they are correct. Everywhere I go, I see the death of the West. There are Mexican trailer camps where there were once white family farms, and black barbarians on every street corner. However, I do quarrel with the 'death of the West' authors who present only the statistical picture without taking the oath on the sword. No white man worthy of the name should view the demise of the white race with Thomistic-Buddhistic quietude. Take the oath, "To the knife." We do not seek to shun reality. The statistics are quite grim. But white men, real white men, are not driven to despair by grim statistics. All we need is a remnant band who will not yield.

[1] I, like all school children then and now, was made to read To Kill a Mockingbird when I went to school. I liked the book, but what I liked about the book was the account of Scout and Jem's childhood. The Tom Robinson rape trial was of little interest to me. I accepted as a given that the prejudiced white Southerners were bad and that the only barrier to peace and harmony was white prejudice, but still, the Tom Robinson case did not hold my interest. I think the reason was that that part of the book does not ring true. Harper Lee had to make a choice. She could have written a classic novel about childhood innocence confronting the world outside of childhood innocence. But instead she decided to write politically correct but false social commentary.

The real novel, the true novel that she didn't write, would have told the story of two white children who had to learn, as we all do, about good and evil. They would have discovered that the Boogie Man of the fairy stories had a name and a color. His name was Tom Robinson and his color was black. He was guilty of crimes that defied their father's ability to explain. Finally, their father simply told them the story of God and the devil and the final triumph of the God-Man. And until that final triumph, the non-utopian Atticus Finch told them, never take the wall down between our people and the people of color.

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