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1. In the McLingua teacher room the other day, i walked in on a conversation about the university, fussed about with my papers for a bit then butted my Huddersfield head in, to learn that a colleague was thinking of studying Philosophy but had to learn German first; i commiserated and suggested avoiding Heidegger for the nonce; conversation turned to academia and we were all of the opinion that it is a nest of venomous adders vomiting forth servile gibberish.
i have at times encountered hearty I’m-alright-Jack Southron types who say any kind of academic writing is incomprehensible gibberish, but in truth the university only became a den of filth in the late 80s, early 90s. i sometimes miss reading pre-1990 literary criticism, and writing my own untimely commentaries, though it is such an artificial form that, lacking any audience at all, i would prefer to write my Racist Remarks on my Cold War typewriter, or just drink whisky and smoke contemplatively over the ruins of Mother Europe.
2. For years, i felt an odd conflict about literary criticism, for almost everyone i met openly despised me for reading books in the first place, let alone writing about them. The conflict arose because i loved reading 1950s-1980s-era literary criticism, and felt my best essays were valuable, in their own way, and yet when almost everyone sneers, you tend to think you must be wrong, and so i felt one of my strongest passions must, in fact, be totally mistaken.
i no longer feel this tension, partly because i no longer really talk to people, certainly not about anything important, but also because i more & more sense the subtle underpinnings & influence of the world of art, culture, and the spirit, almost invisible to the rabble. It is striking and strange that a very small minority can perceive significant realities, and an even smaller can begin to understand and deploy these forces; and yet, these seemingly recondite persuasions create the mundane reality of the belly-patting managerial Southron, Tony Blair, and your everyday chav.
3. Study of anything can provoke an understanding of the world, however brief, fragmentary, fraught; and this understanding is the more likely the more the object is either created by the gods, or a work of true art (i.e. not modern). Make your rabbits rabbinical, master, and set them to the carrots of the field; for it is this study and commentary which sensitizes to realities of spirit. Browsing through my notes on Annie Dillard’s For the Time Being, i find:
“In the pictures of the old masters,” Max Picard wrote in The World of Silence, “people seem as though they had just come out of the opening in a wall; as if they had wriggled their way out with difficulty. They seem unsafe and hesitant because they have come out too far and still belong more to silence than themselves.”
So it is, that this study and work involves an apprehension of the generally denied or despised substratum of being. There is small work and great; mine, i deem, is small, for i am long quit of greatness and its malheurs.
4. Attention to primal works can forcegrow certain capacities. Our age seems designed to prevent such attention: our technologies, and a lack of respect for art and religion. When i was 20 or so i bought Miles Davis’ Bitches Brew, and listened to it in great distress, thinking “I just wasted twenty quid, this is shit”. After the third or fourth listen/ordeal, i sat me down and thought “now Elberry old son, this must be good because it’s from before you were born and people STILL say it’s good”. On this listen, the previously appalling sounds cohered into music, i think because i was suitably reverent and willing to attend. Amusingly, when i told the Journalist, he refused to believe that i liked the album, boldly declaring that even leftfield eclectic cultural magpie jazz aficionados given to self-affirmation and self-transcendence didn’t like Bitches Brew; he then added something like “I can’t help but feel that your alleged liking of Miles’ 1970 fusional foray into experimental and avant-garde jazz is based solely on your wish to appear COOL and to conform to what music critics tell you to think. I can’t help but feel that in fact you DON’T understand Miles D at this stage in his experimental maverick trajectory, ably assisted by old studio hands at the legendary 30th St, but you FEEL you can IMPRESS me by CLAIMING to do so.”
So obviously, reading and listening and looking do not suffice for clarity of spirit; and a bad spirit will transform even the greatest of artworks into his own self-importance.
5. i’ve been thinking/remembering the Great War, as i experienced it in the life to which i seem closest (consciously, at least). Artillery stunned, even quite distant artillery; the noise and percussive shock reduced one to a childlike state, of terror and helplessness. Perhaps in others it was less profound, but in me – because i lived more in my mind – it entailed an overwhelming loss of what i knew as my self. My whole body would react with the artillery, blinking and breathing in that tempo, as if my whole body was flinching and contracting, my mind utterly consumed by terror. It was not ordinary fear, which in our world today is localised and usually integrated into the self; this was more i suppose a carnal terror, the body believing (with some justice) death to be imminent.
There was a curious resolve & clarity after artillery attacks. In part it could be that my ordinary problems became relativized and actually trivial in these moments of terror, and so i could more easily live with myself by coming close to death, time after time. On reflection, i think it was also that, the terror being so extreme, survival – the self reforming in quietness – seemed a significant achievement; and also the annihilation of self, however horrible, showed that the self was not, finally, indispensable, that it could disintegrate without the body dying; that there must be something indestructible within, from which the self would reform, standing however apart from the self.
6. Another note from For the Time Being, on Teilhard de Chardin’s service as a stretcher-bearer in the same war:
A witness remembered his “rough-hewn face that Greco had prefigured” and his “total lack of ecclesiasticism.” One of the officers serving with him wrote, “Two features of his personality struck you immediately: courage and humility.” His regiment’s Tunisian sharpshooters, who were Muslims, used to say rather cryptically that a “spiritual structure” protected him when he plucked bodies from the ground in crossfire.
Chardin’s life, however wayward and various, is all of a piece. There are people who can move from one sphere to another, and whose earthly actions bear a spiritual imprimatur. If Andrew Breitbart was correct to say politics is downstream from culture, then i would say culture (in the sense of customs, social norms, and the arts) is downstream from what is today wholly denied: religion, spirit, the occult.
As i see it, there are powerful & malign forces currently working to destroy the connection between Europeans and the highest order of reality. Some of their earthly vessels are easily identified; they are, all the same, merely vessels.
i will not be too disheartened if Le Pen loses the French elections on May 7 – the situation with our 3rd World guests will only grow much worse, so she will probably be able to win with a clear majority next time, and be able to take more decisive action, if France hasn’t then already gone up in the flames of diversity and multicultural enrichment, Balkans-style. Contra Varg, i see nothing wrong with voting for so-called Right-wing parties, however i would say hope lies not in politics (the lowest, densest sphere) and not even in culture – we must work for the old gods to come once more to us, in new guise and manner. i stress new despise my general loathing of anything modern, because the irruption of the divine cannot be predicted, planned, controlled – even for those who expect them the gods come as a shock; even in their very gentleness as an artillery barrage to a self that no longer is; nor are they always gentle.
1. So, i went to Kassel and returned. i did almost nothing, save reading and writing on the train, and in Kassel mostly going on hideous healthy walks and eating hideous healthy food with Juniper. She has a cat, or rather a neighbour’s cat, an insolent demanding beast calling itself Max, which has taken to sleeping in her flat for hours every day, and now expects her to feed it a special cat treat, some kind of luxury caviar with quail eggs i wager. i first met this usurper last November, when it appeared in the garden, staring menacingly at me, then prowling about the flat, eyeing me warily before disappearing once more. After i left, Juniper wrote:
Max visited, jumped into your bed rolling over it to substitute your smell with his own, that’s how men are.
Don’t let him drink the good gin.
2. i find cats amusing but fail to understand them. As far as i can gather Max has slowly made inroads into Juniper’s flat & affections over the last few months, and as the Russians elected Trump through hacking, so Max has taken to sniffing about Juniper’s flat, gobbling up cat treats before sleeping on his designated cat bed:
3. Juniper grew up on a farm outside Kassel. i have noted that neighbourhood cats, while generally regarding me with the wariness appropriate to my essentially canine nature, immediately approach & then follow Juniper on our hideous healthy walks. She doesn’t know why Max chooses to sleep in her flat, however i noted that three times i alarmed him by talking vehemently about my many enemies, or by laughing, and he was then so startled he darted out of the door and into the garden, sleeping a few few feet away as to say “don’t like that fat strange person you have inside”, which to me suggests an aversion to raised voices and loud emotion.
Juniper is ideal, then, being an essentially quiet person. Quietness is an attribute of soul. It betokens a direct engagement with our physical reality and is increasingly rare; i’ve also found it in my stepfather, a bus driver most of his life. i told Toddball that my stepfather is one of my role models; and Toddball was astounded, i think thinking i would think such a man of no import, for a thinking man; but thinking is not my challenge & difficulty. Thinking is, in a sense, trivial.
The quietness of Juniper, and my stepfather, do not necessarily imply lack of education; she speaks 3 languages well and reads “literary fiction” but is not at all an “intellectual”; having too strong instincts to drift into that useless cloudy domain. It is the academics, the IT geeks, the big city-folk, the fat rabbits and “theorists” who have made themselves eunuchs for the sake of the Kingdom of Earth, and will be justly despised by their children’s children (to paraphrase Kierkegaard and Yeats).
4. Quietness is rare in literature: writers & thinkers tend to be loud; but i could cite Chekhov, Keats, Sir Philip Sidney, Emily Dickinson, Elizabeth Bishop; overlapping some of Patrick Kurp’s affections & notes. It is to do with a simultaneous sensitivity and reticence, a reluctance or inability to coerce. i find milder forms of this in other writers (Camus, Wallace Stevens) but in truth it is rare to find a writer who does not seek to dominate or at least present the world in his terms. And today it is vanishingly rare.
5. My father rang while i was in Kassel. We had a good chat about how England is a right proper shithole; he despises most politicians and authorities as befits Elberry Senior, and apropos the gap between official media coverage & reality said “egh well the BBC is THE WORST!!! They are all liars! That blessed man, egh, that DRONALD TRUMF!!! He said BBC is a BEAUTY! Egh? Are you with me? Egh? They are all LIARS!!!” i opined that the more they attack Trump, the more you can be sure he is probably doing something right. i take some heart that his Syria attack seemed more symbolic than real, and he followed it up by destroying a bunch of the kind of bearded folk Assad is fighting, over in the ‘stan. But of course politics is just a weird human contrivance and will always be absurd.
Unexpectedly, my father asked me what the Bible is. Given he is a kitschy Catholic i was somewhat taken aback but tried my best. He then asked what the difference is between the Catholic and Protestant Bibles, when the New Testament was written, etc. i answered as best i could, off the top of my head, and later Googled and found that i was surprisingly accurate – product of a brutal grammar school/Viking education.
Given he is nearly blind i suggested he procure a copy of Johnny Cash reading the New Testament.
6. Among other matters, we discussed Brexit and the EU. The former will, i feel, go ahead in spite of all – the EU is ideologically much weaker than the Soviet Union, and most European states have a much stronger national identity than shitholes like Kazakhstan. For all the globalists have tried to erase a millenia of culture, it persists. For all the fat rabbits and ridiculous weak white people will sell their birthright for passport-free travel, there are enough colonials like my father or 2nd-generation mongrels such as my self, who wouldn’t blithely throw European culture away for the sake of a globalist state calling itself “the European Union”.
7. i continue to relish Trump. We will see if France can rekindle its nation. If one could see Trump as momentary focus of America as America and not as a globalist platform or SJW cesspit, i hope that Le Pen will triumph in France. i predicted a Trump victory, drawing about 90% on Tarl Warwick and 10% on my own occult scryings (which were unambiguously in Trump’s favour). With France i feel Le Pen is coming into focus, but we will see. If the French go for a globalist or socialist they will pay the price, and there will be a race war in good time – which will probably be the case in Germany, as i feel the Germans will keep voting for Merkel until they destroy their own nation.
However i strive for a certain quietness, to listen and wait.
1. i’m visiting Juniper for Easter and her computer is now about a decade old, so there’ll likely be no blogging till after i return. i don’t have anything to say now, but Monday to Wednesday are long days and then i’m off to Kassel, so i’ll say the nothing i have to say, now.
2. A few months ago, i said that as long as the media are savagely attacking Trump you can be sure he’s at least trying to do good. He stood up for gay rights and the media ignored it; his supporters were generally restrained & orderly while the Left organised mass protests and physical assaults, and the media said Trump is literally Adolf Hitler and his supporters brownshirts; his daughter talked nonsense about the supposed pay gap, and the media ignored it; but as soon as he launched an attack on Assad he became, suddenly, all right, presidential even in the eyes of the media who were calling him psychopathic, narcissistic, stupid, crazy, evil a week ago.
A screenshot from The Golden One’s FB page:
3. At times i wonder if i’m missing something, or am just stupid. i don’t, for example, see why chemical weapons should be worse than dropping bombs; nor, looking at the Iraq, Afghanistan, and Libya debacles, do i see how people can cheer the strikes on, and call for the death of Assad as if the result will somehow not be as it was in Iraq etc. i can however see why Peter Hitchens is so generally morose, coming out against war after war, and knowing that people will either not see the clear similarities between the WMD hoax and this, or won’t care.
4. As far as i can tell, the Israel/Saudi lobbies wish to destabilise every secular or Shia country in the Middle East; Israel i suppose for their own defence, the Saudis presumably for religious reasons. And since both countries more or less own the US “Deep State”, their will be done.
5. Well, we’ll see. In an earthly sense i see no hope. One can judge the true intent of the earthly powers by the corporate media’s sudden volte-face. Suddenly grabbing pussy and being Hitler isn’t so important. The important thing is to destroy Syria. i only wonder at the journalists who can write, every day, whatever their masters bid, without qualm. i met one such journalist, actually the one who told other journalists what to write, for one of Germany’s largest papers, and he seemed perfectly nice, though since his paper is Left-wing i imagine i would find it full of evil lies. Perhaps, believing that the white race is inherently evil, and European culture must be destroyed for the good of mankind, it is possible to persuade oneself of the necessity of deceit when the facts don’t quite match up, e.g. those who say the background & ethnicity of rapists shouldn’t be reported because such facts might provoke the native population. Hate-facts, you see.
7. i’m making good if slow progress on my occult horror comedy, and on my Racist Remarks. i write more for my own personal satisfaction than for any eventual readership, since after 12 years of blogging i have about a dozen readers. i’ve been a bit down of late; my schedule fluctuates so i have days with no work, or only 90 minutes (with 2 hours’ travel), and then days with 12 or more hours; i worry about money since i’m making on average just barely what i need to survive (without health insurance or a pension), and then the 12-hour days leave me stunned and incapable. On Friday, as i shambled about McLingua, i felt that my mind had switched off, as if a fuse had gone. i am accustomed to a background noise of thinking, not “what should i have for dinner” thinking, but thinking about e.g. Wallace Stevens or the future of the EU or alchemy or runes or whatnot, and these thoughts console and please me. On Friday, seemingly from overwork this aspect of my mind switched off completely. It was quite horrible. i was suddenly massively bored and weary of being alive. i wondered, Is this why normal people always have to be drinking beer and shouting, to distract themselves from this abyss?
But then it’s been four months since my last holiday, so i’m jaded and weary as usual after too long in Munich. Just the train fare to & from Kassel will cost 15% of what i’ll make in April, before tax, a thought i find highly displeasing. i shouldn’t spend so much money but my mood has grown darker & darker of late, to the point where i was yesterday trying to cheer myself up thus: “My life is so shit. Whoah, hold on, it’s not that bad. Think. You have…some friends in Munich, after all. Even if you don’t really trust any of them. And they’re all cunts.” And then, walking back from the supermarket i found myself eyeing the speeding cars and thinking, Maybe i’ll be lucky and a car will hit me and i’ll die immediately. But then again, i might just be crippled from the neck down and end up in a Muslim camp, raped until i die of internal bleeding.
So it’s probably for the best that i’m off to Kassel.
i became aware of a new Werner Herzog film, the critically-lambasted Salt and Fire. However, after sitting groaningly through the pedestrian Doctor Strange i felt up for a bit of Herzog, even inferior Herzog. My notes thereon:
1. Two dagos (Meier & Calvani) and an uppity German MILF are en route to some scientific conference. Calvani keeps groping the MILF, until they are all abducted at which point all gropings cease. One of the abductors is Michael Shannon, plus a gimp called Krauss, played by Lawrence Krauss in a Gestapo coat, generally toting an assault rifle.
2. First 20 minutes are stilted and odd, the plot not so much unfolding as jerking about like a maimed spider. Most of the actors are not native English speakers, and even Michael Shannon speaks like a being from another planet. The MILF is highly irritating; she keeps saying “I demand -” like a true German power frau who is going to demand unlimited “refugees” come to Germany to rape all & sundry and destroy European culture, as long as they don’t live in her gated community. i hate her.
3. The annoying MILF wanders about a Catholic villa in some godawful dago desert, talking to Shannon. A parrot shrieks something in David Lynch talk, Shannon translates it “remember now thy creator in the days of thy youth” and then:
Shannon: You know what Nostradamus said about talking birds?
MILF: No, I do not read Nostradamus.
Shannon: He foretold what sounds like science fiction today. He said, Household pets finally communicate with man. Life then possible outside the planet. A new tyrant sows terror. Events to come.
MILF: A world run on big data and predictive analytics doesn’t care about Renaissance predictions. I want to know how Meier and Cavani are.
Shannon: It’s not so much the predictions themselves that fascinate me. It’s where they come from.
4. Things turn esoteric. i begin to warm to the film, as Shannon shows her his library.
and texts of an alchemical nature
“This salamander was exorcised with a bucket of holy water, and then burnt. [pause] I think I was meant to live a different life.”
5. Shannon shows the MILF David Lynchian paintings and tells her that nothing she hears will make sense to her American ears, but in the end she will understand:
A surprising vein of Catholic mysticism and alchemy (and, incidentally, Tarot symbolism). i begin to think, Did i really just hear that? Did i dream this film?
Shannon unveils himself to the MILF in a fireside chat.
“It’s okay to be afraid of the dark. The real tragedy in life is when men are afraid of the light.”
The children are retards with pudding bowl haircuts, they could be blind but in any case she is left with them in the desert. Having warmed slightly to the MILF, my first reaction was “kill one of the children, leave him out in the desert as bait for predators, and then kill the predators and drink their blood. Use the second child as a mule.”
7. Instead the MILF looks after the children, teaching them English despite having very Germanic grammar patterns and accent. Why not teach them German? Some of her tuition is suspect but i suppose if you take this as edited highlights of an intense course, it could seem plausible. She sings German songs and seems happier in this predicament than elsewise.
8. At some point, i grew to, if not like the pudding bowl retards, at least feel they shouldn’t be gutted and left to bleed out in the salt wastes. While the weak should of course perish, i think Herzog has a particular genius for taking the weak & wayward, and showing their essential humanity; he takes this brittle German power frau and over the first 40 minutes she becomes human through, in part, her concern for her abducted colleagues, and through her tentative engagement with Shannon over various esoterica; the pudding bowl retard children become of value through her engagement & care.
9. Shannon and Krauss return.
There are many very Herzogian moments of fun and humour and sadness, and Shannon is revealed as a Herzogian figure – his reason for leaving her in the desert is very much in line with Herzog’s loathing for factual documentary, Herzog’s ideal of indissoluble experience.
Overall, a very good film. It got terrible reviews, naturally. As i was watching it, i felt “this is a good film to watch once” but now i want to watch it again. It is, at about 95 minutes, extremely condensed. All of Herzog’s films are layered and hectic; this is a strange work, reminding me somewhat of my own short stories in being a failure in terms of the apparent form; yet as i would say my short stories are operating in a different, unapparent form, so i would say here, Salt and Fire is actually a very good film, if one sees it as it is, not as a typical “film”. There some odd moments, e.g. when Shannon’s men abduct the MILF & co from an airport, bundling them all into a car, and one of the henchmen is aiming a handgun at the hills at least a kilometer away. It would have been nice to have some minimal realism here, but then it’s a Herzog film and he’s not an action director.
It doesn’t surprise me that film critics – generally Left-wing, mediocre big city dwellers – condemned this film. It is actually a very odd meditation on how our experience of isolation & pain is part of our human being, and our relation to others, and the necessity of experience in all its weirdness, to come to clarity.
1. A wise man once said “your future dream has sure been seen through”. The song came out when i was a wee little chubby-cheeked babby, already dreaming grand dreams of the coming Race War in my cradle. i never understood how foreigners could admire England in its present form – the countryside largely gone, the economy bifurcated into managerial spiv positions and McJobs, the people grown feckless and violent, accustomed to unemployment as a way of life, and millions of Muslims swarming over hill & dale raping white girls while the police smile and tut about diversity.
2. i wondered if it was just because i’m half-Indian and speak posh, and am a fascist, so don’t fit in anywhere, but i met even white Leftists who said there was something menacing about every English town on a Friday night, something depressing and lost about England in general. i always felt it was naff & shite to be English, at least in the miserable late 20th Century; and the only people who seemed proud of their country were either old or hooligans, or old hooligans even. Contrast with Germany where, at least in Kassel and Munich, people seem generally quite happy to be German or Bavarian, and in the latter case are often unabashedly proud of their land and heritage.
There’s almost no street crime in Bavaria, and what there is seems to do with immigrants (Turks, Russians, English teachers etc.) In England i actually preferred Muslim to chav areas, because there seemed some kind of order, albeit un-European, in the former; in the latter, you might as well be in Mordor among the orcpits, eating rotten hobbitflesh and smearing yourself with troll semen.
3. Aged now 41 i feel vaguely aware of my impending senility & death, and nodded sadly as i read Flann O’Brien’s The Hard Life:
– Well, may the sweet Almighty God look down on us with compassion! Do you realize that at your age Mose Art had written four symphonies and any God’s amount of lovely songs? Pagan Neeny had given a recital on the fiddle before the King of Prussia and John the Baptist was stranded in the desert with damn the thing to eat only locusts and wild honey. Have you no shame man?
– Well, I’m young yet.
– Is that a fact now? You are like the rest of them, you are counting from the wrong end.
i’ve thus began writing two new works: the first is a horror comedy, the latter a series of thoughts & observations i’ve titled Racist Remarks, since at present it’s mostly about race. There are also some thoughts about the occult, and i think if there is to be any unifying thread it will be merely the time of its generation; that is, fairly short passages that are on my mind and which i either don’t want to blog, or can’t. If it gets up to about 30 – 40 thousand words i may self-publish it, under some innocuous title; i thought about posting the remarks on my Patreon page but there’s something to be said for working on something over a few months, on a Cold War-era typewriter in my case, and then publishing it as a complete work.
i anticipate rave reviews.
4. i came upon this meme upon my travels:
It’s a good point, as i dare say many Irish Catholics supported the IRA, as many Muslims do the Jihaddists. My thoughts:
i) This is precisely why it is imprudent to have people of differing group-identity living in the same area (and hence, why empire tends to lead to long-term problems). Whenever people with different ethnicity, religion, or politics live in the same area they will eventually come to blows. Leaving aside the hordes of Islam already entrenched on welfare in multicultural hellholes like Bradford & Birmingham, to wilfully introduce even more Muslims to Europe is to intensify the likelihood of terrorism and race war.
ii) The IRA (and offshoots) habitually advised the police of bombs, with usually just enough time to clear the area, so the only damage was to property. Muslims wish to kill as many non-Muslims as possible.
iii) The IRA had a specific and realisable political goal. They mostly targeted military & police, and destroyed property. Their goal was to pressure the British Government for a specific end. i think many people could sympathise with the goal, just not the means.
Muslims want to destroy Western civilisation & culture, and to either murder every single non-Muslim or to force us to convert to their religion in its most extreme form.
iv) The Irish are genetically similar to the English, Muslims are not. Thus, the grandchildren of boyos could be almost indistinguishable from the English in IQ, appearance, broad character tendencies; but millenia of inbreeding in a torrid climate mean Muslims, to the umpteenth generation, will…well, be different.
v) The IRA & their sympathisers had much the same culture as the English. Thus, they did not by their very existence work to destroy English culture. The Irish have been part of British culture (in literature, in the military, in the labour force) for centuries. Muslims are a late arrival and are over-represented in crime and umemployment statistics.
i leave it to the reader to dwell on the significant contributions of our Muslim friends to English civilisation and culture.
5. Having said all that, it would be interesting to consider Sharia England – there would of course be mass rapes, mass murders, and the destruction of all that could remind of Christianity. In the end the entire country would resemble Bradford, of course, and then Mogadishu. But perhaps in a few centuries, after plague and warfare have destroyed most of the population, there would be something English about – no actually, forget it, it’s doomed.