Radix Journal

Radix Journal

A radical journal

To Play a Prince

The Prince of Wales recently gave an interview to BBC Radio Four, during the course of which he made the hyperbolic and grandiloquent claim that the rise of populist government risks repeating the “horrors” of the Holocaust. The Prince, widely regarded as an intellectual mediocrity, remarked: “We are now seeing the rise of many populist groups across the world that are increasingly aggressive to those who adhere to a minority faith. All of this has deeply disturbing echoes of the dark days of the 1930s…My parents’ generation fought and died in a battle against intolerance, monstrous extremism and inhuman attempts to exterminate the Jewish population of Europe.” While Prince Charles did not mention Donald Trump by name, his address is almost certainly a veiled reference to the President-elect.

Editor’s Note: The Prince of Wales recently gave an interview to BBC Radio Four, during the course of which he made the hyperbolic and grandiloquent claim that the rise of populist government risks repeating the “horrors” of the Holocaust. The Prince, widely regarded as an intellectual mediocrity, remarked: “We are now seeing the rise of many populist groups across the world that are increasingly aggressive to those who adhere to a minority faith. All of this has deeply disturbing echoes of the dark days of the 1930s…My parents’ generation fought and died in a battle against intolerance, monstrous extremism and inhuman attempts to exterminate the Jewish population of Europe.” While Prince Charles did not mention Donald Trump by name, his address is almost certainly a veiled reference to the President-elect.

As well as dog-whistling to the metropolitan elite on Trump, Charles’s interview was also a grandiose panegyric to the ‘refugees’ currently swamping Europe. Oozing disapproval at increasingly hostile attitudes to migrants in the UK, Charles gasped: “That nearly 70 years later we should still be seeing such evil persecution is to me beyond all belief…We owe it to those who suffered and died so horribly not to repeat the horrors of the past.” He concluded his interview by urging his Christian listeners to remember “how the story of the Nativity unfolds with the fleeing of the holy family to escape violent persecution.”

These comments are a veritable compendium of the buzzwords and psychological traps of the hostile elite. Narratives of Jewish suffering, dizzying references to “right-wing extremism,” and simplified narratives of innocents fleeing “persecution” are all familiar features of what Jonathan Bowden described as the “European grammar of self-intolerance.” Their parroting by one of the most senior members of the British Royal Family is not insignificant. By way of response, Sam Dickson has issued the following perspicacious statement, which is so insightful and concise that it deserves wider coverage:

A problem with monarchy is that members of the Royal Family live in bubbles, and are not exposed to the real world. Prince Charles never experiences the race issue as we do. He’s never mugged by a Black. He doesn’t have to sit next to malodorous third world people on a subway in London. His family have never been ethnically cleansed out of their neighborhood.

He knows only what he has learned in the highly detached and theoretical world of “education,” really “catechization.” On the rare occasion that he meets a non-White he is surrounded by bodyguards and the non-White is in a subordinate, supplicating position, handing him flowers when he opens a hospital or christens a ship. Members of the Royal Family are not permitted to make statements on their own.
I have been surprised that Prince Charles got away with criticizing modern architecture. Jews feel a paternal, proprietary connection to modern architecture and are immediately, by instinct, suspicious of someone who expresses dislike toward it. He was criticized for ‘anti-Semitism’ explicitly because he opposed it.

Members of the Royal Family are not permitted to make statements on their own. In general, the Royal Family can only read aloud texts that are given to them by the incumbent government. But in Prince Charles’s case, I’m sure he really believes what he has said. It’s what he has heard all his life, and he has no frame of reference within which to evaluate it.

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The Spirit of Christmas

All was quiet in the trenches. For five months, they had been living in a hell the world had never seen before. Across the once-verdant fields of France and Belgium lay miles of dug out trenches, barbed wire, and the stamped out light of youth to never see home again.

Editor’s Note: This article originally was printed last Christmas

All was quiet in the trenches. For five months, they had been living in a hell the world had never seen before. Across the once-verdant fields of France and Belgium lay miles of dug out trenches, barbed wire, and the stamped out light of youth to never see home again.

The war came in August. It will be over by Christmas. At least that’s what the politicians say. Englishmen, Frenchmen, Russians, Germans, and Austrians to a man knew this to be true. At least it was when they left their homes all those bright, warm months ago.

Well, Christmas has come. No one was any closer to seeing his wife, his children, his home. Looking across the trenches, one could see lights burning, and what’s that? Singing.

The air was thick with frost and blood. Not unlike a thousand winters before it in the long history of our continent. But these were not songs of war that echoed across these Trojan plains. No, they were songs of warmth and brotherhood. One by one, the soldiers emerged. They tentatively walked across the no man’s land into what until only moments ago was certain death. Brother clasped brother, arms were shed, and the spirit of this most ancient of European days filled the air. There was singing, games, smoking, and all the manner of festive cheer that any German, Frenchman, or Englishman could muster.

This feeling of brotherhood was not to last forever. No, soon the orders came down and these children of Europa went back to the killing fields. To continue the first act in a long suicide. It was not until many years later that her children would know peace of any sort at all.

Today, over one hundred years on, her children face a new challenge. Perhaps her greatest in over a thousand years. She is facing invasion from without and a sickness unto death from within. Her “leaders” give speeches with subtitles in alien tongues, while her children are made homeless to make room for a new and strange people on her shores.

Europa’s women and children live in fear, perhaps for the first time in generations. Their virtue and indeed their very lives are threatened every day. Descendants of Vikings, of Romans, of Conquistadors now lie prostrate before the strange, abstract gods of our age.

The one thing that can’t be taken from us is who we are. We are the children of Europa. One hundred years ago, our grandfathers laid down their arms in brotherhood. Not because of some vague “brotherhood” of man, but due to the living tradition of the season that surrounds us.

As you read this, I hope you are holding your families and loved ones tight. Spare a moment to remember our ancestors who have gone before us, and look into the eyes of your children if you have them. It’s time to put away the petty squabbles and endless feuds that have divided us for centuries. After all, we are all the extended family of Europa.

The spirit of Christmas, or Yule, or however you wish to call it engulfs us. It would be wise to keep the flame of unity shown on those old fields of battle burning throughout the year. Frenchmen, Englishmen, Germans, Russians, Spaniards, Italians, and yes, even Americans must keep the fire burning. Because a dark winter awaits if we don’t.

Merry Christmas, and may we prevail!

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Gilmore Girls: An American Tragedy

“This whole thing is dead to me, anyway. It died with Richard.” – Emily Gilmore, Fall. Was the death of Richard Gilmore the death of White America? It’s not that…

This whole thing is dead to me, anyway. It died with Richard.” – Emily Gilmore, Fall.

Was the death of Richard Gilmore the death of White America?

It’s not that the Gilmore Girls revival is less White than the original show; it’s that it’s more honest. The original Gilmore Girls was a White liberal utopia: a single mother raising her young daughter in an idyllic, wacky, all-White village in Connecticut (except for some Koreans and one disdainfully snobbish mulatto Frenchman—we’ll come back to him). Known for its snappy dialogue and charming absurdity, it was a difficult show not to like—anecdotally speaking, I know almost as many men as women who quietly enjoyed Gilmore Girls, usually introduced to it by their daughters or girlfriends.

But of course, the original Gilmore Girls was a lie. In the real world, a sixteen-year-old pregnant rich girl who ran away from home wouldn’t stumble upon a Brigadoon-esque village and grow up to become a successful businesswoman while her genius daughter/BFF goes to the equivalent of Choate and then Yale. In the real world, women who make as many bad decisions as Lorelai Gilmore does aren’t happy, nor are they seemingly rewarded for all of them. But the world of Gilmore Girls was a world set apart, a frozen episode that looked like early 2000’s America on the surface but really hearkened back to a more idyllic time.

I went into the revival expecting more of the same. In the final episode of the original series, we’re left with a Lorelai who has finally gotten back together with Luke the diner owner, and a Rory who has turned down a marriage proposal from her long-term boyfriend Logan Huntzberger, in order to pursue a career in journalism. This latter decision was one of the more signal-y moments in Gilmore Girls history: the girl-power ending where she proved she didn’t need no man! I predicted a revival that showed a plucky reporterette, fully satisfied with her career; a script that covered over the reality of culture that tells women they don’t need marriage, of the sick society in which we live where ‘empowered’ women slowly eat themselves to death after returning from their desk job every evening, alone except for a cat or two.

But I was wrong. The Gilmore Girls revival, wittingly or otherwise, reveals the rot of American society—especially in comparison with the original. The difference is so striking that I have to believe it was not entirely intentional on the part of the show creator; rather, it is indicative of a distinct change in social mood that has taken place between when the show ended, in 2007, and today.

The new Gilmore Girls: A Year in the Life takes place over the course of a year, broken into four 90-minute episodes: Winter, Spring, Summer, and Fall. (Obligatory disclaimer: I am going to spoil the ending.)

In the original show, there was very little political propaganda. This was one of the most appealing things about it. Lorelai made the occasional George Bush joke, sometimes mocked her wealthy WASP parents for being Republicans, and Rory had a Planned Parenthood poster in her dorm room, but that was basically it. (Of course, the original premise of the show was pro-life, so they had to balance it out somehow). In general, this was incredibly refreshing compared to the constant political signaling in network television shows at the time, and compared to what’s on television now it’s like a different world. But the reboot is a different story. Suddenly, the town of Stars Hollow is engaged in gender activism, with earnest plans to put on a gay pride parade that never materializes due to a lack of homosexual town residents. (Hard to believe given the sudden prominence given to homosexual townsfolk.)

But far more striking is the change in the character of Michel Gerard. Michel, an overbearing, impeccably-dressed Frenchman with a thick accent and a penchant for Celine Dion, is a White-presenting mulatto who works at Lorelai’s inn, The Dragonfly. The original character of Michel was infamously sexually ambiguous; he of course fit a certain gay stereotype, was a little too close to his mother, etc. Nevertheless, there were occasional references made in passing to dating women, and never any made to male liaisons. Within the first 20 minutes of the reboot, in the first scene involving his character, Michel is discoursing scornfully about his male partner Frederick’s desire to adopt children. Why the dramatic change?

The answer is pretty simple: the original Gilmore Girls was a break from reality, while the reboot is almost unbearable in its reality. The past 8 years have been dramatic in their psychological effect on American society, and it is reflected here. But it’s more than that, in the world of the show. The mirror has crack’d from side-to-side; Richard Gilmore is dead. And with the patriarchal Gilmore gone, the order of things begins to break down, especially for the three female Gilmores.

Emily

You don’t move or change ever. There’s a picture of you in the attic that Dorian Grey is consulting lawyers about.” – Lorelai to Emily, “Spring.”

The change in Emily is the most dramatic over the course of these four episodes. Unlike the two younger Gilmore girls, Emily is marble-constant, an American matriarch to make Tocqueville proud. As she points out to her unwed daughter Lorelai, who has been “roommates” with Luke the diner owner for 8 years, she, Emily, was married to the same man for fifty years. Her loss at his death is incomprehensible to someone like Lorelai. Ever her husband’s champion, after Lorelai makes a characteristically embarrassing scene at her father’s funeral, Emily chides her thus: “Your father was a great man, a pillar of the community, a man amongst men. And you dishonored him today like this in his own house.” None of the other males in this world come close to Richard Gilmore. The implication runs throughout the show: we shall never see his like again.

Much like the unappreciated WASP patriarchs who held America together for so long, but who also oversaw its slow doom, Richard died having paid for his illegitimate granddaughter’s education at his alma mater, Yale, where she learned—what, exactly? Richard died without having to seriously confront the fantasy he built around Rory, Yale, and ultimately, America itself.

Over the course of the year, Emily is in a tailspin. “I don’t know how to do this,” she says to Lorelai at one point. “Do what?” “Live my life.” It is a jarring thing to watch: Emily Gilmore, the woman who knew every customary form, the woman of exquisite taste, who could never bear to let anyone see her falter: spiraling.

Even her beloved Daughters of the American Revolution chapter holds no joys for her now. (This is where I think the show breaks continuity with the original character, but for the sake of argument, we may chalk it up to grief.) The DAR, of course, represents another aspect of the collapse of the American regime; we may recall that it was one of the only national organizations that fought the 1965 Immigration Act tooth and nail, alongside the American Legion. And if there is one thing Emily devoted her life to, besides her family, it was the DAR. Finally, in an outburst at a DAR meeting, Emily says the most un-Emily line of them all: “I can’t spend any more time and energy on artifice and bullshit.” This betrays more about the script-writer than about Emily, for Emily Gilmore before this would never have really considered her work for the DAR to be artifice: the seemingly frivolous work of choosing curtains and tablecloths and china patterns was an expression of an attempt to hold a fraying society together. As Emily says before she walks out the DAR doors, “This whole thing is dead to me anyway. It died with Richard.” Without Richard Gilmore, there’s no point in trying to save America anymore.

Lorelai

You never do anything unless it’s exactly what you want to do. You never have. You go through life like a natural disaster knocking down everything and everyone in your path.” – Emily to Lorelai, “Winter.”

Fact check: True.

Lorelai is as flighty and selfish as ever, so there isn’t much new ground to cover here. She and Luke have lived together since the end of the series, never married, and apparently never even discussed having children, so it suddenly becomes an issue now. With Lorelai nearing the age of fifty, she can’t have children, and so surrogacy becomes a plot device that goes nowhere (but allows for some great scenes with the inimitable Paris Gellar, who breathed life into the whole depressing mess). Between the surrogacy drama and going to therapy with her mother, Lorelai works herself up into a real midlife crisis, deciding to go and hike the Pacific Crest Trail a la the book and movie Wild. Granted, I know nothing about either, but while the whole adventure seemed out of character—until she doesn’t actually go through with it—there was a certain pathos to the conversations she had with other women seeking solace in the wilderness. As the lonely ladies sit around a fire drinking boxed wine, one of them says, “I’m so glad I’m doing this. I almost did ‘Eat Pray Love,’ but my miles were blacked out. So here I am.” She later adds: “God, I hope this hike works. I need a new life so badly.”

Lorelai realizes that she doesn’t actually need a new life, and goes home to Luke having discovered that all she wants is to get married to him, leading to one of my favorite lines of the show: “I’ve gotta tell ya, before this thing goes on, the only way out is in a body bag.”

As infuriating as Lorelai is, she finally grows up enough to marry the man she loves. That’s something.

Rory

You’re glowing! You must be in love.” – Emily to Rory, “Winter.”

But Rory isn’t in love.

She’s not in love with her boyfriend Paul, whom she has dated for two years and whose existence she regularly forgets. (The callous treatment of forgettable Paul is supposed to be funny, but comes off as cruel.) She’s not in love with her work. She doesn’t even seem to be in love with her lover, Logan Huntzberger, who, it turns out, she has been having an extended sexual relationship with, we can assume for many years. Logan is engaged to a French heiress, but Rory stays with him whenever she’s in London, which seems to be quite often. In the series finale Rory turned down his offer of a diamond ring and a life together—apparently only to exchange it for the life of a mistress, a high-class call girl. This is why it is almost impossible to have any sympathy for the girl when Logan tells her that his fiancé is finally moving in, and that they’ll have to conduct their liasons in a hotel in the future. It suddenly dawns on Rory that she is, indeed, the other woman—and that rather than romantic, her life looks tawdry.

Lacking sympathy for Rory is the popular thing to do in reviews of the reboot, but for the wrong reasons. Sure, it’s true that Rory comes across as a spoiled child who has never been called to account for her poor choices. And yeah, her career isn’t going well. But it seems to me that that’s not because she’s arrogant or entitled: it’s because her heart just isn’t in it anymore. Even when she steels herself to get something done and goes out into Manhattan to interview people for a ridiculous story, instead of successfully completing her task we are treated to the cringiest scene of the entire show, when she returns to tell her mother that she’s had her first one-night stand with a man in a Wookie costume. (Yes, at this point she’s still supposedly dating Paul and sleeping with Logan.) She expresses no horror at her own disloyalty, but only at her choice of partner.

So who, or what, does Rory love?

She expresses a sincere nostalgic love for her ex-boyfriend Dean when she runs into him in the grocery store. And she drops everything to save the Stars Hollow Gazette from extinction, even taking over as editor—a truly thankless task.

It’s clear that Rory is in love with her childhood. Stars Hollow, her first boyfriend, and her mother are all emblems of this. Other reviewers see this as a failing; I do not. There’s nothing wrong with loving a place and trying to make it better, even sacrificing more prestigious dreams in order to do so. In some ways, Rory makes peace with this over the course of the episodes. She finally makes a clean break with Logan; she begins writing a book about the story of her relationship with her mother; and of course, in the shocking final scene, she tells her mother, “I’m pregnant.” While the show creator, Amy Sherman-Palladino, has suggested that Rory might have an abortion, the reviewer at Vox was horrified that Rory might actually think of keeping the child:

“Is this really what Rory wanted for herself? Or is she too deeply wedded to the mythos of Stars Hollow to know what her own desires are at this point?

The narrative’s cheerful, almost totally uncritical sublimation of millennial women’s individual agency to the cause of more babies is utterly enraging. To accept this plot as a natural conclusion to the show means either rewriting Rory herself into a passive noncommittal bore, or twisting Stars Hollow itself into something unrecognizable: a distorted version of American life where individual dreams and goals are repressed and subsumed into the larger collective. Stars Hollow, in this view, becomes a pro-life argument for the need to continue the legacy of Stars Hollow at any cost — even if it means dismantling the dreams of one of Stars Hollow’s finest.

It’s an abysmal, bittersweet way to part with a beloved fictional town. Rory will have the illusion of happiness, surrounded by community and family. But if 2016 has taught us anything, it’s that false comfort won’t make America great again, and it definitely won’t make Rory Gilmore great again.”

You see, the real tragedy would be having a community and a family, and thinking of yourself as happy. The horror!

Conclusion

The transformation of the town and its characters shows us that nothing is free of politics after the era of Obama, not even Stars Hollow.

Emily Gilmore is never really going to recover, because her world is gone.

Lorelai is getting married but isn’t going to have a child, while Rory may have a child, but isn’t getting married. It’s unclear whether or not she’ll have her baby, but either way, it won’t be raised with a father, just as Rory wasn’t raised with one. It’s a fatherless world. No fathers, no kings, no Richard Gilmores.

And yet the show isn’t really capable of pretending that everything is fine. The darkness shines through the charming humor, which isn’t as charming as it used to be. The gods left the earth a long time ago, but this seems to be a world entirely bereft of men. The result isn’t a feminist fantasy: it’s just sad.

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The Rotten Crowd

Over the past few weeks, I’ve been witness to one of the most shameful displays I’ve ever witnessed: the attacks on my colleague and friend Richard Spencer’s mother. Her enemies have steadily waged a war of lies, gossip, and fear designed to attack a family’s very structure and a community’s trust. I guess it really does take a village.

Over the past few weeks, I’ve been witness to one of the most shameful displays I’ve ever seen: the attacks on my colleague and friend Richard Spencer’s mother. Her enemies have steadily waged a war of lies, gossip, and fear designed to attack a family’s very structure and a community’s trust. I guess it really does take a village.

Mrs. Spencer and her husband have never been involved in the National Policy Institute or its projects. They are an apolitical couple with a very political son. But today, everything has become politicized, even our families. The message our enemies are sending is that you can only have a family, or love your son so long as they toe the party line. If you dare even go so far as to “love your son” as Richard’s parents have done, well I guess you’re just “collatoral damage”.

Those who have been whipped into a fervor take umbrage at the gall Mrs. Spencer has in merely owning a building, and speaking out against extortion are now starting to cry wolf. Help! Help! they cry, hordes of angry internet trolls are sending anonymous messages. Quelle horreur and call the National Guard!

What is really going on is that those who have attacked Mrs. Spencer know they are the guilty party. As the emails from Ms. Gersh show, these are acts of intimidation against a family whose only sins are community spirit and familial love. They know they are in the wrong, so they need to change the narrative.

By changing the narrative from defamation of character and willful attacks on a person’s livelihood to anonymous internet harassment, these people are simply attempting to change the victim in this story. Now instead of Mrs. Spencer, it is her very adversaries who are the ones being attacked. Even though they’re not the ones having to sell their businesses, being asked to denounce their children, or having their families torn asunder. No, it’s a few mean tweets and emails that make them uncomfortable. That’s the real problem.

After all, we too, get our share of anonymous threats. Almost every day I wake up to emails in the Radix Journal email account that are either copies of Richard Spencer’s address or some form of “We’re coming for you, we have guns and we’ll get you just like we did before.” Not to mention the hundreds of tweets and text messages Richard gets per week that are snide remarks at best and death threats at worst.

Even a Politico editor was brazen enough to call for violence against Richard, for which he was asked to resign.

As if they couldn’t stoop even lower, they’ve even started to attack Richard’s wife. Growing up I was always taught that attacking a man’s mother and/or his wife is just not cricket. But that’s the current year for you.

These moments, dreadful as they are, can be moments of clarity. They show the craven and callow depths those opposed to us are willing to go to. No, they can’t up and jail us(yet) but they can make our lives a living hell.

While they complain about our “millions of dollars”(I wish! donate here
!) in non-profits and alleged foreign connections, they rake in multi-million dollar endowments and can organize openly without a concern in the world.

Make no mistake, they’re doing this because what Richard is doing is having an impact. They’re frightened of our ideas having a fair shake, so they’re resorting to any trick in the book to keep our message down. Well, to Richard and his mother I can only echo the words of Nick Carraway in The Great Gatsby “They’re a rotten crowd…you’re worth the whole damn bunch put together.”

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Frank Sweeney: An Enemy of Freedom

Yesterday, Whitefish City Councilman Frank Sweeney offered us this pearl of wisdom: Why anybody would think it’s OK to treat another human being like that is beyond me,” [Councilman Frank]…

Yesterday, Whitefish City Councilman Frank Sweeney offered us this pearl of wisdom:

Why anybody would think it’s OK to treat another human being like that is beyond me,” [Councilman Frank] Sweeney says of such images. “We fought a world war over this kind of anti-Semitism.”

Sweeney is concerned that a designated victim group in town might be subjected to mean tweeting, or even (gasp) images of a smirking frog, after The Daily Stormer’s troll armies descended on Whitefish. To think that more than 60 million people died, only to see intolerant memeing continue!

In all seriousness, let’s remember that over this past month, I was subjected to doxing and threats of physical violence by an erstwhile Politico Editor, and more death threats sent via email, text, and social media than I can count. My mother—who’s apolitical and unconnected with my ideology—was subjected to what can only be described as an attempted shakedown, a form of vicarious punishment at the hands of a nasty local realtor named Tanya Gersh.

Don’t worry, I’ll survive, and so will my mom, but it’s revealing just how little Frank Sweeney cares about us, for he hasn’t uttered a word in protest. There is a hierarchy of victims, and my mom and I don’t even qualify.

Sweeney claims that the current scandal “seems to be centered around a business, but I don’t think it is. It’s whether Richard Spencer and the alt-right have a presence in town.”

Not really, Frank.

I’ve never made a secret about the fact that I spend many months in Whitefish, a beautiful ski town in the Flathead Valley. But I’ve also never done anything public here, other than getting interviewed by some journalists over the summer. I’ve certainly never involved myself in local politics. The only reason I’m actively discussing Whitefish now is because my mother was attacked, and that is also the sole reason why The Daily Stormer is messaging locals.

As City Councilor, Frank’s job is to regulate sidewalks and trash collection and the like. He has absolutely no authority to express opinions regarding where I choose to live. And the notion that I would move to please someone as insignificant as himself is laughable. (Sorry, I’m not going anywhere, Frank.)

I’ve been aware of this puritanical individual for some time. Back in 2014, after I had been jailed in Budapest for hosting a conference, some local Rabbis involved with the Orwellian-named group “Love Lives Here” urged the Whitefish City Council to enact a “No Hate” ordinance, which would have made it illegal for anyone to “do business” with me or any organization I’m involved with. I’m not sure what this would have meant . . . or how such a law could have been enforced . . . but it would have been a comically obvious violation of the First Amendment of the U.S. Constitution.

The Flathead Beacon, from November 18, 2014:

[D]ozens of Whitefish residents banded together and packed the council chambers Monday night, urging council members to enact an ordinance barring hate-group activities in the community. Organized by civil rights activist and local Rabbi Allen Secher, and his wife, Ina Albert, the residents offered emotional testimony in an effort to “pass a no-hate ordinance so that hate organizations cannot do business in our town,” Albert said.

Kyle Bristow of The Foundation for the Marketplace of Ideas (donate to them) issued a Freedom of Information Act request and was able to obtain emails about the event. From these, we learned that City Councilman Frank Sweeney was in contact with the Southern Poverty Law Center and was actively trying to craft such legislation. In other words, after the Rabbis Secher and Albert made a request, Frank sprung into action.

From:> Frank Sweeney
To: Rosi Smith, Southern Poverty Law Center
Date: November 19, 2014

I am requesting assistance in drafting a ‘no hate’ ordinance in response to Richard Spencer and his National Policy Institute. I am a sitting City Councilor in Whitefish, MT where Mr. Spencer is a part time resident and has issued several of his diatribes from our fair city.

FOIA / Frank Sweeney's Attack on Free Speech by richardbspencer on Scribd

I almost wish little Frank had gone through with it, as it would have launched an important legal fight—which he would have lost in humiliating fashion. But instead, the Whitefish City Attorney, Mary VanBuskirk, wisely advised against any kind of ordinance. (I spoke with Ms. VanBuskirk, and she impressed me as an intelligent and down-to-earth woman, a stark contrast to Frank.) In the end, the town council issued a non-binding “resolution” in favor of diversity, which I actually publicly endorsed.

Sweeney might want to present himself as the brave defender of freedom—at a recent City Council Meeting, he read aloud the words of Evan McMullin—but in reality, he is nothing less than an enemy of civilization. In his way, he’s a typical Boomer Cuck, who signals his righteousness to minority “victims” by attacking White people they deem “racist.”

I’m happy to say that Frank’s true nature is no longer a secret.

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Christmas in Berlin

Germany’s Manuel Ochsenreiter joins Richard to discuss the geopolitical background and implication of the Hugo-Boss-clad assassin in Turkey and the ISIS attack on a Christmas market in Berlin.

Germany’s Manuel Ochsenreiter joins Richard to discuss the geopolitical background and implication of the Hugo-Boss-clad assassin in Turkey and the ISIS attack on a Christmas market in Berlin.

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Ghosts of Christmas Past

Christmas is certainly being de-Christianized, the result not only of snooty liberals but the gradual waning of faith across the population as a whole. What remains, through, are the  Germanic, Latin, and Slavic customs and rituals of Yuletide.  These might seem vulgar, hallow shells of themselves (Christmas *kitsch*), but they are distinctly European and distinctly ours. And they are a starting point for becoming who we are.   

There is a pair of clichés about the Christmas season that carries more significance than we might think: “Christmas is for children,” we say, and “Christmas makes me feel like a kid again.

The first saying refers to a certain innocence we envy in the children around us, who seem to really believe in Santa, magic, and the world of fairies, and who instinctively love Christmas. For us, Christmas has become both expensive and cheap: the over-planned parties and schedules . . . the chore of buying gifts that will be quickly forgotten, disposed of, or re-gifted . . . the trudging through horrible, muzak-filled malls . . .

“Becoming a kid again,” at least for a time, is our redemption.

And it’s a very real feeling. Entering the world of adults is entering a world that is incessantly moving forward. Our lives are defined by projects, goals, accomplishments, deadlines, etc. Christmas, on the other hand, is an Eternal Return, a natural cycle that gives us a respite from linear thinking and planning.

We experience this Return not only through the season itself (when the nights become long and cold) but also through ritual. Ritual is something modern people, even devout Christians, are too quick to dismiss. Ritual is, we think, a dispensable, even embarrassing remnant of something irrational from long ago. But ritual is, among other things, a way we can physically experience being-in-the-world and our own past. We remember through our bodies and senses, which are intertwined with mental processes. When we visit our old high school, for instance, and whiff a certain smell to the grass: the entire experience is immediately recalled: the high and low, triumphs and failures, the friendships and fears. Every Christmas, we do the same things over and over: drink the same drinks, hang the same decorations, hear the same music. In reenactment, we are transported back to a series of moments earlier in our lives. We become “kids again.”

These memory-experiences are mostly postcard flashes. Every Christmas Eve, for instance, as I glance at lights on the tree and the too-dark sky, I re-live waiting, greedily, for Santa. Another flash, which is still quite vivid, comes from age seven or eight, as I lay in bed feeling real guilt and inner turmoil over wanting to believe in Santa Claus but no longer being able. Smelling hot-spiced wine, “Glühwein,” I’m reminded of wandering the streets of Vienna in December as a young man in my early 20s, hearing the sounds of the Christmas market in the distance . . . observing it, while not being a part of it . . . and not having a clue what to do with my life.

“Bob’s eggnog recipe” or your favorite “Christmas sweater” might seem like recurring jokes. But in their ways, they fulfill the function of grand ritual. And this aspect of Christmas holds not only for our personal lives but for our people and civilization as well. We have become so accustomed to Christmas rituals—and so accustomed to them in the form of kitsch—that we forget how deep they take us into our race’s history . . . far deeper than what the holiday is said to celebrate. For the rituals through which we understand ourselves are fundamentally Pagan in both essence and form.

The Conversion

In his famous book The Germanization of Early Medieval Christianity, James Russell wrote of a “double conversion” that occurred when the early Church began spreading beyond the Mediterranean and Near East and sought to bring “the Germans” (i.e., the northern European tribes) into the Christian fold. At the time, these Europeans practiced what is now referred to as Germanic Paganism, a constellation of myths, gods, and symbols that was, at once, centered on the tribe and family and also shared by White men across the continent. Europeans did, eventually, profess Christianity, but the real “conversion” was that of Christianity itself, which both accommodated Europeans folkways and began to be articulated by them.

This process occurred on various cultural levels, from the Europeanized image and conception of Christ to notions of Right and sovereignty. The mix of Germanic, Scandinavian, and Roman customs that define Christmas as we know it is a metaphor of this history. For Christmas remains the most radically Pagan of all holidays, if we have the eyes to see it.

This begins with the day itself. Nowhere in the Bible does December 25 appear as the birth date of Jesus Christ. (If the shepherds were attending their flocks by night (Luke 2:8), then Jesus would have been born in Spring.) December 25 was, however, well known as the birthday of Sol Invictus, the sun god who was patronized by later Roman emperors, including Constantine. The 25th was Dies Natalis Solis Invicti—“Birthday of the Unconquered Sun,” when, after the Winter Solstice, the arc of the Sun across the sky begins to rise again. The famous literary pun of “Son” and “Sun,” which works across Germanic languages, was a real experience of our ancestors. For after passing through the darkness of the Solstice, the Son also rises.

Thinking in the way, the meanings of things we take for granted unlock themselves before our eyes: the evergreen (the endless life cycle) . . . the Yule log (festival of fire) . . . kissing under the Mistletoe (the sacred plant of Frigg, goddess of love, fertility, and the household) . . . and, of course, Santa. “St. Nick” is only remotely related to Saint Nicholas, a Church father at the Council of Nicaea whose feast day falls on December sixth. The character of Santa is much more a conflation of various Germanic gods and personages. One of these, as evidenced by Santa’s descent into the fiery chimney, is the smithy god Hephaistos or Vulcan. (In other words, “The Church Lady,” and many puritans before her, was right to fear that Santa has an etymological connection to S-a-t-a-n.) Most important of all is the chief god, Odin or Wotan, who stares out at us from behind Santa’s many historical masks—from Father Frost (Ded Moroz), the Slavic god accepted by Russian Communists, to the jolly fat man promoted by Coca Cola. Odin is the Wanderer from the North, a god of war, but one who delivers gifts to children during Yuletide. Odin commands Sleipnir, the horse with eight legs, who, in his translation to contemporary myth, became the eight reindeer: Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen! On, Comet! on Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen!

The War on What?

A few years back, Megyn Kelly, then a FOX News host, was roundly ridiculed and condemned after she declared on national television that “Santa just is White” (along with Jesus). She affirmed this in response to an African-American blogger who argued for more multiracial depictions of Santa, or for him to be racially neutralized as a friendly Penguin. Santa, as we can know, is White, but in ways that Kelly is unable to understand.

The amusing “White Santa” controversy of 2013 was a variation on a theme. Between Thanksgiving and New Years, FOX’s programming is packed with tales of the “War on Christmas,” with reports of “Gingerbread Persons,” insufficiently festive Starbucks travel cups, and cold-hearted atheists. These are denounced by conservative Republicans and nationalists, who seem to define their identity against an ever-growing list of PC atrocities.

Like so many other “conservative” causes, the so-called War on Christmas masks much more than it reveals. To begin with, focusing on “secularization,” exemplified by the dreaded “Happy Holidays” greetings, is convenient for Americans who want to ignore the ways Christmas rituals are being hallowed by consumerism. Apparently, maxing out your credit card on useless junk is fine, so long as the checkout girl says “Merry Christmas” and the indoor mall features a nativity scene.

Those who lament the “war on Christmas” rarely pinpoint what exactly is being warred upon. Undoubtedly, there is an elite in the United States and Europe that has contempt for Christian belief. But this effort has not led to any decline in public festivals and holiday merrymaking. The Bolshevik or Puritanical dream of literally “banning Christmas” in favor of grey-on-grey efficiency or “pure” (that is, de-Paganized) Christianity failed miserably, and has very advocates. In my lifetime, the Christmas season has grown noticeably longer and public and private festivals, more elaborate and intense. To be sure, much of this has to do with the fact that America’s post-industrial, consumer-driven economy depends on end-of-the-year gorging. But I also sense that something bigger is taking place—that in a multicultural, fragmenting society, Christmas, alongside football and super-hero movies, is one of the precious few collective rituals shared by all of us.

Glimpsing The Gods

Christmas is being de-Christianized, the result not only of snooty liberals but of the gradual waning of faith across the population as a whole. What remain, though, are the Germanic, Latin, and Slavic customs and rituals of Yuletide. These might seem vulgar, hallow shells of themselves—Christmas kitsch—but they are distinctly European and distinctly ours. And they are a starting point for becoming, again, who we are.

In the small ski town in which I spend celebrate the holiday, every Christmas Eve, everyone goes to the base of the mountain and watches skiers descend the slopes holding flaming torches; the procession creates a magnificent display of lights. At the end comes Santa, illuminated like a god.

As I mentioned, one of my stranger Christmas memories is of struggling with my failing faith in Santa, as if in disbelieving in him, I would betray my parents and family and the whole joyous season. But what is belief, really? When we honor Santa by speaking of his coming, when we leave him offerings of cookies and milk, when we adore his icons, we effectively believe again in the gods. When we celebrate Christmas in its fullness, we become—in our limited and maybe goofy ways—Pagans again.

For the time being, though, we know not what we do.

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The Attacks on My Mother

I discuss the recent controversy in Whitefish involving an apartment building owned and operated by my mother. Sherry Spencer’s statement. Emails.

I discuss the recent controversy in Whitefish involving an apartment building owned and operated by my mother.

Sherry Spencer’s statement.

Emails.

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Play the Man

Sacrifice. Everyone in the Alt Right will be familiar with it to some degree. Many of us, particularly those most publicly engaged, carry personal, professional, and financial scars that bear witness to a tour of duty in the war of ideas. Even success can be punishing. Our leaders know only too well that every push deeper into the public consciousness will be met with a more bitter and more personal response from our panicked and ruthless opponents.

“Play the man, Master Ridley; we shall this day light such a candle, by God’s grace, in England, as I trust shall never be put out.”

Hugh Latimer, 1554.

Sacrifice. Everyone in the Alt Right will be familiar with it to some degree. Many of us, particularly those most publicly engaged, carry personal, professional, and financial scars that bear witness to a tour of duty in the war of ideas. Even success can be punishing. Our leaders know only too well that every push deeper into the public consciousness will be met with a more bitter and more personal response from our panicked and ruthless opponents.

The recent targeting of Richard Spencer’s family in Whitefish, Montana, is a testament to both the moral bankruptcy of the corrupt interests we position ourselves against, and the myriad threats posed not only to ourselves, but to our loved ones also. Simply by adopting a position of ideological dissent from the status quo, our comrades near and far invite variants of social, financial, and physical violence including imprisonment, unemployment, social ostracism, the targeting of material assets, media smearing, and threats and incidences of assault. It is because of these often devastating aftershocks that “doxing” is for us so much more than a stripping away of anonymity. Doxing is instead, by virtue of its accompaniments, the post-modern equivalent of being placed in the docks, or in its worst expressions, being burned at the stake.

Dealing with sacrifice, or the threat of it, is perhaps so commonplace that it rarely provokes conscious thought. This is probably for the good, since it is never healthy to brood on sacrifice for too long when one is trying to push on toward goals and aspirations. But I believe that some reflection on sacrifice can be healthy, both in terms of inspiring a more aggressive pursuit of one’s goals, and also for the reinforcement it can bring to one’s ideological, indeed spiritual, connection with the cause.

Before proceeding any further, I should lay some cards on the table. Although writing under a pen name, I’ve been relatively open about my political beliefs in the past, and I’ve endured sacrifices for even my most tangential ties to our movement. During spells in Europe I’ve been arrested and had my home raided by police. I’ve lost jobs. I’ve been ostracized by former friends and colleagues, and even my marriage has been placed under strain at various times. In the eye of these storms, the world can seem like a very lonely place, and on some occasions one crisis seems to dissipate just as the clouds of a new storm gather on the horizon. One lives under the shadow of these clouds, and I am certain that more sacrifices and tribulations await me. But I am not troubled.

I can thank an 85-year-old man for my ability to handle most of the things life has thrown at me during the last ten years or so. Or at least the man now buried in a beautiful farmstead in rural North Carolina was about that age when he imparted to me the advice that would help me become the man I am today. My wife’s grandfather was still hale and hearty in his 80s, standing in excess of six feet with only the slightest hint of a stoop. His blue eyes still shone brightly from beneath thick, white eyebrows. In his prime he had been a champion amateur wrestler, a master horseman, and had, during World War Two, flown “over the hump” in Burma as part of a Special Forces unit. In the immediate post-war period he carried out work for the Office of Strategic Services, an early incarnation of what would become the CIA, before finally venturing into business. He was successful, retiring in his 50s with millions in the bank. In short, he was a man who had witnessed much and, by any estimation, had truly lived. He was also a racially aware man with a deep feeling for his Anglo-Celtic ancestry and the Anglo-Celtic heritage of the Deep South. He was no friend of the Jew. He shed no crocodile tears for the African. His home was draped in the flags of the Confederacy, and the Coats of Arms of his sires.

I was a young lad of twenty when I met him for the first time. Like most young men that age the only thing I had going for me was potential and, well, not much else. His legend was such in the family that I approached the event of our first meeting with some trepidation, and I heard that he had the unsettling habit of pretending not to hear very well – just so that you would be all the more awkward in trying to communicate with him. In the event, he was polite and courteous, and expressed a deep interest in my own ancestry and heritage. It quickly emerged that we shared an interest in literature and poetry. This delighted the old man, who would relish the opportunity to impress his young guest by reciting entire poems by Kipling from memory.

In the year that followed we developed a warm friendship, and despite our ages he expressed his sincere blessing for the marriage between myself (then 20) and his granddaughter (then 19). It was shortly after the marriage that I started struggling with the pace of life. College was going well for both my wife and I, but there were financial concerns and some early plans for a new home went the way that they are wont to do when conceived by mice and men. Just as our bank balance was taking a nosedive, we discovered that my wife was pregnant with what would be our first son.

While the stresses mounted in my mind, I did a good job of concealing it. I retained a garrulous and easy-going demeanour. Almost everyone I encountered failed to pick up on the fact that, at the age of 21, I was weighed down with some very complex worries and challenges, and that not even I knew how much longer I could cope without breaking in some manner. I say almost everyone because, during one Sunday family gathering, I caught the old man looking at me with deep concern. A little while later, while attempting to engage him in small talk, he motioned for me to stop talking. He started telling me a story.

He told me that during the religious tumult that accompanied the reign of Tudors from Henry VIII to Mary I, one clergyman seemed to bear witness to every ebb and flow of English religious passion. Hugh Latimer (c. 1487 – 16 October 1555) began his career in the Church as an ardent Catholic. Indeed, his Bachelor of Divinity disputation was a refutation of the ideas central to the Reformation sweeping Europe. However, after an encounter with the recently converted Thomas Bilney, Latimer underwent a dramatic shift in perspective. He later became part of an influential group of Reformers in London, gaining further influence when Henry VIII broke with Rome.

Although his fortunes would waver under Henry once more, and again under Henry’s son Edward VI, Latimer’s fate would take its final turn during the reign of Edward VI’s Catholic sister, Mary I. Under examination by a panel of Catholic commissioners, Latimer was unable to be dissuaded from his beliefs. He was quickly sentenced to death, and it was here that the old man reached the point of his tale. Confronted with the prospect of being burned alive at an execution site in Oxford, Latimer was resolute, unmovable.

He was tied to the stake along with Nicholas Ridley, Bishop of London. The base was set alight, and the flames began to rise. As the fire began to consume the pair, Ridley’s death agonies reverberated throughout Oxford. His screams became ever louder until Latimer was heard loudly but calmly uttering the immortal words: “Play the man, Master Ridley; we shall this day light such a candle, by God’s grace, in England, as I trust shall never be put out.”

Finishing his tale, the old man looked me in the eye and repeated the words, “Play the man.” He told me of times in his life when he too, in his own way, had had to play the man. Faced with death in Burma, with financial ruin on numerous occasions, or when trying to ascend the greasy pole of his career ladder, there had been times when, even if disaster loomed, it was crucial to play the man or, in more modern formulations, to ‘hold frame’; to ride the tiger.

I’ve never forgotten the example and final words of Hugh Latimer, and they have accompanied me on several of my own trials and tribulations. They have offered strength and inspiration, and have helped me cultivate a mentality of iron determination. In more recent years, however, I have come to dwell equally on the latter half of his immortal plea. In alluding to his own sacrifice and burning as the lighting of a candle, Latimer beautifully and bravely hit upon the deeper glory of sacrifice – the glory that it may inspire in others.

As our opponents bitterly strike at the family of Richard Spencer, as some of us try to find cheer in a time of unemployment, and as many of our comrades languish in prison this Christmas, I would like us to not only admire those who hold their resolve and ‘play the man,’ but also to take heart and inspiration from their example and their trials.

While our enemies believe they are scoring victories by destroying our businesses, smearing our loved ones, or jailing us, they are in fact lighting the candles that will guide us to victory. To paraphrase the poet William Henley, we will ultimately succeed in preserving a future for our people because our heads may be sometimes bloodied but will remain forever unbowed. We are the masters of our fate. And we thank whatever gods may be for our unconquerable souls.

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“Cultural Enrichment” and Sexual Competition

Thank you all. And thank you to Richard for inviting me to speak to you today. I have a lot of matters I would like to address, so this talk may get a little disjointed. But I think we can live with that. Many of you have probably seen my byline but not know me by sight. I write a lot about men and women and their mutual relations. Sometimes the men in our movement fail to appreciate sufficiently the relevance of this subject to our political struggle as a people. Women don’t usually have that problem. They know that they control the perpetuation of our race, and in the final analysis, that’s almost all that matters. Feminists are the ones who like to say that the personal is political, and on this point at least, they are correct. 

Editor’s Note: Adapted from an address to NPI’s 2016 Conference by F. Roger Devlin

Thank you all. And thank you to Richard for inviting me to speak to you today. I have a lot of matters I would like to address, so this talk may get a little disjointed. But I think we can live with that. Many of you have probably seen my byline but not know me by sight. I write a lot about men and women and their mutual relations. Sometimes the men in our movement fail to appreciate sufficiently the relevance of this subject to our political struggle as a people. Women don’t usually have that problem. They know that they control the perpetuation of our race, and in the final analysis, that’s almost all that matters. Feminists are the ones who like to say that the personal is political, and on this point at least, they are correct.

Today, I would like to begin by drawing your attention to an article published in a Norwegian newspaper three and a half years ago. [A translation of the original article can be found here.] Those of you who have been in our movement that long may remember the flurry of discussion it occasioned at the time. The article appeared in one of the few Norwegian publications not dependent on government subsidies, and therefore free to tell the truth about the situation in that country. It was based on interviews with two young men from Grorudalen, a suburban area outside Oslo that has enjoyed more cultural enrichment than any other place in that country, mostly Pakastani and Somali Muslims. The two young men reflect on the challenges of coming to manhood in such an environment.

They report that there is a clear hierarchy among the local boys, and native Norwegians are at the bottom of it. They are often physically attacked by the immigrant boys in the local schools. Authority figures such as teachers tell the Norwegian boys never to retaliate, even when punched. The immigrant boys are to be pitied, they are told, because they come from countries which have suffered from war—even though some are third generation by now.

The young Muslims are quick to perceive their inviolability, of course, and take advantage of it. As one of the interviewees put it, “they talk about respect, but they don’t show any.” They have various contemptuous slang terms for their Norwegian peers, such as “whitey” and “potato.” They stare aggressively at them on the streets, and the Norwegian boys must lower their gaze first if they do not want to face an unequal fight there and then.

And the fights are always unequal. The European concept of a “fair fight” does not exist in the Muslim mind. “If you meet them alone,” said one interviewee, “they are cowards.” They travel and hunt in packs like dogs, and only attack where they enjoy a clear superiority of force. Seven or eight against one is not uncommon. Furthermore, practically all of these boys dispose of a large family network: brothers, uncles, cousins who are glad to help them avenge any slights. Most of the Norwegian boys’ parents are divorced and they are living with their mothers. Because of the low native birth rate, most of them have no male siblings at all.

Some Norwegian boys have actually begun to mimic the grammatical mistakes and limited vocabulary of the immigrant boys in an effort to raise their status. A handful have actually convert to Islam.

But the most interesting part of this article to me is one interviewee’s description of the sexual consequences of this social experiment. The Muslim boys, he says, can:

chase Norwegian girls, but we cannot go after theirs. It’s something you learn early on. You just don’t go after a Pakistani girl, but Norwegian girls are available to immigrant boys. Norwegian girls prefer them. I don’t know why. That they are tough, that they have money despite not having jobs. The girls don’t see that they fight in packs, that they are cowards. I asked my best female friend if we could get romantically involved, and she told me that I have the right personality, but the problem was that I’m Norwegian. She wants to become involved with a foreigner.

Well, that young man may not understand why Norwegian girls prefer immigrant boys, but I do, and I am going to tell you. Sexual behavior is controlled not by the prefrontal cortex which is responsible for rational thought, but by the limbic system, sometimes popularly known as the “reptilian brain.” The female’s instinct is to mate with socially dominant men—and it does not matter how such dominance is achieved. Reptiles are even farther from grasping the concept of a fair fight than Muslims. The limbic system of Norwegian girls is unconcerned that their male peers face overwhelming odds, that the entire political and social regime of their country has been set up as if with the specific intention of disadvantaging them at the expanse of low-IQ thugs from the slums of Karachi. All the girls see is that it is the Norwegian boys who are getting beaten up and the immigrant boys who are doing the beating. Their natural impulse is to mate with the beaters, not the beatees.

Speaking more generally, women are less loyal to the tribe into which they are born than are men, and there are evolutionary reasons for this. In our environment of evolutionary adaptation, our remote ancestors lived in bands of fifty or a hundred persons whose men were frequently fighting one another. To be successful in such fights, men had to practice loyalty to the other men of their own tribe. When they were successful, they took the women of the vanquished tribe for themselves. This did not generally create any problem for the women of the defeated tribe. Women are naturally equipped to form new bonds with such conquerors quickly and easily. Their instinct is to subordinate all other considerations to the successful rearing of children. Loyalty to their defeated menfolk interferes with the fulfillment of this natural imperative, so they have generally not cultivated such loyalty to any great degree. At least, such is a woman’s natural inclination.

Not all women are entirely reptilian, however, and so there have been historical exceptions to this pattern. For example, all the sources agree that the Yankee soldiers who took part in the military occupation of the American South during reconstruction got absolutely nowhere with the local women. The wives and sisters of men who had been overwhelmingly defeated—crippled and killed in many cases—remained loyal to these men, or to their memory, even at the expense of their own reproductive success. I’m not sure anything else I have read about the Civil War has struck me with greater admiration for the defeated South. Female loyalty to tribe is certainly possible, and I hope we will know how to honor it where it occurs. At the same time, we would be wise not to count too much upon it. As I said, our evolutionary history has given women a facility in adapting to circumstance and a natural preference for the victorious, even in the unfairest of fights.

I hope that when the time comes, Norwegian men will have the strength not to take back those of their women who have crashed and burned after a fling with foreign men. And crash and burn they will. The Muslim men despise these women, whom they call “Norwegian whores.” This is one reason the women are so attracted to them. But in these men’s eyes, non-Muslim women are for gratification, with or without their consent. That’s what Islamic law tells them. They stick to their own women when it is time to raise a family. So exogamous Western women generally end up alone once they hit their thirties.

Now, if you want to discourage undesirable behavior on the part of such women, nothing is more effective than total ruthlessness. It’s masculine, it’s dominant, it’s attractive, and it’s one reason they go for Muslim men in the first place. So in this respect, if no other, European men would be wise to imitate the foreign men among whom they are forced to live and learn to be ruthless.

Let me give you an historical analogy. It is recorded that there was once a wave of suicides by young women in ancient Athens. If this happened today, emergency hotlines would be set up and psychotherapists dispatched to counsel the girls and find out what was troubling them. But instead the city assembly simply decreed that the next girl to commit suicide would be displayed naked in the middle of the Agora. It wasn’t “nice,” but there were no further suicides.

Similarly, a policy of writing off women who take up with their swarthy oppressors would be one way for Western man to regain a part of his dignity. It would also be Eugenic, as tending to flush disloyalty from our gene pool. If you didn’t take pity on those bimbos weeping over Hillary Clinton’s defeat last week, you certainly shouldn’t need to take pity on women who have come crawling to you as a last resort.

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