1. i just read Varg Vikernes’ Sorcery & Religion in Ancient Scandinavia, a good & interesting read. As far as i can tell, he believes the old gods don’t exist, and are just names people gave natural forces: “built like all religions are on ignorance and delusions” (p 120). In this sense, Thor would be like gravity, a name we give to a phenomenon, a pattern of observable force.

It could be that if every single human being ceased to exist, the gods would too, but such a world would not concern me; and there are even older gods still wandering around, long after anyone worshipped them.

The comfortingly sane and sanitized view would be that the human subconscious produces certain archetypes, including gods, and these are merely aspects of our own collective mind. My own view is a little different: – we could be seen as aspects of the gods, or vice versa, or both us & the gods are merely manifestations of the universe. In any case, to consciously regard the gods as merely convenient illusions would be to limit the possibilities of revelation and concourse.

2. i finished watching Game of Thrones, impressed. i’ve read various Christian accounts of the show/books, lambasting it for nihilism etc., but these seem very superficial judgements. Modern Christians enjoy living in a bubble of middle class niceness & propriety, where everyone reads CS Lewis and pays his taxes on time. i found the first book tedious but the show is a different beast. i note that a type of Thor appears – the so-called Hound, a scarred killer:


He has a monstrous brother and is something of a monster himself; like Thor, the giant slayer who is himself giant, a ferocious gobbler of food and quaffer of ales:

This summer, apropos the migrant rape horde, the Man in Black told me: “If the old gods are connected to the land and the European peoples, then they might have something to say about it.” i don’t know of any life where i was given to the Germanic gods – though to a cousin-god from an older pantheon – and am genetically only half-European, so if the Old One could reach into my mind back in 2008 (fittingly, after re-reading Tolkien for the first time since my 2001 dissertation), i suppose others could follow.

3. On the subject of Tolkien, i came across a fragment of his, The New Shadow, very close to a story i was toying with this time last year, set 3 generations after the War of the Ring – in my idea, the peoples of the West have become soft and effeminate and are welcoming orcs into their lands, firstly to do the jobs they are too soft for, and then because they hate their own culture, and regard Aragorn, Gandalf et al. as terrible racists and barbarian who we should all be ashamed of, and orcs are so wonderful and exotic and we should have more of them around, and there’s such a nice little orc restaurant just around the corner in an ethnic neighbourhood, where they all speak orcish, such a romantic, exotic language, and little Tristan’s nanny is an orc, such a hard worker, she cleans the toilets and everything!

The Tolkien tale is on similar lines. An old man, Borlas, talks with a younger, Saelon. Borlas is youngest son of a minor character in The Return of the King, many decades before. Saelon is a faintly sinister young man who seems involved in “secret societies practising dark cults, and ‘orc-cults’ among adolescents” (Tolkien’s brief introduction).

Saelon invites Borlas to join him:

‘I warn you rather to clothe yourself warmly after nightfall,’ he said. ‘That is, if you wish to learn more; for if you do, you will come with me on a journey tonight. I will meet you at your eastern gate behind your house; or at least I shall pass that way as soon as it is full dark, and you shall come or not as you will. I shall be clad in black, and anyone who goes with me must be clad alike.

and then departs. Borlas wonders alone:

why invite me to go with him? Not to convert old Borlas! Useless. Useless to try: no one would hope to win over a man who remembered the Evil of old, however far off.

Tolkien was realistic about human nature, and regarded Sauron as merely one concentration of evil, in a fallen world. There seems a natural life cycle of cultures, so one has, for example, Athens and the other Greek states rallying (more or less) together against the Muslim Persia between about 492 and 479 BC, glorious glorious, and then you have Sparta and Athens ripping Greece apart in the Peloponnesian War starting 431 BC. A young soldier at Plataea would have been in his late 60s when Greece destroyed itself – so, two generations, more or less. The memories fade and unless carefully preserved, in art, in literature, all our ancestors fought for is cast aside as of no value, much as the Viking immediately smashes and burns anything he is given, or just throws it into a ditch or leaves it on a bus or in a homosexual brothel church.

i was born a generation (almost exactly) after my closest last life, and so by the time i was a man i was already in an alien world, a world that despised everything held good before my last death. However, i remember “the evil of old”, and am undeceived by the new.

4. The Left triumphed long ago, but because their self-identity is of permanent revolution, and because so many Feminist Diversity Outreach Professors would lose their jobs if they admitted they have won, it is necessary to fabricate new atrocities: so Halloween dog costumes are sexist, and so on. i note that the Left seems to have swung so far into spiritual evil that a fair number of feminists, SJWs, etc., are clearly insane. Of the three Borderline people i know (all women), two are open borders, globalist, EU, Social Justice Warrior types, the third being almost mentally retarded and so, luckily, uninterested in anything except food. Every rabid Leftie i know seems to have a childhood of physical and sometimes sexual abuse, which has filled them with permanent hatred for their culture and origins.

In the past, such people would be recognised as insane or at least highly damaged individuals. Any European who hates European culture, and even their own genetic inheritance, is hardly likely to be capable of clear and objective thought on the matter, because they hate that from which they came. They should leave Europe and go live in Pakistan or Liberia, where they can be raped to death by sand peoples happy among the authentic poor.

At least someone like Thomas Bernhard (father apparently a rapist who died in WW2, mother naturally seems to have hated the child) formed a connection with his grandfather, and rooted himself in a 19th Century Europe. But the modern Left would happily destroy everything of Europe, because they are spiritually as well as clinically insane. Bernhard was half-mad, but only half.

i predicted Trump had a good chance of winning the election several months ago, and everyone thought i was letting my contrarian disposition get the better of me. But i think he is part of a trend – not so much to “the Right” as to normalcy; and although he looks like a radioactive wild boar, his vices and crimes are thoroughly ordinary. Bill Clinton allegedly raped dozens of women, and liked to bite their faces till they bled; Trump on his own admission likes to grab women by the pussy, and they let him do it because he’s so damn Trump. They probably lined up to be groped by that wild boar.

If the Presidential candidates were films, Trump would be Porky’s; Clinton’s would be Ghostbusters 2016.

Well, you’d have to add elements of Wall Street to Trump’s, and if you look deeper Clinton’s film would be a paedophile snuff movie, but at least on the surface you can probably divide many of their supporters into those who would rather watch Porky’s or Ghostbusters 2016.

5. Discussing all this with an East German student, i said that no matter how rich the enemy may be, even George Soros can’t control a world where the culture changes against him and his ilk. The student, a typical German atheist, adduced as example that he insisted his daughter be baptised Catholic – because now our culture is clearly threatened, not merely from within by the Left, but from without by literally millions of military-age 3rd World rapists, that which formed European culture becomes valuable.

i think there will be, increasingly, spontaneous turnings away from the modern insanity, probably the men first, since women tend to either be hobbits (believing everyone is nice and friendly and we don’t need borders or police), or rabid shrieking Feminists, but it will happen, and i will live through the change. i don’t predict a return to capitalism, nor to some kind of fascism, but rather some new form will emerge – probably be rather a bloody affair, but then that has always been the way of things.

1. As per my submission to the Almighty, i now have a lot of one-on-one students on whom to sate my vile & teacherly lusts. With one, by name Juno, late-30s, married, little baby called Rudolf, unemployed, bearing an odd resemblance to the first girl i fell in love with 20 years ago, i discuss dobermannry and fascism and the nature of male violence, e.g:

Elberry. How are you? You look beat.

Juno: Rudolf was moaning for hours, and I tried everything, I am seeing if he needs food or changing, but he moans and moans. At the Kita (creche) they say he is fine, everything good, and then we come home and he starts moaning.

Elberry: I see. [thoughtful pause] Well, what i found with dobermanns, is that they get bored if you don’t take them for long walks, then they prowl around eating the walls and howling. You should take him hunting. Does he have any Barbour apparel?

Juno: But he is only 15 months old.

Elberry: Well obviously, you don’t want to start with bear-hunting, but you could start him off on something light, like sloths or hamsters or hipsters.

2. We were talking about money and she said that, having never had any, she doesn’t think about it overly; but her husband (studied Music & Journalism and now miraculously has a job on a classical music magazine) comes from a wealthy family and is always worrying about money and compares himself to his far-wealthier siblings and parents. i said that i have largely ceased to worry about money, and just accept that if i am to die, i will die; and if i get enough work, i will live. Lunatic as this sounds, it has worked the last 12 years, i.e. since i stopped taking money from the G and began working.

This is likewise why i give nothing to charity. A very Germanic do-gooder young woman intercepted me on the street in my ‘hood, trying to get me to part with coin. First i asked if she was lost, since i’ve never before seen Chuggers in my village; then she switched to English and started going on about starving black children. i told her i had only 7 Euros in my bank and had had to use my UK credit card to buy a train ticket for the month. She continued grinning and babbling about starving black children, and how i could give as little as 25 cents a day.

Elberry: i already owe 10 grand to my UK credit card, and you want me to give you MORE money?

Chugger [close to tears]: But they are children!

Elberry: Lady, i don’t care about these children. i don’t know them. They may not even exist. i only care about people i know.

Then i fixed her with The Elberry Stare, and stalked magisterially off, to find i’d actually been paid and had enough money to buy gin and give money to starving black children, so i went and bought gin and then went home and made myself a pretty good g & t and read esoteric fascist literature in peace & quiet.

Talking about this to another one-on-one student, a Croatian called Zlatko, i said i pay my taxes every year and haven’t asked anything from the G since i began work in 2004. i survived the difficult 6 months in Kiel, after inlingua fired me without warning or explanation, and the many slow months in Munich, because i have a credit card, and because some people (mostly the Viking and my mother) value me enough to lend me money, money i am frankly unlikely to ever be able to repay.

When i try to save money, something bad always happens, as witness 2012 when i ill-advisedly went to visit the Communist in France, had a nearly-fatal asthma attack (he collects birds as pets, toxic to my lungs), and all my savings were in one stroke wiped out.

i therefore just try to live month to month and assume the world will end soon and all of this will be meaningless. And i trust that if you are a decent(ish) human being, you don’t need charity, because people will like you and help you; and i don’t require some all-encompassing bureaucracy to care for every possible situation. i am willing to trust the Almighty, and avoid the Government and the Left as much as an Elberry can.

3. Because it is otherwise impossible to understand the internet, i have begun watching Game of Thrones. i read the first 900-page volume in 2009, started the second but after 150 pages realised i hadn’t enjoyed a single page and stopped. The TV show is far superior, i might say as superior as the Lord of the Rings films were inferior to the book. i’m on Season 6 now. For me, the show is concerned with weakness, the failure of planning & the undermining of strength, and the new possibilities of those denuded of their strength – thus far the character arc of Jaime Lannister who begins as a smirking apple polisher Southron, the consummate warrior and Beckham, a feared killer and golden boy all-rounder:


is then broken and defiled, and then becomes a far more interesting character, a man without strength.

In his weakness, robbed of all that had made him great, he creates a bond with another character, and becomes a truly new human being, with the ironic complexity of the newly-made-weak, e.g. when he and a warrior face several enemies, the warrior asks “how many can you take?” and Jaime replies, “Maybe one. If he’s slow.”

But in a spiritual sense, our weakness is our potential.

i have noted that my most interesting life-stages coincide with my weaknesses, with abnegation & acceptance, so talking with Juno about money i reflected that in at least two of my other lives i could have bought my way out of almost anything, and now i can’t even pay my rent; and this amused me, albeit somberly, for i seem the more open to the divine, the more i disengage from worldly strength.

4. On Thursday morning, walking to a new class, i was thinking about genetic inheritance and Shrekh, my Pakistani Muslim (now militant atheist) school friend, who was born in Britain, raised by uneducated working class Pakistani parents who seemed honest enough to me; but nonetheless Shrekh & his sisters all shoplifted without shame, seemingly for fun, and Shrekh at school would occasionally masturbate through his trousers when he saw the 6th Form girls; in his mid- 20s he got to know some girl and threatened to kill her, then told me he felt sorry for his words, feeling he was acting like “a typical Paki”.  Did his father at some point take him aside and say, “now son, when you see a white bitch you must start to masturbate, and if she talks to you, you must threaten to kill her if she disobeys you”? i found this unlikely.

So as i was walking to my class, i wondered if such behaviour could be on some level genetic, a thought i have long resisted as seeming too close to the Dune genetic theory, in which every ancestor’s mind resides in our blood. But since i doubt anyone taught him to semi-openly masturbate at women, and to steal, and these are hallmarks of the Merkel Muslims, i began to wonder if even 10th-generation Pakistanis would still act in this way, no matter their cultural environment. Certainly, if one considers the crime statistics for blacks in America, and Muslims in Europe, it seems so.

So anyway, i was brooding darkly on Pakistani culture, and then came to my class and found several new students, one a 50-something Pakistani – the first new Pakistani i’ve talked to in a decade – he seemed nervous about me, a reaction i’ve mostly experienced in students from highly authoritarian backgrounds.

He came to Germany as a student in the 80s, and has a real job. i asked if he felt his character had changed after 30 years in the Reich, he said it had, he had taken on German habits of order, punctuality, etc. He remarked once on Pakistan and India as British colonies, and i got the feeling he was one of the darkies like my father, who belong to that specifically upper-class strata of educated subjects, not English and not exactly Indian/Pakistani. On the whole i got a good feeling and liked him, though if he gives me a rucksack and asks me to take it to the Bavarian Parliament i will whip out my Uzi pen and use it without delay or restraint.

5. Later that day, i taught a Spaniard at a big IT company and, talking about the complacency of the West, i referred to Varg Vikernes’ video, describing him as “a black metal musician who murdered another musician and spent 15 years in prison, and now lives in France”. My point was that Varg has the kind of strength developed through deprivation (15 years in prison), through worldly opposition (a Muslim could have committed exactly the same crimes and got 9 months’ probation at most), and he is neither good nor evil, but just himself, and that this is the model of man the survivor, in a world before & after the State. i described him as “unlike most today, an individual” and since my Spaniard student looked slightly unnerved, i added, “of course, a dangerous individual, but then every true individual can be dangerous.”

About 24 hours later, Varg released this video:

6. There have been a few such “synchronicities” of late, where my thoughts or my words are then soon echoed or modified in some fashion. i find these times come and go, but they are always interesting, as suggesting a greater order to our reality – not, i think, a necessarily moral order, though the Pakistani student seemed provided to correct my assumption that all Pakistanis will always remain essentially Muslim, publicly masturbating and stealing and so on.

This is, i think, to do with the divine – that the ordinary & habitual sychnronicity of our lives, that structuring mechanism of time & space, becomes meaningful when one’s attention is given to a god. This necessitates an acceptance of extra-worldly motive and intervention, and can appear as weakness & irresolution, to the worldly.

The Left is a fairly new phenomenon, i would say it is merely one aspect of the Machine Age, along with every totalitarian regime (including Nazism): the desire to make the individual, and society, as mechanical and ordered and transparent as possible, cogs in the great machine. In this order, nothing may be left to chance.

i was born in this world, but have come to accept the raw and unmediated nature of things, before the gods. It is a headier atmosphere, on the mountain ways, where you may become homeless, be required to take your own life, be destroyed, but the great uncertainty comes with great freedom and the possibilities of magic and true power, a power surpassing magic as magic surpasses worldly understanding.

To renounce the apparent security of the worldly, of the Leftist bureaucracy, and stand alone before uncertainty and the gods – that requires a Varg-like wildness and character, or, in my case, the weakness & persistence of one who can be broken and despised, and yet survive. i no longer expect anything of the world of man, and the dream of the Left – an all-encompassing prison planet where the Elite quaff champagne in their well-furnished Government offices, and dole out justice and mercy to the reprobate & deserving – that disgusts me, that is a Tower of Babel fantasy and would, if somehow achieved, only produce the half-men of the Left, weaklings and sniveling hysterical degenerates, i.e. Social Justice Warriors, Feminists. But it will fail and fail hard, as foretold of yore in Genesis 11, and as witnessed in the socialist hell of the USSR, and latterly Venezuela.

The awakening will come hard to many.


1. After 5 years in Munich, i find i have almost nothing in common with my colleagues. Those i befriended in 2011/2, like Toddball, now seem juvenile and thuggish to me, feckless and criminal and untrustworthy; which makes me wonder if i was also so, in 2011, or if i merely found them amusing then and have now lost my taste for the criminal American element.

i bumped into a young British English teacher by chance as he was explaining cricket in the teacher room to a German teacher; we struck up a conversation and then met for a drink. His name is Gamgee and he teaches Physics at an international school, also does McLingua to supplement his income. He admitted “I just don’t like Americans, there’s always something wrong with them” – an sentiment i have come to share, though it is partly generational, for among my colleagues the older Americans, or the gays, tend to be okay, funny, interesting; but those my age or below are:

i) Female: bland, nondescript, impervious to irony, ambitious, grinning, Left-wing, aggressive;

ii) Male: clad in gangster rap t-shirts, boast of their criminality (drug dealing, theft, assault), shady, duplicitous, sneering, superficial, full of “yo homey, whassup my man?”, uneducated, wilfully ignorant, Left-wing, don’t even try to learn German.

2. i wouldn’t ordinarily have much contact with the Americans, but that when i teach the Arbeitsamt classes we have a designated derelict building in a shithole ghetto, and a teacher room, and since i don’t want to spend my break talking to my students i usually retreat to the so-called teacher room. There, the Americans dominate. California Jesus is one of the main Arbeitsamt teachers, because he can’t do anything else – most company groups stare in amazement at this baseball-hat-wearing “yo whassup homey” surfer dude bro, and then ask for a real teacher, but Arbeitsamt are just happy to be entertained.

Every single altercation i’ve had with colleagues has been in this one teacher room, in the Arbeitsamt ghetto. Typically, i’m talking to a colleague like Toddball or one of the okay Americans (i.e. over 50) and then a Female or California Jesus, eavesdropping, rebukes me, e.g.:

Toddball: El-bow, what you bin doin, nigga?

Elberry: Nothing much. Had this cool student at X, he –

California Jesus: Oh man! What you always be talking sheeit about them companies, man, no one wants to hear that punk ass shit!


Older American: Yeah, man, so like fucking last week I had this fucking hot student, early 30s, it’s a fucking group but only she fucking turned up, and she was fucking talking about her fucking boyfriend, heh heh heh, she was fucking undoing her top fucking button cos it was so fucking hot in those meeting rooms, heh heh heh.

Elberry: Oh yeah? Was the door closed?

California Jesus [sitting on his usual seat on the windowsill]: What the fuck, “was the door closed”, what kind of creepy-ass shit is that, man? Fuck, nigga!

This is a man who has slept with several of his students, i think some post-dating his girlfriend getting pregnant with their first child (second on the way), but an interesting hostility is developing between us, i think because he is a pure ignoramus, proud even of his ignorance, and although i never talk about anything fancy (books, politics, history, etc.) with my colleagues, they sense that i’m not of their kind, and they despise me therefore. i try to say as little as possible – even laughing at jokes has earned me rebukes, weird though it sounds. i gather that if i am to be allowed in the teacher room i must sit silently in the corner and not talk until talked to, and then only with Yessir and Nossir and Sorry sir.

i encountered a similar hostility in office work, where left-school-at-14 types would snarl “think you’re better than us?” if i so much as yawned. i never talked about my background but, alas, my face and voice and speech betray my ancestry and place. In our modern egalitarian days, this will excite hostility; i am reminded of a scene from Alan Furst’s The Polish Officer, where De Milja, a Polish aristocrat and intelligent officer, has to survive in the world of NKVD and Gestapo:

A uniformed NKVD guard looked through his documents, reading with a slow index finger on each word, then handed them back silently. He got out of Rovno on a dawn train to Brzesc, near the east bank of the river that formed the dividing line between German and Russian occupation forces. On this train, two men in overcoats; one of them stared at him, and foolishly, he stared back. Then realised what he’d done and looked away. At the very last instant. He could see from the posture of the man – his age, his build – that he was somebody, likely civilian NKVD, and was about to make a point of it.

De Milja’s heart hammered in his chest, he felt prickly sweat break out under his arms, he did not even dare a glance to see if the man had accepted his ‘surrender’: breaking off eye contact. Could not put a hand on the VIS, just tried to shrink down into the seat without a single sign of bravado. He was strong. And unafraid. And the way he carried himself, people knew that, and it would bury him in a hurry if he didn’t learn some other way to be in public.

The two men got off the train one station before Brzesc. From the platform, his enemy squinted at him through the window. De Milja stared at his shoes, a proud man subdued. The Russian didn’t buy it; with a certain casual violence he turned to get back on the train and, de Milja was sure, haul him off. But his partner stopped him and grabbed the shoulder of his coat, pulling him, with a joke and a laugh, along the platform – they had more important things to do. From the corner of his eye, de Milja could see the Russian as he glanced back one last time. He was red in the face. The man, de Milja knew beyond a doubt, had intended to kill him.

i have once or twice snapped back at the Americans but there’s no point – nothing to gain, they would only the more viciously despise me, and since i am now in the Arbeitsamt centre twice a week, it’s better to just keep my mouth shut and at best voice platitudes about the weather. Out of curiosity, i mentally logged the topics California Jesus deems acceptable, and they are as follows:

i) Beer

ii) Oktoberfest

iii) Going to beer gardens

iv) Going to the Isar

v) Basketball

vi) Baseball

vii) Things he’s stolen

viii) Bitches he’s fucked

ix) Horror and action films

This assertive mediocrity is typical of modernity – an anti-egalitarian, anti-intellectual impulse, the resentment of the slime and sludge as the first amphibians crawl onto land and taste the air.

3. Last week i taught an editor of some big-ass German newspaper, was surprised to find him (i think) younger than me, but then i’m now 40 and so most successful people are young enough to be my children, and regard me with pity. He was nice and intelligent, though oddly (given his section) ignorant of the Alt-Right, so i educated him on Hillary’s denunciation. An amusing moment:

Elberry: i’m from a shithole called Huddersfield, about 30 miles from Manchester.

Journalist: Do you know Bradford?

Elberry: Unfortunately, yes, i went to school there for 8 years. [i then named the school].

Journalist: I taught German there!

Elberry: Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat?

Turns out he was in Bradford, doing some kind of course at the so-called university, and worked as a teaching assistant at my school, 15 or so years ago. We even know some of the same teachers, which is kind of bizarre.

4. i was brooding on the parallels between my Elberry life and the early 20th C life to which i am closest (there are apparently two others, more or less overlapping, which i don’t remember and feel little for, even as i can see the similarities). He was, and became increasingly, a traditionalist. As Elberry, i perceive that my Elberry life was designed to insulate me as much as possible from modernity, and allow an umbilical cord to Western tradition – i remained inert until i was 20, bored rigid by school, and largely ignored/despised by my family; thus, when i began to read age 20, i was almost a tabula rasa, and then i awoke.

My school was an old grammar, from the 16th C i think, a huge stone building full of deranged paedophiles and sadists (the teachers); and Hitler Youth rugger buggers, Muslims, rapists, and sadists (the boys). i was always stupid and bottom of my class, a reaction to the boredom and structure and also my own physical exhaustion & malnutrition, as i had to spend about 4 – 5 hours a day getting there & back by public transport, and usually subsisted on a chocolate bar for lunch, no breakfast, because my mother told me we were too poor to afford lunch tickets (at the same time, my father had 6 cars); i guess i was eating about 600-800 calories a day for most of my teenage years. i quite enjoyed some of the classes till we got to age 13 and they began on the GCSE curriculum – at that point, every class became tedious, the teachers uninterested, each lesson geared towards the exams. i was also bottom of my class at A-Level, my brain only waking up a few months before the final exams – fortuitously, since it meant i suddenly went from getting Cs and Ds, to straight As, and even that “awakening” was just a faint stirring, enough to master the trivia of school.

Although, in the 80s, corporal punishment was illegal, many of the magnificent old chaps still ruled by violent means, and brooked no insubordination. i was pushed around and got a clipped ear once or twice, nothing serious, and the best thing was the atmosphere – in many ways, it was the school of To Serve Them All My Days. There was a subterranean lineage and tradition, so even if i learnt virtually nothing, i was at least not contaminated by modernity.

After escaping, i first studied a science degree at a grim Northern shithole, but dropped out and pursued my real interest – English Lit, at Durham. It’s only now that i appreciate how protected Durham was against the barbarism of the Left, of Feminism and egalitarianism, for actually no one took Literary Theory seriously, even those who taught it. i lived for 2 years in a 18th C building just under the millenia-old Cathedral, had (some) tutors who read virtually nothing later than TS Eliot, and could read and speak Latin as they would English. i really had no idea how degenerate and debased the modern world had become, and when i left i was essentially a late 19th Century man; and hence, unemployable.

5. Naturally, i have continued in this vein. In the eyes of the world, a rampant failure; in the eyes of my colleagues, a freak and book-reading, like, fucking punk-ass Brit, man. All well and good. There is however a secret lineage, surviving across lives because it has no earthly descent and reckoning: it is without fruit, but nonetheless propagates, and flourishes. Those in this descent will most likely not attend school, or learn nothing there – Varg Vikernes says it best:

1. i’ve survived summer, the most perilous time of year for an elberry. Spring and autumn are always the seasons of change for me, after the hard stasis of summer & winter. At the moment i feel like the last rat on a sinking ship, as the whole of Western Europe will collapse into Balkans-style civil war in the next ten years or so; and a surprising number of my colleagues are quitting:

1.1 The Cop: he was knocked off his bike, and then got a complaint from a hotel where he’d taught a McLingua crash course for a large engineering company. His version runs that everything was disorganised, no one knew where equipment was, and in true Cop fashion he let them know this was unacceptable. i dare say he got in people’s faces, and i can’t imagine him going beyond the limits of standard venomous German grumbling, but he has an aura of violence which amplifies matters somewhat; in this, similar to Morgana who could say things which, on paper, would sound merely aggressive and nasty, but with her evil goblin/Borderline look, talking with her was somewhat akin to being stuffed in a bag with a dozen rabid raccoons, and then being thrown into the sea, and eaten by a shark.

The Cop had always nurtured the illusion that, because he can be a good teacher (i.e. when students cooperate fully), and is reliable, McLingua valued and respected him. After his bike accident none of the management or sales team even asked if he was okay (he had “bone bruising” and could hardly walk, but continued working for McLingua). And then they chided him for getting in the face of the incompetent hotel staff. He had, apparently, garnered a reputation as a Nazi, amusing given he is a Zionist and i’m far more to the so-called Right, but then i don’t look the part.

The Cop has a rich wife and doesn’t need money, so quit. It’s quite a shock, strange as it sounds, for he was a decade-long-staple of the McLingua teachers, one of the few who persisted while young pampered millennials came & went. It’s like David Bowie dying all over again.

1.2 Big Ben – an American, think i wrote about him earlier but can’t find the post (perhaps deleted). He’s probably mid-30s, well over 6 foot, fat, alcoholic, from some rich man town outside Detroit, left his family when he was a teen and worked construction, went to university and studied History, speaks now a faintly-American English accent, vaguely 19th Century to my ears; he said he spent some time in his late teens locked in a room watching Anthony Hopkins films, and absorbed the voice. A deeply strange individual, he speaks excellent German, doesn’t read but speaks literate English (unlike most of my colleagues), is a fan of shows like True Detective and The Thick of It. i always found him fascinating to talk to, but at the same time couldn’t trust or get a sense for whoever he really was – perhaps much as the lesser man has always responded to me, which suggests Big Ben is actually the Übermensch, by god.

A month ago he told me he had to give up alcohol after a hernia, and also feels generally weakened by “German meat” – he said he visited his family in America and “after eating American chicken, I felt power in my body again”. He does, at times, radiate a slightly serial killer vibe. And now he will move back to America, to eat meat, after a decade of McLingua.

Curiously, he is a very good teacher; between classes he groans lugubriously about the job – much the same problems i have – but his students universally admired him, and i walked in on one of his classes and was faced with a totally different persona. As he said, when last we met, – I never applied myself to this job. I couldn’t accept this as a career, so I never learnt anything about how to teach languages, or teach anything. This was always temporary. But then it went on too long to be temporary.

– What are you going to do back in America? i asked.

– Anything except this. I have to get my car fixed up, then I want to drive around. There are wastelands, like Mad Max territory but without the cannibals and warlords, there’s just nothing there. I’d like to drive around these places, eating meat and feeling strong again. Germany took my balls away. I have to regrow them.

1.3 Hillary – a hipster from, of all places, Texas, probably early 30s, utterly deracinated (as California Jesus noted “she don’t be speaking or dressing like no American”), a weird hybrid accent, weird lesbian haircut, lived a few years in Helsinki without learning any Finnish (“only the whores go to Helsinki”), has worked mostly in IT & Marketing. She worked at McLingua for about two months before getting a real job in Marketing. Our first conversation as follows, about a week after Brexit:

Hillary: Oh yeah, you’re, like, a Brit, that’s fantastic. So will Brexit affect you here?

elberry: Probably, but i voted for it so i can hardly complain.

Hillary: What? Like, you voted in Brexit, or you voted to leave?

elberry: i voted to Leave, by god.

Hillary: Oh. And you regret it now?

elberry: What? No, i’m absolutely delighted.

After this, all our interactions were marked by a sneering hostility on her part, and shrugs on mine. Like many women she is a natural scold and know-it-all who enjoys policing others, witness the following conversation in the teacher room:

elberry: That Bundeswehr class was pretty cool.

Toddball: A lot of beards.

elberry: But real beards, not hipster beards.

Toddball: Yeah, them niggaz weren’t hipsters.

elberry: You should only be allowed a beard if you’ve been trained to kill. It makes me sick to see hipsters with beards, when they’re just vegan Che Guevara-loving losers who couldn’t kill a squirrel with an Uzi pen.

Hillary [listening the whole time with a tense female look]: Whoah! There’s a lot of stereotyping going on here!

elberry: Yeah, there is. [elberry leaves without another word]

i was puzzled by her “do you regret it” question, then realised she’d been reading BBC and Guardian articles claiming that people voted to Leave as if on a whim and then immediately regretted it, before anything had actually happened (these articles came out within a few days, and so far nothing at all has happened politically). She probably also believes the stories that Britain is suddenly suffering a Brexit-earthquake-driven tsunami of racist massacres, and the only solution is to reverse the referendum and restrict future voting rights to Guardian-reading millennials who live in London, because they know best.

Nasty piece of work, really.

1.4 Two other teachers are leaving soon, both nice, neither remarkable or blogworthy. They will probably die in a ditch.

2. i’ve now been in Germany just over 7 years. Astonishing – that i speak still virtually no German (by my standards), can’t read anything serious without intense effort. i thought about relocating to Eastern Europe, as Germany will soonish collapse into civil war. i can predict that one of the safest places on the planet will be Slovakia, for the simple reason that the Viking lives there, and while he often says things like “God has plans for me, He does not want me gallivanting about having fun” he also has an odd habit of always living in the safest places on the planet, which are also the only places someone like him could survive. If he ever leaves Slovakia, you can be sure the Major Shit is going to go down there within the next few years.

But i feel rooted here, especially in Bavaria. There seems, as best i can discern, a kind of presence here, protecting the natural human culture – it could be that the culture has always been a bit different to “Germany”, so it resists in some sense the crass tide of modernity. i note many Leftist assholes come here for work, and live in quiet villages and towns, and then decry the CSU for trying to protect the state from millions of 3rd World rapists. The Leftists appreciate the safety and order, and don’t understand these exist because of the Catholicism, the conservatism, the traditions they hate and would destroy. Sorry, pal, but that’s the way it is – if you want to live in a cool hipster city where the police don’t do anything, and you’re surrounded by sand peoples, that’s fine, but you’ve also got to accept you’re going to get raped on average four times a week, and your dog will be stolen and made into a kebab, and your daughter will eat it, before she gets raped by a 42-year-old Algerian who will escape prison because he says he’s a 12-year-old Syrian called Mohammed, all praise the prophet.

3. i have wanted to leave this job for the last 4 years but there’s nothing else i could do, save cleaning and bar work, neither of which appeal. And an office job would drive me crazy now. So i try to make the best of it; i enjoy most of my classes, it is merely that i feel how little of my mind and knowledge is engaged – so today, i managed to talk about metallurgy with a steel Sales Engineer, and as is my wont talked about WW2 in terms of raw material supplies, and then with some regret turned back to the shitty McLingua books, with a heartfelt, – Well, i suppose we’d better get started on this chapter.

As Europe – thanks to people like Hillary – is now inexorably plunging into the great Race War, this all seems rather besides the point, but i take a certain pleasure in the fact that the Sales Engineer was a very genteel North African in his 50s, and the other student a kind of dim but sweet Turkish woman, and i hope that they survive the coming slaughter, that if the Titanic is going down, there are enough lifeboats for the good eggs. Not likely, of course, but if anything human survives the coming War i’ll count that a victory.

1. i’m mainly teaching Arbeitsamt these days, as the whole of Bavaria (including my usual company groups) go to Lake Garda from June to September, to wish they could be Italian, and to complain about the Italians. Only the unemployed are compelled, by iron bonds of bureaucracy; only they abide in wretched durance, under my rule. There’s a big-titted blonde MILF in one class, Karen by name, nice, but desperate for cock and attention. She apparently told a mid-60s black American colleague of mine, Maya, that the whole group were worried that i was depressed and might kill myself.

me: eh? What? Is she going to complain to McLingua about that?

Maya: Well, uhh, no she was just, she said she was just, uhh, worried about you. She said you are seriously depressed and uhh stuff like that.

me: i’m actually quite cheerful.

Maya: Well I think she just wants to cause trouble and talk, and she probably, uhh, doesn’t understand your sense of humour. I told her that’s just elberry.

i realised that my life – teaching, hours of unpaid travel, and then home to drink and read and watch TV shows like True Detective, would strike most Germands as depressing and even horrific. Karen has repeatedly said that i need to marry a rich German woman, and seemed taken aback by my Burzum-esque laughter.

Odd, that a life of reading and gin could seem marks of depression, when in fact i generally enjoy my existence, as long as i don’t expect “recognition” for my writings, or money, or success, or any sense of being useful. But then Germands are a peculiar lot, generally quite bright (compared to the average Muslim) but almost totally ignorant of any culture outside the pap of German TV, dubbed American blockbusters, and – for the few who read – crime thrillers and sappy romances. On the rare occasions i have a student who enjoys reading poetry or real novels, it’s almost always a Russian or East European. For Germands, as for the English, reading is mere entertainment; you would never read a novel twice, because the whole point is to kill time, and the prose, the characterisation, the technical proficiency, are irrelevant – and so, like the Viking – who watched Boorman’s classic Excalibur and then grumbled into his beard, – It was impossible to enjoy because I already knew the story – the Germands are incapable of enjoying Rilke or Thomas Mann or Kafka.

2. It does sometimes strike me odd, that i am 40 and considerably more in debt than when i came to the Reich 7 years ago (almost to this day), and have failed to really learn any German since my job forbids any tongue save English, and after teaching i have little heart for social interactions with anyone, and those few tend to be base colleagues.

And yet i have my pleasures.

i’ve started drinking more gin, though perhaps when the colder weather comes i will take again to whisky. It’s a fairly cheap and uncomplicated pleasure – i will die of liver failure but given the whole of Western Europe will be under Sharia law in the next generation, this is a trivial consideration. My two childered colleagues, California Jesus and Toddball, seem to hate their lives, and spend all their free time placating their angry German wives and their angry German children. A bottle of decent gin, by contrast, is a simple and fortifying pleasure, and by the grace of God cheaper than a bottle of decent whisky, thus winning the war on both fronts.

3. Reading remains a great pleasure in these pre-Shariac days (don’t expect much in the way of libraries after the Muslims become more than 25% of the population). Here are some excerpts, of the last few weeks:

3.1 Evelyn Waugh’s Sword of Honour trilogy. Very English, leading on to Larkin – depressed, satirical, mostly hopeless. i’ve yet to finish the third but so far almost all the characters are somewhere between selfish trivial fools and monstrous psychopaths. i wonder, at times, what life was like Evelyn Waugh if he really saw his fellow men so; i expect he drank rather a lot of gin. Here’s a splendid account of the father of the protagonist (Guy Crouchback):

He was an innocent, affable old man who had somehow preserved his good humour – much more than that, a mysterious and tranquil joy – throughout a life which to all outward observation had been overloaded with misfortune. He had like many another been born in full sunlight and lived to see night fall. England was full of such Jobs who had been disappointed in their prospects. Mr Crouchback had lost his home. Partly in his father’s hands, partly in his own, without extravagance or speculation, his inheritance had melted away. He had rather early lost his beloved wife and been left to a long widowhood. He had an ancient name which was now little regarded and threatened with extinction. Only God and Guy knew the massive and singular quality of Mr Crouchback’s family pride. He kept it to himself. That passion, which is often so thorny a growth, bore nothing save roses for Mr Crouchback. He was quite without class consciousness because he saw the whole intricate social structure of his country divided neatly into two unequal and unmistakable parts. On one side stood the Crouchbacks and certain inconspicuous, anciently allied families; on the other side stood the rest of mankind, Box-Bender, the butcher, the Duke of Omnium (whose onetime wealth derived from monastic spoils), Lloyd George, Neville Chamberlain – all of a piece together. Mr Crouchback acknowledged no monarch since James II. It was not an entirely sane conspectus but it engendered in his gentle breast two rare qualities, tolerance and humility. For nothing much, he assumed, could reasonably be expected from the commonality; it was remarkable how well some of them did behave on occasions; while, for himself, any virtue he had came from afar without his deserving, and every small fault was grossly culpable in a man of his tradition.

Akin to Proust’s Baron de Charlus, but finer and without Proust’s ubiquitous perversions. There is also an excellent Victorian slaughterer, Ben Ritchie-Hook, who somehow survives the 19th C to slay Germans, which all self-respecting Leftists would encourage:

“I’ve had fun in Africa too,” said Ritchie-Hook. “After one of my periodical disagreements with the powers that be, I got seconded to the African Rifles. Good fellows if you keep at them with a stick but devilish scared of rhinos.”

3.2 Andrei Znamenski’s Red Shambhala, where i learn of an apposite ancient legend regarding our Muslim guests, a final battle between the so-called Mlecca and the (Buddhist) faithful:

Besides the millions of wild and mad elephants and thousands of warriors and horses that Rudra Chakrin would gather for his final battle, the legend mentioned the variety of weapons to be used against the “people of Mecca.” There were not only chariots, spears and other conventional hardware of ancient combat, but also sophisticated wheel-shaped machines of mass destruction. There would also be a special flying wind machine for use against mountain forts. According to the Shambhala prophecy, this prototype of a modern-day napalm bomber would spill burning oil on the enemies. Moreover, the protectors of the faith would use a harpoon machine, an analogy of a modern-day machine gun, designed to simultaneously shoot many arrows that would easily pierce the bodies of armoured elephants.

4. i’ve been watching the youtube channel Thulean Perspective for a while with joy; ’tis the work of a Norwegian in France, by the name of Varg Vikernes; i have been long fortified by his unrelentingly pagan and European beard, and delighted by his soft, lullaby voice.

It was clear that this is a man you could trust as your babysitter, a man who could record audiobooks for children’s bedtime stories. A kind of Werner Herzog figure, with hints of extreme manliness but basically a big Germanic teddy bear. He talks in one video of his experience in Norwegian prison, and i assumed it was perhaps 6 months for so-called hate speech, or just for being white or perhaps shoplifting or some hysterical Feminist accused him of rape because he held a door open for her.

Then i Googled him.

He’s motherfucking Burzum.

He stabbed Mayhem guitarist Øystein Aarseth to death, burnt several churches down, and got 21 years in prison.

By God, i would still let him babysit my non-existent children, and if he were not to be available, i would play his audiobooks of The Wind in the Willows and Winnie the Pooh, to lull my non-existent brood to sleep, and dreams of Narnia.

1. The Viking visited ruination upon me earlier this week, as is his wont. A profoundly lanky and uncoordinated person with a huge Christian beard, he inhabits his own private reality of, basically, numbers, largely oblivious to anything else. i have decided he is autistic although any human categories must needs fall short of his appalling Protestant potency. We watched The Wolf of Wall Street, Sicario, and Batman v Superman. He seemed to enjoy the first to some degree, at least he didn’t say anything negative about it. He thought the second and third mediocre, as best i could tell – it is hard to gauge his reactions, as he rarely, to the point of never, says anything good about anything except CS Lewis and Pope Francis and the EU, so a favourable response consists of contemplative beard-stroking and a series of incomprehensible mumbles, or just “Hmmm.”

Raised as an Evangelical Protestant, he converted to the most anodyne form of Catholicism available a few years ago, and has remained Protestant in his habits & tastes. i encouraged him to go to the rad-trad SS Catholic mass in Munich but he demurred, – Hmmm. They are schismatics. Hmmm.

Instead he went to the most happy-clappy guitar & joyous tambourine & hippy dancing “Catholic” Mass he could find. i stayed in my flat, had a cup of tea and worshipped Wotan.

2. It occurred to me that taste is fundamental, and even religion is merely layered thereon. The Viking dresses, for preference, in torn and stained beige rags, eats mashed potato and overboiled peas, and lives in a student room in student squalor, despite being 37. He cannot smoke even cigars without coughing fits and beard ignition. Conversation with the Man in Black as we were smoking on my last visit to Finland:

MIB: Does he smoke, this so-called Viking?

elberry: No. He is essentially a materialist atheist.

MIB: Ruined by a Protestant upbringing. Does he drink?

elberry: He can drink to some degree.

MIB: That is something, at least.

The Viking cannot, however, be judged by normal human, or even fascist, standards. Last year, i gave him a black bag i was reasonably fond of, thinking “well, i like it, but he really needs a new bag.” He took it. This time, i asked after the bag. He frowned and stroked his beard, then, with a careless shrug: – Oh. I left it in England somewhere.

i then proceeded to ask what happened to a great cybercriminal coat i bought him in 2004/5 from Zara, back when they actually made decent clothes. He frowned and tugged his beard, then, with another careless shrug: – My mother threw it away.

elberry: What? When? Why?

Viking: It fell apart after a couple of years and she said I couldn’t wear it anymore.

For a moment, i wondered if the coat – which i calculate cost a week of my wages – had been much frailer and badly-constructed than i had thought; then i realised he meant it had fallen apart after “a couple of years” of being thrown on the floor, kicked about, burnt, ripped apart with scissors, used to mop up piss, dragged behind a bus, thrown into a vat of silage, the usual Viking treatment. Money itself isn’t very significant for me, but when i think of how much suffering and grief a week of minimum wage office work represented, it was, briefly, horrible to think of him treating it so – but then, i also reflected, it was my fault for thinking he wouldn’t do this.

There is a long catalogue of things i bought him, all lost, discarded, destroyed. The first was a handmade leather case i bought for his Dungeons & Dragons dice back in 2001 – it was a beautiful piece, and comparably expensive; i asked if he still had it, the usual serene frown, beard-tug, then, – It’s probably in Canada somewhere.

3. i had a day’s respite when he went to Regensburg alone – i had to do laundry and sundry chores, and to be alone. i thought about my irritation at his Vikingry, and then realised it was basically self-inflicted irritation, for i was expecting him to be something he isn’t. Twenty years ago, i let my dobermann into the living room, and since he wasn’t properly trained, he promptly began ripping the cushions to pieces, and was much aggrieved when i threw him out. It was my fault for not training him, though at that point (aged 19) i knew nothing about such things; but nonetheless, one cannot blame the dog, and nor can one blame the Viking – it was my fault for letting the dog into the living room, and it was my fault for thinking the Viking could be other than a Viking. As the Man in Black judged, once a Protestant, always a Protestant.

4. As ever with the Viking, he managed to attract some vague danger. In this case, we were on the bus and a German chav was staring darkly at us, probably because we look so bizarre (Vkg in a linen hat and red cord jacket i bought for him, which he has probably already “left in China somewhere” or perhaps they “fell apart” or “they got on fire” or “a dog ate them” or “my mother confiscated them”), and were speaking English (and the Viking is incapable of moderating his voice, because he is autistic, so everyone in a 100 meter radius can hear him). The Viking yawned and the German chav immediately yawned, to me evidence of his attention. When he was about to get off, the chav stared menacingly at us and hissed, – Schöne Sachen, Leute! – translated directly, “nice things, people” – it could i suppose be taken as a compliment, but not with that look of Left-wing hate.

The Viking had no idea what was going on – despite speaking German, better even than me since he did it at school for 7 years, and besides told me in 2011 “You make my head hurt when you speak German. You should, like, stick to Italian or something, because you are brown and that is, like, a brown language because, like, all the Italians are, like, brown and stuff” – he insisted on speaking Slovak to everyone he met, which was met with uniform incomprehension as one would expect.

– Didn’t you notice him staring at us the whole time? i asked, amazed despite my long acquaintance with Vikingry.

– No.

– Didn’t you notice him yawning immediately after you did?

– Look, I was not obsessively monitoring him like you, the Viking snapped.

Given the chav had been directly in front of us, about 10 feet away, facing us the whole time, i found this rather odd. But then this is the Viking, who looked over a woman’s shoulder in a bank in Kiel, and then boomingly announced, – Hmm, interesting: she is paying in American dollars!

At least he didn’t start reciting her account number outloud, then backwards, then multiply it by Pi (he has, naturally, memorised Pi to 10,000 decimal points) and inform her of the result. He is totally oblivious to ordinary danger, but throw a number in his field of vision and he will memorise it, Rainman style.

5. On our last evening, waiting for the s-bahn, he suddenly announced, – Oh shit, I just remembered: I need your underpants. Give them to me.

– What?

– I mean, umm, I am out of underpants. So I need to borrow a pair of your underpants. Obviously you can have them back.

i considered him. He stared at me without shame. i sighed. – If, for some inexplicable reason, i gave you a pair of my pants, and you then chose to wear them, i certainly wouldn’t want them back.

– Hmm. But I need underpants. Give them to me – now.

i was amused, in spite of my natural horror, at the idea of him “borrowing” a pair of my pants, and then years later he would tell me he left them “in Chernobyl somewhere” or “my mother took them” or “they fell apart”, no doubt shrugging at my stupidity in ever trusting him with anything. i informed him: – A man will not ask his friend for pants. A man goes commando, or reuses his old pants.

The Viking just frowned and said, after much thought: – Hmm.

And how was the Pant Question settled? Reader, i refused him.

Another of my “short stories”:

The Master of High Works


I am not greatly loved, it is true. Spoken of, known in some rough way, dreamt of, feared, obscurely worshipped, but not, one would say, loved. I and my crew are given official welcome in each town, we are hosted in the finest and also most remote and secluded lodgings, féted to the degree I allow, but certainly not loved. As we approach the town, packs of children howl about our wagons, running frenziedly to and away, cocking clods of excrement and rock, the hand coming up, never quite daring to hurl, and oftentimes my assistants leer and beckon them closer, or toss oranges, sweets, worthless coins, or offer them the horrors much loved by children (severed heads, eyeballs, stuffed kittens etc.) – and yet thus far none has come within arm’s length of our wagons, on our approach.

Nothing formidable to our wagons – ordinary constructions, ordinary beasts, and my capering assistants look to be grinning empty-headed fellows, without a care or thought in their heads save the varying prices of beer and wine, the quality of the local girls-for-sale, the weather, etc. And I? I am much as other men, I could be a workman, a smith, with my tools, my large hands and broad wrists, my adequate frame, my face hooded against the sun. We do not ride on huge black horses with flaming eyes, wielding weapons of murder. No no, by no means, we are simply men about a job.

We are expected, ushered quickly into rooms as far as possible from the bustle, fed and watered, offered the usual services of a town, and then I settle to the task. First, I require court proceedings, witness accounts, confession if any, and naturally full details of the crime. These I consider.

Then to the gaol, and here I make my determination. A sorry lot, in the main: low-born drunks missing their front teeth or an eye, demented children born in violence, deserters and bravos; then there are the poisoners: housewives cradling their hands together as a kitten, greybeards with ink-stained fingers and a look of great probity, magered students in once-serviceable rags, 10-year-old girls folded on themselves in horror, all varieties of killer. Not all are guilty, but all will be served. They are all put under my rule, and I can offer no reprieve. However, those I perceive to be innocent (of this crime) will receive an end commensurate with innocence. How could it be otherwise?

I am no hangman or head-chopper or gut-ripper. I am the master of high works in these our Lord’s kingdoms. The small authorities understand little of my work. − He must burn! they inform me, or, − His bowels to be eaten by dogs, after dismemberment! and he see it all, and screams! And so on. They presume to instruct me, as if mess and pain were my art. No no, sir townsman, you understand nothing at all. Let the barbarians indulge in spectacle of this sort, I have my own art.

I am feared, in some sense, and well-received, honoured. Death there must be, but how? That I master, a death apt to the life. My work is known throughout my Lord’s kingdoms; there are even, as I hear, imitators, though naturally doomed to mediocrity and disappointment. Death is no light matter, though common; easy enough to dispense, it is yet a subtle and coy matter. Some look askance. At my supposedly peasant and taciturn manner, in my old hat, my giggling assistants. Yes, they caper and jape and are lewd and hideous, but that is their own way; I need say only, − The women’s rope, and they will bring me the casket, with all my tools of finer hanging. And I care not how they act otherwise, they can go whoring, and drinking, and they can dance on tables and do all manner tricks and devilry, telling vile tales (some true), singing songs not heard in a good many century, songs to dead or at least greatly altered persons, they can feign to fly and sorcery, I care not so long as they come when I call, and bring what I require.

Japing there may and perhaps must be, outside the moment. At the time of my work, I allow no frivolities, no uproar, no cruelties, nothing unneedful. Oh yes, these local authorities are all for the needless. − My good sir! they tell me, these fine-silked folk, − We will a bear torn by dogs first, and jugglers, and there is a fire man from the South, he will bring his firebrands and then the man of whom we are talking, the evil man, he be brung forth and whipped, and all spit in his face, and he –

And I say, − No.

And they say, − No?

And I say, − No.

Mine are simple affairs. Generally the noose or axe or spear, sometimes sword, sometimes even poison though it is not to my liking as covert and imprecise. The man (or woman or child) comes forth, and the crowd keep silent – because this is my will – and the man stands before them all, and I read the crime and the judgement, and then I execute.

None play the fool in my work. The whole town stand and are still. I do not permit them to look away; and thus they perceive the death as it rightly is. All the customary japery is merely to distract from death, and thus I forbid it. There will be no tortures or maimings or shrieking in my work. For all the variety of subjects and ends, it is always the same: he or she stands, accepting, bare; and then there is death. And there is always a moment, somewhere in the work – I could not rightly say just before, during, or just after the moment – where the death is a picture of his total life, his death makes it total, and then the death becomes all that surrounds, all that life is not but by which is determinate, incalculable and so.

Afterwards, the people are still, and go their ways so. It was not what they had expected.

Then I dine with the family of the condemned man, if any there be. A custom begun many years ago, when parents of a young killer invited me to sup, and they said, in thank, − You ended him rightly and well.

It had become custom by the time our wagons came to the next town. I do not expect it, but always someone – a parent or sibling or cousin, or just friend or co-criminal – will invite me to sup after the high work, and they seem, as best I judge, honoured. All is clean and bright and the wine is the best to be had, and they either speak, for hours, of their friend or son or brother or sister, or they are silent in unhomed peace, and they say as I leave, − You gave him a greater end.

− No, I would say; but do not. I gave him an end commensurate with his purpose. For the people see only crimes and failings, I see further, and I grant an accordant death. They are ushered from life to death by my hand, and even where the freight is heavy, the passage is light. Thus am I master of high works.

Naturally, word spreads and becomes stranger still. So I hear there is a cult of sorts, grotesque portraits of me and my demon crew riding through the land with a giant scythe. Some worship and take me for a god, for that is the abiding perversity of man. My assistants, naturally, were delighted, and constructed an entire puppet theatre of the Evil Executioner, myself as a red-eyed puppet with an axe in each hand, slaying the unholy with menacing growls; and I was forced to endure their rehearsals and performances on our long rides from town to town, they chirping, − How would the Evil Executioner end this ungodly slaughterer? And I, − I know not. Silence, you trash. And they laughing, − Then the spear! The spear it is!

And as one would expect, they taught these shows to the people, and so it took on and complicated my work.

Over time, any great work becomes rumour and spreads in fantastical shapes. My assistants delight in their puppet theatres and whorings, for myself I do gallows work and no more. Often, the only ones to understand are those I visit and execute. For indeed, by the end we must have a perfect sympathy and with-thought, to achieve the high work together. Some are ready to die, and with such I merely discuss technique, feeling out the right method, and they have a good death without much fuss. Some would defy, with rage, threats, and lies, and this then is hard work; I must bring them to see and take their death, to accept their own lives & deeds, and complete all on my gallows. With riddles and tales they are beguiled, as one would persuade a child to sleep, on a wild summer evening.

Then there are those who fear, and piss themselves and shriek, − Do not! I will not die! as soon as I appear. Bah. Now, my work is not possible with fearers and tremblers. The man must stand there, and accept his life and its end, and then I take his life and give him end. I will have no tremblers about me, for fear is undecorous and loathsome and unbequem indeed. And with these, I must work hard. I assuage, I comfort, I will be to them a good father, the good master they had not, a quiet shepherd of frightened sheep, I all grim and hooded, with spear to ward off wolf and all, I must in a sense rob them of their fear – since it is often all they have, that to which they above all else cling, more even than life. And for all their original fears, when I am done their end will be the same – a high work, a brave day, a good death without fear, a life made perfect and bright, in hall of my many slain.

This, I judge, is why the families would sup with me – I redeem, as they see it. There is no fear in death; and death is little picture of life, so life itself is a fearless work, to be taken and given and surrendered to me, the master of all high works.

And the body is removed, the place cleaned. I dine with the family, those who loved what they could, I sleep soundly, and then we are onto the wagons with my clowning assistants, to the next town, the next death and high work of life.


Walter Aske

6 August 2016

1.  i saw the Master & Commander film and was surprised to love it – it’s a somewhat Top Gunny film, with jargon unexplained, good violence, homoeroticism, and music:

and so decided to give the novels a shot, starting with Post Captain. This is great, a bit hard to fathom as it veers from a Dickensian dark comedy (our hero Aubrey is even broker than me, and in danger of debtor’s gaol), an Austen-like social comedy as Aubrey and his evil sidekick Maturin court various young(ish) damsels in an English country house, and then to full-on naval violence.

2.1 Aubrey is refreshingly unmodern, an individual with his own mind & preferences, pleasingly described as “a vile ranting dog of a Tory” who likes huge pies and vast quantities of booze; he is at dinner with a French captain, Christy-Pallière, who speaks thus:

‘But what is the case with us? Republic interest, royalist influence, Catholic interest, Freemason interest, consular or what they tell me will soon be imperial interest, all cutting across one another – a foul hawse. We might as well finish this bottle. You know,’ he said, after a pause, ‘I am so tired of sitting on my arse in an office. The only hope, the only solution, is a -‘ His voice died away.

‘I suppose it would be wicked to pray for war,’ said Jack, whose mind had followed exactly the same course. ‘But oh to be afloat.’

‘Oh, very wicked, no doubt.’

‘Particularly as the only worth-while war would have to be against the nation we like the best. For the Dutch and the Spaniards are no match for us now.’

In these wars, there is some room for a man of independent mind & disposition, as there is little in peacetime, and in 2016, there is almost none anywhere – only the God Emperor Trump stands proud and alone, quaffing bottles of human blood and pinching maidens’ behinds and smiting his foes hip & thigh with his spare toupees. There is a pleasing lack of sentimentality & romance in these novels. Jack Aubrey is as violent as any, and does not prettify his actions; so when he is an honoured captive on a French vessel that is doing battle with an English, the English is damaged and the French captain Azéma opens fire on the repair crew (as far as i remember, Aubrey was on the Nelson, which was captured by the French, and then later they are attacked by an English ship, the Seagull):

Captain Azéma had been bent over a gun, laying it with the greatest care: he gaged the roll, fired, sending a ball plumb amidships into the repairing party. He waited for the flight of the shot, said ‘Carry on, Partre,’ and stepped back to his mug of coffee, steaming on the binnacle.

It was perfectly allowable; Jack might have done the same; but there was something so cold-blooded about it that Jack refused a draught from the mug and turned to look at the Lord Nelson’s damage and at the coast, barring the whole eastern horizon now. The damage was heavy but not crippling; Azéma had not made quite the landfall he had expected – that was Cape Prior right ahead – but he would be in Corunna road by noon. Jack ignored the second gun: he tried to make out why it should wound him so, for he had no particular friend aboard the Seagull.

In our social-media-saturated world, such instinctual feeling, untrammeled by virtue-signalling and thought of audience, would be very difficult. Teaching the Bundeswehr last week, we discussed the migrant/rapist situation, and the Platoon Leader said we should take in the legitimate war refugees but not all these hundreds of thousands of Iraqi/Afghan/Pakistan/etc fake refugees. The whole group seemed slightly taken aback when i said, – i wouldn’t even help the genuine refugees. i don’t feel any obligation to anyone i don’t know and don’t personally owe. If i see someone collapse on the street, i don’t have an obligation to help them. I can, if i want, but i don’t have to – i have absolutely no moral duty to help someone i don’t know.

i still feel so, that to say “but we’re all human beings!” is meaningless in a 7-billion-human-being planet. One might as well say one is morally obligated to help an amoeba, because we’re both living organisms, or to help a stone because we’re both physical beings. i think most people actually feel as i do – that unless you owe someone, you are not morally obligated to help them (leaving aside that a substantial number of the migrants are coming to rape, steal, and destroy, and the rest to sponge and live off welfare into which they have not contributed), but they feel compelled to pretend; and this compulsion is so ingrained that they don’t even realise it is a learned addition; it only becomes clear, indeed, when one considers the totality of their words & deeds, and the hypocrisy stinks to high Trump.


And so, when i help people to whom i owe nothing (and in “owe” i include long friendship), it is not because i feel remotely obligated, but because it costs me either nothing or little, and in the moment i feel it is right, as Aubrey felt it was somehow wrong to take a drink from the French captain’s coffee; so, i often edit my students’ cvs etc. for free; and 2 years ago, as i was walking to the s-bahn a very serious-looking boy (maybe 9 or 10) asked if he could use my phone, and though i had then a pay-as-you-go deal i let him, because it felt right; he called his mother and was very German and serious, and i missed my s-bahn and so was late for my class, but i felt it was the right thing to do in this moment.

2.2 Aubrey, i feel, is the man without this layer of 21st-C Marxoid superego, this constant posturing for attention as a good human being, as a warm-hearted blah blah blah (and one need only consider the actual venom and cruelty of these “good human beings” to realise their hypocrisy). Trump i see as a man without superego – just id and ego, to use Freudian terms. He is so shocking because many today carry a heavy carapace of superego, so it is often hard to see the real individual struggling under this weight of social posturing & fear. The God Emperor Trump may not be nice, or good, or sane, or even able to manage the compromises of high politics, but he has, i feel, no side – what you see is what you get.

With the typical modern, i see something like a ghost, a flickering show of received opinion, and since these are mostly similar it is hard to engage with most such folk.

3. Aubrey’s  “superego” is fairly limited – it would apply to simple customs, actions – not to opinions, beliefs. But this is the privilege of a soldier and a sailor, for action tends to burn away the unnecessary, the fraudulent. i enjoyed the Austen-like passages, where Aubrey woos the daughters of the rather horrid Mrs Williams – an early 19th C Leftist bien pensant, who today would be agitated about global warming, the evils of Christianity, the glories of Islam, etc. etc.:

Whether Mrs Williams liked her daughters at all was doubtful: she loved them, of course, and had sacrificed everything for them, but there was not much room in her composition for liking – it was too much taken up with being right (Hast thou considered my servant Mrs Williams, that there is none like her in the earth, a perfect and an upright woman?), with being tired, and with being ill-used.

Now that is very fine. The big words, love, or humanity, for example, are co-opted by the Left; and one should rather linger about the little words: like, affection. Aubrey is a marvelous character not so much for his qualities as for what he is not – not a worrier after good opinion, not a conniver after public acclaim; not given to self-pity or self-dramatisation; but rather a man after his pleasures – war, drinking, eating, and women, and music. His foil, Maturin, is far more intelligent but similarly unconcerned with the opinion of others, possessing a strange lyrical soul:

Tides, tides, the Cove of Cork, the embarkation waiting on the moon, a tall swift-pacing mule in the bare torrid mountains quivering in the sun, palmetto-scrub, Señor don Esteban Maturin y Domanova kisses the feet of the very reverend Lord Abbot of Montserrat and begs the honour of an audience. The endless white road winding, the inhuman landscape of Aragon, cruel sun and weariness, dust, weariness to the heart, and doubt. What was independence but a word? What did any form of government matter? Freedom: to do what? Disgust, so strong that he leant against the saddle, hardly able to bring himself to mount. A shower on the Maladetta, and everywhere the scent of thyme: eagles wheeling under thunder-clouds, rising, rising. ‘My mind is too confused for anything but direct action,’ he said. ‘The flight disguised as an advance.’

The physicality of Aubrey – man shorn of unnecessary thought – and the deep privacy of Maturin, seem to me emblematic of a greater human world. A decade ago i wrote of the dark side of the soul, that which is turned to the gods, necessarily invisible to man – and this is one benefit from reading old books; a glimpse of that dark and strange, that which gives men strength to doubt the well-lit world of society and its little fears & strivings.

1. Taught a Bundeswehr class on Monday, mostly ordinary-looking chaps (some rather muscled and bearded) and 2 women, at the end of their service; as i was fussing with my paperwork they were discussing the Olympia Einkaufszentrum shootings, saying if they were still active they could be called up for emergency operations.

Without hearing their tales, one could form a pretty accurate idea of their Bundeswehr duties, e.g. a Platoon Leader who has his own pond and hut in some rural Bavarian paradise, where he goes “to drink and think” – looked like a character from Das Boot, brawny and bearded and with that peculiar calm & friendliness of big men who look after others; a Signals Engineer with the demeanour of a software programmer; a rather lovely & slender redhead babe who is a Sergeant Major & paratrooper to boot – i asked her – Are you a Fallschirmjäger or a Fallschirmjägerin (-in being the Feminine ending in the Bosche); she looked puzzled, then said, decisively – Fallschirmjäger. i thought paras tended to be giants but she said you need to be pretty light to take the fall, however some of her comrades were too fat, and out of shape – it seems the Bund has in general low standards of fitness.

– If I were your Feldmarschall, or Reichsmarschall even, i began, gesturing grandiosely, – This would not be acceptable. Imagine if you jump from 400 meters, a Schnitzel Planet comrade breaks his leg and then lies there whining, uhhh, help mir bitte, I have eaten zu viele Schnitzel weil ich ein disgusting fat Schnitzel beast am. You are in hostile territory, with Muslims closing in, bearded and shrieking for rape. What would you do?

– We would take him with us, she said, bravely.

– I would leave him, i told her, stabbing an inky finger at her interesting chest. – Leave him to his fate. He ate a man’s Schnitzel, now he must pay a man’s price. Let the Muslim use him for their pleasure.

2. This world is burning down. The Wolf noted that i seemed to like Donald Trump, and Jeremy Corbyn. My political opinions are close to worthless but i see neither Trump nor Corbyn as fully part of the machine. The machine – a grotesque blend of Cultural Marxism and financial neo-liberalism – has had its day, and Trump and Corbyn are symptoms of “reactionary” revolt. i favour neither. Socialism is an abominable error at best, a vile evil at worst; capitalism has never really existed in a pure form, and never could, since companies will naturally seek to influence government; and in complex, large societies some government is necessary. In any case, to elevate capitalism to an ideal is bizarre.

For the last decade or so i have felt that the underlying assumptions & metaphysics of the modern West are mistaken, and highly displeasing unto my nostrils. Capitalism at least allows more freedom than socialism – the latter necessitates the all-seeing Eye, Political Correctness, and political police, commissars, the gulag, all the apparatus of the EU, as the USSR before it. If you are happy to entrust bureaucracies with absolute power, then the EU, as National Socialist Germany or the USSR, will most likely be in order and profoundly to be desired. If you have any intimation of the essential human frailty, and the “Satanic” tendency of bureaucracies (in the Blakean sense), then socialism is very much the highway of good intentions; although in my experience most socialists are clinically insane or borderline/narcissistic power freak feminists who want control over all others, and the self-righteous bliss of feeling they are in the right, the white knights charging the evil-doers as they live in luxury and do nothing of any conceivable use to anyone.

Socialism is only possible in a machine age, where human beings are mere ants, to be suborned to the greater good of the future Marxist Utopia, which of course is only possible through vast oceans of blood, and actually may require several generations to be persecuted, tortured, executed; mass starvation, poverty, Political Correctness, as we saw in the USSR for 70 years, or China, or North Korean, or Cuba, or Venezuela. Human devisings always fall short of reality; because human beings were created, and so their understanding is less than the reality they did not create.

Capitalism strikes me as simply amusing, as if one said everyone should able to wear whatever shoes he desires, and then called this Shoeism and tried to craft a ruling ideology therefrom. This is nothing to set against the Rape Horde religion of peace.

3. On Tuesday/Dienstag, i got the Bundies to give presentations. Some refused, or rather looked highly unwilling, and i said, sighing magnanimously. – If you don’t want to, i won’t force you. But it will be good practice. Your choice.

7 out of 10 chose to give presentations; i was pleased that the weakest student volunteered first, and gave a presentation about testing stress tolerances in metals – rather bizarrely, i seemed to be the only person to understand it, even though he gave it half in German and the language was very simple, but then i have spent 7 years teaching engineers. An artillery spotter (another profession for which i have some affinity) gave a presentation about Lego, quite fascinating as i’d known virtually nothing on the topic beforehand.

The sexy Fallschirmjäger gave a presentation about Dunkin Donuts, and concluded that it was Dienstag Dunkin, all donuts 1 Euro a piece.

Rubbing my manly chin, – Outstanding, Sergeant. Perhaps we should all go out to buy donuts now.

– Can we? they pleaded, looking at me with their big puppy dog German eyes.

– We can do what we damn well please, i said. – i mean, as long as my boss doesn’t notice. Let’s use the back door.

So we walked to the Hauptbahnhof in formation, then stormed to the Dunkin Donuts stand to get 6 donuts for 6 Euros. i hadn’t realised just how military the Bundies were till i saw them walking, savagely bearded, frankly fucking huge, blue-eyed, and vaguely alarming killers. The Dunkin Donuts cashiers, bearded hipsters in glasses, paled in comparison to the bearded Bund. We then returned to eat our donuts in McLingua in White Man Triumph:

bundeswehr donuts july 2016 censored

Today i did a bit of grammar, deploying my other motif (Schnitzel):

bundeswehr july 2016

4. i find Bundies akin to the quite lovely therapists i wrote reports for in Manchester – even the Speech Therapists had had many patients die on them (strokes), and so although i dare say they were Left-of-elberry, they had a more realistic sense of mortality and humanity than a SJW Guardianista; there is nothing like prolonged exposure to suffering and death to burn away Left-wing ideas & retardedness in general. Indeed, when conversation in Manchester turned to chavs and the G, the therapists were all pretty traditionalist, favouring stable families, education, empowered police, and minimal bureaucracy.

i would be interested to know how many GPs are right-wing, since my father (retired GP) is Leftist in many ways (i.e. he wanted to help “the poor”, perhaps because in India there really are poor people), but a proper Elberryist in everything that counts: education, the family, custom, religion, decency. Don’t bother trying to harass him, my SJW readers – i can imagine the following conversation:

German Feminazi: Ja hallo, this is Dr Elberry, or?

Elberry Pere: Yeeeessss…who is this?

German Feminazi: I am die Hedwig! I am an angry German woman! I am very intelligent! I am having a PhD! I have read Derrida!

Elberry Pere: Egh well listen, the Germans, egh, well, are you listening, egh?

German Feminazi: Ja.

Elberry Pere: Egh, well, listen, the Germans are SO STUPID. Listen, egh? I am a BROWN MAN, egh?

German Feminazi: Ja! Das ist very good! White people are all racists! They must all die! We need more Muslims like you!

Elberry Pere: Egh well, the MUSLIM are, egh, let me tell, you, I worked in Bradford, in Huddersfield, in Leeds, in Wakefield, in Nottingham, in Saint Helens, in the Wirrel, in South Shields, in Rotherham, in Sheffield, egh, and DO YOU KNOW WHAT I THINK OF THE MUSLIMS?

German Feminazi: Ja! It is the religion of peace, or?

Elberry Pere: Well, you must be VERY STUPID! The Muslim are THE WORST PEOPLE IN THE WORLD.

German Feminazi: Das ist hate speech, or? I will call the EU police and you will go to prison for 3 years because we are having free speech, or? You will to die in prison, why the EU will not tolerate hate speech, or?

Elberry Pere: Egh. Well. You are a woman. Listen, egh, you attack me, egh? And SOMETHING BAD WILL HAPPEN TO YOU, egh? You think you say bad thing and say this brown man is Nazi, and you call the police, egh? Well, listen, egh? I will CURSE YOU. Egh? You are laughing, egh?

German Feminazi: Ja. I am an atheist because I am smart. I have read the post-structuralists! I have been at university for Women’s Studies! I am working at Social Media, or? I believe nothing! I am very smart! I am having the latest iphone!

Elberry Pere [hideous laughter]: Egh, heh heh heh, well listen woman, I have Chemistry PhD, I have Medical Degree, I saved HUNDREDS OF LIVES. And I WILL CURSE YOU. And, egh, listen woman, it DOES NOT MATTER if you believe, YOU WILL DIE.

German Feminazi: I am very clever! I have readed Foucault for twenty years! I am smart enough to get the post-structuralists! I am a power Frau!

Elberry Pere [hideous laughter that just goes on and on].

5. Evil is perhaps a constant; or if it fluctuates, it does so within a certain range. One sees how those with no material disadvantages often create their own problems, as if suffering & malevolence will out; however, i feel that with constant vigilance and a good heart, one can at least safeguard the culture of a people – in such cases, an external enemy usually destroys all. Right now, Europe has enjoyed relative peace and goodness for 70 years, and now it is over – the Leftist elite have imported millions of Stone Age rapists to destroy Europe. In these dark days, it is hard not to consider so-called conspiracy theories. i feel that there is definitely an earthly group who will the evil, who hate the good, and as is the way of most evil-doers, they invert language (hence, it’s not racist to say all white people are evil; it’s not sexist to say all men are bastards) to present themselves as the knights in shining armour. Perhaps some of them know what they are about (e.g. George Soros), and so i would say they do not merely practice evil, but are evil. The rest are fools, self-righteous loud morons with a worthless education in Leftist cant – ask them about Parmenides, Dante, Abelard, Shakespeare, Milton, Goethe, Browning, Yeats, Geoffrey Hill – and either blank incomprehension or cant will ensue; e.g. the Communist who said airily of Wittgenstein “yaaas, well, the great flaw in poor old Wittgenstein is that he didn’t speak any non-European languages” – which doesn’t make any sense to begin with, it’s the kind of thing a University of Huddersfield undergraduate would say, after sitting through an hour’s lecture on Wittgenstein, bored stupid & tweeting angrily about how Donald Trump is LITERALLY HITLER – specific languages are totally irrelevant to the Tractatus, and the PI demonstrates a method, a habit of mind, which would work in Ancient Sumerian, Chinese, English; and also i wouldn’t consider Russian a European language (typically, the Communist didn’t even know Wittgenstein had learnt Russian); it was the kind of thing bloated academics say when they don’t want to admit they haven’t actually read an author, but want to pontificate & display their own colossal intelligence by casting stones at mere imbeciles like the Gawain Poet, Schopenhauer, Milton, Wallace Stevens. “Oh Schopenhauer? Yes, well his great flaw was he failed to understand Marxist dialectic!” – meaning “I am far more intelligent, far wiser, than poor old Schopenhauer, who I haven’t read, because I don’t read anything!” – although these sinecured Left-wing fools have not written anything of any value, and never will. Give them a book to read and after 5 pages it will be discarded with a loud “Absolute balderdash! What was he going on about! Nonsense!” much as the Communist stormed out of Inception after 10 minutes, red-faced & bellowing, “Stupid bullshit!”. And these are the elite. These are the people with cushy jobs in the UN, the EU, these are the Wise Ones who decide your fates.

6. Beyond the idiots, and the evil, there are non-physical intelligences – demons, if you like – i think some are actually human beings outside of time, and some may be more like Jungian archetypes of malevolence. There has been a weird shift in our total reality over the last few years, with the non-physical and physical moving into a different relation – or sentience & non-sentience. Europe is one of the battlegrounds of this change – and what were once called demons or devils are now more openly at work; the fabric between worlds is more of an open-weave now. As is typically the case, the gods (or angels) communicate subtly – they seem to prefer freedom, to allow their earthly communicants (e.g. me or the Man in Black) to make up our own minds, to worry through our own doubts & difficulties; whereas the devils possess.

i cannot speak of the gods in others. For the devils, i think they enter the vulnerable, and work with what is in their heads – mostly Islam, often enabled by drugs (it would be interesting to read the toxicology on the Paris concert attackers). Both Islam and the drugs would be smiled upon by the Left, and the results – mass murder, rape, torture – are of course savoured and relished by the Left, who will the downfall of the West, and see every dead or raped or mutilated or tortured white person as another € in their account of righteousness.

7. There seems a symmetry between my elberry life & the last: in which case, this year we will have a colossal financial collapse – worse than 2008 – and the old order will disintegrate, and Europe will become rather violent and in due time (a decade, at most), we will have significant war. And yet, i note the metaphysical changes over the last decade seem profounder than in my Austrian life, so that even animals are beginning to transform & become sentient (but not as we are). What we call electromagnetic energy is changing in some way, which i take as harbinger of wilder and deeper changes yet; and i see Corbyn, Sanders, and Trump as sign and emissary of sudden collapse – not, i think, collapse into 1930s Communism (as Sanders & Corbyn would like), or Thatcherite neo-liberalism – hopefully, a transformation beyond politics and demagoguery.

That is most likely overly optimistic: i note that those who can read the past often make foolhardy predictions of the future, and i myself am cagey of foretell and prognostication. i can, however, say for sure – that what we called gods (Wodan, for example) are of the land and the people who were gentled, formed, birthed, by the land; and the gods will resist those who seek to destroy European culture. Christ was one thing – unwelcome, neutering, but ultimately amenable to a kind of European form. Islam is and always will be a Stone Age desert cult.

The earthly powers, the devils, are of course immensely rich and powerful – a black Marxoid American President, the entire EU and UN elite – but Wodan is a god.

As i understand it, the gods do not will political groups; they do not soil themselves with “activists” and Facebook groups and lobbies and institutions – they are silent and occult, and transform by personal contact; for example, in the last week i have more or less accidentally witnessed the transformation of two people i know – nothing to do with politics at all, purely their own psychological/spiritual problems. The true gods work by person to person interaction, in privacy, in intimacy. It is the devils who amplify speech until it loses meaning; it is the devils who create political and cultural movements, it is the devils who love bureaucracies, totalitarian systems, the EU, the UN; it is the devils who require ideology, usually of the Left, since the so-called Right is often what is left when you subtract ideology and politics.

In future, we can expect the Muslims – often weakened by marijuana – to be possessed by devils, to kill and kill and kill again; but every time a Muslim rapes and/or kills a European, one should think – There are gods also.

And do not look for political messiahs, for ideologies, groups. Look, rather, for person-to-person interactions, and listen in your own great quietness. If you must speak or write, let it be as one would write to oneself, in total privacy, in a secret alphabet.

8. Incidentally, just a thank you again to those unlikely few who have sent me gro via Patreon – it is appreciated by my ego, and it also motivates me to blog more than once a month; and, as it happens, i really need money at present, so thank you. If you intended a one-time payment, remember to cancel it after the first payment, before the next month’s payment goes through.

i was planning to meet a friend in the Olympia Einkaufszentrum (ghastly shopping mall) on Monday. Someone just shot the place up. This is just to say that i’m not only not dead, i wasn’t anywhere near it, i’ve been in Chateau Elberry a good 20 km outside Munich the whole afternoon. i realise that just because i live in the neighbourhood doesn’t mean i’m likely to be dead but i also realise one’s natural response to hearing of the enrichments of multiculturalism and the religion of peace is to wonder if anyone you know in the area is dead.

i dare say the attacker wasn’t white, and quite possibly shouted something, something like, well, you can judge, but it begins with an “A”, and he’s probably from a country receiving rather more sun than Germany, and i wouldn’t be too shocked to hear he’s a devotee of the religion of peace. Of course i could be wrong, but i am sure that:

1. The media and government will say we need strict gun laws, even though the attacker probably obtained an illegal firearm.

2. The media and government will say it has nothing to do with Islam, even if the attacker is called Mohammed Al-Jihad and declares his allegiance to Islam.

3. The media and government will blame it on:

i) Britain voting to leave the EU

ii) Donald Trump

iii) Putin

iv) The white man

4. The media and government will say they fear for the safety of Muslims. If they can find a story about a Muslim being insulted or attacked, they will run this so it eclipses the deaths of several white people, and then call for repressive measures against any party remotely to the so-called “right”.

5. It will happen again, and again, and again.



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