Sorcerygod writes in reaction to the previous post:
Well, I’m impressed PA, that was a very well-written and pieced-together article. I’m glad I found your site.
But can I offer you a hint? Inject a little more emotion into YOUR DAMN DIATRIBE. It is a diatribe, isn’t it? If you truly believe that whites are getting swamped, and you object to it, then show it.
Intellectually, you’re basically flawless.
Emotionally, you come across as a too-calm professor adjudicating a dispute between two teenagers who got promoted ahead of themselves to his class. You need FIRE!!!. You need ICE. Let loose your caveman or your circus acrobat, shine, dazzle ’em. I don’t ask you to reduce the intellectualism — which is delightful — but show us more of who you are.
When you read Heartiste, notice that he takes gory delight in the “shiv” and laces his neologistic profanities such as “shitlibs” and “shitlords” and “the Skittles man” with hatred, cajoling admiration, and amusing approval. You can *feel* his vibe through his words.
I have nothing but praise for your mind … now work on your heart.
Hey now, “Williams Syndrome” drew blood. Nonetheless, I sincerely appreciate the compliment. Secondly, I admire Heartiste’s writing. In fact, I once called him the best writer of our generation and six or so years later, I am even more convinced of that. But his style is rapier wit, mine is different. Finally, thanks for spurring my thoughts on the tangent of writing and emotion.
When it comes to feeling, I’ll put it frankly: while writing, I don’t care much about my feelings. Rather, I approach writing more like a meditation, similar to a musician absorbed in the strings on his guitar until the sound resonates with the rushing flow somewhere just out of reach. T.S. Eliot had some thoughts on that:
Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality, but an escape from personality. But, of course, only those who have personality and emotions know what it means to want to escape from these things.
I don’t write to express my emotion because no reader cares about that. Writing is about creating an emotion in the reader. It’s not about jerking off in front of the girl, it’s about making her feel horny and then fucking her. Do I evoke emotion in readers in posts where I aim for that effect? I’m nowhere near the 10,000 hours of practice but in my honest judgment: so far, so good. Examples of where that rushing flow was deafening and I swung for the stands:
- Shots of Wisdom, Part 3 — snapshots that culminate with an overflow of love for my adoptive home.
- It Is A Very Good Year — a carpe diem post.
- We Don’t Have To Live Like This — scenes from the apocalypse with hints of a divine consciousness watching and twice, intervening.
Scribbling out a blog post is the farthest thing from my mind when I feel strong anger or passion. But there is one post I wrote because I couldn’t contain my rage — and as I learned, that is not a good way to write. The torturous process involved three days of drafting screeds and deleting them, finally accepting that I have no words to match the subject, except for my incomplete adaptation of a Mellencamp verse. I still get a lump in my throat when I visit that post, and not because of anything I wrote there. It’s #LoganTipton.
A young brunette and a dark-skinned man are strolling about downtown on a nice evening, looking idly into the storefront windows they walk past. It’s not what you think. I was meeting up for drinks with a group of coworkers and as it happened, most of us were running late except the above-mentioned brunette and the Black coworker of mine, who were not a couple. To kill time while waiting for the rest of the group, they walked around for a bit. Later, she described to me the shock of noticing people’s reactions to the sight of them as a presumed couple. She said that she’s never experienced that before: every person she passed either gave her dagger-looks or froze her out. “How can somebody choose to live that way?” she asked.
On a crowded subway train, a petite White woman stood with her stroller turned away from me. I gave her a sympathetic smile as she jostled her way through the crowd to get off the train at her station. She caught that and responded glowingly. Then she turned the stroller, revealing a biracial child that obviously had a Black father, and — this was purely a reflex on my part — my friendly expression changed to a cold mask. She caught that too, and it showed in her eyes.
How about an East Asian perspective on mixing? Stationed as a U.S. soldier in Korea, I was out with a local girl one afternoon. We were cutting through apartment blocks and came upon a group of young boys who shouted something at us in Hangul. Her face turned deep red, she squeezed my hand and prompted me to walk quickly. Once clear, I asked her what they said. She replied “they called me a terrible name, I don’t want to tell you.” Two years later, now out of the Army and back in the United States, I was having lunch with another Korean girl. She mentioned that she had two Amerasian classmates in Seoul and told me that the half-White girl was very nice. She then scrunched her face into a portrait of disgust and added “the Black one was so ugly. Everybody hated her.”
Folks, I didn’t create the world, I just describe it. For pretty lies, you’re free to look at Old Navy ads. For ugly lies, turn on your television. And as for comedy, there is this story in the Observer, titled “The Tiresome Question I’m Often Asked About My Brown Kids: Where Are They From?” that transcends the sordid to reach for high farce:
I’m a white mother of six children, five of whom are children of color, and four of whom came home to our family through foster-adoption.
So… one out of six ain’t bad? Not exactly:
[M]y first child, Rory, who is my biological son. His father is Jamaican, and Rory, now 18, alternates between referring to himself as biracial or Black.
Sometimes you just have to laugh. The linked article is unadulterated comedy pinned on hackneyed bitching about normal questions that normal people ask her about her abnormal household.
But that spectacular story aside, what about the common and depressingly banal instances of mudsharking — does one laugh or weep at one woman’s self-removal from the common gene-pool? I guess it depends on whether you think that her straying was predisposed or an accident. Or to expand on that question, is exogamy effectively nature culling a defective female in a mocking form of subtractive eugenics? That is the case if you accept a deterministic explanation that ‘sharks are genetically predisposed to becoming morbidly generous and disloyal. In that scenario, female exogamy is a boiling-off dynamic similar to Amish youths who leave their communities for modern life.
Or is the eugenic explanation false because women are malleable, or like leaves in the wind that follow the strongest current? That would make miscegenation a tragic loss to all of us, no different, from the Darwinian perspective, than an ordinary teenage girl’s death in a traffic accident.
More succinctly then, is it fate or chance? I will leave that question to the reader, but first ask him to acknowledge a common overcorrection of sex-realism, the tendency to discharge women of their agency. When it comes to sex, from selecting the shade of lipstick to making herself vulnerable to rape, nothing a woman does is “by accident.” Rather, her choices, big and small, follow a ruthlessly Machiavellian, internally consistent logic that guides her toward the optimization of her reproductive outcomes. In a healthy girl living in a healthy society, that internal guide can lead her toward life’s end-game of triumphant grandmotherhood. In other cases, her inner guide will be a false song, as with women who delay pair-bonding and motherhood. Or its program will be hijacked, as with girls who deform themselves in body and soul.
Mudsharks follow that hijacked behavioral template. Some are extreme submissives thrilled by being degraded. And what’s more degrading that the steps that lead her toward lumbering through Walmart with fatherless, identityless children? Others are acting out the female equivalent of omega-rage, lashing out at their world in the most devastating way they can, exacting revenge on their fathers or former White boyfriends by staining their own branch to spite the tree. And yet others merely have exotic tastes and as with the author in that Observer article, they want the world to know it.
So is the crossing of racial lines always pathological? My answer would be that miscegenation is a breaking of a taboo. Sometimes nothing bad happens. Sometimes love has strange whims and two good people find each other across cultures. In fair-weather times, a touch of spirit for vive la difference can even turn up a genial “superman.”
But these are not fair times and fortunes are no longer in a forgiving mood. A big part of our former dispensation was society’s acceptance of the collective costs of individual discretion and indiscretion. Yet tolerance has its limits and human nature, with its aversion to cuckoldry and habitat corruption, asserts itself when pushed by circumstances such as the current demographic climate Whites are finding themselves in, facing an engineered future of being minorities in our own countries. Such a worst-case-scenario is frightening to a sane person. And that is why the future is identitarian, which means that you have to know who you are.
Wisdom is a product of patriarchy. Old women transmit their fathers‘ lessons to their granddaughters. The man is a tree, with women as vines wrapped around him, assuming his shape. Where there is nothing upright, the vine creeps along the ground. Woman — like any human being — has agency but she needs a man’s guidance to balance her sometimes conflicting instincts, and without that guidance she flails. This is why as men, we are responsible for directing women toward decisions that do not destroy their lives and snuff out our common future in the literal crib.
Because if we don’t, we are enabling their behavior, letting them forget that a woman’s burden — normally a happy one — is to draw support from the same men whose child she bears. Fucks and bucks from the same men, which is why when they go Black, a natural process kicks in wherein men drive their unfaithful women to exile — literally or into internal exile, starting with hardened eyes on a crowded train.
It can be difficult, such as when you are a father faced with the choice of either the humiliation of being a race-cuckold or the pain of disowning your daughter. Gentlemen, don’t fool yourselves — there is no third way. That’s why to avoid the dilemma, if you have a daughter, raise her right and give her all your love and protection as she’s growing up. And at the right age, let her know that there are things you will not accept. Then if she turns her back on you, you are free to cut her off with a clean conscience. A commenter at Chateau Heartiste offered the words for a hypothetical conversation with one’s mature daughter before it’s too late:
if you betray your people by sharing your love with outsiders, they will reject you. the outsiders will also reject you, because you’re not one of them. you will be totally alone. nobody will want you. ever.
you will have no safety. no protection. no friends. no love.
And maybe tell her that yes, you get it, Black people have become America’s national mascot and you concede that it’s now bad form to criticize them. But then add: “silly girl, it’s Black women who are supposed to have babies with them.”
I took that photo last year while vacationing on the Albemarle Sound. It’s one of the few places on the U.S. east coast where you can watch the sun set over the water.
Thordaddy’s statement on raising a son has been one of the more memorable comments here:
My philosophy to my boys is such…
Put your mind on objective Supremacy.
Train your upper body as though you are to be crucified.
And work that lower body as though you were to be a beast of burden.
Zbigniew Preisner, Song for the Unification of Europe: the linked video is the choral finale to Krzysztof Kieślowski’s film Bleu, the first installment of his three-color trilogy. A self-taught musician, Preisner collaborated with Kieślowski for years, writing scores for his films.
In Blue, Juliette Binoche’s character loses her husband, who is a famous composer, and their son in a car accident. The plot is about her coming to peace with what happened, including finding out about her late husband’s now-destitute mistress carrying his child. The above-linked video appears just before the closing credits. The chorus performs the verses from 1 Corinthians 13 in the original Greek. Notable moments in the linked video, as I see them:
2:00 – Our awakening
2:30 – Our past
3:15 – Our present
3:40 – Our future
After Kieślowski’s untimely passing in 1996 (he died during heart surgery at the age of 54), Preisner compiled his newer compositions into an album titled A Requiem for my Friend, on which Lacrimosa is the best-known piece.
I bought that CD in 1999 and played it, along with Mozart’s Requiem and an hours-long Techno compilation on my drives between Boston and Maryland. There is no road quite like Merritt Parkway at midnight.
Mac Davis, Baby Baby, Don’t Get Hooked on Me.
Girl you’re a hot blooded woman, child,
and it’s warm where you’re touching me.
But I can tell by your tremblin’ smile,
you’re seeing way too much in me.
Girl don’t let your life get tangled up with mine,
’cause I’ll just leave you, I can’t take no clinging vine.
A good photograph makes you want to be there. The image below is a fragment of an advertisement for a gentrification community. I cropped the image to zoom in on the party-of-four in the poster’s foreground. Do you feel like you want to join that group?
In my thoughts, I connected that photo with an unrelated comment someone made at Steve Sailer’s in a discussion about tipping-points for White schools and neighborhoods that initially see a small number of Blacks move in:
From observation I’d say a stable 5% black might be manageable in a school but 7% seems to be at the point where things start to shift slowly as they become a greater presence and some of the whites no longer like the atmosphere. The quantitative change just starts the ball rolling, slowly at first then the pace quickens.
We’ll come back to that. But first, the photo. The incongruently token Black chick is the only normal-looking person at that table. As to the White girl, your eye hovers over her but something feels off. She’s young, with nice hair and a coquettish smile. And then — the uncanny valley hits you: what is going on with her waist? You realize that you’re checking out a 25-year-old girl’s head on a 65-year-old woman’s torso.
As for our two hosts with their pear-shaped bodies, the Zuckerberg clone is a queen. To his right, fedora-boy smiles weakly, body language deferential to the effeminate alpha. If a healthy man is a bloody steak, then those two are cake batter that failed to rise.
There are no accidents in commercial photography. Everything, on down to the slant of the shoulders of a background extra, is painstakingly staged with multiple exposures taken over the course of the day-long shoot. The art director and his client had access to a wide range of models, and yet they selected those underwhelming characters. Doing so, they channeled the spirit of our time.
Question: what does all of that have to do with the above-cited comment from Sailer’s blog? Answer: the photo and the comment describe the condition of conquered Whites.
Faced with territorial encroachment, an animal reacts with a fight-or-flight response, choosing the less costly option. But because the fight-response has become too costly after Ike’s 101st Airborne fixed bayonets on American schoolchildren, Whites opt for flight. It is not a natural state of affairs. It is not a normal way to live, except for prisoners.
A homogeneous cultural habitat, secured by force when necessary, is humanity’s norm. Yet when blessed with vigorous liberty Whites can thrive even in a 95% Black environment. For example when in imperial mode, the English made Rhodesia the breadbasket of Africa and the Portuguese built magnificent architecture in Mozambique while running it as 3% of the total population. In post-Reconstruction South, old Black men tipped their hats to White teenage boys.
To drive Europeans down to a condition under which a few Section 8 voucher-holding single moms bring a community to a tipping point suggests a diabolical arrangement with images of boots on men’s necks. Through some unnatural and very expensive process, U.S. Whites had become like a body without autoimmune system that is unable to handle normal germ loads in its environment. It has to live in a bubble, its capital like an unguarded peach that anyone can bite.
The advertisement from which I cropped the posted fragment shows a large hipster-friendly pub in which everybody is White. Come see your vanilla reservation, boys and girls. And tomorrow — to the dog park! Just be ready to pack up.
“No deal,” you say because you look at that photo and you don’t want to be there. Maybe it’s the frumps. You turn your back and you walk away with purpose, to create something worth bleeding for.
An overlooked part of the “quality, not quantity” proposition is that a healthy society is a social pyramid. If you drive K-selection too hard in the aggregate, you become a top-heavy people. If you eradicate your own proletarian, quasi-criminal class, then you create a vacuum that aliens are more than happy to fill — and when you give away your streets, you give away your future.
And you lose the fount of your own life-force and creativity when you snuff out or outsource chaos. Here are some songs with different perspectives about the other half:
Kris Kristofferson — Sunday Morning Coming Down. The song is about a drunk experiencing a moment of clarity when he sees normal people doing normal things. Today, the song represent a moment of clarity for all of us, with its scenes of once having had a country of our own. The linked version, a duet with Johnny Cash, is the song’s best performance.
George Jones — Who’s Gonna Fill their Shoes. A vignette that captures an aristocrat and a worker sharing a common bond. Respect and pride, noblesse oblige and appreciation. How a member of the elite should relate to one of his people.
Drive-By Truckers — Outfit. This is the greatest American song of the century so far. A Southern-style list of do’s and don’t for a young man from someone who learned things the hard way.
Pulp — Common People. One of the best songs from the 1990s.
She told me that her dad was loaded
I said in that case I’ll have a rum and Coca-Cola.