Marcel Jouhandeau’s ULTIMA VERBA complete
Submitted as comments by Harald
WARNING
I have warned you not to publish these ultima verba until long after my death.
In my little cemetery, I am now safe from the Marchandeau law, the LICA and the killers of the Israeli secret services.
But you, the French of today, your days are numbered. These French days are steadily dwindling, and soon this country of mine, which was once yours, will join the Third World club.
It’s a question of time… it’s a question of Jews or not.
Remember to defend yourselves by all means against those who work to destroy you with their exacerbated racism, their demonic dream of world domination, and above all, never forget that their power only exists through our baseness, our futility and our cowardice.
(Thanks to my faithful friends)
Rueil, April 1972
Marcel Jouhandeau
ULTIMA VERBA
What I published before the war would be absolutely impossible in today’s advanced “democracy”.
National emblems have given way to the Star of David, and we are under its yoke. Already, at the turn of the century, Maurras asserted: “The Jew opens the door to the metèque.” As I predicted in 1938, the “victory” of 1945, i.e., the victory of the Jews, has transformed the Frenchman into a sort of bewildered chatterbox, game for all basenesses, all humiliations, all cowardice, applauding only the Jew, rejoicing only in his own death. Even the instinct for territory, the instinct for self-preservation, has disappeared.
The “Jewish Peril” of 1938 is now, in 1972, well and truly with us, and we’re all going to die from it.
From Christianity to the gas chambers, from Anne Frank’s diary to Chagall, this race has distinguished itself by its incredible imposture and its gift for demolishing non-Jewish souls and complexing them to death. It has to be said that the stupidity of white non-Jews is unfathomable.
Ever since the Diaspora (2,600 years ago), these hysterical people have never integrated into their host countries. And it’s they, the worst racists, who now have the nerve to make us digest millions of immigrants, by-products of over-birth, who hate us and infest France!!!! Cry havoc…!
Right now, this Talmudic spawn is preparing public opinion for an anti-Bolshevik crusade, and do you know why, my little ones? Quite simply because all Eastern European countries are viscerally anti-Semitic. Russians and Poles in particular.
The Bolshevik revolution, 95% Jewish, is no longer Jewish today, any more than it is socialist. The Jewish crusade with Aryan breasts is not over. Israel has set fire to the entire Middle East, and peace will only return after its total destruction, like Carthage.
Now that the Third Reich has become the Soviet Union, the danger of war is the same as in 1938, and for the same reason – the same “crime”:
Not to allow ourselves to be enslaved by the Jews.
HOW I BECAME AN ANTI-SEMITE
Article published in October 1936
At nineteen, when I left my home province, I didn’t know what a Jew was. In the nearly thirty years I’ve been living in Paris, I’ve met many Israelites from all walks of life, and I must confess that I’ve only found sympathy and friendship among them, and only once hostility, which had no effect on me.
So it wasn’t out of self-interest, envy or personal grudge that I came to regard the Jewish people as my country’s worst enemy, the enemy within. It was my patriotism, as dormant as it was, that suddenly alerted me.
I was at a friend’s house, maybe two years ago, when I saw a Jew X walk in, uninvited by the way, hiding behind someone and pretending he’d only come to meet me.
So X approaches me, flatters me (they’re very good at it) and thanks to this maneuver gets in, little by little lets me go and there he is in the foreground with his feet on the table, ham on his knees and up to his hair. X has a lot to say. On his return from America, he triumphantly brings back the good news that France has been banished from the world.
Not content with merely reporting this opinion, he approved of it, and added to it the further comment that, no matter how much he read and reread the history of our country, it was in vain, to his great regret, that he looked for a sympathetic figure, or even the slightest selflessness, a single act of generosity, even the shadow of greatness; that no doubt there was Napoleon, whom he alone admired, but unfortunately Napoleon wasn’t French.
I would have forgotten all about this adventure, had I not met young P. by chance a few weeks ago, and pointed to X, my fat Jew who was approaching, recalling before him with disgust what judgment this gentleman had dared to pass on our story. To my astonishment, young P., without hesitation, replied that he was sorry to upset me, but that he agreed with X, his master, I imagine.
The ugliness of French history made him blush, too, French as he was, and he didn’t even except Napoleon. On the other hand, he had a great admiration for X, he confessed, because X lived on a houseboat.
“As far as I’m concerned,” I replied, “X could live on the Vendôme column, but he wouldn’t interest me. If there’s a piece of bacon hanging in my cellar or attic, I don’t take any notice of it, not going to look for it unless it stinks and the house is full of it, so that I can shove it out the window.
Thus, at the same time as he exalts within himself, to the point of adoration, the esteem of his own blood, as he proves, as soon as one touches his race (he’ll make it clear), the Jew openly teaches the little Frenchman contempt for France, and the latter, docile, not only follows the lesson, he goes beyond it; he not only despises his homeland, he surrenders it to the contempt of the Jew.
Didn’t I hear another young Frenchman, not long ago, say to me sincerely, without wishing to taunt me: “You wouldn’t be proud, Monsieur, to be a Jew?”
Again, I think he would have liked to say, but I don’t know what modesty prevented him from daring: “You wouldn’t be prouder, would you, of being Jewish than French?”
No comment.
However, up until then my emotions had remained mediocre, when I happened to glance at La jeunesse d’un Clerc by the Jew Benda in the NRF (July-August 1936). Now, all things considered, I was obliged to note that Mr. Benda is not as far from X as we thought, and I deduced that Jewish patriotism is not only questionable, but suspect.
The passages I’m about to quote and comment on will prove it. Mr. Benda begins by talking about his ancestors: “And now,” he writes, “I suddenly find myself thinking about them, about my parents‘ parents and my parents’ parents. I see a succession of intelligent, hard-working, ironic Jews, friends of science, while almost everything around them languishes in superstition.”
We’re talking about our French grandfathers, whom Mr. Benda takes the liberty of scorning and humiliating in such an unabashed manner. Let’s lower our heads.
And Mr. Benda turns once again to exalt them at the expense of our own, to his forefathers “agents of human liberation on whom all parties of progress rely”. In truth,” he concludes, ”I’m ashamed to have come so late to feel so proud to be descended from such an elite.”
That’s all there is to it. They are the elite!
Later, a more important confession: “My parents’ patriotism will be of interest to the historian. It was, I believe, that of most French Jews of the time (after 1870), and perhaps even of those of today. My parents had a deep attachment to France (my father had stopped seeing a friend, X’s grandfather no doubt, who always spoke badly of it), but this attachment was above all intellectual: it hardly included any instinctive, carnal, irrational element.”
This is a very judicious analysis of patriotic sentiment, and highly instructive for us, because it explains precisely the fragility, inconsistency and non-existence of the Jew’s love for his adopted homeland.
By Mr. Benda’s own admission, the Jew’s patriotism will always lack what is essential to all love, which is that instinctive, carnal, irrational element (what is an attachment that interests only the intelligence and not the guts? ), which is why I will henceforth be justified in maintaining that it is a serious insult to France and the French to consider a Jew, whoever he may be, as a French citizen, and that it is one of the most profound inconsistencies of the French Revolution to have given Jews the right to live among us.
Mr. Benda continues: “Never did they (my parents), sing me the glory of Du Guesclin or Jean Bart or even Napoleon.”
From Saint-Louis and Joan of Arc, there was no danger, I mean, there would have been too much danger.
“Chauvinism,” he concludes (translate: true patriotism, the patriotism of the French who are not Jews), “seemed to them good for concierges. (Les concierges, c’est nous). What my father really loved in France was French civilization (civilization in general, but not France in particular), the great liberal tradition (he’s getting to that), the Revolution.”
I believe you! What Mr. Benda’s father loved in France was his own self-interest. If it weren’t for the Revolution, the Jews wouldn’t be oppressing France.
Because the Jews oppress us. Monsieur Benda is willing to explain, with his customary candor, how they came to do so. It’s like reading The Protocols of the Elders of Zion. The marvel is that, while the Jews reject the Protocols as apocryphal, Mr. Benda signs his book: “Since the modern state opened every door to us,” he admits, “we had to take advantage of this opportunity, which was finally offered to us, to prove that we were not the inferior race our detractors claimed, but on the contrary, a race of the first order in its working power and gifts. (It’s easy to see why). We had to strive for the top positions. What the entire Jewish bourgeoisie of the time held up as a model for its sons were the three Reinach brothers, who had just won every prize in the general competition. It was only natural that the Jews of the time were so keen to show who they were.”
They show it so well that they occupy all the top places today, indeed. High finance, industry, commerce, agriculture (wheat trafficking), French thought, the Sorbonne, all the Academies belong to them, and Monsieur Blum with all his Israelite sequel is in power. Monsieur Léon Blum is the true successor to Louis XVI. This is what the Revolution did for Israel. It made him King of France. And when Israel is King…
But the Jews don’t just oppress us, they hate us. I still quote Monsieur Benda (NRF, September 1936, p. 448): “Very attached to France, my parents were well aware that, even on my mother’s side, they had not been established in this country for more than three or four generations, and they would never have accepted the comicality of claiming to be part of the French tradition. It is properly (in what they have of universal, of superior to the accidents of time and place), that I learned to respect human virtues.”
So far, so plausible. We’re just a little surprised by so much ingenuity, so many accumulated blunders through which we can discern the very fabric of everything that Mr. Benda’s fellow creatures are so careful to remedy.
But where Mr. Benda unmasks himself a little more, a little too much, and suddenly becomes intolerable, is after confiding to us “his worship for values set in the eternal”, when he expresses to us “his hatred of those who salute them only in the historical.”
Hear that? Just that, his hatred, the hatred of this little Semitic clown, and you know who it’s going to? To you, to me, to us who have traditions and the strength to love and respect them. Although he claims to be a French citizen, not content to repudiate them on his own account, because they disturb not only his own beguiling idealism, but the aims of his race, Mr. Benda forbids us to love our traditions and respect them on pain of being hated by him. Because it has pleased Mr. Benda, as he claims, to get rid of his own, we are no longer free to keep ours, without exposing ourselves to his wrath, to the wrath of this foreign gnome, this intruder whose authority is due only to our patience.
I said foreigner, and indeed for my part I’ve always instinctively felt a thousand times closer to our German ex-enemies, for example, than to all that so-called French Jewish scum, and although I have no personal sympathy for Monsieur Hitler, Monsieur Blum inspires in me a far more profound repugnance.
At least I know where I stand on the Führer’s feelings towards us, and the Führer is at home and master of his house, whereas Blum, Benda and X are not from my house and they are at my house, and what’s stronger, Monsieur Blum is master of my house or about to become so again, when I’ve never known, and no European will ever know, what an Asian thinks (there’s grey and grey matter), and it’s here, and only here, on the logical level, which is only the other side of the physiological level, that the question of race arises and takes on its full importance.
Experience has constantly confirmed my feeling that the principle of identity, for example, does not have the same rigor for the sons of Shem as it does for us, that there is not for the Jew and for us the same distance between YES and NO. When my man says yes, it’s the opposite of no, but all the while the Jew is ironizing, and his smile alone fills the gap.
Is there only a nationalist polemicist by trade and half-Jewish to demand Herriot’s head in a public lecture, while clutching to her heart, like a talisman, the photograph of the Pasionaria, and is there only a Christian Jew who could boast (a Christian back home would never have even suspected it was possible), who could boast, I say, of fooling God every morning at communion. I can still hear him whistling in my ear: “And in the end (after all this pretending), God is fooled.”
No, we have nothing of these conjurers, and if they have succeeded in deceiving us up to this point, we are free to let ourselves be completely annihilated to allow them to further prove their excellence or to react.
As far as I’m concerned (and God knows I’ve been sensitive to their charms, from which I’ve had to defend myself with violence), as much as I’d be willing to escort them with palms and gifts, if they didn’t decide to return to Palestine, I vow here and now to report them to the vindictiveness of my people, as long as there’s a single one left in France who isn’t subject to a special status.
NOTE:
X has claimed since the publication of the above article that he had alluded before me, in condemning it, only to nineteenth-century France. Assuming that my memory has deceived me, which I deny, and that one can feel the deepest disgust for the governments that have led us for a hundred years, these governments are not the country.
The Jew, more than any other, should at least have the discretion to keep quiet on this matter, given that Jewish high finance and Jewish agitators share with Masonry the responsibility for our debacles.
Incidentally, an ethnographer writes to persuade me that we are all of mixed race. He must be worried about his own blood. I’m not worried about mine. All I have to do is look back at my grandparents, and in front of them, I am immediately aware of the something that I don’t know, something horrible for us, which accompanies every Israelite face, gesture and word. The difference is immediately perceptible, obvious, striking: what a paucity, if you don’t have this criterion!
One day, a long time ago, I put a famous Jewish poet face to face with my mother — a humble woman who didn’t know he was a Jew or what a Jew was. Well, the reaction was swift, by which I mean the instinctive repulsion he inspired in her and, as a new convert, when, in an attempt to gain admission, he took out his rosary, Franchise had turned her back on him. “You can tell she was born under the sign of Aries,” he confided. “She defends her door. And what a look she has!”
This is the truth. So I won’t complain that I’ve made as many enemies as there are Jews in France and as many friends as there are Jews in France. I’m only sorry to see how deep the evil is, “gangrene generalized” and “scabies with pleasure doesn’t itch”, as the saying goes.
Because he flatters the worst in us, the Jew triumphs over us. Fortunately, a few others with me retain the pure memory of a provincial corner that allows them to defy the virus. Lonely enough never to love what I love to my heart’s content, of all the fans and admirers I’ve lost, I care as much as the filth left behind by the athlete who’s just got out of the bath.
