Cambria Will Not Yield

Saturday, November 24, 2007

The Mind-Forged Wall

Lost in all the celebrations, eight years back, of the new century we were entering was the fact that the 21st century is the first of the post-Christian centuries. Christianity was certainly in trouble at the beginning of the 20th century, but by no stretch of the imagination could it be called dead. Now, at the beginning of the 21st century, the old time religion can certainly be certified as dead.

And it is striking to me how easily the intellectuals of both the Catholic and the Protestant denominations have succumbed to Satanism. By isolating man’s intellect from his other faculties, they have left him at the mercy of the dialectic, and it is in the dialectic mode that Satan thrives.

Satan’s task, when he confronted Adam and Eve in the garden, was to get them to disobey God’s command not to eat from the forbidden tree. He needed to engage them in a dialogue if he was to succeed. Once he persuaded Eve, and through Eve, Adam, to look on God’s command as something abstract and debatable, he had them both hooked.

That original sin – the pride in our own isolated abstractions and the desire for the power we think our prideful cogitations will bring – is always with us; it is part of our sinful nature. And it must be fought tooth and nail lest it consume us. Yet the very guardians of the citadel of Christ have encouraged us to indulge our sinful appetites to abstract and depersonalize. We have depersonalized man and we have depersonalized the living God. ‘Our Father who art in heaven’ has become ‘Our abstracted, derivative By-Product who art everywhere and nowhere.’ When, following the lead of the clergy, we depersonalize God; we have created, to paraphrase Blake, a mind-forged wall between God and man.

The mind-forged wall was built over time by clerics, academics, and self-styled wise men who professed to be Christian but who still thought like Greeks. In the Greek culture the goddess of wisdom sprang from the head of Zeus; she bypassed the blood. In contrast, Christ, the font of all wisdom, came to us through the blood. Therefore, to the Christian, all true knowledge comes to us through the spirit-infused blood of Christ.

The modern Gnostic Christian views any mention of the blood as superstitious and barbaric. His God word is 'reason'; in fact, his God is the rational, autonomous man. Rational man will welcome Christ into his club, but only if Christ agrees to behave rationally. For reason, as Aquinas tells us, is the final arbiter. And if there is a power higher than God, is not that power God? But if we turn from the Greek mode of perception and look at the Hebraic mode of perceiving reality, we see something quite different from the men behind the wall. We see that the spirit of man can only be animated through the blood. Blood without the animating spirit is barbaric, mere voodoo superstition, but when the spirit and the blood are united the mind-forged wall between God and man disappears. And the unholy worship of our ratiocinations is stripped of its religious halo and seen for what it is: blasphemy.

So long as the mind-forged wall of bloodless Christianity exists, there will be a conflict between Christians of the blood and the Gnostic post-Christians in control of the churches. The post-Christians will continue to treat the black man as an object to be worshipped on the one hand (because he has the blood that they lack), and to be converted on the other hand (because he lacks the spirit, which the Gnostic has falsely linked to the intellect, that they possess).

The difficulty in converting the Gnostic post-Christian comes from the fact that the Gnostic has placed himself beyond the ken of humanity. By uniting his spiritual life to the mind rather than to the blood, he has thrown in his lot with the great enemy of mankind. The great poets have always seen Satan as the sneering intellectual, standing aloof from mankind.

And it does little good to hand a Gnostic the Gospel of Christ. He knows the story, but he has redefined it. He is no more open to the Gospel of Christ than he is to a tale from the Brothers Grimm. Both, to the modern Gnostic, are "fun" stories to play mind games with.

Miguel de Unamuno stated the problem clearly. It is first necessary to awaken a tragic sense of life in an individual before he can be convinced to turn to the Gospels and treat them as something other than a series of crossword puzzles. To put it simply – a man needs to believe he is sick before he will seek an antidote for his sickness.

If an individual only looks on death as tragic because it comes too early or because it causes pain and not because it extinguishes a personality, then that individual has no need of a loving, personal God. He needs modern science to prolong life and alleviate pain, but he does not need Christ. Only those who have not forsaken their blood and retreated behind the mind-forged wall can know Christ. Such individuals still feel pain at the loss of the "touch of a vanished hand" and still yearn for the "sound of a voice that is still." One has to feel that Cordelia’s death in King Lear was tragic before one can feel the joy of Thaisa’s resurrection in Pericles.

The tragic sense of life is intimately connected to a fairy tale appreciation of life. In the fairy tale, the hero conquers death and lives happily ever after. The modern man has no need for fairy tales, for castles in the sky; instead, he has self- help books and reads success stories. How petty his dreams are and how superficial his yearnings.

To feel abandoned and forsaken by God is a terrible thing. To feel estranged from God because of unresolved problems with some particular sin is also a terrible thing, but to feel no need for God, for the Man of Sorrows and the Risen Christ, is to be in the most unenviable state imaginable. And such is the state of modern man.

All of existence depends on one central issue: Can we feel, with Lear, the true tragic dimensions of Cordelia’s death? If the answer is yes, then all else will follow and we will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.

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The Last European. Chapter Six.

Previous: Chapter Five, Chapter Four, Chapter Three, Chapter Two, Chapter One

The celebrated Master of the Templars was a tall, thin, war-worn man, with a slow yet penetrating eye, and a brow on which a thousand dark intrigues had stamped a portion of their obscurity. At the head of that singular body, to whom their order was everything, and their individuality nothing--seeking the advancement of its power, even at the hazard of that very religion which the fraternity were originally associated to protect--accused of heresy and witchcraft, although by their character Christian priests--suspected of secret league with the Soldan, though by oath devoted to the protection of the Holy Temple, or its recovery--the whole order, and the whole personal character of its commander, or Grand Master, was a riddle, at the exposition of which most men shuddered. The Grand Master was dressed in his white robes of solemnity, and he bare the abacus, a mystic staff of office, the peculiar form of which has given rise to such singular conjectures and commentaries, leading to suspicions that this celebrated fraternity of Christian knights were embodied under the foulest symbols of paganism.
--The Talisman by Walter

That night was a great night, but things didn't stay peaceful for long. Two days later, it happened. I was on duty, Sean was out in the boat with Bulkington, Mrs. Fitzgerald was shopping at the local grocery store, and Mary was back at the house. Someone broke into the house and abducted Mary. I really shouldn't say 'someone'; it was Rankin. He left a note addressed to Bulkington: "No harm will befall your little darling if you do as we say. After all, it's not her who we really want. I hope you can swim because you'll have to swim a great deal if you want us to release the young lady. From the rocks below Fisherman's Point, the jagged ones pointing due north, start swimming. After four or five miles you'll swim into a mist, a very thick mist. Keep swimming through the mist. You'll come to an island with an old castle in the center of it. Come on in. We'll be waiting for you and so will Mary. Follow these instructions to the letter. Come alone and do not use a boat. You swim. Ta-ta for now. – Rankin"

Sean and I wanted to accompany Bulkington, but we knew it was no use.

"It's no good, fellows, I've got to follow their instructions. But you can stay with Mrs. Fitzgerald and see that she doesn't despair. I really think that Mary will be all right if I keep the appointment. Tell her that. And look for Mary to be coming back."

"What about you? Will you come back?"

"I don't know James. But you’re a man now and so is Sean. Stay European, as a favor to me, will you?"

We both nodded our assent.

"God bless you," he said just before he entered the water.

"God bless you," was all I could stammer out. We watched him swim until he was out of sight. And the terrible void in my soul was there again.

Mary had been gone for five days and Bulkington for four days when a boat pulled up to the shore near Fisherman's Point. Two men got out of the boat carrying what seemed to be a trussed up human being. They dropped their bundle on the shore and shoved off for open waters again. Sean and I saw them from the window, and we both went running down to the beach, but the men were gone before we could get to them.

The trussed up human being was Mary. She was disheveled and looked quite shaken, as one would expect, but she didn't appear to be seriously injured. We got her up to the house where an overjoyed Mrs. Fitzgerald started hugging and feeding her all at once.

We gave Mary a half-hour to get cleaned up and nourished before we demanded to know her story.

"Not yet," Mrs. Fitzgerald implored, "She is not rested enough."

"It's all right mother. I feel fine. And I don't blame them a bit for wanting to know everything. I'd feel the same way in their place."

Mary then proceeded with her story.

"Rankin and two other men – I never saw them before – broke into the house, bound and gagged me, and took me into a boat they had moored on the south side of Fisherman's Point. They must have waited till Sean and Bulkington were on the north side of the point because I saw no sign of them.

"They took me to an island with a rather large, medieval-styled castle. It had all the modern conveniences inside, but the outside was exactly like the old castles. It even had a moat. I wasn't physically abused or anything, but I was kept in confinement. The room in which I was confined was a nice bedroom, but the door was locked from the outside, and I was told there would be severe consequences if I tried to escape.

"For three days, despite my demands to be told something, anything, about my captivity, no one spoke to me. I was fed, most of which I didn't eat, but the contact with the person bringing me the food was all the contact I had with anyone during those days.

"On the fourth day, I was taken from the bedroom to what seemed to be the grandest and largest room of the castle, where I was tied to a chair. There were three large tables, placed together in a large U-shape.

"I was seated and tied to a chair on the right-hand side next to Rankin. There were seven men, besides Rankin, sitting at the same table. There were four men and two women at the table opposite ours, to the left of the center table. And there were five men and one woman seated at the center table. The five men and one woman seated at the center table all wore long robes resembling the gowns that professors wear on solemn, academic occasions such as graduations. The people at the two side tables were dressed in normal 21st century clothing, except for Rankin, who had on a very ill-fitting tuxedo.

"I was no longer gagged, so I asked Rankin a few questions, namely, why had I been abducted and when would I be released. Rankin just told me to shut up. He was quite cranky. I have no doubt it was because he was once again, after his failure in the Mogombi affair, being relegated to a subordinate role in Satan's scheme of things.

"I wasn't surprised when Bulkington was brought into the center of the room, facing the center table. I had thought all along that I was merely a pawn in the 'We must get Bulkington' game.

"He was shirtless and barefoot, with loose-fitting khaki trousers on. He was dripping wet. I don't know why they had made him swim to the island. I suppose they wanted him to feel humiliated in addition to feeling physically exhausted.

"He was not tied up, but there were six men, all armed with rifles, forming a semi-circle behind him. He immediately demanded that I be released as was agreed.

"'All in good time, Mr. Bulkington,' said the man in the center of the main table. 'First you must be questioned.'

"'No, first you must untie her.'

The man at the center of the head table simply made a gesture, and I was untied.

"'Now, Mr. Bulkington, we will proceed. My name is Peter Caravaggio. I am a priest of the Roman Catholic Church and a member of a society that is duly authorized by Rome to perform the Tridentine Rite. To my immediate left is Father Jeffery Dunn, a Roman Catholic Priest, also of my order. Next on my left is Dr. Bartholomew Salvador. He received a doctorate of philosophy from the University of Barcelona, and he now teaches at Holy Cathedral University. And lastly, on my left, is Dr. Susan Kent, a professor of theology at Ignatius University.

"'To my right we have another priest. He teaches at the Sorbonne; his name is Father Lafollette. He also belongs to my order. And lastly, on the right is Dr. Benjamin Hewitt, a brilliant mathematician, scientist, and philosopher, who works at the Institute for the Advancement of Science in upstate Connecticut. The rest of the people in attendance,' he gestured toward the other tables, 'are all in some way connected with our organization.'

"'And what is your organization?'

"'Forgive me; I should have realized that you would have no way of knowing about our organization. We are a religious body of clerics and laymen dedicated to bringing about the kingdom of God on earth. We intend, through the proper use of our intellects, to bring all the various divergent elements of humanity together into one harmonious whole.'

"Bulkington pointed at Rankin. 'Is he part of that harmonious whole?'

"'Why, yes, he is.'

"'Do you know who he serves?'

"'Please, Mr. Bulkington, give me some credit. Of course, I know that. He works for Satan. But Satan is an angel, an angel with great intelligence. He is part of the future harmonious whole. That old dichotomy, God or the Devil, is false. Satan believes, as we believe, that the only real divinity resides in intelligence. Without it, we descend to the lowest level on the evolutionary scale.'

"I could tell, knowing Bulkington as I do, that Caravaggio's harmonious whole disgusted him. But he didn't bother debating with Caravaggio.

"'I came here as I was told. Now I want her released.'

"'And I told you before to be patient. We will release her. But first you must do some listening and some explaining.

"'Now, our organization has branches throughout the world. We have over two million official members and over a hundred million people who are under our direction. You might not believe this, but it is true. In a few years, maybe less, we will be in a position to govern the world. Our people are in very high places in every government throughout the world. Once we take control we will be able to thoroughly cleanse the unharmonious elements in every country and thus bring about the kingdom of God on earth.'

"'That all sounds great. Now, let Mary go, and I'll go along with her.'

"'No, Mr. Bulkington, it is not that easy. You see, you are a major obstacle to us. Yes, don't play innocent with me.

"'Your average walking idiot doesn't know about the spiritual life. They would simply advise us to put a bullet in you or have you killed as Rankin tried to do. But the problem is that even if you are physically dead, you will still constitute a problem. The spirit, being a thing immortal, does not cease to exist after death. It still is the animating force behind the man or woman who has died. So the problem isn't one of simply killing you. It goes deeper. You must be converted.

"'Rankin, though hopelessly dense in many ways, has grasped the fact that through a strange string of circumstances, you have maintained a Faith in a version of Christianity that is most unpleasant and downright repulsive to those of us in the Tridentine Church of Christ. Your continual adherence to a childish and excessively sentimentalized version of Christianity endangers our cause by sending out negative spiritual rays. This is not science fiction; it is fact. There is no physical resurrection as you envision it. There is only a resurrection of intelligence. The mind will have a body but it will be an intellectualized body, free from the constraints of time and space. Those who are not intellectualized will not go to hell; they will simply cease to be. But you, Mr. Bulkington, possess a strong spirit. It will not be easy to eliminate you. And while your spirit exists, it hinders our work; it destroys harmony. We have established harmony in every corner of the world but yours. This must not be. You will be converted. The young lady's presence is needed during the conversion process in order to ensure that you do not attempt something foolish. I know more about you than you might think it possible to know. And I know that were it not for the young lady's presence, you would attempt to kill one or all of the men guarding you and then you would proceed against me. So the girl stays until you have gone through the conversion process. Now, are you ready to begin?'

"I tried to get a good look at Bulkington's face at this point, but I couldn't see that well from where I was sitting. I just heard him say, 'Yes, go ahead.'

"'First, are you a Roman Catholic?'

"'No, I can't in good conscience say that I am. I was baptized in that church because the woman who took care of me as a child was a member of that church. And I tried to follow its dictates for many years. But in the last few years I've felt very estranged from the Roman Catholic Church.'

"'I must ask you to be more specific…'

"'Is this really necessary?'

"'Yes, it is, and if you want that girl to be released, you'll answer my questions.'

"'All right. I felt estranged for many reasons: homosexual priests, atheist priests, and so on. But the main reason for my estrangement was a growing sense that the Roman Catholic system, whether it was the Tridentine system or a Novus Ordo system, was designed to encourage men and women to put their faith in a scientific, naturalistic system instead of in Christ. There are many more nuances I could go into, but that, in a nutshell, is the essence of my problem with the Catholic Church, although I should add that I certainly have know some good Christians who were Catholic. But I came to believe that they were good Christians despite the system, not because of it.'

"'Are you a member of some Protestant church?'

"'No, I'm simply unchurched at present.'

"'Yet you think you are a Christian and claim to have had visitations from Christ himself?'

"'Yes, on two separate occasions I have seen the living God. But I have never said that makes me a religious authority or that one should base his own faith on my private revelations.'

"'Do you think God normally speaks to mortals by way of private revelations?'

"'No, I don't.'

"'Then why should he speak to you that way?'

"'I don't know.'

"'You don't know?'

"'That is correct. I don't know.'

"'Do you even know that it was Christ speaking to you?'

"'Yes, it was Christ.'

"'How can you know for sure?'

"'I just know.'

"'Are you against our organization?'



"'Because your organization is in league with Satan and opposed to Christ.'

"'That's a ridiculous statement, Mr. Bulkington. It shows you have childish notions about God. Christianity is an evolutionary religion, not a static one. We find out what it means as we evolve. The God of the Hebrews and the early Christians is an anthropomorphic God; the true God doesn't exist in those old fairy stories.'

"'My God doesn't evolve.'

"'All right, answer this question: Did Christ found a church?'

"'I don't know. Or, to put it more carefully, I don't know what kind of church He founded.'

"'Is the Roman Catholic Church the Whore of Babylon or is it the Church of Christ?'

"'It seems to be little of both.'

"'Come, come, Mr. Bulkington, that won't do at all. It must be one or the other.'

"'No, that is a false "either-or" you are creating, and I think you're quite aware of it.'

"'Well, Mr. Bulkington, it seems clear to me that you don't know much about anything. But let me tell you something. Our organization is doing God's work. We are in complete unity with the Roman Catholic Church. And the Roman Catholic Church is the only church that can bring about the unity of mankind. All the other churches are hopeless, unorganized hindrances. And the very glory of the Roman Catholic Church, its organization, is something, you feel, that makes it anti-Christian. This cannot be permitted. It shall not be permitted. Answer me this – How do you know you exist?'

"'That's one of those questions you can't--at least I can't--answer. All I know is that I exist.'

"'That is where you are wrong. You can't know you exist unless you free your mind. And your mind is tied to sentimental images and to illicit emotions and passions. When you untie your mind and make it free you will be able to rule your sentiments, emotions, and passions.'

"'What do you expect me to say? I don't agree.'

"For the first time in the exchange, I noticed that Caravaggio was showing signs of anger. He beat his hand on the table and raised his voice just short of a scream.

"'You must agree, you must see. I have all the weight of the Church behind me. There is no one who is going to practice a religion as set forth by the great Bulkington, fisherman, barroom brawler, and self-styled champion of lost causes. But everyone, every man, woman , and child, will cling to the Roman Catholic Church once they have heard its true message preached by the Holy Society of the Tridentine.'

"'Then leave me be and let Mary go free. Why are you worried about what I believe if you are so certain of the triumph of the Tridentine Faith that you espouse?'

"'I told you, because there must be complete harmony and you are not in harmony.'

"'I don't see what you see nor do I have any desire to see it.'

"'You shall see it, that I promise you.'

"Caravaggio then made a gesture to the men guarding Bulkington. 'I don’t want him mutilated or killed, but I do want you to make sure that he feels pain like no man on this earth has ever felt it before!'

"Then, he addressed the entire assembly, 'We will adjourn for now. I will meet privately with my colleagues. Oh, and I'll also require,' he addressed me, 'your presence and Mr. Rankin's presence.'

"So the panel met. Rankin seemed delighted to be included. As soon as we were seated in the conference room, which was much smaller than the other room, Caravaggio spoke. 'I don't expect the torture alone to convert Bulkington. But it will help to make him more receptive to what will be his ultimate conversion.'

"'Your Excellency,' spoke up Dr. Salvador, 'Aren't we spending too much time on one man?'

"'I'm surprised that you would ask that question, Dr. Salvador. You know, or at least you should know, that it is a spiritual force that we are battling against. Millions upon millions of individuals without any spirituality do not pose the threat that Bulkington does.'

"'I understand that, but I suppose I just forgot it for a moment. It's just that he seems so obdurate; it seems at times like such a waste of effort. But I do agree with you, we must make the effort.'

"'We all forget at times, Dr. Salvador. But I hope that we are all in agreement about the problem?'

"As Caravaggio's eyes swept the room, every member of the panel made some sign of agreement.

"I tried to pay attention to the rest of their discussion, because I thought it might be useful to Bulkington, or to us, at a later date. But it was difficult to listen when all I could think of was, 'Bulkington is being tortured.'

"The discussion was a long one, so I can't give you all the details. But it finally came down to this: Bulkington was a threat because he represented the old Christianity, which was a religion which looked on Jesus Christ as a personal God who had come to save individual men and women from sin and death. That faith, according to Caravaggio, was a false perversion of true Christianity. Jesus Christ, according to Caravaggio and his Tridentiners, came not to redeem but to enlighten. The damned were not the sinful, but the unenlightened. The mind needed some kind of body, so the Tridentiners still espoused some kind of resurrection, but it seemed that the heavenly kingdom was only for the enlightened ones. And that kingdom was a kingdom of equals; all were Gods.

"I'm doing my best to describe what seemed like a very complicated system, which, Caravaggio maintained, was nothing more than traditional Roman Catholicism."

"That's rot."

"Yes, it is rot, Sean, but I must admit while I was listening to them, all of whom were educated and articulate, I felt myself drawn to their explanations."

"But surely, Mary," I interjected, "an organization that accepts Rankin and tortures prisoners cannot represent the true Faith?"

"No, James, it can't. I'm just trying to explain how I felt while listening to them. I felt they might be right, and that made me despair because then nothing made sense anymore. I think I understand Bulkington better now than I ever did before. I understand why he is so violently opposed to the efforts of professed Christians to make Christianity into a philosophy."

"And what about Bulkington," I asked. "Where is he, and did they ever stop torturing him?"

Mary had been bearing up pretty well, but the flood gate of tears opened up when I asked her about Bulkington. It took some time before she could answer.

"They had a plan. Caravaggio maintained that the only way to convert Bulkington was to enter into his madness as Samson Carrasco did with Don Quixote. Bulkington had to be defeated and in defeat stripped of his faith. At that point, Rankin piped up and started making suggestions. Caravaggio shut him up quickly.

"'We shall need you to attend to the physical details of what we propose, but we do not desire your help in the actual planning of the event. You have already demonstrated your inability to handle such a man as Bulkington.'

"Rankin looked mad enough to kill after that rebuke, but what could he do? He was under orders.

"They ushered me out of the room after that, so I don't know what they planned for him. They did let me see him, but not talk with him, before I was sent home.

"Everybody met again in the large meeting room. He was brought before the panel by the same six men who had taken him away. He looked ghastly. Not because he was covered with blood – he wasn't – but because his face, particularly his eyes, spoke of one thing, pain. He had been tortured to the extreme limit of human endurance. But even so he raised his arm and pointed to me. 'Now let her go.'

"'Quite right, Mr. Bulkington,' Caravaggio allowed. 'We will let her go.'

"So I was set free, but I have no idea what is to become of him."

It was Sean who spoke up. "I'll tell you what will become of him. He'll beat them. No matter what game they cook up, he'll beat them."

I loved Sean so much at that moment. He was, and is, all faith and fire. And I loved Bulkington as much if not more (I had more reason to love him) than Sean did. But I didn't have Sean's faith. Does that mean I didn't have his love? I don't know. But I was afraid of what Caravaggio would do. I thought he might break Bulkington's faith, and by doing so, he would break mine as well.

As for Mary and her mother, they said nothing more. They went to weep and pray.

Since I wasn't due back to work for two days, I stayed in my old room at the Fitzgerald's house that night. It felt good. I thought I wouldn't sleep, but two previous sleepless nights had made me due for a collapse. I fell right to sleep.

I awoke, about four hours later, conscious of a presence in the room. I reached for the .38 special beneath my pillow, but a voice stopped me.

"Don't do that, James; there is no need for it. It's only me, Rankin."

"What do you want?"

I wasn't afraid of treachery on Rankin's part. And that wasn't because I thought he was incapable of treachery. I wasn't afraid, because I knew before he told me that he was there in my bedroom not to harm me but to show me the final page in the Bulkington drama.

"Come here."

I followed and he led me down the stairs, out into the night, and up the hill to Fisherman's Point. Once there he stepped on the rock that he had first stepped on in my presence some ten years ago. When the rocks opened up, I balked.

"I'm not going down there with you."

"You don't have to, James. Just sit down and watch."

A nice cozy chair had materialized just outside of the opening in the rocks. The entrance way was now blocked by a motion picture screen.

"Sit back, James, and I'll show you the end of Mr. Bulkington. I didn't write the script, but I'll be directing the play. I think you'll enjoy it."

Continue to Chapter Seven


Sunday, November 18, 2007

The European Nation

In C. S. Lewis's book, The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe, Father Christmas is forced to give Lucy a gentle rebuke when she wants to go into combat:
Last of all he said, "Lucy, Eve's Daughter," and Lucy came forward. He gave her a little bottle of what looked like glass (but people said afterward that it was made of diamond) and a small dagger. "In this bottle," he said, "there is a cordial made of the juice of one of the fireflowers that grow in the mountains of the sun. If you or any of your friends is hurt, a few drops of this will restore you. And the dagger is to defend yourself at great need. For you also are not to be in the battle."

"Why, Sir," said Lucy. "I think—I don't know—but I think I could be brave enough."

"That is not the point," he said. "But battles are ugly when women fight."
Kipling expresses the same sentiments as Father Christmas in his poem "The Female of the Species." But let us go further. War is not just ugly when women are brought into it; war is also ugly when it is not local, when it is not, in the narrowest sense of the words, for kith and kin. The Iraq war is an abomination because it is the farthest thing imaginable from a war to defend kith and kin.

When Stalin's good buddy Hitler betrayed him and invaded Russia, Stalin found it necessary to drag some of the Orthodox priests out of prison in order to bless the troops and exhort them to repel the invaders in the name of Mother Russia. Stalin correctly saw that his men were more likely to fight for Russia than for international communism.

Bush and his neocons have attempted and are still attempting a ruse similar to the one employed by Stalin. The Iraq war is not a defensive war. It is an aggressive war to impose democratic capitalism on the people of Iraq. The beneficiaries of a successful termination of the war will be the robber barons of the United States and the government of Israel. And yet the neocon establishment has spared no expense to try to convince Americans that somehow their war of aggression is a war of defense. "We are fighting over there so we won't have to fight here." That is the Madison Avenue-styled inanity that we are asked to swallow. But of course it was because we were fighting over there in the first Gulf war and because we send Israel the money to fight over there that the enemy brought the fight to our shores.

War is always tragic, but it is not always ugly. Our Civil War is a case in point. It was tragic that utopian white men waged a war of aggression on their fellow Europeans in the name of racial egalitarianism. But it was heroic and noble that other Europeans rose in defense of white civilization. And the key words are "in defense of." William Tell is a hero because he kills in defense of; the Klansmen under Nathan Bedford Forrest were heroes as well because they also fought in defense of. Bush and his neocons (or more accurately, the neocons and their lapdog) are inhuman monsters because under the guise of patriotism, they kill for money.

It was George Fitzhugh who said, "We are the friend of popular government, but only so long as conservatism is the interest of the governing class." Now that the radical disenfranchisement of white people at home, and the violent spread of democratic capitalism abroad is the interest of our government is there any reason at all to expect that the U. S. will ever again engage in a war that a white European can support?

Walter Scott, in his poem, "The Lay of the Last Minstrel," asks the question

Breathes there the man, with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native land!
And the answer to that is yes. There is such a man. He is the modern Gnosticized white man. He has renounced his own native land for the idea of a democratic, multi-racial, capitalist utopia. And such a

…wretch, concentred all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonoured , and unsung.

A native land consists of a people of one Faith, one race, and one culture. White Americans do not have a native land. We live in a geographic region called the United States, and we are ruled by a capitalist oligarchy that is systematically depopulating the country of white people.

In contrast, the Scotland that Walter Scott writes about in his novel The Antiquary is a nation. Toward the end of the book, Scott depicts the reaction of his countrymen to a reported invasion (Scott takes the incident from an actual occurrence) by the French. The invasion report turns out to be a false alarm, but the threat is very real. Britain is only a few years removed, at the time of the incident, from the Battle of Trafalgar. What is significant about the Scottish response to the threat of invasion is the way every level of their nation pulls together. The landed gentry become captains with their servants in the ranks. The wealthier shopkeepers open up their shops to give supplies to the poor farmers and laborers who have come as volunteers to fight for their nation. And the apologia for the benefits of having a real nation is given by Edie Ochiltree, a beggar, when the Antiquary, a member of the landed gentry, expresses surprise to see that even Edie is preparing to do battle.
"I would not have thought you Edie, had so much to fight for?"

"Me no muckle to fight for, sir? Isna there the country to fight for, and the burnsides that I gang daundering beside, and the hearths o' the gudewives that gie me my bit bread, and the bits o' weans that come toddling to play with me when I come about a landward town? Deil!" he continued, grasping his pikestaff with great emphasis, "an I had as gude pith as I hae gude-will and a gude cause, I should gie some o' them a day's kemping."

"Bravo, bravo, Edie! The country's in little ultimate danger when the beggar's as ready to fight for his dish as the laird for his land."
When a people are a real nation they come together as one, from the beggar to the king, when there is a threat of an invasion. But when a people of a particular country, such as the United States, form divergent groups of warring tribes with no common racial, cultural, or religious heritage, there cannot even be a common consensus on what constitutes an invasion, let alone a successful effort to repel an invasion.

Our neocon government leaders stress that we are at war with Iraq because it is in the national interest. But our country is not a nation so we have no national interest. The Iraq war suits the self-interest of the neocon tribal element of the United States. And the real invasion at our borders, the type of invasion that would have mobilized the Scottish nation in the early 1800's, is countenanced by the white zombies because they view anything that weakens the older European element in this nation as serving their self-interest.

The white European remnant is in no position to wrest control of the government from the white technocrats. But white Europeans are in a position to say, "Your god is not my God and your people are not my people." It starts with a refusal to be absorbed into the non-nation called the United States of America. A European has greater aspirations. If we reject the "American dream" and embrace the European dream of an earthly nation that is linked to His heavenly nation, we will be in line with our European ancestors and we will be serving the true King of all true nations.

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The Female of the Species

When the Himalayan peasant meets the he-bear in his pride,
He shouts to scare the monster, who will often turn aside.
But the she-bear thus accosted rends the peasant tooth and nail.
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

When Nag the basking cobra hears the careless foot of man,
He will sometimes wriggle sideways and avoid it if he can.
But his mate makes no such motion where she camps beside the trail.
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

When the early Jesuit fathers preached to Hurons and Choctaws,
They prayed to be delivered from the vengeance of the squaws.
'Twas the women, not the warriors, turned those stark enthusiasts pale.
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

Man's timid heart is bursting with the things he must not say,
For the Woman that God gave him isn't his to give away;
But when hunter meets with husbands, each confirms the other's tale—
The female of the species is more deadly than the male.

Man, a bear in most relations—worm and savage otherwise,—
Man propounds negotiations, Man accepts the compromise.
Very rarely will he squarely push the logic of a fact
To its ultimate conclusion in unmitigated act.

Fear, or foolishness, impels him, ere he lay the wicked low,
To concede some form of trial even to his fiercest foe.
Mirth obscene diverts his anger—Doubt and Pity oft perplex
Him in dealing with an issue—to the scandal of The Sex!

But the Woman that God gave him, every fibre of her frame
Proves her launched for one sole issue, armed and engined for the same;
And to serve that single issue, lest the generations fail,
The female of the species must be deadlier than the male.

She who faces Death by torture for each life beneath her breast
May not deal in doubt or pity—must not swerve for fact or jest.
These be purely male diversions—not in these her honour dwells—
She the Other Law we live by, is that Law and nothing else.

She can bring no more to living than the powers that make her great
As the Mother of the Infant and the Mistress of the Mate.
And when Babe and Man are lacking and she strides unclaimed to claim
Her right as femme (and baron), her equipment is the same.

She is wedded to convictions—in default of grosser ties;
Her contentions are her children, Heaven help him who denies!—
He will meet no suave discussion, but the instant, white-hot, wild,
Wakened female of the species warring as for spouse and child.

Unprovoked and awful charges—even so the she-bear fights,
Speech that drips, corrodes, and poisons—even so the cobra bites,
Scientific vivisection of one nerve till it is raw
And the victim writhes in anguish—like the Jesuit with the squaw!

So it comes that Man, the coward, when he gathers to confer
With his fellow-braves in council, dare not leave a place for her
Where, at war with Life and Conscience, he uplifts his erring hands
To some God of Abstract Justice—which no woman understands.

And Man knows it! Knows, moreover, that the Woman that God gave him
Must command but may not govern—shall enthral but not enslave him.
And She knows, because She warns him, and Her instincts never fail,
That the Female of Her Species is more deadly than the Male.

-- Rudyard Kipling

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The Last European. Chapter Five.

Previous: Chapter Four, Chapter Three, Chapter Two, Chapter One

… the water which has been refused to the cry of the weary and dying, is unholy, though it had been blessed by every saint in heaven; and the water which is found in the vessel of mercy is holy, though it had been defiled with corpses."
--John Ruskin

Once upon a time there was a woodcutter who lived in the forest with his wife and three sons. The boys grew in age, as boys will do, and the oldest son came to the woodcutter and said, "Father, I don't want to chop wood all my life. I would like to go out into the world to seek my fortune."

"It is only normal that you should wish so my son. Go with my blessing. Just see that you are never cruel and that you are always honest, and you will be great, no matter what profession you choose."

So, the eldest brother went forth into the world. By and by he came upon an old man, sitting by the side of the road. The old man appeared to be starving to death.

"Please," said the old man. "Could you spare me a crust of bread or something?"

The eldest brother looked at the old man and sneered. "A crust of bread will do you little good, old man. You'll soon die anyway and I need all of my food. Goodbye, old man."

And the eldest brother went on his way. Perhaps we will hear more of him later.

Another year passed and the second eldest brother went to his father. "Father, I don't want to chop wood all of my life. It is time for me to go seek my fortune in the wide world."

"I can't blame you, my son. You have my blessing. Just be sure that you are kind and true and never cruel, and you will be great no matter what profession you take up."

The second brother then went forth. And like the first brother, he came upon the starving old man who asked him for a crust of bread.

"Sorry, old man, I need all the food for myself. You should have planned more carefully; then you wouldn't have to go around begging from other people. Good day to you."

And off to seek his fortune went the second brother. Perhaps we will hear more about him later, too.

Yet another year passed, and the woodcutter went to his third and youngest son.

"Son, you are growing up very fast. Do you want to go and seek your fortune in the great world like your brothers have?"

"No, father, I am happy here in the forest. It is here that I wish to stay."

The woodcutter was surprised, but pleased, to hear this.

"That is fine, my son. Your mother and I will be happy to still have one son at home with us."

But after another year passed, the woodcutter came again to speak to his son.

"My son, the woodcutting no longer provides much money. Perhaps you could find work in the great world for a time and then come back to the forest when there is more work here again."

The youngest son could see that his parents were in a very bad way.

"Do not despair, father. I will go out into the world and bring you and mother enough money to last you all your days."

"That is not important, son. Your mother and I have enough. Just earn enough for yourself and be kind rather than cruel and be honest rather than cunning. God bless you, my son."

And so the third and youngest brother went forth into the world. When he had walked a ways along the road, he came, as his brothers had before him, upon a starving old man.

"Could you spare a crust of bread or something, young man?"

"Certainly, my good sir. I have a whole oat pancake in my satchel and it is more than I can eat. I also have a quart of milk which is more than I can drink."

The third brother then divided up the food and sat down and ate with the old man. After the meal, the third brother told the old man that he had to be going on his way.

"Before you go, young man, I should like to give you something."

"That is not necessary, my good sir."

"Because you say it is not necessary, young man, it becomes necessary. Because you have a kind heart, I am giving you this small golden cross. Do not exchange it for money or anything else. Save it. And whenever you feel surrounded by evil and in danger of losing your life, hold this cross in your hand and say, "In the name of Him who made blind men see and crippled men walk, make this evil desist."

"I will keep this cross with me, good sir. And I thank you."

So saying, the third brother went on his way.

He soon came to a small village. The people in the village seemed to be very poor and ill fed. One man was chopping wood and doing a very poor job of it.

"This is something I can do," the third brother said to himself.

"Hello, good sir, let me do that for you. I can use some exercise."

"I thank you, young man."

The third brother finished chopping the wood in no time, and then helped the man carry the wood to his poor dwelling. Inside, the third brother saw four children, two boys and two girls, all younger than ten years of age, dressed in rags, and with the mark of starvation on their visages. The third brother's heart went out to them.

"Good sir, have you nothing to eat? Doesn't the land around the village grow food?"

"The land around here was once good land," the man replied, "but it is now under a curse. A witch has placed a curse on all the land in the kingdom of King William. And this village is in the realm of King William."

"Why has the witch put a curse on the land?"

"That I do not know. I only know that nothing has grown here for over a year. We have used up all of our supplies. Every day my wife goes into the city to beg for food. We are waiting for her now. Some days she comes back with a crust or two of bread and on other days she comes back with nothing."

"Do they have food in the city?"

"Yes, their storage bins have not been exhausted yet. But the men and women of the city have their own children to look after, so they are not inclined to share with people of the villages, especially when they have no idea when the witch's curse will be lifted. I fear we will be dead from starvation very soon."

Again the third young brother's heart went out to the man and his family.

"You shall not starve. I will go to this King William and find out where this witch is. Then I will go to the witch and make her break the spell she has put on the land. In the meantime, take what food I have."

After giving the family four loaves of bread and a substantial amount of cheese, the third brother hastened to the castle to see King William.

He did not have the usual trouble that one generally has when trying to see a king. This was because King William had given his guards orders that anyone offering to kill the witch of the glen was to be ushered into the Royal Presence immediately. And of course the third brother was offering to kill the witch. The King also had, as all kings must have, a beautiful daughter who was to be given in marriage to the man who could rid the kingdom of the witch.

The third brother thought the King's daughter was very beautiful, but that is not why he wanted to kill the witch. In his mind's eye, he saw the starving children and his heart bled for them.

"I will kill the witch and remove the curse. Only tell me where she lives."

The King's reply was prompt. "The witch lives in the glen twelve miles to the south. If you follow the road that passes the old mill and the abandoned blacksmith's shop, you can't miss finding the witch of the glen."

The third brother started on his way. He did not know, because the King had not told him, that over one hundred highly trained knights had been killed in the attempt to kill the Witch of the Glen. He also did not know that the beautiful daughter of the king had had her lips sealed with a special wax prior to the King's conference with the third brother. This was done because the Princess had told the last few knights who had come to do battle that over one hundred knights had lost their lives trying to kill the witch. The Princess's warning had deterred the knights, which had made the King very angry. It wasn't proper, he claimed, for a young princess to deter young men from seeking to kill a witch.

"But shouldn't they at least be warned of the danger?" the Princess had asked.

"No," the King replied, "that's implicit."

So the third brother went forth to meet the Witch of the Glen. When he came to her dwelling in the Glen, she was (as witches will do) bending over a cauldron and stirring up some hideous brew. The cauldron was only a few feet in front of her cottage, which actually was, at least from the outside, a rather pretty looking cottage.

The witch, who had known for quite some time that the third brother was coming to slay her, turned and asked the third brother what he meant by intruding on private property.

"I've come to make you remove the curse from this land."

"That shall not be. The curse can only be removed with my death, and I don't intend to die."

"I'm sorry you're so obstinate, for you leave me no choice."

With those words, the third brother rushed upon the witch. Now the third brother did not own a weapon, but he had borrowed an ax, because that is what he was familiar with, from his friend in the village.

The third brother was quite strong and quite proficient with the ax. He struck a blow that would most definitely have killed the witch had the blow landed. But the witch raised her hand in the air and erected an invisible shield around her. The axe hit the shield and shattered into a thousand pieces.

The witch then summoned two giant ravens to come and bind the third brother to a tree. Once the third brother was bound, the witch dismissed the ravens and let out a very traditional witchy cackle.

"Now, you fool, you shall die slowly. Inch by inch, I shall peel your skin off," she said as she brandished a long knife in front of the third brother's face.

The third brother was very frightened, but he resolved to meet his fate bravely and not give the witch the satisfaction of seeing that he was afraid.

"Do what you will. We all must die in the end."

"Yes, but your end will be within the next two hours after I have slowly, and oh so painfully, peeled off all your skin."

As the witch sharpened her knife for the peeling, the third brother thought of the cross the old man had given him.

"If I can just loosen these ropes a little bit, I can get a hand on the cross," the third brother thought.

It took quite an effort, but eventually, before the witch had finished sharpening the knife, which had to be extra sharp in order to peel skin, the third brother managed to get his hand around the cross in his pocket.

"In the name of Him who gave sight to the blind and made the lame to walk, I order the evil to desist."

Suddenly a huge bear leapt from the forest and pounced on the witch. Before she could do anything to protect herself, the bear killed her. Then the bear came up to the third brother and with his sharp claws, cut the ropes that bound him. As the ropes fell off, the bear was transformed into the old man with whom the third brother had shared his food on the road.

"More than mere thanks I owe to you, kind and generous sir. You have saved my life and the lives of the starving people of the kingdom."

"No, I have not saved their lives, young man. You have. For you must know by now that I am an angel. And angels cannot act, on this earth, except through human beings. We travel only on invisible streams of charity. If there is no charity in human hearts, we cannot act. Your act of charity has allowed me to intervene in your life. So it is through you that the villagers will be saved from starvation. Now go and tell them that the witch is dead. But do not tell them about me. Tell them -- and it is not a lie -- that through you the witch met her death. And remember the cross you possess, and beware of treachery. Devils work through humans, too, and they have more success, numerically at least, than angels such as I. We need streams of charity and they need rivers of sin."

The whole kingdom rejoiced at the news of the witch's death. The beautiful Princess, who had never been that impressed with the swaggering knights, was smitten with the humble woodcutter's son and quite ready to marry him. But the King was not impressed with the third brother.

"It is not right that a mere woodcutter's son should marry my daughter," he said to himself.

To the third brother he said, "You have done well. My people are once again able to grow food on the land. But marriage to my daughter is out of the question for the moment. You see, I have a cousin who is king of the land bordering this kingdom. His kingdom provides us with access to the sea. If some other king, less friendly to us, would take over my cousin's kingdom, we would no longer have access to the sea, which would be a very bad thing. You can see that, can't you?"

"Yes, I can, but why is your cousin's kingdom in danger?"

"Ah, I'm glad you asked that. His kingdom is in danger of falling to the giants from the North. Every two months or so, they come down from the mountains and attack my cousin's castle. He has managed to beat them off thus far, but he has lost many knights in battle against them. And many more knights are deserting rather than face the giants every two months. If my cousin's kingdom falls to the giants it will really be impossible for us to send out our merchant ships or to receive goods from other ships that land on the coast of what is now my cousin's kingdom."

"That is indeed a serious situation. I will go forth and make the giants stop raiding your cousin's kingdom."

"Good, good," said the King, who was really thinking as he was saying 'Good, good,' 'What an idiot this woodcutter is.'

So again the woodcutter went forth till he came to the kingdom of the giants. He went boldly up to the largest giant, who was also the leader, and told the giant that he had to stop the raids on the neighboring kingdom. The giant just laughed and reached out to crush the third brother in his hand. But the third brother was not so easily subdued. He quickly lifted his ax and cut off two of the giant's fingers. Now the giant was truly enraged. He ordered five of his best giants to surround the third brother. Then, even though he strove to fight them off with his ax, the five giants overcame the third brother. They then tied him to a spit and started roasting him.

However, the third young brother managed once again to get his hand on the golden cross. "In the name of Him who makes the blind see and the lame walk, I command this evil to desist."

Suddenly there was a great storm, with thunder, lightning, and great torrents of rain. The giants were terrified (thunder and lightning is particularly terrifying for giants because they are so high above the ground), and they started running hither and thither looking for shelter. But they could not escape their fate. Every single giant was truck by lightning. They all perished.

The rain, of course, put out the fire that the third brother was being roasted over. And the little old man -- yes it was he -- came and took the third brother off the spit.

"I seem to cause you a great deal of trouble," the third brother said apologetically.

"No trouble, young man. You are a rare gem in this world."

"I have done nothing that is so wonderful."

"Ah, because you think that is why you are so rare. But my young friend, I again must warn you to beware of treachery, not all in this world are like you."

After thanking the old man profusely, the third brother started back to King William's kingdom.

Now, unbeknownst to the third brother, his two older brothers had been working in King William's kitchen. They had not fared so well after snubbing the old man. Near starving, they had both ended up taking work washing dishes and mopping floors. Often they would say to each other, "This is worse than woodcutting." And they thought of going home. But one thing stopped them. The eldest brother said, "Working in the King's kitchen we hear many palace rumors and secrets. Maybe someday we can turn this to our advantage." The second brother agreed with that bit of wisdom.

The two elder brothers heard all that went on between King William and their brother. They had expected him to be slain by the Witch of the Glen. They were astonished when he came back alive and victorious. So when King William sent the third brother to fight the giants, his two older brothers followed him. They saw him being roasted alive and they saw by what means he was delivered.

"Why should that idiot get all the glory just because he gave a few crusts of bread to that old man? We would have given the old man some bread if had known who he was. Angels shouldn't go around pretending to be starving old men. It's dishonest," the brothers said.

As the third brother ventured back to King William's castle after his encounter with the giants, his two older brothers greeted him. He was delighted to see them. Naturally, the two elder brothers did not tell their younger brother that they had been willing to stand by and watch him roasted on a spit.

After much hugging and rejoicing, the brothers settled down to eat a meal together. When the meal was over, it was too dark to travel any further so the three brothers went to sleep under the stars of heaven.

During the night, the two elder brothers rose up and beat their youngest brother with stout cudgels. Not knowing or caring whether he was dead or alive, they took the golden cross from him and went back to the castle.

Once before the King, they told him of the great battle they had fought against the giants. They had killed them all, they said, after the third brother had broken down and cried, too frightened to fight.

No sooner had the elder brother told their tale than a messenger came from the King's cousin telling the King that all the giants had been destroyed. King William then ordered a great feast to be prepared with the two elder brothers attending as guests of honor.

But although King William was quite willing to give a feast for the two older brothers, he certainly did not want to have either of them in his family. So he resolved to get rid of them by giving them an impossible task. When the feast was over he invited the two elder brothers back to his private chambers where he told them of his problem.

"Long ago a great warrior of our nation subdued a ferocious dragon that had been ravaging the country. He chained the dragon to the walls of a cave that lies on the very edge of our kingdom. Word has reached me that the dragon is about to burst loose from his chains. I want you to go and kill the dragon. It should be easy for two such brave fellows as you."

Now, I should point out that the King had not had a report about the dragon breaking his chains. He simply made it up to get rid of the two elder brothers.

The two brothers talked the matter over between themselves. "We know the magic words and we have the magic cross. Let's go and kill the dragon. There should be a big reward and beautiful princesses in the deal."

So it was agreed. The King promised one third of this kingdom and the hand of his eldest daughter in marriage to the eldest brother. And he promised one third of his kingdom and the hand of his younger daughter in marriage to the second brother. (The King actually had only one daughter, but since he didn't expect either brother to come back alive, he said to himself, 'What the heck, promises are cheap.')

The two brothers set forth then to kill the dragon. After a journey of five days, they came to the dragon's cave. Even though the dragon was not about to burst his chains, he was still a danger to anyone foolish enough to get within fire-spitting range of him. The two brothers cautiously approached the dragon.

"How far can a dragon spit fire?" the second brother asked the first brother.

"I don't know," the first brother replied.

They both had crossbows, so they shot a few arrows into the dragon, but the arrows had very little effect on the dragon. He just looked irritated.

"Let's use the cross," the eldest brother said.


Taking the cross in his hand, the eldest brother said the words he had heard his brother use while being roasted on the spit by the giants. Nothing happened. Actually, something did happen, but it was not what the two brothers expected. The dragon spat fire, and his flaming breath made contact with the eldest brother, who was burned to ashes. In terror the second brother started to run from the cave. But the dragon spat fire at him as well. He felt the flames engulfing him and gave himself up for lost. "Curse that younger brother of mine and the stupid old man," he said, as the flames surrounded him.

But suddenly he felt himself drenched with water and free from the stifling heat of the dragon's flaming breath. Standing before him was the third brother. He had put out the fire by rerouting, with his shield, a stream that flowed through the cave.

"So it's you. Well, I think you should know that you killed our eldest brother with your stupid cross."

"I'm sorry I did not get here soon enough to save him."

"Well, he is dead. Enough about him. Let's get out of here."

"Not yet. I must go back and get the cross."

"Are you crazy? The cross doesn't work. Our brother said the words and held the cross and the dragon burned him up."

"Perhaps our brother did not have the right things in his heart when he said the words and held the cross."

"That doesn't make any difference," the second brother insisted. "He said the words and he held the cross just like we saw you do. It should have worked."

"But I must tell you, my brother, that the angel who gave that cross to me places great importance on what is in a man's heart."

"And I tell you, brother," the second brother was in a towering rage now, "that my heart and our older brother's heart is the same as yours. The old man was just using you to trick us. Or maybe you were in on it with the old man. I wouldn't put it past you. But whether you were in it or not, I know that old man is no angel. He is a devil."

"The old man is good. Now I must go back and get the cross."

The third brother went back and found the cross among the ashes. He wept to see the ashes of his brother. "I must bury him," he said to himself.

When he stopped to bury him, however, the dragon lashed out with his tail and wrapped the third brother up in it, gradually choking the life from him. Now you might be wondering, as I did when I first heard this story, why the dragon didn't just burn the third brother up. Well, he didn't because he was temporarily out of fire. A dragon needs an hour or two, after a large expenditure of flame, before he can spit fire again.

As the dragon was choking the life from him, the third brother grasped the cross and gasped out the words the old man had told him to use. He then felt a great surge of strength shoot through his body. He broke free from the coiled tail of the dragon, leapt to his feet, grabbed his ax from the ground, and before the dragon could clamp his jaws on him, he chopped off the dragon's head.

When the second brother saw the third brother dragging the dragon's head out of the cave, he thought to himself, 'I must figure out a way to steal that dragon's head. Then I can claim the Princess and one-third of the kingdom – or maybe two-thirds since my brother is dead.'

But much to the second brother's surprise, the third brother gave the dragon's head to him.

"You take this head and claim the reward. I have some money which the King gave to me for killing the witch. I will take that money back to our parents and go back to being a woodcutter. My heart is sad because I have buried our brother here in the cave. I am weary and want to go home."

"Yes, you do that. It will be good for you," the second brother said with a delight that he could barely conceal.

So the brothers parted at the crossroads, the one going home to be with his parents, and the other going to the palace to claim a kingdom and a princess.

"Tell Mother and Father I'll send them a letter someday. Bye, bye." To himself he said, 'What a stupid fool that kid is.'

The King gave the second brother a great celebration. And he told him that his daughter (fortunately for the King, one of the brothers was dead, for as we know he had only one daughter) and one-third of the kingdom was his reward. But secretly the King had decided to kill the second brother.

'A dishwasher is worse than a woodcutter for a son-in-law,' the King said to himself.

Now, at the big royal party were acrobats, jugglers, dancing girls, and a magician. The magician did magic tricks, of course, but he also told fortunes. The King thought it would be fun to have his fortune told. The old magician first looked into the King's eyes and then he looked at his palm.

"This is what I see in your future, oh King. I see a deep pit. I see snakes. The snakes are entwined around a man's body. I see a red man commanding the snakes to squeeze harder. The red man is laughing."

"What kind of fortune teller are you, you disgusting old man. Fortune tellers are supposed to tell people good things, especially when they are being paid quite well for their services. So explain yourself before I get very angry with you."

"I do not fear your anger, King William. It is you that should be afraid, for you are the man I see entwined by snakes, and Satan is the laughing man of red."

"Seize that old man and throw him off a cliff," ordered the King.

"Stop," said the old man, throwing off his magician's robes and revealing the garb and person of the starving old man.

The soldiers who were making to seize the old man were stopped in their tracks by bolts of lightning emanating from the old man's hands. When the King saw this, he threw himself on the floor and begged the old man to spare his life.

"Please don't kill me, please don't! And tell me, what can I do to avoid that pit of snakes?"

The old man looked at King William sternly and said, "You must take murderous thoughts from your heart and truly repent. Give up vain glory. I want you to go to the woodcutter's hut. Then I want you to offer him your whole kingdom and your daughter in marriage. But mind you, it must be done with a good heart. Good words, even holy words, when spoken with an evil heart will bring disaster upon the man who speaks them. Remember that."

The King vowed to do as the old man commanded. The old man then turned his attention to the second brother who was trying to sneak out of the palace.

"And you, cringing in the corner, if you want to avoid the pit of snakes, you must go and ask forgiveness of your brother. He will surely grant it, for he has a good heart. But if you do not truly crave pardon, I suggest you say nothing at all. Now go."

The King and the second brother started on their journey to the woodcutter's hut that very night. They traveled all night, and by morning they arrived at the hut.

All night the King had been thinking. 'I really have been a disgrace as a king and as a man. My father did not rule by treachery and deceit. And my mother never taught me to send men to their death rather than keep my promises to them. I have been a scoundrel. I deserve to go to the Pit.'

And he sweated great rivers as he thought of the Pit. He also thought of the cross he had seen in the hand of the third brother. He got off his horse and fell to his knees.

"May He who made the blind to see and the lame walk have mercy on me and forgive me, even though I do not deserve mercy or forgiveness."

After his prayer, the King got back on his horse and continued on his journey. He was still somewhat frightened but he also felt a certain peace that he had not felt since his childhood.

Meanwhile the second brother was also thinking. 'That old man has always been against me. You would think an angel, or whatever he is, could think of something better to do than to act the part of a starving man and deceive poor travelers. I hate him. And I hate my brother too, for plotting against me with that old man. I'll ask for forgiveness now, because they have me over a barrel. But I'll bide my time. When that old man makes a slip, I'll get even with everyone. What's that stupid excuse for a King doing now, groveling on the ground like that? What a stupid ass he is.'

As morning dawned on the woodcutter's hut, it dawned on an unusual sight. The King was on his knees outside the hut, as was the second brother. The third brother came out of the hut, but his parents stayed inside. The old man had visited the cottage during the night and asked the parents to stay in the cottage until their son came to get them.

"I have sinned against God and against you," the King said. "Please forgive me and come and rule the kingdom with my daughter as your wife."

"I will come and rule the kingdom, as my good angel has told me I should. And I will gladly, if she'll have me, take your daughter in marriage. But you mustn't kneel to me. I forgive you with all my heart."

Now it was the second brother's turn, "Dear brother, I have sinned against God and against you. Please forgive me."

As the third brother stepped forward to embrace his brother and forgive him, the ground opened up and swallowed the second brother.

The third brother was overwrought. "Why has this happened?" he sobbed. Suddenly on top of the cottage roof, the old man appeared. But he no longer looked wizened and starved. He looked majestic, with a long white beard and a long white robe.

"Your brother has gone where only the prayers of others can help him. His hate-filled heart would not allow him to truly repent."

"But what shall I tell my good parents?" the third brother asked.

"Tell them nothing now. Later, when the time is right, and you'll know when that time is, you can tell them all."

"Is there hope for any of us?" King William asked.

"Yes, there is hope for all. And more people could see that hope if we had more people like that young woodcutter in the world." Then turning to the woodcutter, "God bless you, my son, rule well."

And then the old man disappeared.

The woodcutter's son did rule well. He kept faith with his heart and with His heart. As for the two elder brothers? Well, we know their earthly fate, but what of their eternal fate? There is always hope.


Mrs. Fitzgerald enjoyed the tale. She had one question, however.

"I want to be clear on this. Why, when the third brother confronted the giants, didn't he use the cross to start with? I can understand why he didn't use it initially against the witch – he didn't know at that point if it would work. But why didn't he use it right away against the giants rather than waiting till he was being roasted alive?"

"Because in the ethics of fairy land, the mortal must initiate the action before the angel can aid him…"

"And let those invisible streams of charity flow?"


We stayed on well into the night talking about big things and little things and everything else in between. It was a wonderful night. As I walked back to the Fitzgeralds' house in the darkness, I thought of what Prince Knana had called Bulkington, "a man of the shadows." Well, maybe he was a shadow to the modern world, but to me he was a knightly John the Baptist who bore witness to the Light.

Continue to Chapter Six


Sunday, November 11, 2007

The Last European. Chapter Four.

Previous: Chapter Three, Chapter Two, Chapter One

There I throw my gage.
To prove it on thee to the extremest point
Of martial daring
-- Shakespeare

The agreed-upon forms seemed to be a stacked deck. Prince Knana was clad in what I presume was his native garb, which consisted of what I can only describe as a gold-plated loin cloth. He had a spear in one hand and a sheathed knife in his golden embroidered belt. He stood on the top of a hill looking down over Miller's Field, which is about two miles out of Lancaster and is usually deserted. There were four other Mogombis with Knana at the top of the hill. They also had spears, knives, and loincloths. But their garments were not gold-plated; I suppose that was only a privilege of royalty.

It was a chilly night, about 30°, but that didn't seem to bother the Mogombis. King Omo, Knana's foster father (according to Knana), along with a couple of hundred of the Mogombis, lined the field.

Bulkington stood in the field looking up toward the hill and Prince Knana. Sean and I stood on the sidelines near but not next to the Mogombis.

All had been arranged between King Omo, Knana, and Bulkington. If Bulkington lost the contest, ambition's debt (from the perspective of the Mogombis) was paid since the contest was to the death. The key negotiating point, from Bulkington's perspective was Sean and I. The Mogombis wanted Sean and me to die if Bulkington lost the contest. Bulkington insisted that his blood should be sufficient. After a great deal of haggling, they agreed to let Bulkington's death suffice for all three of us. I don't know if this was because they simply planned on killing us at a later date or if they were just being moderate in their appetite for vengeance.

Bulkington advised us to come armed and be prepared for anything. "I hope they'll stick to the agreed upon combat, but we can't count on that. If I lose, be prepared to fight your way home. If I win, watch my back for disgruntled Mogombis looking for vengeance."

At 2 A.M. the contest began. Bulkington was armed with a whaler's harpoon and a throwing knife. The four Mogombis who had been chosen to stand with Knana seemed quite fit. I'll simply designate them as warriors 1, 2, 3, and 4. It might seem odd, but even at that rather crucial moment, I couldn't help but think of The Cat in the Hat Comes Back, who brought with him Thing 1 and Thing 2. Knana was more lethal than the mischievous cat, however, and he brought not two but four 'things' with him.

The four warriors advanced down the hill toward Bulkington. Prince Knana was still at the top of the hill. Warrior 1 launched the first spear from a distance of about 25 yards. It missed by a wide margin. Warriors 2, 3, and 4 then charged Bulkington, running abreast of each other with only about a foot between them. Warrior 1 ran slightly behind them. At approximately ten yards distance from Bulkington, the three warriors with spears launched them at Bulkington. All three spears would have penetrated Bulkington's chest if he hadn't deflected them to the ground with a great sweeping movement of his harpoon.

The first warrior had continued running as his three comrades threw their spears. As Bulkington swept the spears away, Warrior 1 leapt on him, knocking him to the ground and the harpoon from his hands. Then I saw the warrior raise his knife, and I saw Bulkington's hand raised to stop the downward thrust of Warrior 1's arm. Bulkington twisted the warrior's knife inward toward the warrior's chest while pulling him forward. Then he leapt to his feet, leaving the first warrior dead on the ground.

He threw his own knife into the fourth warrior's chest. Warriors 2 and 3, seeing that Bulkington was now unarmed, rushed him with their knives drawn.

Bulkington tackled Warrior 3, receiving a knife wound in his upper back as he did so. But he still managed to pick up Warrior 3 and hurl him at Warrior 2. Warrior 2 was surprised by the maneuver and did not step aside quickly enough to avoid impaling Warrior 3 on his knife. Bulkington then picked up his harpoon and drove it into Warrior 2 before he could extricate his knife from Warrior 3.

I had been so busy watching the combat that I hadn't seen Knana leave the top of the hill. But he was now ten yards to the left and slightly to the rear of Bulkington. Bulkington saw him a split second too late. Prince Knana's spear went through Bulkington's left side, going in through the back and coming out to the front. He fell to the ground, face down. With a howl of triumph Knana rushed upon Bulkington to finish him off with his knife.

At this point I had to fight back the instinct to draw my revolver and shoot Knana. It was only the knowledge that the Mogombis would shoot Bulkington, Sean, and me if I violated the rules that kept me from shooting him.

As it turned out it was providential that I refrained from interfering. As Knana lunged forward with his knife, Bulkington suddenly rolled over, clutching the splintered spear in his hand. With one hand he held back Knana's knife thrust and with the other he plunged the spear point into Knana's heart. Then, bloody, weak, and deathly pale, Bulkington stood on his feet.

"Prince Knana is defeated. Nydoki did not protect him. The Mogombis must leave this land." He looked at King Omo. "Do I speak the truth?"

King Omo turned and spoke to his warriors, "Yes, he speaks the truth."

Behind me I heard a shot. A Mogombi with a rifle fell dead. Sean had put a bullet into him as he drew a bead on Bulkington. Bulkington again turned to the chief.

"Do you mean to break your bargain?"

"No," said the chief. "There will be no more fighting. We go."

And to my infinite relief they did go. They took their dead and disappeared, presumably back to their apartments in Lancaster. Hopefully, if they keep to their agreement, they will ultimately end up back in Zena.

Bulkington waited until the Mogombis left the field, and then he collapsed. Sean got to him first.

"James, he's lost a lot of blood. We have got to get him to a hospital."

On the way, we discussed what to say at the hospital. We couldn't think of a thing.

"Let's just get him there and worry about the rest when it comes," Sean decided.


Bulkington lived, but if we had been a few minutes later getting him to the hospital he would have died. It was that close. Neither the spear nor the knife had hit vital organs, so once Bulkington recovered from the loss of blood he was out of danger. Of course, although no longer at death's door he still was far from recovered. The people at the hospital wanted to keep him there at least two weeks for observation, but Bulkington checked himself out the next afternoon, having spent just one night in the hospital.

I was against his checking out so early and so was Sean. But it probably was a blessing because a longer stay might have entailed more scrutiny than we could have stood. While Bulkington was unconscious and on the operating table, Sean gave his name and social security number in place of Bulkington's because Bulkington had no social security number, no driver's license, and no… well no anything actually. It was a risky gamut, but Sean didn't seem that worried.

"Nobody will notice that Sean Fitzgerald is supposed to be twenty-two and that the man on the operating table looks 35 or older. People don't pay attention to that until later."

Sean was right; nobody noticed. But I think they would have noticed had Bulkington stayed in the hospital for an extended period of time. But of course he didn't.

Three days after losing enough blood to full up a Red Cross station for a week, Bulkington was out, pack on his back, running up and down the hill to Fisherman's Point. He was at the bottom doing pushups when I came upon him.

"They told me I'd find you here. Don't you think it's a bit too soon to be doing this?"

"No, why don't you join me?"

"I intend to."

"I didn't think you were wearing that sweat suit because you were going dancing."

"I don't dance."

We didn't do much talking as we were soon both concentrating on breathing, but when we finished running on the hill, Bulkington suggested we go over to his house for a couple of beers. I couldn't refuse such a rare invitation. Bulkington had no moral objections to alcohol; it was just something he generally did without because he was on a rather tight budget.

Once safely ensconced in Bulkington's kitchen since we didn't want to get the living room chairs sweaty, Bulkington pulled a couple of sixteen-ounce beer bottles out from his refrigerator.

"Did you rob a bank or something?"

"No, I just broke into the old cookie jar."

"What's the occasion?"

"A happy termination to Round 1."

"But it's only Round 1."

"Hey, it's still a victory!"

"So, you don't think Rankin is through yet?"

"No, James, I don't. Nor do I think he is going to work through intermediaries for much longer. Despite his retraining, he'll revert to form."

"You know, I think I'd prefer that. At least it's something I'm used to."

Bulkington laughed. "I agree, James. I prefer the old Rankin tactics. But it's quite possible if Rankin fails this time that he'll be through as a working devil."

"You mean they'll demote him to the mail room?"

"Something like that. And his replacement could be a lot worse."

"I should feel nervous about that, but I don't. I feel too good about the exodus of the Mogombis. They have left, every single one."

"Yes, they are good little devotees of their devil god, strict formalists. And I agree with you. I feel too good right now to worry about Rankin or his possible replacement."

It was good to see Bulkington back in harness again. When I thought he was dying I felt as if my soul was exiting my body, leaving only an empty shell behind.

We were both on our second beer when Sean, Mary, and Mrs. Fitzgerald stopped by.

"Mary wanted to see if you were dead."

"Mother, don't say that."

"Well, it's true. She saw you running up and down the hill. You should have heard her – 'He'll kill himself -- somebody's got to stop him!' When James came, she sent him over to stop you, but apparently he simply joined you."

"Well, I couldn’t stop him, so I thought I'd run along with him just in case he needed medical attention."

"That's great," Mary said; "the blind leading the blind."

"Ow! That's not fair. I've had some first aid."

She just stared at me in a way that said, 'Don't be ridiculous.'

"Well, we've had our run and nobody died, so why don't you three wait in the living room while I get out of these sweaty clothes. James, I don't know what you're going to do."

"I'll slid down to the house, shower, change, and come back. It's not often we have a gab session at your house."

When I got back, they were all chatting amiably. Mrs. Fitzgerald was asking Bulkington something. "But how can you minimize the mystical component of religion when you have had a number of mystical moments in your life when you saw and heard Jesus Christ?"

"I don't know that I would use the word 'minimize'; I would rather say that the mystical experience was made possible and authenticated by a whole host of human encounters, which might seem mundane when viewed only from the outside. Thomas Hughes describes what I'm talking about infinitely better than I can."

At this point Bulkington got up and took down a coy of Tom Brown's Schooldays by Thomas Hughes from the shelf and started to read:

" 'And let us not be hard on him, if at that moment his soul is fuller of the tomb and him who lies there, than of the altar and him of whom it speaks. Such stages have to be gone through, I believe, by all young and brave souls, who must win their way through hero-worship, to the worship of him who is the King and Lord of heroes. For it is only through our mysterious human relationships, through the love and tenderness and purity of mothers, and sisters, and wives, through the strength and courage and wisdom of fathers, and brothers, and teachers, that we can come to the knowledge of him in whom alone the love, and the tenderness, and the purity, and the strength, and the courage, and the wisdom of all these dwell for ever and ever in perfect fullness.' "

"Do you see what I mean? Would it really do an individual any good to receive a private revelation from God if he hadn't already seen God in His creatures? How would he know it was God he was looking at and speaking to? It could just as easily be the devil. One only knows with certainty when his heart has bled and loved enough to recognize divinity in humanity."

"Father Gordon once said something much like that to me," Mrs. Fitzgerald said. "I miss that man; it's a pity the Church had no use for a man of faith. It seems that what started out as a small, cabalistic movement on the fringes of Christendom has become Christendom, while real Christianity is now on the fringes. Father Gordon had no problems with the Church when he was teaching scholastic philosophy, but when he started to preach the Gospel, he got into trouble."

"Yes, that's true," Bulkington said with a deep sigh.

"Where did it all go wrong?"

"I don't know, Mary. I suppose Blake said it best: 'Can wisdom be put in a silver rod or love in a golden bowl?' I don't think there was a precise moment when the Faith became a philosophy instead of a Faith. It happened over time. And it is hard not to get infected with the faithless faith of the intellectuals in power in all the various churches."

"Not you. You'll never succumb."

"Nobody's immune to it, Sean. It's in the air we breathe. I cling to the fairy tale mode. That keeps me sane."

Mary, Sean, and I were familiar with Bulkington's views on the fairy tale mode of existence, but Mrs. Fitzgerald was not. She asked for an explanation, and Bulkington was only too happy to provide one, as the fairy tale mode of apprehension was his particular passion.

"I think we make Christianity something other than Christianity when we get away from the very basic fairy tale apprehension of the Faith. What does the Incarnation tell us about the way God reveals Himself? It is through humanity. He placed himself in a fairy tale and presented it to us. He is the Third Dumb Brother, at least 'dumb' in the eyes of the worldly wise, who gives up worldly success to perform an act of charity. But much to the chagrin of his worldly brothers, he becomes, because of his act of charity, the High King of the Land.

The Christ story is then, in essence, a true fairy tale with Christ in the role of hero. So if we lose our ability to comprehend existence in the fairy tale mode, we lose God."

"Is it what our Lord was talking about when he said we must be like little children?"

"I think so, Mary."

"Would you tell mother your favorite of the Grimm's fairy tales?"

"I'm sure she has heard it before, Mary."

"Not the way you tell it."

"Well, I do add a few things, but I keep to the spirit of the Grimms' tales."

"Please, I'd like to hear it," Mrs. Fitzgerald said quietly.

When the rest of us gave our sincere assent, Bulkington proceeded with the tale.

Continue to Chapter Five


Citadels of Hate

The white-hating whites are quite fond of finding groups of whites who object to the extermination of the white man and labeling such groups as "hate groups." But I don't see any hate in these groups. The worst that one can say about some of them is that they don't make a very articulate case for their cause. But in all of these groups there is no hatred. There is love for their own and a desire to fight those who would attack their own, but there is no hatred.

In contrast, those who do the labeling are full of hatred. The white-hating whites cannot even say the word 'white' without spewing venom. They are maniacally obsessed with eliminating everything that has any connection to white civilization. And if that means exterminating every single member of the white race (with the exception of them), then so be it. The barbarian races of color do not talk about eliminating white power structures and institutional racism as the white-hating whites do. No, the colored hordes are much more direct. They make explicit what is implicit in the white-hating whites' ideology. They want to kill, in the grand Haitian style, every single white person on earth.

It is the maniacal, satanic hatred of white people that has been institutionalized in this country, and not, as the white-haters claim, white racism.

Let's look at the five citadels of power in our country.

1) The government.
In 1965, the Johnson administration shifted the immigration quota of Europeans to non-Europeans from 90% European to 10%. Is this a government committed to white supremacy? No, it is a government committed to the elimination of white people. Is there any candidate today who dares to call for the restriction of non-white immigration? To a large extent, the illegal immigration issue is a red herring, which doesn't mean we should not oppose it. But even without the presence of one single illegal immigrant, we would still be facing a crisis because of the government-sanctioned, legal invasion of our country.

And if we look at the government's successful efforts to destroy white culture through integration, can we draw any conclusion other than the obvious one? Our government has institutionalized the hatred of everything white.

2) The money men.
In a traditional society, the landed gentry are the most conservative members of society. They have a vested interest in the status quo. In such societies, George Gilder's entrepreneur is seen for what he is, a destroyer of hearth and home. When a nation's economy becomes a money economy, the result is always a "Deserted Village":

Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey,
Where wealth accumulates, and men decay
The landed gentry need a "bold peasantry" if they are to survive, while the capitalist needs soulless "steel girders" to survive. One of the modern age's greatest blasphemies is the coupling of 'capitalist' and 'conservative.' Barry Goldwater was as much a radical as George McGovern. Capitalism is dependent on soulless men, which is why the traditional European white man has been banned from the soulless utopia of the money men.

3) The press.
If an objective observer from another planet came down to learn about our culture by reading our newspapers and magazines, and viewing the mass media circus, he would give the following report:

"Their newspapers are written mainly by white earthlings, but they write predominantly about black earthlings. It seems that white earthlings feel that other white men in the past and most white men of the present, with the exception of the white earthlings who write newspaper articles, are very bad men who will do terrible things to the good black men if they, the white newsmen, do not keep a careful watch on them. The white newsmen are very vigilante and watchful. They are always exposing something they call 'racism.'

"The mass media (their viewing machines are much more primitive than ours) does much the same thing as the print media. They watch for signs of 'racism' and they constantly show pictures of the good black people at work and play. The black people seem particularly good at bouncing-ball sports, which earthlings seem to value highly.

"The most curious thing of all is that the 'good' black people do not behave in a way that we would describe as good. They do things that our society would call evil. But apparently earthlings have a value system that is quite different from the one we hold to.

Please allow me to come home now, for I am weary of this planet."
4) Academia.
It was recently revealed that the University of Delaware was issuing white-hating instructions to its students. However, the instructions were nothing new; that type of vicious hatred of the white race has been the reigning orthodoxy in academia for the last sixty years. And the draconian methods used to enforce the worship of blacks and the hatred of whites get meaner and more vicious every year. Teachers such as Nikki Giovanni of Virginia Tech who openly espouse the murder of "honkies" are given tenure, and black "student" groups are pampered and protected while white student groups are banned. And the classrooms? It doesn't matter what curriculum is studied, it is all the same, consisting of one central fact: black is good, and white is evil.

5) The clergy.
The present Pope, when he was still a cardinal, stated that the next pope should be black. The "Christian" evangelist James Dobson regularly applauds white people who adopt black children. And white priests and ministers encourage and sanction marriages between the races. But they need to go further. Should not one's liturgical expression of their faith be in line with their stated faith?

Based on what I hear the Christian clerics saying, I have been able to put together a service for them that is more in keeping with their stated creed than the ones they are using at present:

As we enter the Cathedral, we see, at the altar, a large statue of a Buddha-like black man. The parishioners, who are all white, come before the black Buddha statue and prostrate themselves before it. They kiss the feet of the statue and say three Mea Culpa's for their sins against the black race. Then they crawl to their pews. A white minister or priest (whatever you prefer to call him) comes out and leads the congregation in the litany and the creed. The litany is an encyclopedic catalog of whites' sins against the black race which takes up 15 pages in the prayer book and 45 minutes to go through.

Then, before the sermon, whites recite their creed: "I believe in the great black Buddha, creator of heaven and earth, and not in Jesus Christ, the miserable imposter god of my former racist days. I believe in the holiness of blackness, the evil of whiteness, and the everlasting goodness of blackness and the everlasting evil of whiteness, world without end, amen."

The sermon consists of some homely examples of how the gospel of blackness can be applied to everyday life. The minister describes how good children can report their parents when they use the "N" word at home or when their parents fail to gather the family around the hearth fire to recite the anti-white litany of the church. After all, one's faith should not be something that is only a once-a-week Sunday thing.
Every citadel of power in the United States and the Western world is dedicated to the hatred of the white race and the worship of the non-white races, particularly the black race. Why? What is so different about the white race that makes it a pariah race? The difference involves vision. It is only the European who can see through the outward material world to the real world behind the material façade. Only the European sees the puckish fairies on the green, the angels in the choir, and the Lord of history rising from the dead. There is no hosanna in colored barbarism or techno-barbarianism.

The white intellectual is in a headlong flight from his ancestor's vision of the empty tomb, because he doesn't believe it is empty. He stepped away from Christ and ventured out on his own. Now he is afraid of the dark and thinks science can replace Christ. The barbarian hordes share his hatred for the white race which took him out to a depth that he could not handle.

Every part of white civilization should be fought for. I never advocate Thomistic quietude, but should everything else be taken away, one thing will always remain with the European who refuses to abandon his white blood. And that is his vision of an earthly world that is rooted in heaven. The white man believed, and as a consequence he dreamt dreams and saw visions. The citadels of power are citadels of Satan. They bid us live in a desolate world devoid of everything that the white man used to revere. The European refuses to live in such a world. His world, the world of vision, is the real world. And yes, he will defend that vision against all the world, against the five citadels of power, and against all the forces of hell.

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