1. The Z-Man writes:

In 2015, there was no reason to think the 2016 election was going to be anything but more of the same. The smart money said it would be Bush versus Clinton to decide the title. If not Bush, then one of the Bush family flunkies. Then like the meteor that wiped out the dinosaurs, Trump entered the race and altered the political trajectory of the empire. Not only has this event extinguished the Bush wing of the GOP, it is threatening the neo-liberal world order.


One of the rare things in American politics these days is the smart politician who is not desperate to ham it up for the cameras. Nunes, Grassley, Goodlatte and their staffers have carried out this probe in a way we just never see. They took turns nibbling away at bits of the story, working with IG Horowitz, while quietly confronting the FBI and DOJ each step of the way. The level of coordination is what I find intriguing. It feels like maybe there is an inside player making sure everyone is on the same page and working their role.

The Z-Man, like H.A. Goodman and Styxhexenhammer666, has never so much as referred to Q. For the Z-Man & Goodman it is perhaps a sense that anything that happens on the chans is beneath notice; for Styx, i suspect he is merely being cautious – he would certainly distrust NSA.

2. As i have already written, my reading is: early in Obama’s 2nd-term disgruntled patriots in e.g. NSA, CIA, FBI considered a Pinochet solution,

then approached Trump to serve as figurehead. NSA seems crucial here; we know that Admiral Rogers violated protocol to meet President-Elect Trump on November 17th 2016. My guess is, he was shocked by the level of illegality, domestic espionage, etc. directed against Trump by the Deep State, and wanted to give Trump a heads up.

Trump already knew. Whether the Nov 17 visit was a show, or whether Rogers genuinely supposed Trump had only won through racism & chance (the normie consensus) or brains & bravado, i suspect that if one were to trawl through Trump’s public utterances, something changed in late 2012, indicative of a new purpose & knowledge. My suspicion is that the election was to be rigged in Hillary’s favour; that such is indeed possible; and that what i shall call Q-Org both prevented the rigging and covered their tracks so well the Cabal thought Hillary would win.

3. Q has a NSA aroma (apologies if i’m completely wrong, i’m just an English teacher who reads the chans).

Q is almost certainly a team. In which case, it is difficult to make a judgement as to motive, nature. i performed an occult divination which i would interpret thus: Q’s intent is to overthrow the present order – if the latter is correct, it is beyond what i once called a palace coup; it could even extend to the Fed, which means a radical transformation of the economy. If Q’s timeline is going to plan, after North Korea Trump will settle with Iran – hopefully in a similar vein (Twitter threats, big dick swagger, then a sudden accommodation & peace); and then:

4. i talked to my father today. He said that in any normal lifetime one will experience at least one revolution, and we are going through one now. He was talking about the replacement of the white English in their own homelands; being a Brahmin-caste Catholic he is inherently a race realist and Nazi, and has had more than enough experience of the Invaders. As he put it, a few weeks ago, apropos the reason that Tommy Robinson is now sentenced to minimum 13 months imprisonment, but more likely a Kevin Crehan death sentence: “it is INCREDIBLE that the British police do not protect ENGLISH GIRLS! Well! Forty years ago, egh, no one would believe that BRITISH POLICE will do nothing!”

Many have wondered, what does the average cop think, as honorable men like Tommy Robinson are basically sentenced to death? What did the average Intelligence officer think in early 2016?

i thought of Pavel Sudoplatov, who served the Russian Intelligence Services for years before the Purge reached him also:

What i found incredible, reading Special Tasks, was that he met Stalin, Beria, ordered assassinations, was apparently exceedingly competent, and yet truly believed in Communism; until:

The door opened and two guards hurriedly escorted me to the administration block, where I was searched, and everything was removed from my possession, including necktie, pills, and notebooks. The guard took off my Swiss chronometer wristwatch, bought fifteen years earlier in Belgium, and then put it in the handkerchief pocket of my jacket. He escorted me to a prison van, and at the last moment snatched the watch from my pocket. This petty theft ended what was left of my chekist idealism. How such an act could occur in the security service occupied my thoughts, even though I was coming to understand that I was about to eliminated.

Mugged by reality, if you like. From his own accounts, Sudoplatov was competent. i don’t think an Intelligence/security service could function if staffed purely with morons & timeservers; at least at the operational/lower strategic level competence would, presumably, be essential. My guess is that the big Intelligence agencies have higher-level idiots and political lackeys (“Clowns”), and the day-to-day operations are run by the more or less competent, more or less sane (this is very much a guess).

The corruption of the higher-ups – paedophilia, rape, murder, genocide – is most likely not compatible with competence and level judgement. There are exceptions but on the whole i think that to operate at the Obama/Bush/Clinton/Blair level you need to be utterly compromised, and such folk are not likely to be wholly sane. It took a lot for Sudoplatov to realise all was not well, but at least he did reach that point (even if he remained a Communist).

In order to do your job, you need to be competent & intelligent. Such people are liable to notice if something is wrong. They are not necessarily good people (good people are always rare). But they will notice discrepancies, corruption, treachery.

5. Another point – the FBI etc. do not advertise themselves thus:

Want to enable and protect paedophiles and Muslims, massive financial corruption, the destruction of your own nation, the destruction of Western civilisation and the white race? Join today!

They don’t say

Gordon I’ve really missed spending time together:


No. They say things like:

This must be where pies go when they die.

So, presumably a good number of the civilian & military Intelligence services joined not for a career per se, but rather to serve their country. Of those, some are corruptible. But there must be a fair number of patriots, who become disheartened as they realise their employer is otherwise directed; and of those, some would eat their cherry pie and drink their black coffee and think mournfully, If only a Champion could be found, a great man, a glorious lion to fight for – oh.

6. Thus, the very nature of the Intelligence services means they will have some decent, capable men amidst the trash. Had this happened ten or twenty years from now, perhaps it would have been too late; but if i draw a parallel to academia, there are probably just enough of the old guard to take a stand.

Let the Cossacks ride once more.


Came across this by chance:

An incongruous pairing, the Red Hot Chili Peppers and a Simon & Garfunkel song.

Some other incongruous, interesting works:

1. Beethoven’s Piano Sonata 32, opus 111. It would have been composed about 1821, when Kierkegaard was 8, Jane Austen was a few years dead, Joseph Smith had conceived Mormonism, and Napoleon was dying or just dead at last.

2. Terrence Malick’s The Thin Red Line. Malick’s films have otherwise been plotless Catholic meditations, beautiful and generally incoherent and dreamy. The Thin Red Line is a war film. It features Nick Nolte. i fell to thinking on beauty & art recently, and was trying to think of genuinely beautiful works in my lifetime; there are isolated songs here & there but it is mostly to be found in TV & film, in cinematography & soundtrack, in technique. The Thin Red Line, as with Krzysztof Kieślowski’s Trois couleurs trilogy, is a fusion of technique & significance – both works, incidentally, from the late 90s.

3. A letter from Sir Philip Sidney to Stefan Molyneux. Rather surprising for two reasons, number one: Molyneux was born a few centuries after Sidney, number two: Sidney is so decorous and genteel a poet, this takes one a little aback:

Mr. Molineux

Few words are best. My letters to my father have come to the eyes of some. Neither can I condemn any but you for it. If it be so, you have played the very knave with me; and so I will make you know, if I have good proof of it. But that for so much as is past. For that is to come, I assure you before God, that if ever I know you do so much as read any letter I write to my father, without his commandment, or my consent, I will thrust my dagger into you. And trust to it, for I speak in earnest. In the mean time farewell. From court, this last of May, 1578.

                    By me,

                                  Philip Sidney

Here is a picture of Sir Philip Sidney:

Rather Varg Vikernes-esque:

And here is Varg Vikernes talking, in his decorous genteel way about stabbing:

4. Tolstoy’s Hadji Murad. i don’t really like Tolstoy, though i certainly admire his writings; i haven’t read much of his work (War & Peace, Anna K, some of his short stories): but Hadji Murad is superb and lacks the hectoring digressions & overt moralizing i didn’t like in Tolstoy’s other works, or if it had them i somehow didn’t notice. It opens with a thistle:

I was returning home by the fields. It was midsummer, the hay harvest was over and they were just beginning to reap the rye. At that season of the year there is a delightful variety of flowers — red, white, and pink scented tufty clover; milk-white ox-eye daisies with their bright yellow centers and pleasant spicy smell; yellow honey-scented rape blossoms; tall campanulas with white and lilac bells, tulip-shaped; creeping vetch; yellow, red, and pink scabious; faintly scented, neatly arranged purple plaintains with blossoms slightly tinged with pink; cornflowers, the newly opened blossoms bright blue in the sunshine but growing paler and redder towards evening or when growing old; and delicate almond-scented dodder flowers that withered quickly. I gathered myself a large nosegay and was going home when I noticed in a ditch, in full bloom, a beautiful thistle plant of the crimson variety, which in our neighborhood they call “Tartar” and carefully avoid when mowing — or, if they do happen to cut it down, throw out from among the grass for fear of pricking their hands. Thinking to pick this thistle and put it in the center of my nosegay, I climbed down into the ditch, and after driving away a velvety bumble-bee that had penetrated deep into one of the flowers and had there fallen sweetly asleep, I set to work to pluck the flower. But this proved a very difficult task. Not only did the stalk prick on every side — even through the handkerchief I wrapped round my hand — but it was so tough that I had to struggle with it for nearly five minutes, breaking the fibers one by one; and when I had at last plucked it, the stalk was all frayed and the flower itself no longer seemed so fresh and beautiful. Moreover, owing to a coarseness and stiffness, it did not seem in place among the delicate blossoms of my nosegay. I threw it away feeling sorry to have vainly destroyed a flower that looked beautiful in its proper place. 

“But what energy and tenacity! With what determination it defended itself, and how dearly it sold its life!” thought I, remembering the effort it had cost me to pluck the flower.

and 200 pages later:

The enemy, whooping and screeching as they ran from bush to bush, were getting nearer and nearer. Hadji Murad was hit by another bullet in the left side. He lay down in the ditch and plugged the wound with another piece of wadding from his jacket. This wound in his side was mortal and he felt that he was dying. One after another images and memories flashed through his mind. Now he saw the mighty Abununtsal Khan clasping to his face his severed, hanging cheek and rushing at his enemies with dagger drawn; he saw Vorontsov, old, feeble and pale with his sly, white face and heard his soft voice; he saw his son Yusuf, Sofiat his wife, and the pale face, red beard and screwed up eyes of his enemy Shamil.

And these memories running through his mind evoked no feelings in him, no pity, ill-will or desire of any kind. It all seemed so insignificant compared to what was now beginning and had already begun for him. But his powerful body meanwhile continued what it had started to do. Summoning the last remnants of his strength, he lifted himself above the rampart and fired his pistol at a man running towards him. He hit him and the man fell. Then he crawled completely out of the ditch and, with his dagger drawn and limping badly, went straight at the enemy. Several shots rang out. He staggered and fell. A number of militiamen rushed with a triumphant yell towards his fallen body. But what they supposed was a dead body suddenly stirred. First his bloodstained, shaven head, its papakha gone, then his body lifted; then, holding on to a tree, Hadji Murad pulled himself fully up. He looked so terrifying that the advancing men stopped dead. But suddenly he gave a shudder, staggered from the tree, and like a scythed thistle fell full length on his face and moved no more.

Tolstoy would have liked the Horus Heresy books, and most likely Varg.

5. Plato – Symposium and Phaedrus. i’m currently laboriously reading my dreary way through Plato and find him almost unreadably sophistic, disingenuous, self-deluded. The early dialogues at least do little more than show how language can be used for anything (post-modernism); the later are hectoring totalitarian treatises. But Phaedrus & Symposium are something wholly different, free of the directionless pedantry of the early dialogues, and the schoolmasterly fingerwagging of the later works, i would almost say Plato stole them but they seem in a sense very Platonic; as if he reworked them through his own interest. An odd parallel perhaps, but it puts me in mind of The Empire Strikes Back, a film which is so perfect, in spite of its context (a fairly interesting sci-fi trilogy, otherwise uninteresting scriptwriters & director), i am inclined to credit the Almighty intervened directly in its creation.


A reader asked if i’d make this blog into a book. i’d vaguely thought of collecting some of the posts – probably 10% or so – but never got round to it, as i’ve been slaving at Vocations and The Better Maker for the last 3 years in agony & anguish of my bowels, and general tedium & self-loathing. My hope is to self-publish Vocations this summer, TBM later this year, but then i hoped to publish both last year, and the year before, so who knows. If i can get one of these wretched projects out of the way, i might edit some of this blog into a book of some sort, though the very idea seems preposterous since the media are so different and i always liked the transience of blogging. However, i decided to conduct a poll. So (you may need to whitelist the blog to access this poll):

1. Am overloaded with studentry at present, and hope to prepare Vocations for self-publication this summer, so bloggings are necessarily scant & deplorable. i started the Horus Heresy series (inspired by the Golden One) and find them both extremely good & relevant to our present socio-political situation. i’m on book 5 now (Fulgrim) and want to write in detail about books 1 – 4 but also, as is my way, want to re-read them all and make notes, which i won’t do in the next 10 years since there are another gorillion books in the series and obviously i want to read them all and acquire all the available Warhammer 40k accessories and become a Space Marine and slay the xenos filth in the God Emperor’s name before even contemplating a response, so it may take a while, indeed will probably never happen. i have, at least, ordered my own Mechanicum tools so i can stamp all paperwork with one of two imprimantur:


depending on my mood & occasion.

2. The HH books are so far surprisingly Miltonic, gnostic. They are 100% genre, by which i mean the prose is good, the characterisation too, but if you don’t like grandeur, manliness, decapitations, genocide, Trump, mid-to-late 60s Dylan, Hart Crane, Helmuth James Graf von Moltke, Manhunter, Thomas Bernhard, elberry, dogs, tweed, tea, whisky, gin, you will simply pooh-pooh “trash” as you adjust your bowtie and sip your Evian; in which case, this:

The world-ship was accelerating away, gaining speed with every passing moment. The controls for the propulsion system captured by the Death Guard of the Second Company had been locked open by the adepts of the Mechanicum. Barbarus’s Sting kept a respectful distance, drifting after the bottle-world, framing its descent towards the sun. Great loops of crackling electromagnetic energy shimmered around the pearlescent cylinder as it cut into the sun’s invisible chromosphere, destroying the solar panels at the aft. They crisped and burned, folding in on themselves like insect wings touched by candle flames. The world-ship fell faster and faster, dipping into the raging superheated plasma of the photospheric layer. Hull metal peeled away in curls a kilometre long, revealing ribs of metal that melted and ran. Finally, the alien vessel sank through a glowing coronal prominence and disappeared forever into the stellar furnace.

“Gone,” murmured Brother Mokry, “ashes and dust, as are all the enemies of the Death Guard. A fitting end for such xenos hubris.” (The Flight of the Eisenstein, James Swallow)

will elicit merely a cultivated urban sneer, because you are a cunt. But on the other hand, the books are too strong for the delicate cosmopolitan:

“I seldom encounter others in this part of the archive. The subject matter is a little lurid for most of the serious scholars.”

Loken moved around the table and scanned the papers spread before Sindermann – tightly curled, unintelligible script, sepia woodcuts depicting snarling monsters and men swathed in flames. His eyes flicked to Sindermann, who chewed his bottom lip nervously at Loken’s scrutiny.

“I must confess to having taken a liking to the old texts,” explained Sindermann. “Like the Chronicles of Ursh I loaned you, it’s bold, bloody stuff. Naive and overly hyperbolic, but stirring nonetheless.”  (False Gods, Graham McNeill)

3. The books begin with the largely triumphant Astartes, superhuman soldiers of the God Emperor (“they had been born immortal only to die in war”). They are logical positivists, told that “the galaxy is too sterile for melodrama”:

But we have witnessed the cosmos now, my friends. We have passed amongst it. We have learned and understood the fabric of reality. We have seen the stars from behind, and found they have no clockwork, mechanisms, no golden chariots carrying them abroad. We have realised there is no need for god, or any gods, and by extension no use any longer for daemons or devils or spirits. (Horus Rising, Dan Abnett)

In the absence of an extra-material reality, conquest and glory are all, coloured by a curiously adolescent hero-worship/friendship:

He tried to picture the manner of his own death. Fabled, imaginary combats flashed through his mind. He imagined himself at the Emperor’s side, fighting some great, last stand against an unknown foe. Primarch Horus would be there, of course. He had to be. It wouldn’t be the same without him. Loken would battle, and die, and perhaps even Horus would die, to save the Emperor at the last.

Glory. Glory, like he’d never known. Such an hour would become so ingrained in the minds of men that it would be the cornerstone of all that came after. A great battle, upon which human culture would be based. (Horus Rising)

The Astartes – genetically-engineered soldiers; and their Primarch Übermensch leaders – are physically superior to all men, and yet in their way utterly human, baffled by their human emotions and their superhuman capabilities; so the Primarch Rogal Dorn to the mere Astartes Loken:

Dorn looked down at Loken. “You’re not used to the likes of me, Loken?” “No, lord.”

“I like that about you. Ezekyle and Tarik, men like them have been so long in the company of your lord, they think nothing of it. You, however, understand that a primarch is not like a man, or even an Astartes. I’m not talking about strength. I’m talking about the weight of responsibility.” “Yes, lord.”

Dorn sighed. “The Emperor has no like, Loken. There are no gods in this hollow universe to keep him company. So he made us, demigods, to stand beside him. I have never quite come to terms with my status. Does that surprise you? I see what I am capable of, and what is expected of me, and I shudder. The mere fact of me frightens me sometimes. Do you think your lord Horus ever feels that way?”

“I do not, lord,” Loken said. “Self-confidence is one of his keenest qualities.”  (Horus Rising)

4. It is, so far, surprisingly depressing as in true Biblical tradition pride goeth before a fall and the vessels (the Primarchs) are shattered, the very best becoming the very worst. i find something slightly painful about the plausible corruption of the good characters, as hitherto innocuous traits (e.g. the desire for perfection) become the instrument of their damnation. The determined atheism of the Astartes in some way renders them defenceless before very real demonic intrusion (much as the modern man is incapable of understanding the forces at work in his world).

The books are, as is often the way with my reading, highly topical: via Q i’ve been contemplating the corruption of e.g. the FBI, CIA, DoJ, Senate & Congress, as well of course as the British establishment (going back at least to the traitor paedophile Ted Heath, and most likely to Churchill). In the Horus books, the corruption is initially of “supernatural” origin but then spreads largely through vanity, pride, spite, with certain individuals brought into contact with the primal darkness through occult rituals: the Astartes legions each have a “Lodge”, as it were an order within the order; initially a brotherhood, like a drinking club, the Lodges become the vehicle for evil within the legions, as each soldier identifies primarily with his Lodge brethren, and at the higher levels the Lodges become wholly demonic.

i suspect something of the sort actually happened in the US and UK governments. Once the evil (real, supernatural evil) established a bridgehead into the worldly powers, the possessed created a mechanism to perpetuate their original “inspiration”. As with certain criminal organisations, where one can only join through committing a murder or rape – to ensure there is “dirt”, that one can never return to civilian life – those who have been running the UK & UK governments since at least the early 90s have their macabre rituals, to bind members to their cause. On one level it is mere practical expediency; on another, especially paedophilia opens an energy vortex (due to the spiritual sensitivity of children), imprinting literally demonic energies on the young, and reaching into the depths of the abuser.

5. It’s early days yet with the HH books. i’m wondering if any of the fallen characters can return to the correct path. My own feeling, in our world, is that almost no one is beyond redemption; indeed, those who seem fully incorporated into Evil can often be pried away, and a certain discomfort & unease distinguishes them, in the company of their controllers.

One function of Q-Anon – to signal to those in the Camp of Devils, that there is an out. Those who seem most uncomfortable, most awkward, are those least assimilated by the old evil. They may have committed hideous deeds, but their very discomfort suggests some humanity is intact, somewhere in their largely ruined souls.

Some more highlights from World of Tanks.

1. The maps have been updated; in some ways i prefer the old versions but at times i ended up obliterated as i admired the backgrounds, e.g. the purple heather

2. The art:

3. And a fellow player with a meritorious name

In case you couldn’t make it out:

World of Tanks: a neo-Nazi alt-Right dark disturbing vision Trump racist anti-semitic hate-filled propaganda patriotic Euro-centric, patriarchal rape culture!!!

1. A good comment (by Jack Amok) on a Vox Day blog post about the death of print media:

Something I realized a while back is that advertiser-supported media will always end up as shallow pablum. You can’t monetize depth of connection with advertisers, you can only monetize breadth. Advertisers care how many people like a show, not how much any of them like it. 

i think one future model for journalism (broadly defined): independent creators who offer content for free but receive donations. It’s true that most people won’t pay for something they can get for free, but if e.g. Stefan Molyneux’s channel has 776,000 subscribers and one in ten thousand donate a dollar a month, that’s 77 dollars/month. My guess is that it’s higher than 1/10000 and the average individual contribution is more than a dollar/month, that is, some people contribute a dollar but others a hundred.

In my own case, from my modest Patreon fund (thanks again to my faithful patrons) i send a few grubby coins to The Golden One, Styxhexenhammer666, Morgoth’s Review, and Millennial Woes. As far as i can judge, TGO and Styx aren’t broke, Morgoth has a job (albeit a shit one), but Woes seems to live a literally fugitive, uncertain existence huddled chainsmoking in the dark in his bathrobes, drinking Coke and listening for the police/Antifa at his door.

Of all the blogs/Youtube channels i follow, i chose to limit my munificence thus, partly because diverting my entire Patreon fund to other independent creators seems (in a sense) disrespectful to my patrons; and partly because i like money and like the idea that although what is left just goes into my UK credit card interest repayments, because money is fungible it frees up Euros that i can more wisely spend on e.g. a bottle of gin a month.

2. The old model seemed to run: people bought a newspaper or watched a particular news channel; they maybe had favourite writers/presenters but in general their loyalty was to a commercial body, e.g. The New York Times. i never had any interest in newspapers, because i found the prose workmanlike and there was often an offputting sense of insincerity, of an editor handing a journalist an order, e.g. “write something about how trade tariffs will be good for the melon farmers”. When i started reading Theodore Dalrymple in 2007, i didn’t then read City Journal or The Spectator; i merely read Dalrymple, wherever he published. The “brand” was not important to me; the human mind & character was why i spent probably hundreds of hours at work illicitly reading Dalrymple articles wherever i could find them.

i generally preferred Bryan Appleyard’s blog to his articles, though the latter were usually well worth reading, and sometimes re-reading; when i emailed him once to say how much i’d enjoyed one article, he replied that the editor had cut his jokes out, much as my review of Patrick Leigh Fermor’s The Broken Road was (slightly) edited by The Dabbler. In my case, it made almost no difference and i could immediately see why the Southron polishers cut it as they did, but i still preferred my original; and i imagine Appleyard’s articles were edited more severely than was my review.

3. In a sense, authority is returning to the individual (because of the internet). In 2007 i didn’t need to buy City Journal to read Dalrymple; i first came across the ‘Yard in The Sunday Times (my father’s paper of choice) in my early 20s, and after a few of his articles his name started to slowly impress itself upon my attention, and then in 2006 i was as usual terrifically bored at work and decided to Google him to see if his stuff was online, and thus i found his blog. i would never have bought The Sunday Times just to read one article, but with the internet i could find not merely his articles but his (to me) more interesting blog – the latter now sadly discontinued (it is clear that he has become a Norfolk Nationalist in his white Ford Bronco, and he has acquired firearms and grown a fascist moustache and designed his own uniform, but is keeping things quiet until the day Norfolk declares its independence).

The individual/patronage model can yield fantastical sums, e.g. Jordan Peterson now makes probably about a million Canadian dollars a year just from fan contributions. He has, despite his Kermit voice, a slightly Dostoevskian, ragged, intense charisma, and unlike Stefan Molyneux comes across as a pleasant enough human being. This patronage model is not as stable as having a salaried job in a newspaper but then if one considers Kevin Williamson i’m not sure how stable journalism ever was, as a career.

4. Uncertain, fluctuating income is not to everybody’s taste. However, i’ve lived in this manner since i began working in 2004 and it suits me fine (i would, however, prefer my income range to be significantly higher, so even on a poor month i could pay all my bills). My feeling is that most people require stability and don’t like to take chances: in the new model, probably a much greater proportion of content creators will have higher risk tolerance, or be independently wealthy like Vox Day or Taleb.

If the trend continues, the normies will still have commercial enterprises with a “party line”, offering a largely consistent narrative, but there will be a significantly longer tail of content creators; the latter will mostly be those unable to toe a party line, and so for all their individual bias they will be more authentic, more trustworthy, more intelligent & interesting than the 6 figure pundits. It is the difference between taking a fixed salary from e.g. Carlos Slim or Jeff Bezos, and being paid directly by an audience of fluctuating number. As a New York Times journalist you would lose your job if you observed that e.g. IQ is largely hereditary and since violent criminality is correlated with lower IQ, ethnic groups with lower IQ will be overrepresented in welfare dependency & crime statistics. As a Youtuber or blogger, you might lose some of your audience, but this would be at least partially compensated by new arrivals: in my own case, i’ve had about 20-30 readers for the last decade; understandably only a handful of old readers have stuck with me as i’ve shifted increasingly Right, but i’ve also acquired some new ones.

5. Any domesticated animal can be trained to a degree. Human beings, as the most domesticated of all animals, are enormously susceptible to symbolism, authority, explanations; indeed, they require a narrative to make sense of their lives (you could say, they require a domus for the mind as well as the body). As the official narrative increasingly diverges from reality, i dare say the unaffiliated single voice will acquire a greater audience. The question is, how bad do things have to get before people realise they’ve been lied to their entire lives?


1. Vox Day has decided to destroy Jordan Peterson. i’m mostly interested in VD’s revision of the Ashkenazi-IQ-115 figure, however i’m looking forward to the contemptuous ferocity to come. So far, he and his commenters have found many questionable statements from Peterson, and are accusing him of being insane and almost demonically possessed (because he draws on Jung, who by Christian standards is so). Not being a Christian, i don’t care and VD and his commenters would by the same token regard me as insane and demonically possessed, so my opinion would be of little value to anyone. My immediate thought: Peterson speaks & writes too much. i found his videos interesting and sometimes useful & profound, but he would be better served to write/speak less. He seems to have stepped into the role of public intellectual, who must expound on every topic.

Perhaps it’s a Canadian thing.

2. At McLingua today i went to make fascist tea and ran into Mooing Cow. i vaguely disliked her from the start but the other day Jemima told me Cow had cried at McLingua when the God Emperor won the 2016 election, and i thought, Oh, she’s one of those. As the kettle was boiling we chatted:

elberry: How are you?

Mooing Cow: Oh, tired! I’m sooooo like busy?

elberry: In a good or bad way, or both?

Mooing Cow: Like, both? I like have to totally prepare for my wedding and it’s like just too much?

i asked where she was getting married and she said she & her fiance aren’t going to a church because, like, we’re totally atheist? 

elberry: Is your uh boyfriend’s family religious?

Mooing Cow: Like, they’re like Catholic but when we’re like visiting and we have to go to church I just think, OMG?

elberry: Uh-huh.

Mooing Cow: So like, we are totally okay with not going to any church. I am like totally an atheist. I mean, I like, I just, like, I mean, I’m, well like, I just, I’m so, so totally, like, I’m just –

elberry: You’re modern. You don’t believe in anything. You’re an atheist. Religion is silly, for people like you.

A slight pause as i removed my teabag, staring at her, and realised i’d said this in my Bane voice.

Mooing Cow: Oh yeah, like I’m totally modern! I don’t want to have my wedding in a church or like anything like that?

She then boasted about how disrespectful she is when she is forced to be in a church etc. etc. i listened patiently because i am an extremely nice person.

3. In each culture, at any single point in time, certain values (or lack thereof) are held as the standard, as beyond question; and others as cool. In a better age, this was cool:

But today it is this:

An easy way to determine the standard & cool: people will openly declare they are such & such, without fear of reprisals in the former case; with a delightful little frisson of daring in the latter. In each age, to be opposed to the cool and the standard is to be regarded as some version of Satan, which in today’s world is of course Hitler/Nazis. Because the normies think only an abhorrent human being would not accept the standard account, they often assume that anyone who seems more or less okay could not possibly be opposed to the standard account. And because i am rather a dashing elberry, i find that my repeated fascist utterances are simply ignored, as if being brown and pleasant enough i must be a Leftist atheist paedophile, when in fact i am an elberry of the first order.

4. Peterson’s treatment of the Flood narrative: when a culture ignores primal realities/God, they are destroyed. In my youth i thought that God punishes people when they refuse to grovel before his beard. In my Sturmstache i think this is unnecessary.

That is, what could be seen as punishment is merely the consequence of an exclusively materialist worldview. Our world can only make sense within a frame; that frame must lie outside the world, even if we inevitably conceive of it in worldly terms. Do away with that frame and things acquire an initially frenetic energy, quickly exhausted, and then the collapse –

And freely men confess that this world’s spent, 

When in the planets and the firmament 

They seek so many new; they see that this 

Is crumbled out again to his atomies. 

‘Tis all in pieces, all coherence gone, 

All just supply, and all relation; 

Prince, subject, father, son, are things forgot, 

For every man alone thinks he hath got 

To be a phoenix, and that then can be 

None of that kind, of which he is, but he. 


1. i spontaneously invited a Czech student, Milena, to join me for a drink or ten with Toddball and his Leftie wife and fascist kids in a beer garden near Casa Ball. Milena is i guess early 30s, has a young daughter. i was surprised to find she has read Kafka and Thomas Bernhard and knew of Jean Raspail’s Camp of the Saints; i was a little puzzled as she is an attractive big-titted young woman and typically nobody remotely normal reads anything. However, she said that her crazed mother didn’t allow her to leave the house except for school, and so she was exceedingly sheltered till she fled to Germany. It put me in mind of Thomas Bernhard’s stories of isolation, e.g. Amras, often brothers & sisters immured in some remote Austrian castle or farmhouse (usually ending in suicide).

2. Toddball and co left after a couple of hours and i stayed and chatted with Milena. Like many foreigners she is far more to the Right than the average Hun, and agreed that the present political situation (Muslims) would most likely end in genocide. As we spoke darkly in the evening dark on a beer garden bench, what sounded like bombs detonated a few hundred meters away; i supposed fireworks but the sound was somehow different; however there were no percussive effects or sound of smashing buildings and shrieking Hun so i presumed it was just some German jollity. We were both made nervous and it was getting late so i said i had to return to my half-broken sofa bed to dream of Ragnarok, and as we walked to the u-bahn we saw the fireworks, not sure if they were a hitherto unheard kind or it was to do with the urban environment but they sounded more like light artillery and i said, – Imagine, just 70 years ago there really were bombs falling here.

3. As i took the s-bahn home i thought that perhaps only those who have e.g. spent twenty years in isolation, immured with a mad person, would read Kafka or Bernhard. It’s a little painful for me to accept, as i always liked reading and i’ve loved almost every Bernhard, and even managed Auslöschung in German (though it took a good year) – i naturally think that what changed my life, what i deeply enjoy & indeed need, would be good for anyone; but it seems that literature is, in a sense, only relevant for those with unusually odd childhoods, and then only for those of a thinking disposition.

4. i was thinking that perhaps books are only for the insane and broken (and sexy women), then came across an interview with General Mattis on his library.

Some choice excerpts:

i. I’d like to tell you mine was designed with purpose in mind. In fact, it was to read everything interesting in the world and ignore the boring, which was about the only challenge. 

In my early 20s i had a similar ambition, though i assumed that even boring books could be good, or at least useful; having grown up reading Fantasy books, when i started to read Literature i didn’t see it in terms of interesting/boring, but rather good/less good.

Still today, i find most of my favourite juvenile Fantasy books interesting, and they mostly contain nuggets of value – generally, isolated intriguing characters or situations. The Fantasy books i would find boring today are the ones i struggled through aged 15, and only re-read once or twice.

ii. When I started getting rid of books it was heartbreaking because I had to get rid of thousands because I was tired of hauling them all around. I knew I wouldn’t read them again. I kept my geology books, some of my military books, a lot of my history, especially of the West, the American West.

i’ve been giving away some of my books, to the McLingua library (since almost all my colleagues are functional illiterates, this means i may as well be throwing the books away). i’ve given away my two William Maxwell books, as i enjoyed but won’t re-read them; bilingual German/English short story collections i read a few years ago; and others which i think are good but as with the Maxwell, i don’t like them enough to keep in my 23 square meter flat. In an old friend’s garage in England there are another 800 or so of my books, which were already pared down from a +1000 library in 2009. When i fantasize, it is not about sex or wealth but of having a Thomas Bernhard-style farmhouse where i can safely house all my books, and acquire more by God, and have dobermanns and some manner of whiskyarium, and occasionally order the execution of my Enemies (who are many).

The books i’ve hung onto – whether here in Munich or in my friend’s garage – are mostly poetry, philosophy, essays, fiction in good editions; a lot are late 19th C, early 20th, hardbacks i found in a 2nd-hand bookstore for 3 pounds. There’s no way i would give these away to Oxfam; not because i think i could sell them elsewhere, but because i know charity shops routinely bin anything that won’t quickly sell.

iii. Your personal library may be seven books you deeply value or seven thousand, and it may be beautifully organized and alphabetized or simply arranged by the color of the book’s cover.

With age, i feel i need less & less. The books i love – Dante’s Commedia, Shakespeare’s plays, the poems of TS Eliot, Yeats, Wallace Stevens, Alan Furst’s Dark Star, The Lord of the Rings, Ondaatje’s The English Patient, McCarthy’s Blood Meridian, Sir Gawain & the Green Knight, Paradise Lost, i’ve read so many times that i feel they are part of me now; it would be a great shame not to be able to read them again, but actually i think i could do without the old books now – i read & re-read them so obsessively, often copying lengthy passages out by hand, that i remember much in detail and at least from the novels wouldn’t extract much, save a pleasure dulled by familiarity (poetry has an infolded, incalculable quality so can seem very different even after years of re-reading). After watching The English Patient film last year, i wondered if i would be able to re-read the book or if Ondaatje’s multiculti anti-nationalist worldview would now enrage me beyond limit.

5. In one sense, it’s sad to lose a book i once loved. On the other hand, i just discovered the Warhammer 40k Horus books

via The Golden One, and doubt i would have relished them so intensely a decade ago, when i was yet a wee scamp, a clean-shaven civic nationalist in tweed. So, books come & books go, and i have replaced Ondaatje’s poetic prose & deracinated world with space marines, orbital bombardment, decapitations, and of course the God Emperor.

Not sure how long this will last but since i read various Twitter pages i decided to actually use the account i created some time ago, and have begun to Tweet. i’m probably less sensitive to abuse and idiocy now than i was a decade ago, but still i doubt i’ll continue with it long. Till the moment i delete the whole thing and just create an anonymous account to follow others, here i am.

Toddball invited me for drinks on Friday, indeed he invited everyone at McLingua & everyone he knows in Munich; and since almost all my colleagues are deracinated, Californian hippy types i was surrounded by globalist libtards. Some highlights.

1. Usual s-bahn delays, i text Toddball that i will be late, no reply. Then i get an email: he has dropped his phone in the toilet. That’s the second phone he’s destroyed in 6 months.

i arrive to find him staggering about in American Clothes as is his habit:

He says, “yee-er you fucking Paki faggot Nazi you, you fuckin know what day it is, Nazi nigga?”

“April 20th.”

“Yeee-er,” he leers, rubbing his enormous beer belly and licking his lips. “You know what that shit means, you fucking Nazi nigga?”

“It’s a special day,” i say, reminiscing fondly, smiling to myself. “A special man was born.”

“Yeeee-eeer…heh heh heh, 4-20 nigga! Whoo! Yeee-er!”

“Indeed. It’s Hitler’s birthday,” i agree.

“Whaddafuck nigga?”

“Hitler. Adolf Hitler. The Führer -”

“Whaddafuck nigga? It’s fucking 4-20 nigga!!!”

“Yes. It’s Hitler’s birthday.”

“4-20 nigga!!!”

“Yes, Hitler.”

“Blaze it nigga!”

“Yes, it’s Hitler’s birthday.”

After prolonged discussion of this kind, i became aware that April 20th is a day in which drug users take drugs, and Toddball became aware that many years ago a man called Adolf Hitler ruled a country called Germany and was born on 20 April.

He makes me a big sandwich and slaps it down, “eat that shit, you fucking Nazi!” It is a great sandwich. Toddball leers: “That shit be the best fucking sandwich of your fucking life, nukkah!” Me: “Easily.”

2. We go to an Irish pub. There is a bartender from Kurpville, and a Millwall/Fulham game on the screen. Mercifully, most of Toddball’s invitees don’t turn up, just Doug the Greaser and Mary and her wall-eyed Irish husband (who apparently beats her now they’re married).

2.1 Mary’s husband starts incoherently on about Brexit, about all the focken idiots who voted for it and now it’s focken everythin up for everyone. i am slightly drunk so remark, – i voted for it, as did my entire family. My father has a Chemistry PhD and a medical degree. i have two de –

A volley of Irish gibberish, basically imagine Father Ted condensed to 4 seconds of sure and fock and fock and fock, and then he claims people like me were all lied to by the Government.

i shrug, having regained my equanimity. Never argue with normalfags. He rambles incoherently in Irish about the economy and i smile sourly to myself, thinking, – Another dead soul.

He is a traitor to his own country (Ireland); the Government and the entire elite are on his side, but he has to think of himself as a brave rebel; i simply nod and murmur vaguely. He’s amiable enough though apparently he stole drugs from Toddball on a previous drug-party in Casa Toddball, but then there is no honour among thieves.

3. A brief foray into US politics. Doug the Greaser says his sister is crazy; she believes Illuminati rule the world and Donald Trump is fighting them. Much laughter.

Ho ho ho ho ho.

i smile and coldly say, “she’s correct.”

Ho ho ho.

i tell Doug, “tell your sister to check out Q”; and he, woefully: “oh she knows all that shit, she’s always on about Q.”

i am surprised. Since everyone i know in real life is some version of Leftist/Centrist normalfag degenerate, my significant mental/spiritual experience is entirely online. Q for me has been akin to a private vision of reality. None of my colleagues could possibly understand – they are either too stupid or too dense; i sent a link to the Sour Elf and she replied sourly (in German) “that is too chaotic for me.” These people cannot be bothered to read, let alone cogitate; they want one authoritative news source to tell them what to think.

i discuss Q briefly. Doug believes it’s all crazy, a LARP; i say that Q often posts keywords e.g. “tip top” and Trump then says or tweets it: “at the least, Trump is reading Q”. Doug gives me a shrewd look and suggests slyly: “or Fox News is telling Trump what to say.”

i am baffled. Fox News? Then i think, Perhaps in Libtard land this is the new narrative: drop the Russian collusion scam, now Trump is controlled by Fox News.

4. We chat and to my surprise both Toddball and Doug (“low information voters”) have heard of Jordan Peterson, via meathead stoner Joe Rogan. A year or more ago i got to know the Sour Elf when she mentioned “a Canadian professor” and i guessed “Jordan Peterson”. At that point only the initiated would even know the name. He’s now on Bill Maher.

i like Peterson and find him both useful & interesting. He is a total cuck on racial questions but then what can you expect; he is as the Communists would say, a gatekeeper. The Leftists are in one sense correct: anyone to the right of a hardcore Communist is a potential gatekeeper because truth is inherently attractive and so any glimmers of reality will draw those not utterly unredeemable and dysfunctional. Even a Communist who says that free speech might be occasionally okay is a gatekeeper to the Alt-Right. Within the Matrix, any element which points however slightly in the right direction is a subversive, freedom-bearing agent.

5. Two 40s English guys appear to play darts. Toddball wants to fight them. One of them is a Millwall fan; i suggest we cede the board (we’d been playing for an hour already). They have their own personal darts and play with cool professionalism. i am shit at darts, Toddball is quite good, these guys are so good even Toddball says “fuck nigga, I’m glad I didn’t challenge these fuckers to a game.” They have the unshowy competence i think of as an English virtue – now disappearing as to be English is basically to be Pakistani or Somalian or a shrieking Guardian reader; but this is how it was once, perhaps will be once more:

After each amazing sequence of shots they just nod with mild satisfaction and let the other play. i chat with them for a bit – one is from Leeds, the other has a friend who lives in a village outside Huddersfield – and i think these are the types now being destroyed, the proles, the white race. But there is a hope –

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