William Pierce
The only real tragedy in life is being used by personally minded men for purposes you recognize to be base.
All civilization is founded on [man’s] cowardice, on his abject tameness, which he calls his respectability.
Men will never really overcome fear until they imagine they are fighting to further a universal purpose—fighting for an idea.
George Bernard Shaw
In the early part of this century, I published a portrait, as I called it, of the white activist William Pierce, who died shortly thereafter, called The Fame of a Dead Man’s Deeds. I called the book a portrait rather than a biography because it was basically my sense of Pierce after spending a month living in close contact with him on his remote compound in West Virginia.
Pierce was the most remarkable human being I have ever been around. He was incredibly intelligent and enormously committed to doing something of lasting worth with his life. In stark contrast to how his adversaries depicted him, he was a decent and kind person, a gentleman, a gentle man. I’ve never seen anyone work that hard—ten, twelve, fourteen hour days, seven days a week. One of Pierce’s prime traits, he took ideas very seriously and lived in accordance with the ones that gave him direction in his life’s project of living an honorable and meaningful existence in the time he had allotted to him on earth (it turned out to be 68 years). One major source of perspective and guidance for Pierce was a stage play, Man and Superman, by George Bernard Shaw. The following is an excerpt from the Fame book about that play’s impact on him.
“As an undergraduate in college [at Rice University in Texas],” Pierce told me, “I had a nagging worry about whether I was doing the right thing with my life. Did I really want to be a physicist, the route I was taking at that time? What standards best assess the paths in life I might take? I had an awareness of my mortality from a very early age, and it seemed to me that I shouldn’t waste my life doing things that weren’t truly important. I didn’t want to be on my deathbed thinking, ‘I’ve blown it; I had one life to live, and I didn’t do what I should have done.’
“When I got to Oregon State as a professor of physics [in 1962], I started to do more general reading—before, with all my science courses, I hadn’t had the time—and gradually things started to take shape about what was important in my life. It was a process of taking the insights and teachings from what I was reading and refining them and learning how to exemplify them.
“One of the things that helped me find direction was a play I first came upon at Caltech [where he had gotten his doctorate] back in 1955 or so—Man and Superman. Act three of the play was the one that really struck me. It expressed the idea that a man shouldn’t hold himself back. He should completely use himself up in service to the Life Force. I bought a set of phonograph records that just had that act. As I remember, it had Charles Laughton, Charles Boyer, Agnes Moorehead, and Cedric Hardwicke—it was well done.
“Don Juan’s expositions were what resonated with me. I listened to that set of records over and over and let it really sink in. The idea of an evolutionary universe hit me as being true, with the evolution toward higher and higher states of self-consciousness, and the philosopher’s brain being the tool for the cosmos coming to know itself. Over time, I elaborated upon this idea—I came to call it Cosmotheism—and discussed it in a series of talks I gave in the 1970s.” Read more