THE INCONSISTENCY OF MAN 02

You

YOU will become a new man when you exit this
forest.
forest, rider. Just as you are no longer the one
who wept in the graveyard, you will become
something new again, for you are always in a
state of flux. Let us pause at this stream and
repose. They say that Heraclitus once rested
here and declared that no man could ever step
into the same river twice, for both he and the
river had forever changed. Wizards say that all
things are energy, and that energy is movement.
Democritus posited that reality was composed of
atoms. I suppose those atoms are always changing
too, dancing to the rhythm of time. May I ask a
favor, rider? May we dispense with these terms? 'Universe',
'cosmos', 'heaven', 'hell'? the terms
’universe’, ’cosmos’, ’heaven’,
’hell’? Can we simply call it
'Being'? ’Being’?
Perhaps it could be said that even Being is in
motion? Know this, this: I am a pupil of both
Heraclitus and Parmenides. For Parmenides, for I believe Being
simply is. Perhaps time itself is an illusion.
That change is a phantasm. Yet, here we are,
both changed men. I remember a time when I cared
little for anything but myself. Then there came
the a
time when I only cared for the graveyard. And
now, here I stand as one who only wishes to chase
the Sun. Have you not changed changed, too? Come, let us
cool our feet in the river. How can it be that a
man can hold two contradictory beliefs at the
same time? Is it true that “all is one” or is
change the only real consistency? Can it be both?
Look there across the river at the old tree. Tell
me, how is it possible that the distance between
the tree and yourself is infinitely divisible? Is
there an infinity between us? Was Zeno mad? Was
the materialist in error to attempt to put lines
around everything? Have we been going the wrong
way since Aristotle? How should I ever know? For
I am the fool who is both a student of Nietzsche
and Socrates. I am the mid-wit mid‐wit who can see
truths in both the Analytical and Continental
eye. Between Kant and Hume, Ragnar Redbeard and
Christ. Even more, here when we must discuss the
topic of race, I again shall be inconsistent, for
race, like all things, both is and is in a state
of flux.

I have been untruthful to you, rider. For I have
maintained silence at your expense. This forest
that I have led you to, is a maze that far too
often leads to brutality. This place can drive
one mad, to place can pit brother against brother, and
give way to the uncertainty of certainties. These certainties ‐
these fixed lines that we arbitrarily codified
into rigid dogma. What is Europe, rider? Is it
just the Yamnaya? Shall we rejoice in the
liquidation of Gaul? Is Celtic blood poison? Are
the true
god-men god‐men the Hellenes? Is the German a sub-human
sub‐human brute, who defiled the greatness of
Rome? There, see? It begins. The constant cutting
of parts. Like chopping away all branches of a
sacred tree, so that only the greenest branch may
reach for the Sun. You must forgive my tongue,
rider, for this forest weighs on me to a great
degree and I feel that as of late my thoughts are
slipping. That each step further that we take
into this forest, this maze of the mind, the more
I lose my composure. Yet we must answer this
question before we can leave. How leave: how am I to know
Europe? What exactly is the European continuum
made of? For the Analytical philosophers philo‐sophers will
not join us on our path until we have answered
them accordingly. Is it R1a or R1b? Is it the green
eyed
green‐eyed man who is the Übermensch Übermensch or the
blue? Which sets of which genes are required to
give us Galileo Galilei and which to give us
Leonardo Da Vinci? And between the two, which is
the master race?

Now let me ask you this, rider. When the water
that flows within the river, finally makes its
way to the sea, is it still the river? At what which
point exactly had does it changed? change? Do you understand
why I have taken brought you here? For in our travels
we may come upon these cowards of men who will
say,
“There “there can be no European continuum
because you can not define its edges.” Perhaps
they are
right right, but I can not deny what I
instinctively feel. But, then again. again ... In truth. The truth,
the German is
best. Yes? best, yes? He alone should stand
above all and surely has every right to eradicate
these Italians and Irishmen, for they are
inferior. Then again, It it must be the Greek who is
truly the
Beyond-Man. Beyond‐Man. For was it not the Greek
who gave us the most exquisite of culture? Then
splendid, for it is settled. We shall exterminate the
German and give way to a glorious Greek empire!
But then again, I must ask. Is ask: is the Greek even
white? Blast! You see? This forest is a web
filled with spiders from the darkest of crypts.
Bats and bugs, ravens and dire wolves! This place
is no place to remain. linger. Now answer me, rider, what
is Europe? How am I to know it? What is the
fabric of the continuum? What exactly is its
material make up? Or is it possible that there is
something else to it? Under Beneath it, yearning to
make way?

They say there were three great forms that
manifested in the development of these peoples,
but how long, I wonder, until they tell me it was
nine or twenty? For the wizards can never make up
their minds. From what I have heard, they were
the West Western European Hunter-Gatherers, Hunter‐Gatherers, the
Ancient North Eurasians and the Early European
Farmers. These are the roots of the tree. Where
do they come from? What exactly were they before?
Inevitably their origins make their way back into
the mist. The mist that encircles men and mankind
from
since time immemorial. Even if our aim is to
follow the horizon and chase the Sun, some
landscapes will always remain hidden. Perhaps it
is nature’s prudency prudence to not deliver up all her
secrets to a single man. So now you must pick, choose,
rider. Which of the three must be kept and which
should be uprooted? Then again, must we uproot
anything? Can we simply not allow the branches to
yearn for the Sun on their own? For it is true
that all light that touches their limbs, limbs only
serves to give life to the tree. Yes, perhaps it
is your branch who absorbs the most light or
perhaps it is mine.

Then again, I must ask. Are you a halfling,
rider? Are you a quarter blood? Some mixed-up mixed‐up
being, attached to the European continuum? A
hybrid? A mongrel? A lost one, whom of those who have
never even had a grave? For he who has two
graveyards but only one body can never truly rest
in peace. Just peace, just as one someone between two nations at
war can not remain neutral. These Semitic puppet
pundits that claim the leadership of the
“radical right”, who could only pretend to
know my crimson cloak, will call you an
abomination. Perhaps it is so. However, it is
well with me that abominations can join us in the
chase of the Sun. For you to have come this far, only far
gives me further hope in the final aim. That aim ‐ that
the moral framework that we shall establish will exist
within the hearts of all mankind. Just as
hierarchy is natural, so too is the hierarchy of
being! For it is only the Obfuscator whom who will
destroy himself to maintain imbalance. It is only he,
he – that Semitic viper, filled with cunning, cunning
– who would gouge out the eye of Being just to
maintain his megalomania. But let us not dwell
on him, yet. For now is not the time to confront
such creatures. Not until we can leave this
forest. So tell me, rider, who is the master
race? Where does the line begin and end? How am I
to know Europe?

Now I have it! Let us say that in order to truly
be European, one must be 33.33% Celtic, 33.33%
Mediterranean and 33.33% Germanic. Or should
there be a leniency of 5% for Slavs? And what of
the Anglo? Are they even European? No No, certainly
not. Yet, perhaps they are? In fact, they are
the most European! Alas, this will not do, for
surely the master race must have a jaw line. So
we must do away with the Anglos. Let us also
discard the Nords, Mediterraneans and Celts.
Perhaps we should cut down the whole tree? Rider,
I believe I must sit down, for my mind is not
well. Surely this forest taxes us both? The mist
now makes its way into my thoughts. I hear a
thousand voices whispering in the trees. For a
moment I am a German losing his homeland to the
Roman civilizer, the next I am the Roman
witnessing the collapse of my state at the hands
of this blonde German brute. Today I am the
resident of Münden Münden massacred by Catholics Catholics, and
tomorrow I am the inhabitant of Landsberg
decimated by Protestants. I feel their hatred, rider,
rider; an old and virulent hatred that I’m not
sure can ever be overcome.

For a moment I see through the eyes of a Russian
soldier, on the eastern front, during the second
world war. I am taking a woman’s body as she
weeps. She has my blue eyes. What am I doing? No,
but of course! They invaded our motherland motherland,
therefore every last German must be liquidated!
For only when the German is removed will the good
earth
Earth know of kindness. What does this bitch know
of kindness, anyways? … anyway?! ... I weep. Please, rider,
tell me there is something more to this than
genes and streams? I can not see when one becomes
the other. Where the man becomes
sub-man, sub‐man, where
river becomes sea. The languages change, but the
feeling, the deep yearning from the heart of
Being, is there, resonating in their voices. A
chorus that cries out for truth and the
transcendental. I see the great impulse in
Dostoevsky and I see it in Wagner. I see it in
Martin Luther’s desire for man to seek truth by
his own volition, rather than mere acceptance of
dogmatic systems. Was that not Faustian? There
too I see it
the same, too, in the Catholic and his
cathedrals. Semitic, yes, but under the Jewish
characters there lies the Aryan structure. For
the yearning that manifested the Pantheon was the
same that brought forth Notre-Dame. Notre‐Dame. It was the
infinite that compelled them. Whether them – whether the
vector was the pantheon of gods or the eternal
one God. It was
always God – it was, always, that the yearning
drove towards the infinite. Yes Yes, of course! This
will be our finest clue yet. Suddenly, we have
clarity. All at once their chorus goes from
dissonance to harmony. A ray of light once again
shines through the trees. For the European
continuum yearns for the horizon, to chase the
Sun.

But of course it is not only the European whom who
pursues the Sun. I suppose there’s at least
one man who heeds its call in every race. To seek
fundamental truth, regardless of the peril that
may wait. Did Spinoza quest for the infinite? Did
Kubrick? Let it be said, I am a child of the
horizon. Any man of any race, even he who is the
abomination of race, who takes up this flight
towards the Sun, is my ally. But know this, I
travel only the path that gives rebirth to the
European continuum. That, So that, in the pursuit of
truth, I may find the remedy to rejuvenate our
poisoned people. I believe that in my journey
towards the Sun, I will one day wield the Sacred
Sword, so that light can once again shine in
their
eyes. That eyes, that they may once again pick up the
banner with the venerated lightning bolt and
fulfill their destiny. For they alone, I believe,
are the guardians of knowing. Being’s seeker.
Its greatest lens.

What am I even saying, “they”? There is no
they.
“they”. For what does the Frenchmen Frenchman and the
German have in common but a heap of corpses at
Verdun? Does the child of America, which is an
extension of Britain, who felt so compelled as to go
to war with her over tea, have anything in common
with its Anglo womb? The British should gnash
their teeth and seek vengeance. I can imagine
them now, burning down the White House again,
much to the American’s chagrin. Would it not be
splendid? Wouldn’t that bring about the super
man? If the Anglo could be compelled into total
war with himself, would it not only allow for a
higher being? Should they not compete to the
death, so as to whittle away the weak? When there
is only one left in the end, then he shall be
crowned master race. Is this not survival of the
fittest? And surely you know, rider, that
survival is everything.

To hell with this European tree. tree! It disgusts me
now. If they were worthy to exist then they would
continue to exist exist, but look at them, rider, my
so-called 'companion'.
so‐called ‘companion’. For they all have
begun to walk hand in hand into the swamp, to die
out like martyrs, in hopes to teach the hope of teaching an
African to read our
grave stones. gravestones. To hell with all
of them. them! I, the Sacred Clown, declare war on the
European
continuum. continuum! But no, that’s not right.
For there is no European continuum. They are There is
merely an array of biological lifeforms,
competing for resources. Finite resources, which
forces on us an axiom of reality. We must destroy
each other! We must compete! But why do we feel
compelled to stop at nations and tribes? For the
nationalist’s bloodlust is milquetoast. We must
seek ever further refinement. Do two brothers
not compete at all times? Are they not mortal
enemies? First they must compete for their
mothers milk. Then they compete for their
father’s affection. Finally they seek love from
the nymphs nymphs, and I swear to you, rider, my
so-called companion,
so‐called ‘companion’, that there will
always be a Helen of Troy. Men will always
disembowel men for access to a womb. Yes, let
every brother engage in a struggle to the death,
like Romulus and Remus. For are we not here to
resurrect Rome?

Who are you, rider? Why have you brought me here
to this place? You knew this forest was haunted
and yet you led me here? To drive me mad? You
dare stand in my way way, and prevent me from finding
the fundamental truth? You are a bastard. A sub-human.
sub‐human. A demon of the highest rank! Let the
world know that I shall run you through with my
dagger, for I have a purpose! I must save the
Aryan! But, now that I think of it, the Aryan no
longer even exists. It was you who killed him,
you lesser man. You filth. You hated him for his
greatness. It was you who back-stabbed back‐stabbed us just
before we touched the stars. It was you who
turned our men weak with your impure blood and
lack of will. Now let us cut one another. Let us
find the master race!

Do you feel it too, rider? Every bump and crash
as we tumble down this hill? Didn’t you know it
would come to this? I’m sure more than one bone
is broken in my body, but my hand still clings on
to the dagger, so that I may deliver its kiss to
your throat and let it claim proclaim me the God-Man. God‐Man.
It is here, in this sacred combat, that we learn
what it means to really live. This is
refinement. I am the lion. You are the gazelle. I
hate you. Finally we meet the ground. Our bodies
lie broken in the ravine. Still, I manage to
stand, for will alone can compel broken limbs to
bend to satisfaction. But you, rider, my so-called
so‐called companion, are weak. You are a lamb.
My prey. Now you feel the cold steel across your
neck. Did you not think that the supreme animal
would win? Was it not obvious? Now let this
forest grow fat off your worthless blood … ...

But then again, I must ask. What if you’re the
master race and I am the sub-human? sub‐human? What if I
seek to defile greatness because I can not stand
being second in the hierarchy of man? What if
this is my slave morality? Am I no better than he
who would wish to gouge out the eye of Being?
Look what I have become. The Sun has slipped
into night. We have lost our way. No tranquility
can be found here, only the murmurings of a
million dead men, who died for nothing. A requiem
for Europe. A great mass mass, perpetually atonal.

Kill me, rider. Now, before I change my mind
again. For was it you or I who led us to this
place? I can no longer remember. Which of us is
the sacred clown, again? Here Here, let me place the
blade on my neck, so that you may press it into
my flesh and deliver to this earth the Over-Man.
Over‐Man. Do it now, rider, my precious
companion, my only friend. Tell me, why do you
hesitate? Do you lack healthy instinct? Suddenly,
I see through your eyes, the face of the little
one from the graveyard. What was her name? Åkerlund? Suddenly, I see through
your eyes, the face of the little one from the
graveyard. Is it her face that answers this
dreadful riddle? What was her name? Åkerlund?
This question that plagues us so? How am I to
know Europe? Can her eyes and smile alone form
lines around what can not be outlined? Yes, of
course, rider, my eternal comrade! It is in her
face! For there, in that moment, when I see her
bright eyes I know she is part of me, even though
I am miles away, still I can feel it! Even if she
was born in Sweden and I in the United States,
still I can feel it, and there is a whole world
in that. There is no systematizing. No genetic
analysis necessary. I simply see her and I know
that she is of my fabric. That nature itself endued
imbued species with the capacity to feel the
world, not just endlessly rationalize it! Rider,
you beautiful bastard, look. look! We have cleared the
forest. Let us carry this good news with us. Let
us tell the other Europeans who wish to fly under
this banner. For we, these the new Romantics who now
walk the earth, Earth, hold a young girl’s face in our
hearts. That We see now that race is a feeling. That
race is a way of being. That race is a purpose! Yes
Yes, the European continuum, continuum – I remember them
again. Those remarkable ones. For I shall
demarcate nothing. I shall not yield to the
scientist, who is the clergy of new. new clergy. I shall not
care if the man of the Analytical world
understands me. For I see her face and I see my
people at once. And for a moment there is no
hesitation. For a moment there is both a race in flux
flux, but also a race that simply is.

Come, let us make way, for not far from here is
my old pub. Remember this, rider, that alcohol
is the European's Europeans’ health potion. For we must
heal after having lost ourselves for so long in
those dreadful woods. There in that old pub, we
will sit with the vile and putrid, the ugly and
the profane. But know this, for there too lies the
mind this: found there, too, are
minds of genius and beautiful rebellion. There
in that tavern, which was the forum of my younger
years, we shall see the condition we find of men of our
rank. There we will heal not only our wounded
bodies, but also the minds of our potential
companions. Now come, we must drink. For drink – for we
have conquered this forest of madness. Despite
the fact that we have lost the Sun today,
tomorrow we will again take up the quest. For
even though we must endure sunset and night, we
will always have dawn, so that with the
reemergence of our beloved star, star we can continue
our endeavour, endeavor, with our eyes transfixed, always on
the horizon.