An Eagle soars alone, a Crow prefers the Flock
Friedrich Rückert (1788 – 1866)
If measured with a Christian yardstick, Pride isn’t a virtue but an affliction. It persuades people to despise lesser folks. It is strictly egoistic. It usually augurs a cold, cold heart. And it is a serious obstacle on the way to Paradise once you’ve kicked the bucket.
That is what our parish priest told me when I was a small boy, and I believe it to this day.
Yet we are all human, and therefore exceptions to the rule must be taken into consideration. You may, for example, be proud of a sportive victory because months of hard training resulted in a coveted trophy and the esteem of teachers and classmates alike. You may till a field and feel proud at the end of the day when you wipe the sweat from your brows. You may visit a famous art museum and are proud because one of the great masters on display was born centuries ago in your own country. You may travel across Europe and observe its incomparable marvels and be proud to be a member of the White Race.
You may, in short, feel a pride that isn’t in any way arrogant or supercilious, but a kind of reflective glow that warms the heart. And it does so because it isn’t caused by a vague and selfish emotion, but the lucid perception of an irrefutable Truth.
If someone would have told me a few years ago that one day I were to add my own mustard, as we say in Germany, to a devilish dish called TOO, I’d have laughed straight into his or her face. Because in those days I believed unconditionally what had been drummed into my poor head since earliest adolescence, namely that we Germans were the worst criminals on earth, that we fully deserved the devastation of our ancestral lands and its extensive dispossession, that our victims were angels without wings and business probity incarnate, that the acceptance of mass-immigration was a Christian obligation, that those who dared to utter the cursed non-words Race and Fatherland were blasted Fascists and damned Neo-Nazis and absolute scum and total offal and categorically bound to roast forever in Hell.
Until the moment when an icy little finger nipped at my spine. When the first minute seeds of dissent opened up and began to push through the fat tarmac of a lifelong indoctrination. When I cast, in uneasy self-reflection, a glimpse into my innermost being and realized with silent shock that the monstrous tale of death and destruction had suddenly developed some serious flaws.
Was it already then that accident, or perhaps Destiny, turned me into an intellectual pariah and social outcast?
In those days my acquaintances were still numerous. I had friends whose genuine affection I cherished much, among them a few academics of various vocations. Those were mostly good Christians, well mannered and widely read, and deeply enamoured of our unsurpassed cultural inheritance. They subscribed to highfalutin journals and swallowed the censored blather without hiccup or second thought. Their spacious houses seemed to overflow with wonderful books, classical paintings, a large collection of heavenly music, expensive carpets, a Steinway piano, Chinese vases on the window sill, and damask napkins and silver spoons whenever the occasion permitted. It was always a sublime treat when we sat down by the fireplace with a bottle of French wine and pondered an obscure philosophical statement, mused about the deeper meaning of a beautiful mediaeval canvas, admired the intricacies of an Italian Renaissance villa, found it near impossible to grasp the grandiose and mysterious second part of Goethe’s Faust.
This is now, with a few notable exemptions, stuff of the past.
Once the aforementioned seeds had blossomed into large and poisonous blooms, my perception of Modern History changed so much that it practically turned upside down. Which didn’t happen overnight, to be sure. More like the unhurried but incessant pollution of a guileless well. Because every appalling new fact that could be verified beyond doubt, each ironclad proof that gave in at the knees after a closer glance, every new law that tried to smother unwanted scrutiny, made it inescapably clear that there was something hideous afoot which didn’t tally at all with my benign assessment of mankind’s status quo.
I need not enter into details. If you read these lines, you do so because we are birds of the same feather. As to my re-education, it continues relentlessly. What it brought about is the belated loss of my rational innocence, the long overdue realization that I am not ruled by democratically elected representatives who try to do at least some good, but a bunch of would-be tyrants who entertain the harebrained delusion that Gold alone will eventually make them the undisputed masters of an enslaved world. If seen from a rodent’s perspective, their plan makes sense because they command an army of shoddy demons who sail in their wake. Politicians for example, or media bosses, movie makers, the plebs’ cream of the crop, hordes of liberal pseudo-intellectuals, every minority rep who can yell a slogan, the very poor who depend on pitiful handouts to keep the wolf from the door.
Yet one essential detail has been overlooked in this scheme, namely the fact that God’s blueprint of Creation does not permit the indefinite subjugation of His subjects at the hands of a few. That those who brazenly scorn His supremacy will be one day taken by the long ears and held accountable for their crimes.
While I was mulling over this piece, the Editor run a correlated article called Shame and Fear—The Two Emotions of White Self-Destruction, based on the fairly agonizing observations of a man who had seen the light but also understood its devastating social consequences. I for one can appreciate his sentiments. Because it’s happened to me already. Namely whenever I felt unable to keep my big mouth shut, whenever I could not but comment on a revoltingly distorted historical event, whenever I gnashed my teeth while some lisping pinko declared smugly that the White Man’s world must go multicultural to survive. But since I have, at least so far, the great privilege to be free-wheeling and thus don’t need to give a damn, it wasn’t shame or fear that beset me when I showed my true colours, but rather the opposite.
A cold and furious anger!
An anger that doesn’t seek revenge, but will not be quenched until the Truth has come to light or the Good Lord pleases to summon me unto His Presence. Which isn’t to say that I don’t regret at times the self-imposed exile. Because of my old friends few are left. Those who cancelled our bond did so in various ways. By mail, with earnest admonitions and the usual historical claptrap to back them up. By telephone, distressed but unequivocal. By not inviting me anymore to long-standing and very enjoyable social events. By threatening to denounce me as a dangerous hatemonger if I didn’t shut up. By simply ignoring me. By keeping, saddest of all, a superficial contact but growing cold and distant in their feelings.
So what to do? How to tackle a condition which you perceive as totally wrong and unhealthy, yet one that is officially enforced and widely accepted? How to move about in a society that will shun you or even turn on you once you declare it to be rotten through and through? How to protect yourself and those you love without becoming a traitor to your own beliefs?
Helpful is, as always, a glimpse into the past. Because this isn’t a novel situation. History has seen instances where the oppressed, particularly if morally and ethically well grounded, shook off their yoke. Take for example my favourite lot, the Early Christians of ancient Rome.
Their advent happened in an era that shows many parallels with our own. A corrupt and incompetent political caste which considered only marginally the welfare of the masses, but served a gang of so-called nobles who had concentrated most of the empire’s wealth in their hands. The staging of catastrophes, like burning down half of the city and blaming it on people who had nothing to do with it whatsoever. A once invincible army that got increasingly bogged down in costly border wars. Giant media events of the most revolting kind that were performed to keep the mob in line. A collapse of traditional mores and the permission of every sin under the sun, from a public display of the worst possible pornography to officially sanctioned assassinations. And a vacant priesthood that had lost itself in rigid dogmas and shallow formalities.
Small wonder therefore that the Decent Majority, namely those who are of good intentions and wish only to live and let live, began to feel disgusted or threatened and looked for a feasible alternative. Why exactly Christ’s Divine Message could take a foothold in the Greco-Roman world and nowhere else is a facet I want to illuminate with a future article. Right now it suffices to say that it did. Though slowly and painfully. Because the ruling classes were of course aware of the threat and did everything in their power to stem any dissent. Draconian measures were employed, beginning with ostracism and ending with dispossession, torture and execution. Which resulted in a simple countermeasure, namely to go underground. Silence was the catchword. Or just a whisper behind raised hands. Among friends that could be trusted. And who were, appalled by every new governmental blunder or outrage, slowly but steadily growing in number. Until the whole house of cards collapsed one day in a huge cloud of dust, and sanity returned unto the lands.
Sanity… and Love.
Though the road of the very first conspirators must have been a lonely one indeed. It takes great courage to swim against a muddy but mighty tide without clear bearings except the pride to be true to one’s beliefs. Yet it is a powerful sentiment if based on compassion and common sense, and no tyrant has so far been able to extinguish this sacred flame for good. As empires rise and slide back into the dust, the Vertical Man as an ideal remains unscathed.
And it is he, and he alone, who holds in his hands the chance for Mankind to survive.