the opportunity presents itself. You must well remember, that for a Jew…every non-Jew is nothing but an animal! At best he might be amusing, useful, dangerous, or picturesque… Never anything more… 

“The chosen people haven’t yet proceeded to carry out mass executions in our precincts, only the occasional murder. But these matters will not be left to wait much longer. In anticipation of the great spectacle, one works the beast lightly… Or rather by fits and starts, and by changes in direction, according to panics planned in advance… One day they reign him in, the next day they grease his joints, so long as the animal becomes confused, goes berserk and exhausts itself when it gets to the arena…puking, spitting out all of its blood little by little…into the sawdust or in the Stock Exchange… The Jews are licking their lips, they’re enjoying themselves. Once the animal is on its knees it will be put to death, with no resistance possible… 

“How much have our Jews gained through the coup of the Popular Front? …through the three…the four devaluations?… It’s incalculable! Find me a single Minister who has lost even a little money?… Never has a sovereign people shown itself to be so generous, so grandiosely prodigious towards its emancipators!… Where have all of their billions gone? Don’t go looking!… They’re with the other Yids in Switzerland, Geneva, New York, London…in very beautiful real estate…refined tastes on display, in distilleries…in armament works… 

“The Jews aren’t speculating all by themselves! they aren’t gambling without somebody else in the world!… They aren’t the only racketeers… It’s a popular tune. Wealthy Christians are also apparently doing all right for themselves, to a somewhat enormous extent! They are pouncing with the utmost alacrity upon all of the profits of disaster! Of course! Of course!… They’re as big a bunch of jackals as anyone! Only there’s a “catch”… The “native” capitalists’ days are numbered! They are an encumbrance! They are nothing more than animals! They must never forget that! The Jews have not forgotten them… On the eve of the feast they will kill the white men like pigs for a wedding banquet… The white men are burdened with false illusions! They will not attain happiness! They are only hostages! The Jew closes all the gates behind himself as he moves along… No one will escape Destiny. The Jew keeps all of its keys… He tosses some bones around in order to attract, and to rally the most voracious… He will make of them his traitors of the Great Night, his Judas Goats, such as are preserved at La Villette, some painstakingly maintained beasts, always the same, used to entrain the others, the herd, to the knife, the torrent of meat to be killed, bleating, and confusedly juddering with stupidities.” 
 
 

“The Jew is the scourge of Humanity, the enemy of every nation.”

—Fourier 

I never reply to letters. That has eventually come to be known. I receive fewer and fewer of them. They are not a genre which I have taken up. No… No… It’s simply that I do not like letters once and for all, and that I even have a horror of them. I find it indiscreet to be written to. I myself, I write to no one. “References” are my great phobia. Those I decline categorically, out of principle. As for the others, the ordinary letters, my concierge tears them up, she only keeps the stamps for her grandsons… You ask me: “What about your pay?” You can rest well at ease concerning that, it doesn’t come upstairs all alone. I have to go down to look for it. It does not arrive by mail. The remainder is perforce nothing but verbiage. I no longer receive The Argus, Denoël¹ notwithstanding. It

 

costs too much… And when it comes to the articles, I have to swear that those who comment upon your oh-so-beautiful works remain so far removed from the question, truly estranged, that it’s hard not to laugh at them. It’s truly a waste of time, a useless effort. 

The critics, above all in France, are much too vain ever to speak of anything other than their own magnificent selves. They never stay on subject. First of all they are much too stupid. Even they don’t know what it is that they’re trying to do. Seeing them provides a spectacle of great cowardice, as those rotters set themselves into wick-whacky motion, giving themselves a grip deleterious to one’s good health, profiting off of your hapless work, in order to make themselves shine, and strutting before the auditorium, camouflaged, those so-called “critics”! Those sinister shits! It’s a sin! They take pleasure only in puking, and pouncing like foxes all over your pages. I know of some who are writers and even millionaires, who knock off their columns straight away in order to regain their composure, each time that I publish one of my works. That’s the great consolation of their lives…for the profound humiliations, for their “inferiority complex,” as it’s called in psychobabble. 

On the matter of letters, I’ve made one sole exception in favor of Palestine.² Ever since Mea Culpa,³ I have received so many deliveries of letters from Palestine, that my concierge is in revolt. She has asked me what she should do. The Jews have been writing me en masse, from Tel Aviv and elsewhere. And then concerning the tone! in the fury of those rabid rants! enough to set the envelopes afire! They obsess upon Red-White issues,⁴ those ecstatics! Ah! those little Passionists!⁵… (And there you have it!) Ah! how they love the Soviets! That I can vouch for you! If Christians loved their Pope with the same frightful fervor, the Pope would explode, he wouldn’t be able to contain himself… From that enormous crash of insults, that thundering muddle, that unbridled cursing, from those delirious anathemas, something stood out despite all, above that extreme cacophony, of overcharged hatreds, a certain tonic refrain, …an air of the conqueror’s trumpet, well-known, quite Jewish…the call that brings them all together, that makes them all march forward together in file, that gathers them body and soul into the great Universal struggle, and which air they call the “Sozial”… Their great alibi, their great hallali.⁶ All of these “heroes” of Judea, all more-or-less anonymous, vomit upon me in German. After several pages of intensive diatribe, they nearly all wind up with some formulaic expression of this sort: “Du! Dümenkopf! wirst du nimmer doch Sozial denken?”! (You! Dummy! don’t you ever think in a “social” context?)… “Sozial denken!” To think “socially”! Here you have that ferocious hobbyhorse, the great charger of the entire Hymie race! in all of the Hymie invasions and devastations. To think “sozial”! which in practice would be better said, in blunt terms: “To think Jewish! for the Jews! by the Jews, under the Jews!” Nothing else! All of that immense surplus of words, that humming scientifico-humanistico-socialistic verbiage, all of that cosmic wild-goose-chasing⁷ of the Jewish despotic imperative⁸ is nothing but wheezy confused gibberish, an illusory cloak, an oriental sauce for those ass-reamed Aryans, a rotten terminological fricassee for the adulation of the “effeminized white men,” crawling drunks, and untouchables, who’ll stick their dicks into what-have-you, in order to mystify themselves, and to stuff themselves unto starvation. 

*…*…*…*…* 

“Sozial denken,” this will be explained in a more explicit way once the revolution has been made, thoroughly made, successful, with the natives well-bloodied, immobilized, rounded-up, put into boots, and with the arrival atop our heads of a new influx of at least a million bureaucrats, replete with kids, concubines, beggars, henchmen, dervishes, and their

 

lepers, their curved knives, their hashish peddlers, and all of that poxy caravansary of the Asiatic hordes. 

Upon the first triumphal hurrahs heralding the “emancipation of the masses,” no sooner will they hear them, but that they’ll jump up, begin moving about, and then pour down upon France like a waterspout, everywhere, given the very least rumors. Upon the signal that “The Beast is dead!”… They’ll let Tel-Aviv fall… They’ll take flight from Kamchatka… They’ll stream out of Silesia…out of the depths of Bessarabia…from the borders of China, from the Ukrainian mucks, from the Indian Isles, from all of the sewers of America… They’ll pullulate along every route like rats. They’ll rush forth by the tens of thousands… They’ll be pouring in…they’ll be overflowing… Charles Martel never saw the like!… These are the exact same kinds of people that are currently looting us and bloodying us up, let alone the ones who are just thinking of coming over. There’ll be such a rush, such a ferocious stampede for all of the goodies, that there will be some “collapsing-in of the earth” along the frontiers where they pass through. They will charge forth so thickly, with such density, between Dunkirk and the Riviera, that one will be unable actually to see either road or highway. 

I will predict to you, that it is as it is written, the mother of the Apostles is not dead. The world is still full of martyrs, down there in their dugout cells, who are just dying with the desire to liberate us, and then to be “entitled” through the power of that same dawn to functions none-too-fatiguing, in one Ministry or another, with a retirement.  Never have such Apostles ever been seen, as we have in our day, with retirements. In this respect the Common Front is only one little installment, one little advance into the Jewish future… 

The Jewish future will concern itself with everything. It already concerns itself with everything… With the popular arts among other things, and that with a great deal of solicitude… The popular arts take an eminent place in the well-noted “Sozial”… 

One evening, overtaken by restlessness, I decided to go down into one of those “Cultural” bars, in order to take an accounting of things, to see what was going on! To see what our cultural renovators, once they had “liberated” us, were going to do in the popular arts… 

Things were not to transpire in a jocular vein, I was assured from the beginning, given a quick look at the faces, and at their “impassioned” gestures… I had thus gone down into that cave,⁹ a little “Sorbonne for Martyrs,” on the rue de Navarin, one a little more Jewish than the others. I have a penchant towards oracularity, for bullshitting to my great pleasure, concerning “visions,” rather than for meeting Semites per se, which grew with each step that I took, but by my faith of a wanker! I swear! that I’d never seen so many Jews in such a small place, than in that Cultural bar, confined, smoking, and that I’d never seen so many bureaucrats, high bureaucrats, understudy bureaucrats, and so many Legion of Honor recipients, so many Apostles crammed together in a basement, shouting into the curling smoke, to the extent that I believe that I was the only Aryan at that reunion of fanatics. I had trepidation. 

And how messianic they were! Fuzzy-Wuzzy! four-eyed! anathematizing! And how frenetic about redemption! shit! They had modern art up the wazoo…you should have seen how they fidgeted, how they jerked around in those unfortunate chairs! And then they became hectic, trampling, enough to bring down the ceiling itself, like rats jammed together down in the hold, during the course of a fumigation, that’s how they appeared. The way that they were arguing amongst themselves in that den reminded me of Harlem, and “Father Divine”… 

 

A wee little black man, of the village parson type, I remember him very well, encamped upon the stage, dominating the bacchanal, shouting above the din of the disputants, and I can still see his placards of himself, immense, larger than his real visage, he was something of a Charlie Chaplin character,¹⁰ but a sinister, salvationistic and railing Charlie Chaplin character.     

It was a matter of painting, such was the subject of the controversy…the “sozial” future of painting… And then it took on a vindictive and even tragic dimension, I kid you not! It wasn’t a laughing matter… He was in the process of bringing the “Licorice” to a boil…tearing apart a victim for “crucifixion” paralyzed with fear, in order to convince them, in contending with them. “You ain’t no vanguard mural painter!” he roared… “You ain’t no vanguard mural painter! You don’ know nothin’! ’bout de derection ob Rebolushuns! You ain’t no vanguard mural painter! You ain’t no vanguard mural painter! Comrades!” He was drawing special attention to somebody named Wirbelbaum…some Wirbelbaum lost in the depths of the smoke, in a cloud, in a terrible whirlwind of gesticulations… 

“You, Wirbelbaum, I’s gonna tell you sumpin’…do you know what you is, Wirbelbaum?…” 

“Lay it out! nom de dieu! lay it out!…” 

“You…you…is a painter what need’ a ‘eezel’!…” 

Where was that Wirbelbaum? 

“Ah! Ah! Ah!…” he was choked with anger upon hearing that…he was having an apoplectic fit…the words no longer came to him… He had become mad…to have heard insults of the like!… Wirbelbaum was nearsighted, enough to make his eyeballs pop from their sockets as he sough out his nemesis… He couldn’t make out the direction of the stage. He replied towards the back end of the other side of the hall… Father Divine continued working the Licorice, even bringing it to incandescence… He was in holy trance… 

“Wirbelbaum! You ain’t no vanguard mural painter! …you’s backwards! Wirbelbaum! you ain’t got de ‘sozial’ instinc’ ob de Rebolushun ob de masses! …you ain’t never goin’ t’ unnerstan’! never unnerstan’ nothin’! I’s gonna tell you Wirbelbaum dat you, you is a painter! ob de genner ob Fragoonard!¹¹ Fragoonard! dat need’ a eesel! a painter wif’ a eesel! Wirbelbaum! Pictoral propaganda! Real ideolozhical propaganda! you don’ unnerstan’ nuttin’ ’bout it! you don’ unnerstan’ nuttin’ ’bout it!…” The Jewish Cultural dignitaries, such as Cassou the grand Poet-Inspector-Poorest-of-the-Poor (one hundred thousand francs per year), nonetheless dish-out the payola behind the Office… 

Wirbelbaum, his friends having pivoted him around to face the stage, was hopping mad, in a meltdown, so that it was necessary to hold him back, to box him in by getting their hands on him, applying force… Wirbelbaum was no longer recognizable…he wanted to leap onto the platform…to tear down the other “vanguard” work… 

“Fragoonard! Fragoonard!” he railed into the haze… “Ah! the liar!… Ah! the shit pile!…” He thought up some more insults… They came to him more naturally than did the enunciations…the foamings…the asides… 

 

[80]

“Considered as a nation, the Jews are the exploiters par excellence of the labors of other men.”

– Bakunin

 

But as for myself, I told that imbecile, I did! that I’m not a reactionary! not one single hair of me! not for a minute! I’m not a fascist! unconditionally! They are always taking you for what you aren’t! as Talmudists! as obfuscators! as triple-entry operators like themselves! But not at all! I myself want nothing better than to share! I myself have never asked for anything more! There! my four bits are on the table! Without hesitation! and all of it was well-earned! I swear to you…in the forty-third year of his life!¹²… Not in any way extorted from the people. He’s never touched a single penny that he hadn’t earned a hundred and twenty times over! His education was obtained on the job, Ferdinand, under one boss or another…you know what I’m talking about…as part of the scam before the War… Not born into the bourgeoisie…has never spent an hour in high school…went straight from grammar school to the streets!… I know you well, little man!… Time to get a move on, proud little fellow!… He’s worked since the age of twelve!… Twenty-two different bosses, Sir, twenty-two… All of them kicked him back out the door!… But he had two or three other ones besides! …maybe even four for good measure… Who took great pains to keep him on the straight and narrow… They considered him troublesome… Ferdinand did have his habits. Like all poor people, he had been sold on over to the bosses since before he was born… He always, Ladies and Gentlemen, had to steal! to redeem! his life back, from one day to the next! …bit by bit…trying to seem like all the others…one slave in the galley… Working for the monkeys on one hand, and for his own personal good on the other…while being quite careful that no one know about it!… He hid himself away amongst the outbuildings, boning up for the general examinations [81] with a deadly earnestness… Let me tell you how it was… His brethren of class were vicious insofar as they tried to liberate him, they were worse than any of the bosses, with their envy, their pusillanimity, and their gall… First came undergraduate studies…then medical school…and then finally the writing of the Journey,¹³ if that means anything to you…but not by those pathways, I assure you, which go through Bureaucratic channels. He always had to claw, to ransom back his life, Ferdinand, from one little reprieve to another…from one day to the next…using a hundred thousand tricks…and dint of luck… I had to steal back my life…and even then I’m never free… They come to me each morning in order to take some of it back…that which remains of it…it’s a regular thing… When these featherweights come in, and I have to listen to their incredible ordeals, their frightful adventures!… Putain de dieu! it makes me turn red with anger!… Superficial little flat crabs! If only I were willing to engage in small talk… What papers I could show! What passports I’ve brought back from the Bath… Eh! well it’s all the same to me, Sir!… I’m fully willing to lay everything on the table. But only if there is to be “absolute” sharing. Nothing else! and by example! absolute! I’ll repeat it right now!… As for myself I feel communistic without an atom of ulterior motive! “As you can see I’m more and more communistic with each passing day! today more so than yesterday and much less than tomorrow…” Do you recognize that jingle? Well then the whole world does! all together now… I insist! no exceptions! …none whatever! without respite! …not one false note! not one pause for that great choir! I feel communistic in my every fiber! in my every bone! the entire barbecue! and that’s not the case when it comes cheaply! 

That which is called Communism in well-advanced circles is a great reassurance-cache, the most highly perfected system of parasitism of any age…admirably guaranteed by the absolute serfdom of the global proletariat…the Universalism of the

 

Slaves…under the Bolshevik system, a super-fascist farce, an internationalist superstructure, the greatest armored strong-box that has ever been conceived, compartmentalized, riveted, and soldered together using our guts, for the greater glory of Israel, the ultimate defense of the eternal pillaging Kike, and the tyrannical apotheosis of delirious Semites!… Salute!… For that truly! …not for Moloch! I just don’t feel like it! …to enable still other mad half-niggers a thousand times as bad, as incompetent, as chattering, a thousand times as criminal as those which are going to lose! So many super-Béhanzins… No way!… Why do it?… But if it were a question of true communism, of the sharing of all of the world’s goods and sufferings on the basis of the strictest egalitarianism, then I would be for it more than anyone… I no [82] longer need to be agitated, to be catechized…to be bothered. I am ready, so be on your guard… I am the most sharing person that you’ll ever know…and I’d let you share my bills, so that it wouldn’t cost so much for me to live… Communism such as you’d want, but without the Jews, never with the Jews. Let us recall a few events: Monsieur Gide, completely impassioned with narrative lacunae, torturous scruples and delicate syntactical scruples, was still wondering whether to embugger that little Bedouin, having already established some dirty practices over the course of that fine period of the Voyage¹⁴… I didn’t have to attain the age of eighty years¹⁵ before discovering social inequality. At the age of fourteen I had the concept fixed well in mind, once and for all. I had had a taste of the thing…I didn’t need to read about it in order to know it.¹⁶ If I may be permitted to note (forgetfulness now being in style) that before, during and after the Voyage the writers of the Left, officially-designated, officially-favored and raised on high,¹⁷ rubbed themselves raw, here, there, and everywhere, in order to impart to us something much better still, in that “implicitly communist” direction… The intention was most laudable, perfectly honest… But where are the promised masterpieces?… Everybody had been drawn together, here, there, and everywhere. And how thoroughly they had been harangued! Enormously pontificated! how the skeptics had been fought! judged! afflicted! and cut to pieces… According to the ideological paradigm. What a massacre! And then completely carried away by apostolicity, maintaining that there’s nothing else worth seeing, that it’s too admirable to contemplate! how well the minds of millions of people were preconditioned! Amazed, exhilarated, and exhausted! by the sides of those stages! before all of those geniuses so radiant and powerful! 

How thoroughgoingly the critics have crawled! how wholeheartedly they anticipated, praised, trumpeted, and rolled the drum for these little pieces of shit! for the least little peeping hatchling, the least little vinegary pinworm fallen from the asses of these geniuses… What a roll of the drums just to salute the falling onto paper of those most pathetic of worthless turds! What a dirty deal done with fanfare! 

Where then are the promised masterpieces? I don’t see anything ’round about, off in the deserts of Promise other than so many heaps of bowing and scraping…all wearing through clear to the cord… With what cosmic effrontery is one pressed from pink to red! to white! to a “superego” more than red!… With a poor “ego,” by nature so lukewarm… 

This could be one of the great comic motifs of the era, the spiritual deconstruction of the writers (whether playwright or novelist) of the Left… [83] The soul has not followed, not at all! the doctrine, the overall hypocrisy. In this regard its failure is total… The communist soul isn’t expressing itself anywhere…not in any of these books trumpeted with such crash and thunder…for one excellent reason, that being that they emanate from individuals, their creators, all of whom are completely bourgeois, at heart and in intention, passionately intimate with bourgeois ideals. They possess only the “skeletal doctrine” of communism, the folderol, all that comes from foolish premises… Ah! it’s not easy to give birth to music on command! the test of ability! 

 

Where are the promised masterpieces?… I posed the question, without malice, believe me, to Mr. Orlov, the Director of the State Publishing House in Leningrad. Mr. Orlov possesses the most frightening, the most deeply-lined visage of an executioner that I could discover in this city, where a sinister bearing is enormously serviceable. Next to Mr. Orlov, Mr. Deibler, with whom I am somewhat familiar, would take on a benign, accommodating and pusillanimous air.   

“Where are the promised masterpieces?…” 

“They are coming!…” he replied to me, very engagingly, as is his manner… 

“They will not be coming out, Mister Orlov, I don’t believe, I no longer believe…” 

“And why not?…” 

“Because your authors are not very Communistic…they are rather bourgeois…and somewhat servile to boot…” 

Our interview came to an end upon these words…a singular occurrence. 

If tomorrow, for the sake of argument, the Krauts became king… If Hitler with his little mustaches were to approach me, I would rail on just as I do today under the Jews… Exactly the same. But if Hitler were to say to me: “Ferdinand! It’s the great repartition! Everything is to be shared!” He would be my buddy! The Jews promised to share, and they lied like they always do… Hitler doesn’t lie to me like the Jews do, he doesn’t tell me that I’m his brother, he tells me that “might makes right”: This is something very clear, and I know where I’ll stand, Either I’ll make myself reliable, or I’ll get lost… With the Jews it’s all gooey…all machinations…insinuations…coquetry…gossip, mutual back-scratching…feedback, sweetmeats… One no longer knows what one is putting into one’s mouth, whether it’s a dick or a candle… All told, it’s a form of Freemasonry… A Revolution? …but I’m most favorable! No one is more egalitarian than I!… I am a child of Robespierre when it comes to the matter of being suspicious… And what of privilege?… But [84] I’ve never had any! I become impassioned… He who hasn’t given everything hasn’t given anything at all… That’s my hard-and-fast motto. The “Man of Means” is as dead as “Credit”!¹⁸ Who wants to try it? into the bath then! And all together! The high functionaries are in the same boat, and have the same menu as the baker! gi! No more of having one guy go on foot, and the other guy on a bike. No more of giving ten bucks to one guy, and a thousand to the other… You are going to tell me, concerning the aforementioned things, that it’s all a bunch of talk, that Ferdinand is still running off at the mouth… That’s okay! That’s okay!… I’ll admit it. I am going to give you some precise details, in just a minute! …to cite for you some facts, some circumstances, and I am going to be brief, up-to-date and relevant, I don’t want to bore you, you tell me if I’ve been lying… 

When the Transatlantic liner “Columbie” put in at Leningrad, the Soviet authorities, as is the customary practice, went to great expense for the sake of the crew…there would be only a few hours in which to bring these “class brothers,” retarded by “soporific bourgeois mentalities,” up to an enthusiastic temperature…to the point of being able to cry out “all power to the Soviets!”¹⁹ Everything had to be done immediately and on the double! in order to make themselves admired during those several hours of shore leave…everything that the city and the regime had to offer, which would be the most exciting and the most revelatory to proletarian hearts. Autobus…tour…re-tour…churches…visits…revisits…re-autobus…indoctrination everywhere…lectures…finally something to eat… At the telephone manufactory the pilgrims were stupefied by an avalanche of technical explanations…“dazzling them with the

 

details” was a large part of that fine program… Visit finally over, meeting with the director. 

A brief, cheerful lecture by the director, translated by a Jewish policeman acting as our interpreter-guide… “While going through our workshops you have seen, dear comrades, that here our comrade workers work in a spirit of contentment, happiness, purposefulness and security, ‘Let there be joy!’²⁰ These here are not the overworked, fearful slaves such as you have in your factories in the West! Here, workers, engineers, foremen, directors, all are equal, everyone is pulling in the same direction with enthusiasm and perfect equality towards the construction of world socialism…which is the same task as that of international emancipation! …etc.! …etc.!… In conclusion, comrades, should any one of you have the desire to ask a question of the comrade director, he would be more than happy to answer you in all candor.” 

One member of our crew: 

“Would you ask comrade director how much a worker in his factory makes on average?” 

[85] “From two hundred to three hundred rubles per month” (a pair of shoes costs two hundred and fifty rubles, rent ninety rubles…etc. …etc.…) 

Another sailor cavils: 

“And the comrade director, how much does he make, per month?…” 

A little awkwardness…some consultation…whisperings between colleague-director and colleague-interpreter… 

The director (in Russian): 

“Okay! okay then! …tell them fifteen hundred rubles…” 

The interpreter:  

“The director would like to tell you that he makes twelve hundred rubles per month.” 

Then he became guarded in speech, stammering, being both enthusiastic and befuddled: 

“But here, comrades, doesn’t the worker enjoy some enormous advantages, as I have noted for you several times, in that the workers are not as they are in your country, forever attached to ever more onerous tasks…here they pass through the subordinate levels of employment but one time! they rise! they rise! they all rise through the ranks! each comrade worker could become the director in his turn! every one of them!…” 

The director (somewhat nervously): 

“Make sure to tell them that I used to be a worker myself…” 

The interpreter (going the director one better): 

 

“The Director would like to tell you that formerly he used to be a sailor himself! just like yourselves!…” 

No more of a sailor than there’s butter on the bottom…but 10,500 rubles per month plus being a Party Member… No more beneficial to the workers than the Sahara is to minnows. 

I have given you this little cascade of overrated frauds for the sake of example. Multiply this brief account by some three million cases, to include all Party members and the cousins of Party members, and you will possess something a wee bit closer to the truth, concerning things Russian.

[86]

“Jehovah has always been the God who liked the smell of charred flesh (Exodus 29:25), whose anger Man perpetually had to appease with offerings of blood. Though he was deprived of human flesh, animals were sacrificed unto him in such abundance that the Temple of Jerusalem became the most colossal butchery that has ever existed.”

(Charles Picard, The History of Sacrifices) 

War for the sake of the bourgeoisie has already proven shitty enough, but now the war will be for the sake of the Jews! I cannot find any adjectives which are of sufficient sliminess, of sufficient megatonnage²¹ in diarrhœic propensity, in the decay of a ripening corpse, so as to illustrate for you just what this signifies: War for the pleasure of the Jews! Such would truly be to gobble-up their gangrene, their very worst buboes. I cannot think of any humiliation that could possibly be worse than getting yourself destroyed for the Kikes. I can see nothing more ignoble, more infamous. 

It’s not just a question of dying, it’s a question of being the very lowest, stupidest, most retarded pollywog that has ever been screwed under the skullcap²² of all the Heavens… Just what do the Jews want? behind their socialistico-communistic blather? Their demagogic carnival? That whole infernal swindle? just what do they want? That we go get ourselves killed for them, that arms for their sake be taken up again by us, and that it will be us, we, who will go to be made to dance like marionettes before Hitler’s machine guns. Nothing else!… The very Idea! as they call it, is phantasmagorical, a dirtier trick than the pucelage of the Holy Virgin!… For century after century men have been sent out to be eviscerated for the sake of such Jewish-influenced causes as the Holy Virgin's pucelage, or the Pope’s balls! don’t laugh!… The causes for which the Jews are currently able to push us towards the firing line are similarly null, similarly stupid. As for Communism, they themselves don’t believe in it! they’ve never believed in it… The Jews agitate, propagandize, [87] and commit aggression in the name of their very greatest Ideas, using the guts of their goyish dogs… It should first of all be asked of the Jews, that they sacrifice their own guts first of all! in person…before committing ours. That all of them go get killed first, and after that we’ll see… Perhaps then the Idea will germinate within the Jewish cadaver… That it is in this way that they can prove themselves to be martyrs, real martyrs, and not in words only. The Jews are always committing to the future, while having confidence only in the present… It is in the present that they are feasting upon our stupidity, upon our credulity in the form of an Einsteinian Universe of billions of years of night. These messiahs, these emaciated apostles make no contact with the Spirit, nor enter into any spiritual intercourse, save with the assistance of the very greatest comfort… Don’t be confused! Luxuries and the good life come first! Absolutely. The only thing which will ultimately

 

come from either the Hitlerian or the Judeo-Mongolian crusade, is to divide the slaves between two quite competitive boutiques… Any non-Jew who descends into the arena will surely be left in the barbecue, and will never again emerge. He’s a dog, at best, he’ll get a bone! anything more would be in bad taste!… Never an ounce of charity!… The Jewbies came out the big winners, in the last round of bourgeois folly in ’14 –’18!… Poincaré, Viviani, Ribot, Millerand, Clemenceau: crafty crackpots, high maniacs, imbeciles, perverted puppets, gutter lackeys, hateful, sell-outs, and Jewish salable commodities, salted Jewish meats, geezers drunk on the taste of death, cranks with rotted-out prostates, they tolerated the Hecatombs, those fanatics of the butcheries, in the unique hope, the miraculous balm for those cadavers in suspense, that not a single youth would return from them alive. Half of France was massacred, the youngest, the most virile, in order to revivify the lower tracts of four anatomical orifices. What’s got to be done, has got to be done! Glory! All of the great vampires live a hundred years! And the next one will be even better! yet again more implacable, much more consummate, more bloody, more torrential, and that will finish-off the herd. The hatred of the Jews for the animals which we are is of such virulence, of such an unbroken, concentrated ardor, that we are to be tossed, burnt, skinned, and blasted to pieces alive, in the machine-gun fire, in the blink of an eye… 

The masses will always idolize Shit, whether it be in music, in painting, in speech, in war or on the stage. Imposture is the goddess of the crowd. Had I been born dictator (had God so pleased) several droll things would have transpired. I know for certain that the people have no need for a Revolution, nor for ten Revolutions… [88] What they need is to give themselves over to ten years of silence and water! have them disgorge all of the excess alcohol which they have drunk and the words which they have heard since ’93.²³… As things stand they are irreparable! The people are so imbued with Masonic garbage and cheap wine, and have guts in such a state of Judaization and cirrhosis that they crumble to pieces inside these Jewish lapdogs, under the impetus of the loudspeakers.   

During the time of my dictatorship, I shall so enervate my “native bourgeoisie,” I shall make them learn such good manners, that they will come to miss the Commune, the Jesuits, the Incas, the Huns, and suicide by wild beasts.  But our bourgeois are now “Passé”! They no longer mean very much!… Having always been the quartermasters for the Jews, they have been destroyed through insecurity, they crumple in fear into the seats of their pants. They no longer even know where to place their poop,²⁴ such is their haste to betray themselves, to sell themselves out, for fear of “not betraying themselves thoroughly enough.” They’d have themselves made up like Abyssinians, they’d have their nostrils changed over, in order to have the Kikes reinstall them, tolerate them in the new order a little bit longer, and not deprive them of their “Accommodations” straight-away. They were born in treason, they will die the same way…in the arbitration of stuff and in the stuff for arbitration²⁵… I often wonder which is more disgusting, a well flattened shit of a Jew, or a completely upright French bourgeois…which is the most foul? I truly cannot decide. 

It can be seen that the next war will be along three fronts at the same time, and what obstacles! formidable ones! not little! but giant! I wish you all well and good! children of the Heroes! sons of the Gauls!… Germany! Spain! Italy! Those who know how to dig, will dig! Never have there been such trenches, so deep! so broad! so long! filled with so many men at one time! For the immense glory of Israel! for the Masonic Ideal! For the vengeance of the little Jews turned out of their comfortable situations in Germany!… For the glory of the Stock Exchange! of Exchange Rates and of Commerce!²⁶ and of Meats! For the fresh and joyous arrival of the millions of good Kikeish looters that

 

we are still needing, and who are consumed with impatience in the misery of the ghettos!… 

Native Frenchmen, have a bit of courage! Don’t go on sleeping like that!… Do you want to become degenerates? In that divine instant, admirably awaited, you will remember your knightly traditions! a  Frenchman has never blinked for a single second when it came to the defense of the Homeland! Good blood does not know how to lie! Warrior’s blood!  The Frenchman [89] has rectitude only under fire! What a soldier! Bayard! Murat! La Tour d’Auvergne! Présent! Attack the Germanic hordes! Those frightful massacrers of Jews! The “Internationale”! yes! but only with the Russians! attention! the Judeo-Mongols. Make no mistakes! do not leave Yubelkrantz waiting!… Lisok, Levy, and Rosenbaum are depressed, those unhappy fellows, over there, they suffer, they are in pain…while you remain chit-chatting before the gate to the mass grave… So what are you waiting for, you bunch of cowards? You can depart this world without worry…you will promptly be replaced at your jobs, in your homes and in your beds…ten for the price of one!… As for your wives, they ask only that you go, I must say! they are as impatient for you to take to the Gare de l’Est²⁷ as are Lizok, Levy, and Yubelkrantz…to push you towards the front… Woman is a born traitorous dog…just like the Jew is a born crook… Women, particularly in France, are just mad for Fuzzy-Wuzzies, for Abyssinians, whose naughty bits will surprise you! These chaps are so depraved, so affectionate! They understand women so well!… Ah! the Orient!…it’s different!…you cuckolds of the trenches, you poor “kosher” meat! you will not be forgotten! you will be undertaken, snapped-up, swallowed, and assimilated into the Jewish Victory… Pensions will be arranged for your very consenting widows!… They will have a great time with your bones… They will go in busses to admire the sites where you were knocked-out for the Jews, they will dance on your graves, your dear wives with their Jews. They will come to your mass graves, and piss-away a Sunday, shoving your martyrdom back up your ass. Such will be the afterlife, and the remembrance! To your health, buddy!… England an ally? my ass! Yet another notable tin cot! They will go soft this time I assure you…even softer than last time… They risk much more… A year for mobilization…one more year for basic training… We will already be maggots by the time the first Oxford homos debark in Flanders! …the pretty Whiskey Home Fleet will spill out over an expectant Atlantic… The Jews are the kings of the City lest we forget²⁸…it’s one of their supreme citadels along with Wall Street and Moscow… It won’t see much destruction…you can well be certain… Anticipations! many anticipations, a formidable “wait and see”… The Jews, the Jewish House of Lords, the magnates of England, they will do nothing precipitate this time… They have sent some airplanes...some generals have lunched with Maurois…and have had a little discussion with the Ministry concerning a tunnel beneath the Channel… 

[90] But in this cosmic corrida,²⁹ we are the ones who will be footing the tab…it is our country, well designated as the most corrupt, the most decadent in Europe…which must cover all of the costs… Costs! which I understand as being our flesh…our gizzards…those of us goyim! and ultimately our bankroll… 

In the Balkans, the English Jews have arranged to send (or as we would say, transfer) Bank³⁰ gold, Czechs, and the Intelligence Service. The maladroit braves of Oxford, those delicate eccentrics, are giving themselves to demonstrations and conferences… They are militating at Trafalgar for the conscription of the unemployed³¹… But over here Bidart, Brodin du Puy-de-Dôme, Lacassagne, Vandeput and Kersuzon will generously supply all of the guns and all of the guide-wires for the Firing Range… With them there is no joking! no funny faces. It will all be arranged

 

in one day! They won’t just be making like they’re doing something! They won’t be going to conferences. They shall deliver some bayonets, some gut, and I assure you, some grenades, and some heart… For them everything is a matter of war, no debate is possible…throughout the entire length and breadth of the country… And as for the Jews? Our fanatical liberators? …where will they be going? …our frenetic, excellent Hymies? …our rats?³² …our adorable naturalized citizens?… Eh what? …“too old, too slow, too fat, too nearsighted, too cross-eyed, flatfooted, hypertensive, uremic”… The winds of glory pass them by, they are too fragile and too precious…in short deferred…at best…as stretcher-bearers…at worst: into the General Headquarters…“something” in the way of being the sort who are often inspectors of the lowly troops…also very frequently interpreters…officers close to the General who relay the orders for the butchery…often by telephone… What must be done must be done!… 

Gutman said to me just the other day: 

“You will see then, Ferdinand! You don’t know the Frenchies very well! One blow on the bugle and hop! they’re off! They gather together as though they were a single man!… And then they are chest forward! superb! prepared for the enemy…” 

That’s quite so… That describes Bidasse³³… It also describes Lidoire and Vandenput, and another ten million just like them who are going to go get themselves killed for the Kike! (two out of every three men killed in the War³⁴ was a peasant, and only one in 1,300 was Jewish…). Gutman was quite right. It will take only two weeks of radio, press and fanfare to get them all rolling along, well-intoxicated, to get themselves minced to pieces in the barrages, it’s a childishly simple mechanism… Bidasse, Guignon, Miraillé, La Goumette, [91] and two million more, you are overloading the body wagon already! you’re already in the great salting-house… But it is necessary all the same that you don’t fidget…that would be too inconvenient for too many people… 

As for myself, if I were dictator (this is decidedly a mania), I would pass one more law…one more and it’ll be the last… You should have figured that I’d know the proper means for pacifying and clarifying, without delay, the international diplomatic atmosphere… Here are the terms of my ordinance: in three short simple articles… 

1º. As of the declaration of war, all of the Jews of this territory, between the ages of seventeen and sixty years, including all half- and quarter-Jews, mixed-breeds, the husbands of Jewesses, and Freemasons, shall be attached, exclusively, to combat infantry units, in the front line. No sort of infirmity, or reason for discharge or deferral, shall be deemed valid for a Jew or an assimilated immigrant. Soldiers of this sort can never be allowed, under any circumstances, to rise above the rank of captain.  

2º. No other assignment can be given to a Jew, neither that of doctor, nor stretcher-bearer, nor artillery gunner, nor sapper, nor secretary, nor aviator, nor political commissar, nor quartermaster, nor chauffeur, nor camouflage expert, nor orderly, all in adherence to the principle that any retreat by even twenty meters from the line of fire will become a convenient refuge for the Jew, an open opportunity to work-up his acquaintances, and the first step back towards the encampment, the rue de Grenelle, the Lodges, and the airwaves…

 

3º. Any infraction of these articles will be punished by death, without discussion, or dissent. 

Thus, every Jew to the front line! no foolish ideas, and no foot-dragging! for the entire duration of the war! No privileges will be allowed. Jewish wounded will not be evacuated from the military zone… The will die if need be in the military zone… They will fertilize the military zone. One must be mistrustful of the Jews, even when they are dead. 

As far as the Soviets are concerned, it’s already war!… Very well… So be it! …if the adventure turns out badly, which is wholly entirely probable, then our Jews must not be allowed to stand clear of it. They must be made to pay all of the costs, they must be made to taste it down to the bitter dregs. They must be made into hostages, immediately, it should already have been done, in order that they be made to guarantee with their own skins that human emancipation of which they are forever speaking. It will be seen how well this works out.  

[92] Insofar as the Jews are our masters, insofar as they represent the Salt of the Earth, the Light unto This World, Insofar as it is they who must render this earth habitable, well then, now’s the time to begin! Everyone to the front line! Nom de Dieu! and no slacking! This is the time for them to treat us, and I want to see them enlighten me, in the front line! Render the front lines more habitable. Now there’ll be a marvelous spectacle: the most beautiful Jewish theater that you’ll have ever seen. 

That would be a fine way to die! Not one to wait naïvely for a sign, I promise to raise the curtain personally, and to remain there for as long as it takes in order finally to watch all of the Hymies mount the parapet, so as to admire that sport most splendid, and in order finally to see Mr. Blum cease his idle chatter, and the “Benda Brothers” mount the charge, breaking with us out of spite, with a thousand bayonets in the ass! 

[93]

“Wars and revolutions are harvests for the Jewish people.”

– Disraeli, Prime Minister of England.  

Total population of France: 40 million.

Jews and mixed-Jewish: 2 million.

Total wealth of France: 1 trillion (francs), of which 750 billion belong to the Jews.

Frenchmen mobilized (WWI): 8,400,000.

Jews mobilized (WWI): 45,000.

Frenchmen killed: 1,750,000 (1 out of 5 (mobilized)).

Jews killed: 1,350 (1 out of 33 (mobilized)). 

Declaration of the Grand Rabbi. 

In order to be completely precise, let us look at the figures, During the War of ‘14-’18: 1,350 Jews killed, Jews to Frenchmen—this represents a ratio of one Jew per 1,300 Frenchmen

 

killed…(1,750,000 dead)… This 1/1,300^th of the fatalities, I myself believe, represents exactly the extent to which rights should be extended to the Jews on our territory. 

I would gladly grant the Jews 1/1,300^th of the right to practice in every profession, such as medicine, for example, in which we have about 30,000 French practitioners…very good! …we would accept 23 Jews as colleagues. I’d be delighted! …that is a normal figure…absolutely sufficient! …But it amounts to nothing in France, in which there are about 8,000 established Jewish doctors…is it not so?…  

[94]

“The entire world is governed by 300 Israelites, whom I know.”

—Rathenau,³⁵ Jew, Minister in German Government 

“One Jew per firing position,” that will be my motto in the next war. First a Jew and then a Freemason…In essence the truly interested parties, the pretenders to inheritances, the practitioners of power. Above all it will not be difficult to accommodate everyone…it is not as though there are not enough firing positions between Dunkirk and the Bay of Biscay. In this respect it would be child’s play! …enough to delight the entire party! …there are enough for all the Lodges, and for the most hidden-away synagogues. 

My modest decree on Jewish mobilization, you see, despite its ever-so-slight facetiousness, is not simply a minor burlesque… Well-understood, well-accepted, and well-assimilated by our Hymies, it could deliver results which would completely surprise you…completely precious and providential, allowing us to avoid, along with all flesh, the most enormous mass-grave of the ages…it needs only to be put into effect…it is already raising a hue and cry outside of our front doors…Participation most certain (just as the Jews are returning more and more determinedly to their “tendency towards crime”…) 

You would see come about as though by magic, a current, what am I saying? some invincible, furious gales, some veritable cyclones of pacifist demonstrations! crossing all boundaries! it would rain down as thick as turtledoves!… 

Miraculous rapprochements between enemies since “the depths of time” would be worked-out without delay… They would be sought-out in order to be embraced…from one end of the universe to the other… As soon as the cook [95] can be convinced that it is he himself, personally, who is going to wind up in his broth, he will no longer be striking any matches… 

“My dear lobster! my dear lobster!” he cries out, he’s become tenderized… He understands… From that moment on, we would certainly be hearing a lot less about the Russians, and the great Judeo-Tatar alliances, so imperative, and absolutely indispensable to our happiness…to the liberation of our spirits. Once the Jews come to realize, and to realize absolutely, that it’s their guts that’ll be used in the fabrication of the blood sausage of battle, they will discover right away that these “Alliances” are most frightful… Once it becomes necessary to pay via the barbecuing of himself, even the most frenetic “Risk-All” will come to question himself… I assure you that they will discover some original compromises for the resolution of the Problem of Social Justice… Going chicken comes easily to the Jews. The Russians³⁶ will be abruptly left to fall, back into their Barbarism! …into their Mongolic night… In every

 

corner of the Universe, through the effect of one magic wish, it would suddenly be discovered, that the Asiatics really are impossible, insufferable! defecatory…guano-eating, puking Mongoloids, whose frightful like should never have been allowed to entertain us…who ought to be kicked-out promptly, so that they may go make themselves into bricks on the far side of the Great Walls… Kirghizes, Manchus, Papaoutjans!³⁷ The only conversation which would be going on any longer between the Apostles³⁸ in the cultural clubs would be of Scandinavia… Of the Norwegian miracles… The collaboration of classes will be studied in detail…the consensualistic trade unions. There would no longer be any talk about interventions, or of crusades, or of hard-line attitudes… There would be appeasement all around! All of the fascists would be invited to come over to Garches, to booze it up…to play bagpipes in a circle, and to coronate the “virtuous maidens”³⁹… It would come about like that, idyllically…on the day when the Jews, all of the Jews, become personally convinced, absolutely persuaded, that they will all be climbing into the firing line, them above all, and them first from the moment of the very first fire, from the first salvo right down the line ’til the last, clear to the end of the very last Jew, gun included. 

[96] Insofar as it is a question of conquest and of colonies… I have to swear that on my part I don’t see any difference between Blum’s Jewish army and Falkenhayn’s Kraut army… To me it all amounts to the same thing. The Blum army in its larval legions and its viscous formations…the other army ruder, but not more furiously rapacious…the same humiliation, the same duress, the same degradation, the same shame… I declare that there is no difference between a Jewish peace and a German peace, And that I’d prefer the German peace anytime. In the operation of his services, Monsieur Blum can quite confidently count upon the many French traitors and spies, as entirely devoted to his orders as they would be to von Moltke if he were to have arrived here. In this let there be no illusion, it’s the same Jews, the same Freemasons. Monsieur Blum already possesses an excellent corps of militant Kikes amounting to about two million men, all properly disciplined, all perfectly determined to set us, we pitiful natives, on our guard against you…to consign to our niches, to wait to be dabbed into the “Anti-Nazi Crusade” sauce. It can be foreseen that before a year is out, given the way in which they are doing things, in our Jewish services of prompt naturalizations, the number of these agents will have doubled… All of those Frenchmen “through force of effort” who are escapees from all of the ghettos: Wallachians,⁴⁰ and half-breeds rejected over the course of all of the “migrations” all over the world (above all from the USA) arrive here ridden with tares, most of them “unfit for service,” but marvelously rapacious, overflowing with demands, arrogant, reckless, [97] vindictive, on the hunt, in ferocious conquest, with an implacable aggression for every occupation, even the most reserved functions (look at the Ministries of War and the Navy)… And on top of that, being hateful, with a demoniac, Talmudic rage, against anyone who may beg to differ, even for an instant, or who may be impeding them as they seize, monopolize, and dry up all of the professions, all of the positions. Who is capable of prevailing against this pack?… We the other Frenchmen from before the War?… The young people, run through with Masonry, see nothing. Evidently, the Jews judge the precarious survivors of ’14 as being the very most decrepit, of an alcoholic race of deadbeats, damnable, enormously reprehensible, and detestable unto death?… 

For his encampment, for the progression of his horde in a conquered country, for the submission of the natives, Monsieur Blum can count upon our overseers…our indigenous Freemasons, who are scheming, greedy, vain, and entirely devoted to him. In his Jewish hands M. Blum retains their entire means of existence, their decorations,

 

their entire reason for being… They train, restrain, and supervise the native as best suits the interests of their master, the Jewish conqueror… There’s nothing more that needs to be said… That’s the way things are done in Africa. Except that on these shores, in France, it is we who are the helots… The same arrogance, the same injustice, the same Jewish droit de seigneur.⁴¹ In the final analysis, the Blum Occupation has been more hypocritical, more larval and more degrading, certainly, than the Falkenhayn Occupation had ever been. Force destroys less, degrades and corrupts less in its passage, than do intrigue and deception. Colonization “by way of the interior”⁴² is the most dastardly, the most despicable of all colonizations. And colonization by Jewish negritoes represents the apex of all moral and physical degradations. 

Falkenhayn, for one more point in his favor, didn’t ask the Belgians to go and put themselves out for the Germans. The Germans fought their wars themselves. 

[98]

“The gifts of the Jews are plagues.”

– Tridon, Member of the Paris Commune. 

Due to the circumstances of my life, I was for four years the holder of a minor job at the League of Nations Headquarters, as the technical secretary to a Jew, one of the potentates of that House. It was a queer job, rather droll, it must be said, and not very generous, save for a rather soporific comfortableness. In spite of that, I took in everything. I myself was part of the “lesser Cadre”…the “auxiliaries,” the little people… The important positions, the real sweet spots, there as everywhere else, were occupied by Jews and “Masons”… One must never be confused. Ècole Normale, Oxford, Polytechnique, the handsome Financial Auditors, etc. The Aristocracy at last… Rest easy, I didn’t solicit anything. I’m not the jealous sort. That’s not my idea of success. It was only an adventure… I wasn’t made to become ossified… But then, in the way of experience, I can say that it served me well! I don’t regret my time in Geneva. I saw the big Jews working in the side-wings of the Universe, preparing the big dishes… They all go by there sooner or later. It’s a site of their devotions. It’s the very grandest Synagogue within the very grandest “Masonic” Temple in the entire universe… It’s the lair of the most vicious combinations of this Epoch and of the Future… From the Secretary General on down to the lowliest journalist it’s necessary to have that funny odor in order to make one’s time spent there fruitful… It’s necessary “to be one” of something! it’s necessary to be one!… Anyone who isn’t a Hymie or “Jewbie-like” is eliminated rather quickly… I didn’t allow myself any grand illusions⁴³… I was interested in observing. Even so my administrative career lasted four [99] years. That’s quite a while. I saw all of the big Jews go by! The very biggest “Masons” on the planet, the most restless, the most arrogant, the most hardened, the most annoying, the most super-verbose, the most laconic, the most opulent, the most sad, from Bergson⁴⁴ and Curie Madame, unto the Britannic Ben Simons, and Ras Tafari⁴⁵… One has to understand the confused workings of that little world without being told… I also learned about the arcana of Commissions…the dialectic of compromise. Only it’s necessary not to be to curious, to show yourself as being overly concerned with “provenances”…that’s not looked upon kindly be the house. Not too much precision, S.V.P.! Once I had become inquisitive, my great patron Yubelblat⁴⁶ sent me off on a mission, a study tour… I then went through the continents in the search for truth. If one’s travels bring on maturity, then I can say that I am well turned-out. Craquelure! how I traveled! for my own instruction, for the growth of my total knowledge! How I toured the hospitals, compared laboratories! scrutinized the accounts of nurseries…saw the functioning of beautiful armories! dashed about in slaughterhouses! admired so

 

many crematoria! become such an expert on dairies, on the “ideal types” as well as on the more unkempt…from the Gold Coast to Chicago! from Berg-op-Zoom to Cuba! How they taught me things back at the Institute, at the hands of technicians and even worse still…incredibly boring! How many savants, bearded types, balding types, four-eyed, sputtering… How many lessons they’ve given me…from Harley Street to San Francisco! from Leyden, dreaming away amidst its tulips, to Port Lagos in Nigeria…boiling with yellow fever. I had to be almost perfect concerning ten thousand scientific matters, of which I never say a single suggestive word… I am truly one of the most inveterate cretins on the planet. Such is life. 

It had taken an enormous amount of effort to kick me out of my torpor. How I went amongst the masters, admiring all of them without limit, from every aspect, for hours and hours…each one of them…the fine stomach-farting clinicians, the hygienists ever so dedicated, so transformative, so renovating…so promising that their saliva was already worth the price of diamonds. Chromatic hallucinations! That’s how I regarded those cardiologists! those impassioned endocrinologists! those sypatheticological physiopaths, and those others much more exotic still, each one even more peremptory, confusionistic, and superincredible than the last… Graine de Dieu! …what an ordeal! what a bunch! All of the neo-Diaphoreses of Modern Progress got together just to flabbergast my poor [100] noodle… Ah! what I had to put up with from them! …haughty, imperious, vindictive or easygoing…always engaging, then disengaging…getting somewhat lost, wrapped-up in themselves…“coming upon,” in every sense of the term, a wad of spittle, a lentil skin, a penis hair, a stupid expression, a word or a comma, for hours on end… How indiscreet, puerile and fatuous, narrow-minded, rasping, insipid, disturbed, megalomaniacal, and persecuting a simple researcher is!… The worst kind of ham actor, a Sacha, is nothing more than a shrinking violet next to one of these mole-eyes, one of these pipette manipulators at the “mike”… The world’s worst “have-you-read-me” types, the most irascible starlets, the most oversensitive ham actors are to be found at the “Congresses,” in those melees of vanity, for “the Advancement of the Arts and Sciences.” You would have to hear for yourself, all of that senseless jabber! that parade of idiotic stunts! They are ready to commit any crime just to see their moniker in a favorable review. It was the altogether special job, the international responsibility of Yubelblat, my beloved boss, to maintain the long-standing relations among all of the great tenors of Discovery… As for me, my own little personal job consisted of my helping him in the course of his politicking, in the diplomacy, the approach, the art of pleasing everybody, the mother, father and cousins included… And a thankless task it was! To include as many of these bilious ingrates as possible…setbacks elicited acerbic attitudes, with instantaneous breakings of relations, and enormous, diplomatic vexations… Savants become merciless when heeding the call of vanity… It takes more than just a little time-out, believe me, to reassure a savant, to fix it solidly into his noggin, that it is he of course who is the foremost in the world, the very most excellent, and that another of his caliber has never been known…due to the power of his intuition…his overwhelming syntheses…his probity, etc…. Doing so requires a great many gestures and words and continual writing and fail-safe ruses, plus an effrontery that you wouldn’t believe, plus an absolutely extraordinary, impeccable, extra-lucid memory when it comes to tall tales. It’s a matter of life or death, to recall what’s been said. The least little gaffe and you’re sunk! …upon every occasion and by every means either likely of useful, the savants, from one end of the forty-eight States to the other,⁴⁷ must be kept in a state of jubilation, leaving not a second of respite in passing them their pomade, in sending them little “calls,” a little cash, some free transportation, a thousand “gratuities,” ten thousand secrets, a hundred thousand compliments and then the introduction to the Commissions, all in order to get them to take to the road, and come in person to Geneva…to show off through even more discourse. That fat medical rabbi, Bernard Léon of Paris, perfectly pretentious and null, was

 

[101] one of the great suitors of the Princess of Léman⁴⁸… As we others were well aware, he was an unbridled racist (almost as active as Widal,⁴⁹ and that’s no small affair!). He assisted enormously in the invasion of the Kike doctors, and their triumph in the city. The entirety of his career, behind the scenes, consisted of getting five or six Jewish doctors naturalized per week…all of them racists of course… These mud men, they really owe him a statue in the courtyard of the Medical Faculty, made of gold! upon a calf. Within that class of the great savants, Yubelblat, to do him justice, was much less beastly than the others, much less snide, less curt, less pretentious. He understood the ways of shrewdness perfectly. He didn’t delight in himself before the mirror. But like all of the truly de-prepuced, he was peripatetic, he wouldn’t stay put. He had a real need to chart out a route, and then to execute it. His favorite sort of voyage, was to China… He went over there to campaign… He’d then hop on over to Japan… He’d take care of a few loose ends… And then he started doing it in double-time… He’d cross the entire planet for a telegram, for a sigh…for nothing at all… He was coming back by way of Russia again… He was no longer coming back by way of Russia again… He was trying it this time by way of the South. He finally caught up with his telegram…his sigh…his nothing at all. And then plop! I saw him suddenly appear! one morning! all of a sudden I found him again! behind his desk… He had reemerged from the opposite end of the Earth…just like that… He was playing the Wandering Jew, the man without direction, the eccentric… In order to contemplate, he’d stand there, peering from behind his veritable binoculars, while rocking forward…very gently upon the tips of his shoes…some real boats…like a pendulum… This manner of comportment, bizarre, in his real life, of disappearing into the fog and then returning “with the breeze”…it looked like nothing of any great shakes. One might well have thought: this activity is grotesque, it’s nothing but dissipation, “goofing around,” or absentmindedness. This man operates tremulously. And for all that the essential thing was for one not to lose one’s way. Just take a look at the ants and how they mill about…they aren’t all actually doing something, not all of them are actually transporting building supplies…they go out, they go back and forth…that’s their job! …they return…they hurry…they dawdle…they no longer seem to know what they’re doing…they seem to be walking about randomly…and then for all that they swarm…they have their own idea…that’s the essential thing: to swarm like an ant. 

Because the Jews represent such a small portion (fifteen million) of the Earth’s population, it is necessary for them to be ubiquitous, for them to be everywhere at once, and for them to heap mutual praise upon all of the Jewish colonies and Jewish authorities, including the little [102] Jews as well, whether avowed or clandestine, obvious or camouflaged, but thoroughly racist either way…it is necessary for them to communicate to one another with zeal, and excellent understanding, their passion for the next triumph, and the onward progress of their great project, with “figures,” always with the help of “figures,” statistics, and other ledgers still, different ones, of partial victories, of Congresses numbering unto infinity, for Peace, always for Peace, for progress, for enlightenment, for the advancement of science and of humanity… That’s the way it is everywhere and at all times, from Washington to China, from Genoa to Greece, and on into Canada… It’s a formidable undertaking Without one minute of interruption… Promising… Promising…flattering while scoping things out…reprising with either zeal or hatred…and when things begin to drag, falter, or lose their way… Start it back up anew! What a tom-tom… Always on the lookout! Running hither… Running yon! Disappearing… It’s indefatigable with all of its pirouettes, narrow escapes, and flying trapezes…furtive collaborations, mysteries and international

 

sleights of hand, and the frail Yubelblat. Always in a “state of flux,” upon the trapeze, vertiginous, between two cables, two telegrams, two memoranda. Always in the process of going back out a little bit further this time. into the chaos, to track down even more crossed wires, even more tangled cords, and to set them back in order cloaked in mystery, while defending all of his intrigues with well-hidden little traps. he never stopped… First you saw him…they you didn’t… To me he was reminiscent of that extraordinarily skillful animal at the London Zoo, the platypus, that incredible pseudo-beaver with an enormous bill like a duck’s,⁵⁰ which never ceased in its plunging, foraging, and returning to the surface… It disappeared unpredictably just like Yubelblat… Slash! …he dives, plunging into the Indies…he’s no longer to be seen!! Another time he’s in China…or in the Balkans, unknown to anyone…in the depths… He returns to the surface blinking, completely dazzled… He’d be dressed in black just like the platypus…and then there’s that enormous honker, precisely as comical…horn-like just as with the platypus… He was infinitely nimble…extraordinary to look at, but at the ends of his hands, let it be known, he had claws…and they were venomous just like the platypus’… I’m telling you this now because in just a moment I’ll be showing them to you…trustfulness was not one of his weaknesses… Ultimately I cannot say that I grew bored while under his orders… That would be lying… Such as he was, I found him acceptable… I even had some affection for him… Of course he never forgot to put me back in line from time to time…to put me on the shit detail… But I no longer let it bother me… We had a little covert struggle going on. Once when he  [103] had left me stranded for too long a time in Geneva, occupied only with imbecilic duties, and idling amongst the dossiers, I collaborated with some others of my station in the preparation of a little theatrical script, rather inoffensively titled The Church. It was rotten, that’s a fact…but all the same there was some substance to it… I had it read to Yubelblat. He who throughout his life had presented himself as being the very most eclectic of Hebes, never taking offense at anything, was nonetheless taken aback by this stroke… He made a little grimace… He never forgot… He spoke to me about it again several times. I had touched upon the only subject which was forbidden, and which was not proper to use as a plaything. He understood it perfectly. He didn’t need to be drawn a picture…

As for the Aryans, it is distressing… “They need to be told everything with a neon sign”… These days what sort of animal is it, I ask you, that is stupider? …that is more thick-headed than the Aryan? What Zoo would take him in?… Paradise?… 

[104] Yubelblat tried, it is true, to make me more perfectly “technical,” diplomatic and wise, but also, more importantly, I had become a perfect administrator while under his tutelage. He was sympathetic towards me, despite my little faults…my pigheadedness… He wanted to initiate me into the major tricks of the trade, the manipulations of the wires, the shrewd subtleties by which all of the Assemblies and Commissions are made to function, whether at the second, third, fourth, or fifth level…in Finance and at the heads of lines of supply…above all in Finance… 

“I, you see, Ferdinand, I am always the Secretary, nothing but the Secretary, and in every circumstance you will never see me as anything but the Secretary… That’s the title which I have chosen, never anything more…never!… Secretary! no more! that’s it!… I arrive, I don’t say a word… The discussion has already begun… Okay… I very quietly, very peacefully go take my seat, to the left of the Chairman… Note, that I don’t disturb anybody… The debates open and they proceed…whether lackluster or impassioned…whether burlesque or morose… It doesn’t matter!… In every case, there’s no logical sequence to the ideas…completely incoherent…it’s impossible… That’s the great absolute rule of all of the

 

assemblies in the world…it doesn’t matter what sort of convocation of men…as soon as they open their mouths they no longer speak anything but foolishness… 

“Here you have the crushing Law of the Pendulum of Stupidity…the gravity of the ‘number’… It drags everybody down, wears everybody out, crushes everybody… There’s no possibility of resisting it… All of the asses around the table, jabbering, jostling, protesting…forgetting what they were going to say as soon as they’ve uttered their first words… They can hear the sound of their own voices and that’s good enough for them… Ultimately, it doesn’t matter what they’re saying… They become excited, they become fidgety… They are there to burn off energy… The more [105] excited they get, the more frenetic they get, the more they waste themselves… That’s very easily done in our case, given all of those languages… They understand one another poorly or wrongly… They even understand themselves poorly… They become embroiled in the misunderstandings…they size one another up…they develop a distrust of one another…from one end of the carpet to the other… These effects exhaust them… They get carried away… Those are the ones who are quite frankly raving… They no longer hold themselves back… They have come here just to air their opinions…most often from very far away…delegates for jabbering purposes…from Venezuela…from Arabia…from Novaya Zemlya…from the Lesser Comoro Islands… Microphones aren’t made for dogs… The more the delegates make themselves stale the more they begin to babble… Staleness is a completely feminine trait, it is that which goes awry, it is that which unravels, it is that which completely devolves into gossip…they exceed themselves with their bellowings… They are engaged in a truly Asthmatic race… The unfortunate original issue no longer exists…so overwhelmed it is by those absurdities, so calamitously pulled out of shape, that it has become amorphous… It’s no longer even known what’s become of it… One looks for it…it’s not to be found… The proceedings go on all the same and become much more vehement… A terrible bottleneck occurs over being recognized to speak, as all of them want to maintain their prerogative the whole time… But the stalemated delegates who are unable to insert a single word of their speeches…they come to despise the chairman… Those declamations that are interjected are wicked… In the corners of their seats, the delegates gnaw away at their restraints, and think up the very worst of nasty remarks…some diabolical vitriols intended for the assailing of those who are monopolizing the cuspidor… By the end of an hour or so of such unbridled nattering, the delegates are at a state of  “all against all,”⁵¹ no longer even knowing where they are…they’re unable to make out make out North and South, the direction of the door, or size or distance… The question lies in the shoutings, the hiccups…the centerpieces…the smoke⁵²… 

Exhausted, haggard, out of breath, and down in the dumps, they collapse… They are embraced by some sort of angst…they no longer know how to bring things to an end… They cling to the table… From this I come to understand that they are hoarsely passing away, that they are rattling in fits and starts…from the way in which they are seizing up, in the short snatches of insult and injury which they emit… I tell myself: ‘Yubelblat, now is the time!… ‘The exact moment’ for intervention… One mustn’t be a second too late! nor a second too soon!… It’s necessary for things to come out exactly, to occur at ‘just the right time’… And then the thing is accomplished! I deliver them! With a single stroke I liberate them… I, Ferdinand, organize ‘ecstasy’… It’s only after they have suffocated for an entire hour in that melee…that boiling sea of words… I know [106] the means by which to give them pleasure… I bring to all that jabbering a sort of ‘ejaculation’… I had it there in my pocket all along…on a little scrap of paper… At that moment when they can no longer go on, when they are strangled by confusion, when they are begging for air… I bring out my little text for them… I unfold my little scrap of paper, a ‘Resolution’…remember that term…a ‘Resolution.’ I pass it over to the chairman, the biggest rambling old fool of the whole bunch, more lost than anybody else… He pounces on it, he holds it up, it’s already written… All he has to do is read it, to mumble through it… It’s done!… Upon hearing this quite clear text, which has come to them by some miracle, and which provides such good closure to their proceedings, the others come to their feet…they ‘adopt’ it resoundingly! …with alacrity! …ejaculating better and better… Orgasm! Then they can relax…they forgive

 

one another…they stroke one another…they delight in one another…they congratulate one another… Vanity does the rest… They are immediately convinced…that they had brought things to a conclusion all by themselves… As for me, I don’t hang around, I make myself scarce…I disappear… I leave them to their effusive emotions. I have done nothing… I have said nothing… I had them in my pocket all along…my ‘resolutions’ throughout the entire proceedings… Each morning, I prepare them… They are my little ordinances… I compose them at home, where it is calm, in my bed even, before going down to rejoin the delegates in that bedlam… I know perfectly well, what it is that I want, and thus I know what they all need, those delegates from fifty different nations… What it is that they will ‘adopt’… I am there to do that, Ferdinand…for ‘it is written’…all written out, my friend…in black on white, ahead of time…in my pocket…with my little pencil… It’s the decision, it’s the order at the end of the chaos. I bring them their deliverance, Ferdinand. All of those verbose, unkempt, indefinite, and crumpled little types, they attain to pleasure in unison. I carried their coitus in my pocket…since the morning… And I didn’t say anything, Ferdinand! …not one word on the subject. I handed over the little piece of paper at the right moment, that’s all!… It wasn’t very difficult… It wasn’t I who spoke… It wasn’t I who shone… I was hardly even seen… I never chatter, Ferdinand… I never shine, Ferdinand… Never… Remember this well…never be brilliant, Ferdinand…never…” 

The four-eye then took a great deal of effort, to size me up beneath his spectacles, to see just a bit for his own satisfaction, whether I had a real understanding of things. “It is necessary that we do things ‘unperceived,’ Ferdinand, like the Jesuits, the Jesuits of the modern world…‘unperceived,’ you understand me…or everything will go awry…truly very awry, Ferdinand… 

[107] “Think it over thoroughly, Ferdinand, and don’t forget, that the longer you look at it, and the more closely you observe the kind of customers we have, the more you will see that the more lively the intelligence of each individual participant, the more grotesque and abominable will be their great malfunction once they are brought together… And note in addition that I had had them all brought together for the examination of a problem completely within their field of specialization…which held absolutely no sort of pitfall for them…which they knew by heart, in depth, along all of its parameters…in all of its aspects… The more eminent they are, the more fantastic their blunders will be…the more profuse, and astounding, will be their asininities, their mistakes…the more ineffable their absurdities… The more highly you regard them, considered individually in the realm of the mind, and of creativity, the more inept they will become once they are all brought together… This is a rule, a theorem, a law of the mind… The mind doesn’t like assemblies. 

“Here at the League of Nations we happen to possess a truly illustrative, perhaps one ought to say catastrophic, example of this…that being the oft-noted Commission of ‘Contemporary Intellectuals,’ for the ‘Advancement of Culture and Major Ideological Currents.’ Nothing but Geniuses! specifically chosen…attested geniuses, people who’ll be the movers and shakers in the History of the Arts and Sciences, in every ‘application of the Mind’… But look, Ferdinand, hear me out concerning these illustrious people…it’s enough for me just to puff on them, for me to set before them the least little dilemma…for me to wave before their genius the most [108] inconsequential trifle in dialectics…the most childishly simple practical matter, in order to send them into confusion…for me to ask them their opinion concerning the placement of a single dieresis, or the disjuncture of a single parenthetical clause…or the project of buying a pencil…in order to send them into a tizzy! …in order to get them hopelessly to list, derail, and bog down… In order to understand it thoroughly, Ferdinand, you’ll have to have observed up close the phases of this

 

calamity of errors… Before too long I’ll have to assign you to the proceedings of that commission, as they prepare their Review.” 

He always took on a smugly mocking tone while recounting that sort of thing…aspiring towards that effect… But the proceedings weren’t the worst thing… The worst ordeal for these great “Wise Williams” came about when it was time to say their farewells…then, it was nothing but a pain and a bother… They didn’t know where to begin… How to set themselves into motion, to the extent that they had to return to the assembly in order to arrive at the decision as to whether to take the train. Once they had brandished their scepters, rolled and wanked their bones, like that, over the course of eight or ten meetings, and depleted their last phospholipids, they no longer had any comprehension, they no longer knew which way to turn, nor how to escape from these colloquia, how to resolve this rebus…how to hold that last meeting…leaving for a little while and then returning a little later… They no longer knew how to do anything… They were hesitant in everything… They bumped into one another in their confusion… They murmured like nuts in a bag…along and across all of the panic-stricken seats surrounding the table… They withered away just a little bit more… They were becoming old…old…old… It was a pile-up of carcasses… 

When it came to the calendar, it truly was necessary to help them… To know the date when they were to return…indeed that they were supposed to return…they would have been throwing up blood over the issue…the extent to which they had so confounded their days…to which they were being strangled by dates…without ever arriving at a decision… It was already like a hospital in which one could do nothing but watch them struggle convulsively… We service secretaries always felt ashamed for them, but even more so pity!… They had already lost all color, these frail devils, passing from white to livid, quavering away ’til their teeth fell out, after so many sessions of futile struggle… What a terrible ordeal! …they continued to gasp along through their apnea, all of their sphincters in disorder, in death agony exactly…they cursed the Agenda…those dates denoted by little asterisks…and then continued to natter about the month of June, and then again about another month, April…in which not all of the Sundays were free, or which had an additional Thursday…or in which a holiday got in the road… 

[109] The “Resolution” saved them yet again, by the side of the grave… They snatched up that little piece of paper… They were given their timetables…they no longer knew where they were going… They no longer recalled from whence they had come, they had to be taken to the station… Their exuberance returned to them once they were on the platform…in the presence of the great locomotives… Choo-hoo! Choo-hoo!… They were seized by another bout of giddiness… They amused themselves in the echoes like so many little madmen… They imitated the giant machines, the departures and the shrill whistles…the wheezing…chug!… Chug! …chug!… Chug!… Woo! 

Woo!… In departing like this, in accordance with the “procedure,” their confidence returned to them… They were making friends! …friends! …being polite towards the passengers, and everybody around them, while in their little handcuffs… They were placed into the cars…far from the exits, quite satisfied, protected from people hanging-out in the hallway… Then the convoy moved out…and they returned to their daily routines… 

Whenever I wrote out long letters for him, that ever so delicate a procedure, Yubelblat often made me begin all over again That was his way of doing things…three times…ten times…sometimes fifteen times…once one fine day, twenty times… That was his form of sadism…always concerning the same trifling matter, that of circumlocutory finesse. 

 

[110] “Too unambiguous! Ferdinand! Much too unambiguous! too risky!… Much too precise!… You are working for us, Ferdinand! pay attention!… Use circumlocution!… Always use circumlocution! Propositions…yes, some are certainly necessary…but very gently…conditional mode!… These precise details are useless…they are intriguing…people will ask for more…always more…if you would begin… Leave them in, then…people will be able to imagine things all the better…they’ll imagine themselves up some prodigies so long as you remain sufficiently vague…encouraging but discreet! …a little subtlety! not too much…some doubt…do you understand me?… Some doubt…some nuance…always in an eloquent letter, do you understand me? …we arrange ‘surprises,’ to us ‘surprises’…we will be able to deny things…to recover ourselves… Mediocrity! Ferdinand! I highly recommend it to you!… Mediocrity! …just like the Jesuits… That’s the Jesuits’ litany, their fetish… Using circumlocution always, we shall be held in dread…the more obfuscating you are…the more brutal you are…because such things will be supposed…imagined… Prestige is doubt… Do this for me, Ferdinand. I wish you well…don’t argue with me… Information…precise statements…for us…vague directions for others… Do you understand me?…” 

[111] In the end he had me trained and I, ever the super-prankster, would write hemming-and-hawingly like some sub-Proust, some quarter-Giraudoux, some para-Claudel⁵³… I went of into circumlocution, I wrote like a Jew, in that fine spirit so fashionable these days…dialectical…omissive, coyly reticent, lackadaisical, high-schoolish, prefabricated, and elegant like all of those fine shits, the Francongourt⁵⁴ academicians and the fistulas of Annales⁵⁵… 

This was extremely embarrassing to me. This endeavor, this prostitution, was retarding me in my development… One morning I had had enough, and I slammed the door behind me… Years later, when I reflect upon it, it was in a fit of heroism that I quit at the League of Nations Headquarters. I sacrificed myself, in essence, I was a martyr in my own way… I had lost a very fine position, for the sake of the freedom and the fury of French Letters… I’m owed some sort of compensation… I can guess how much I’ll get. 

[112] The world is a Corporation, a Trust in which the Jews own all of the shares. The Trust has subsidiaries: “Communism”… “Monarchism”… “Democracy” and maybe even “Fascism.” 

All the same it cannot be said that I didn’t learn certain things in my service to Yubelblat… I’m speaking of the scientific realm, of applied medicine, of the sanitary and the hygienic arts… He knew, the little monkey, all of the tricks of the trade. He had no equal when it came to tracking down the dirty discrepancy, or to piercing through the little fogs in obscure corners of a report. He didn’t like fluff, he had to be given the numbers…rudely utilitarian, of verifiable substantiality…not a bunch of petty suppositions…risky conjectures, elegant subterfuges…finely illusory accounts…none of this would pass…the numbers first of all! and above all!… The fiscal sources! …the budgetary receipts! …before the expenditures!… Some facts based upon “specie”…in dollars…in pounds sterling if possible… Not upon “whichever way the wind is blowing”… No matter whether it dealt with Chicago, China, Papworth or Mauritania…he didn’t need to hear about it save for one thing… He would immediately interrupt the narrator…very politely it must be said… He would pull out his little pencil: 

 

“Wait a moment, if you would… I must take this down… How much?… How much did you say?… I don’t recall numbers very well…” 

Fogginess, word games…that was for others…he was concerned only with the bottom line… The Future, and words of hope, inspired nothing in him but distrust… He didn’t at all appreciate sweet promises concerning the Future… The Future was for others, for him the thing that counted was the present…the measurable. “Fine phrases and imagination, [113] Ferdinand, we have delegated to others, to the politicians, the artists. As for us, Ferdinand, understand me well, if we are not extremely conscientious, then everything will evaporate…we will never get anywhere… Fine phrases are for the Commissioners… For us, Ferdinand, it’s the Cash Drawer!” This was all truly very reasonable, in practice, as I quickly came to understand…this admirable principle… I learned how to read budgets…and never to take anything on word alone…to proceed immediately to the thorough scrutinization of accounts…to redo all of the subtractions… To force the perpetually crooked man, the better sort, the least impure, the dupe, out of his fog before he is able to envelop you with the same… 

Now, to let us seize upon an example, whenever you are told the story of how the USSR is the country of good health, of nosocomial marvels, of impassioned emulations, in which a prodigious progress marks every incremental improvement in medicine… Cut all of that verbiage short, and ask only what is spent in such a hospital, on the average, in that famous USSR, currently, ordinarily. Ask about the number of beds? the salaries of the personnel…nourished…malnourished…the price of chow… Don’t let yourself be sidetracked…the prices of the linens, of assorted medicines, of doing the laundry…of chloroform, of lighting, of maintaining the whole caboodle…of the thousand and one appurtenances of operation… This will be much less fatiguing, while also revealing a thousand facts to you in a single swipe, than would a thousand articles or a thousand speeches, having as their precise objective the dodging of your overview… Redo a few of these additions, considering everything in rubles, in carrots, in margarine, in shoes, in anthracite… You will damned well be surprised… Here you have something serious! something solid!… All the rest is nothing but blowing bubbles, goofing off…dirty tricks and pompous ceremony… Gidism,⁵⁶ hypotheses, poems… 

I am not trying to give you a course, a little pedantic lesson, no, no, no, that’s not my style… But ultimately it will be necessary for me to light my lantern for the benefit of those of you who still do not see… And then you will perhaps be amused… Well then, here is the essential thing: Whenever a country, no matter how repulsive, depressed and poor it may be, or however paralyzed it finds itself as being, in the time of some great disaster or immense pestilence…: war, syphilis, public calamities, typhus, cholera, etc….decides to recuperate its forces, it gives the people some great resonating blasts of the trumpet, so that they will be motivated and so that they will willingly pay… The people are put into a trance, they are astounded, they are stirred-up... The “Campaign for Public Health” begins straight away… But it has to start off on a good footing! …it mustn’t make any “faux pas”⁵⁷… It’ll take a few months in order to make [114] the statistics gush forth, so as to present to the whole world something very agreeable…respectable…not to be left piddling among the class of preposterous projects…justifying as much as possible all of the money invested… One big round of “free and happy,” in essence! to attend to the most urgent things first of all, siphoning money away from those hospitals which are always the most overloaded during calamitous epochs, the sanitaria…pilfering the “already-depleted welfare funds”…to obtain, and this is the trick, political influence, results in the shortest possible time…the most profound transformations, all at the lowest possible cost… And that everyone sees them, and goes repeating all about: “those directors are truly great men! they hold the ace of power.” “In a country that’s about broke, any waste is fatal”… Immediately, one thinks

 

of the venereal cases, they being the classical indulgence… They’re the “Arlésienne” of Hygiene…they’re sure to fill the lecture hall… The entire theater perks back up in a single stroke…   

These are the ABCs of the job of being “the Savior of the People.” In short order: From war to syphilis… Here you at least have a campaign nearly devoid of hazards… Whoever engages in it is sure to strike a solid blow… This instance is most singular, extremely rare, we swear, in all of Hygiene. The majority of these so-called crusades in the realm of health, tuberculosis, cancer, etc., in practice, in essence, proceed only upon the basis of hypothesis…more or less approaching the point of swindle, of out-of-bounds panhandling, reminiscent of the courthouse, and leading, in the end, only to the hypertrophic growth in the number of parasites at the Central Administration, or, perhaps already, their overpopulation. But the anti-venereal struggle is economical even under conditions of urgency, and above all during epochs of chaos, of panic, of rioting, in which everybody is surreptitiously doing it, a punch in the stomach! neither seen! nor known! let me mix you up into it…it’s the cankerous farandole…the great coronal embuggery! the grand saraband of the poxes, of little pustules and giant gonococcal lesions… There’s something here for everyone and everybody… It’s the great blennorrheac fluxion that has been washing down entire sidewalks. 

Even the most primitive, the most insecure, the most bankrupt of Regimes: Poland, Yugoslavia, Hungary, etc…., have been quick to level fire with every gun, with all of their meager resources, upon the treponemas,⁵⁸ the cankers, the “Neisser bodies,”⁵⁹ at the very first opportunity… Why? Here’s the secret: All of these afflictions are easily treated, attenuated, limited, circumscribed, halted, and cured (except for syphilis) in large quantities, in serial applications, in the minimum of time… The police can intervene and dragoon the rebellious…the treatments, the medications, and the techniques are [115] infinitely proven, classical, and cheaply imitable. “Little time and not a penny is lost.” One very important cohort of that enormous contingent, that venereal mob, the latter being so clandestine, wandering, scattered, vagabond, sadistic, extremely dangerous, frequently voluntarily self-contaminating, and catastrophic when in a state of liberty, once placed under controls, in file, with “fixed points of reference,” and if dealt with squarely, identified very quickly, limited, neutralized, labeled, and cleaned up, may be returned to the factory or to the fields, thenceforth harmless if not completely cured. The game is well worth the candle. Every anti-venereal campaign, at relatively little cost, pays off, socially, with an immense profit. The beings who make up that enormous venereal herd generally belong to the middle ages of life, to its productive period. They will, once “cleaned up,” quickly be able to resume all of their former occupations and behaviors. They will comport themselves, if duly followed and overseen, just about like any other set of workers. They will no longer be dragging through the hospitals, at public expense. A very great savings, capital! They will be able, almost without harm, to indulge once again in the games of love, and to take their parsnips for a walk through the slots. 

All of this is quite normal, absolutely clear, verified a thousand times over, super-recognized… As for the preoccupations with tuberculosis, with cancer, with women’s gymnastics and even with pediatrics in a family-oriented country, all being overdone in every way, here is where one finds asininity, stupidity, imposture, goofing-off, and farce… These are the great illusory hobbyhorses, most expensive, which concern, which can only concern rich States. In order to do anything of value in those fields, without appearing ridiculous, certain social conditions of organization and of milieu first have to have been achieved…a very high social level…of security and of large budgetary resources, exceptional in this world…that one virtually never finds in conjunction save in Sweden, Denmark, Holland, Switzerland, and some American States⁶⁰…

 

The vexations of luxury, in sum, “five hundred years ahead” of what you’ll find in Russia!… Extremely costly and dubious recuperations, with very long odds… 

In bankrupt countries, quite obviously wretched, overloaded with beggars, vermin and soldiers., everyone must march along in rank and file, to the beat of the drum, in strict economy, in austerity… The whole world, I believe, is of this opinion. Syphilis, primitive and perfectly recognizable disease that it is, prophylaxes and therapeutics are perfectly fruitful… Much gold is brought in by a little mercury⁶¹… All of this has been so well proven, demonstrated, and repeated redundantly! …elementary… 

[116] Let’s take a quick look at how such things proceed, in the case of one enormous port city, overpopulated, military, underfed, alcoholic, which bustles with prostitution, and where “transplanted persons” and crooks pass through by the hundreds of thousands, running through the slums in rivulets like some sort of avalanche of scabbiness, lice, mindless panic, scurvy, shouted nonsense, and rotten sausages.  Such is the condition of Leningrad. Who would refute us? The evidence is there! It’s enough simply to walk about, here and there, over the course of eight days, in order to realize it… And a damned lousy jackal is he who would proceed to deny it! He’d be an even bigger liar than twenty-five Jewish ministers and undersecretaries of State, or thirty-six thousand turd-flies sucking on a mint blossom. 

[117] Leningrad’s great hospital for venereal diseases lies in the suburbs of the city, not very far from the port… It appears, at first sight, like a conglomeration of big boxy buildings, all in a state of disrepair, with a completely incoherent arrangement, with tiny courtyards, mud puddles, outbuildings, and crumbling armories, all run together, and rotted from one end to the other. We do not possess, in France, anything so sad, so distressing, so debased, in all of our Public Assistance. 

Perhaps the former Saint-Lazare, but still, even it may be able to withstand the rigors of comparison… Some old Asylums out in the back-country?… But let us note, to the credit of Saint-Lazare, that the former was never for general use, and that as a destination it was much more of a prison than a hospital…while this gigantic depository, ostensibly for “venereal diseases,” is acclaimed far and wide as a hospital of the first order, both for public service and for education, if you please! the “Saint-Louis” of the University of Leningrad… 

Yet, “Saint-Louis” took on the aspect of a magisterial grand manor next to that terrible amalgamation of outbuildings, in that altogether funereal location…in its fashion of an unkempt mortuary… I served in the cavalry for several years, but never, I am sure, would any regimental veterinarian have permitted, even for a single evening, the lodging of a squadron in an armory-slum of like dejection. I am very familiar with hospitals, here-and-there, in the countryside as well as in various towns…the bad, the worse, the excellent, the extremely rudimentary, but in the entire world I have never come across any so pathetically [118] devoid of everything necessary for a nearly normal, reasonable functioning, or for the accomplishment of its task. Truly an unlikely proposition, in view of this… A ruin of a hospital which certainly calls for a Potemkin Village in the way of décor…so as to project the illusion…the semblance, the show… And all of this, let us not forget, is after twenty years of thundering challenges, of contemptuous regard for all of the capitalist systems, so reactionary…of hymns of ineffable social progress…to the reforms of the cooperative USSR! the producer of happiness! and of liberty! of “the power of the masses in the hands of the masses”! …and finally that flood of dazzling plans, ever more Pharaonic, each more overwhelming than the last… With all

 

the thunder of the Judeo-Mongolic pipe organ… Let us note that Leningrad’s grand hospital for venereal diseases seems to be rather seldom visited by the pilgrims of “Intourist,” and the city guides don’t mention it… It would lend itself poorly, it must be said, to proper conclusions on the part of the enthusiasts… If by chance some sort of special tourist, say, a Popular Front Minister on the caviar circuit, or some Jewish or Freemasonic medical expert gone astray from his tour, off the beaten path, his eyes of the Faithful will quickly lead him to discover, despite all of the evidence, some aspects eliciting thorough jubilation…very encouraging…in that gigantic pile of rubbish…for example, the virtues of those perfectly admirable lower-ranking personnel! (they are dying of hunger), the stoicism of those so perfectly docile patients…social, grateful and understanding…(they are dying from fear). The caviar-tour pilgrim will very soon learn, and he will very quickly repeat, with every nuance, the fine lesson that he has well learned from his good friends from the USSR. To wit, that Yusupov, Rasputin, Denikin and Kutiepov are the ones truly and uniquely responsible for this shortage in primary foodstuffs and manufactured items, which one might still deplore from time to time, but more and more rarely…of the difficulties in Russian provisioning, Russian construction, Russian hospitals… And finally the crowning effrontery, that sea fog concerning the future, propagandistic, the completion of the dirty trick, which is disgusting. once all the Jews in the world are lined-up against the foot of the wall…   

The colleague with whom I visited the hospital, by chance, wasn’t a Yid, but rather a very Slavic Russian, about fifty years old, of the Baltic type, gruff, temperamental, and I must say rather picturesque…full speed ahead!… He understood the apologia very well… Every ten words or so, amidst explanations, amidst technical details, he would brusquely interrupt, and he would begin crying out [119] in a very high and very loud baritone voice, full of resonance, so that the walls would ring of it, laughing all the while… 

“Here, colleague, All is going Very Well! All of the patients are doing Very Well! All of us here, are Very Well!…”. Upon the accent, upon the word “Well”…he would be roaring! He was relentless, he possessed a stentorian organ… We perambulated about, through corridors, passageways, and chambers both large and small… In addition we would stop here and there…to observe a syphilitic, a neuritic, a little something or other… Of course, these patients had bed sheets, twin-sized beds, and mattresses, but what filth! …good God! what debris! what a Gothically mildewy shit-house…what a gamut of horrors…what a sticky-dirty heap! …of sly anorectics…of bedridden spies, of rancid Asiatics, maniacs of fear-borne hatreds…all of them faces out of a nightmare, I would term the expressions of these patients…the grimaces of all of those faces, emanating from all of those souls, certainly not out of rottenness, either visceral or visible, for which I do not harbor, as is supposed, any sort of revulsion, but rather to the contrary a very real interest. The admixture of so much hideousness, however…it was too much!… What a godforsaken sty, what a prodigious pile of skanky old marionettes!… What an environment! What a sewer!… What dejection!… Not a lick of paint on the walls since the time of Alexander I!… The walls? …mud brick made with wattles from the mire! A sort of immense insistence upon vapidity and desolation… I’ve seen a great number of wrecks…of beings…of things…innumerable ones who fell into the great muck…who no longer even struggled…who were taken away into the night by misery and filth, without difficulty… But I’ve never felt a stifling closeness more oppressive, more degrading, than that abominable Russian misery… Perhaps the labor camp at Maroni⁶² might offer an equally overwhelming degradation?… This is not certain… It must be given a chance… Quite often such is required, according to my reading of the Russian authors, that is to say of the authors of the golden age (not the Soviet goons), such as Dostoevskii, Chekhov,

 

and even Pushkin; from whence is it that these men were provided with their trances, and how is it that they maintained that tone of funereal, delirious rumination throughout the entire length of a work? …that detective novel psychosis, that dread of the doorknob, that distress, that rage, that groaning of the shoe which has begun to take in water, and which shall henceforth take in water for all eternity, amplified on a cosmic scale… 

This remarkable phenomenon becomes understandable, this incantation becomes self-explanatory without effort, after a few days in Russia… This heartbreak, this weeping, this dolorous dripping by all [120] of those souls becomes as perfectly comprehensible, as so many rotten spots on the bones of a family dog, beaten, crippled, and condemned. 

In the end it’s just a banal question of ambiance…no need to force anything, or to make up the tremolo. Everything is in place! …before your eyes, under your hand… It certainly lurks all about these people, whether ill or whole, and these houses, and these things, and these chaotic atrocities, a fatalism a thousand times yet more crushing, implacable and sinister, more incredibly demoniac, than all of the Dostoevskiis of the (comparatively) “free and happy” period could possibly have imagined. 

Raskolnikov? but to the Russians he’s akin to Till Eulenspiegel! …that “devil” must appear to them as being altogether contemporary, rather common, and as natural frequent, and ordinary as Till Eulenspiegel!… They’re born that way. I shall return to my visit to the great cankerous carphologium… My colleague Allgoeswellovich,⁶³ dressed in an extremely filthy smock…his neither more nor less so than those of the other members of the staff…kept from me absolutely none of the details, none of the specialized services, none of the changes taking place in that immense facility. I saw everything, I believe, really saw everything, smelled everything, from the inoculation station, to the dungeon of the tabetics,⁶⁴ to the nursery suffering under the waves of flies, of the section for the “hereditaries.” These little ones, “infant syphilitics,” seemed among other things to have been very well prepared, aforehand, awaiting me in the passageway, well forewarned, where they were to play for the visitors always the same role, the same little comedy… They were waiting for me in the dining hall…sitting at table before so many bowls, in groups, by dozens, in a circle, shaven-headed, greenish, blithering hydrocephalics, the good majority of them idiots, between six and fourteen years old, prettied-up to make a good impression with their little bibs, very heavily embroidered, but filthy… A bit role. 

Upon our entry, they all rose as one, and then all together they took to chanting something in Russian…it was the sentence! “All is going Very Well!… We are all Very Well Here” “This is what they are telling you, colleague! All…” 

Allgoeswellovich had some students by his side…however much he might have been chortling, this colleague was one of those rare Russians whom I had seen laughing during my stay in Leningrad. 

“Here are the women of our staff! our staff nurses!…” It was possible, with some effort…to recognize, to distinguish them from the patients, as they seemed to be even more bedraggled, stultified, and wallowing in misery than any of the hospitalized

 

[121] patients… They were all literally vacillating, between the walls of the hallway, ashen-faced, emaciated, and crumbling-away within their rags, each one as dingy as the next. 

“How much do they make?…” 

About eighty rubles per month…” (a pair of shoes costs two hundred and fifty rubles in Russia)… And then, he added (in his usual thunder), as an addendum, “but they are fed! my colleague, fed!…” 

He was regaling himself with laughter. “Everything is going well!” he shouted. But the best part of the visit was saved for last! The gynecological treatments! …the bouquet, Allgoeswellovich’s own specialty!… A collection, a retrospective, a bazaar of instruments, shopworn, twisted, screamingly bedamned antiquities…which would no longer be found anywhere save in the Morgue, in old trunks, and alongside the wrack of Baron Larrey,⁶⁵ for good or evil… Not a single jug, stool or probe, not the least little lancet, or up-to-date pair of forceps, not a piece of that repugnant hardware that didn’t date back at least to the time of the Tsars…some real trash, a spreader quite unhinged from innumerable mishandlings, partly eaten-away, sublimated, rotted-away by permanganate to the point no one would want it even at a “Flea Market”…the junksters would reject it out of hand…as not being worth the effort carting it about in the wheelbarrow…a most disagreeable-looking wastebasket… All of the trays, corroded, chipped-away clear to the reverse side…perpetually damp…not to speak of the linen, the holes and the shit… 

Allgoeswellovich, in this sector, was in seventh heaven… This was his field of expertise! the artist now practicing his art!… Rolling up his sleeves, he immediately set to his duties, and how he went at it! An assembly of ass-ends gathered round about. Each patient waited in the queue, for her turn to climb into the stirrups. The students, somewhat doltish, somewhat callow, somewhat malevolent, like every student of the same sort in the entire world…it was a matter of rummaging about, and scraping the major oozings out of the reticulations of the vagina…the uterus…of sponging out the entire vulva, of pressing on the Bartholins…ultimately a routine task…some mucoid effluent typical of metritis… Allgoeswellovich…always cordial…quite petulant…speaking loudly…merrily set about his task. I had a full view of his work…it is true that he was most skillful…with a rude dexterity he unhesitatingly handled all of the assorted paraphernalia, all of the secondary organs, all of the discharges…routinely finishing off with a little jet of permanganate, and then shlipp!… He dove halfways up his arm into another mound…feverishly he palpated a few glands…lecturing all the while…he wiped off his fingers a bit…and then splut! dove into [122] the next one…not a second was to be lost…just like that! …bare handed!…hairy hands…trickling with yellow goo…without any finger protection whatever… 

I certainly didn’t want to bother him…to appear indiscreet, but all the same I wanted to know… Once he had fumbled through several dozen vulvas in this manner, I finally had to ask him: 

“Don’t you ever wear gloves?…” 

 

“Oh! it’s not worth the trouble! …not worth the trouble, colleague! Here All is going Well! All is going Perfectly!…” all the while falling about in laughter…increasingly comical…an full form… “It is of course not our fault if there is a shortage of rubber in Russia…” He did those around him the favor of taking a little glance at the hole of the ass… He searched through that bean pot, and the little creases of the anus as well, for gonorrheal growths. He began throwing in a little water and a little Vaseline, and then a little menthol, which he scratched in using his fingers…a little cuisine at last. And then, immediately, he went right to the next vulva… He stopped at the entry, and put a little pressure on the “Bartholins”… He was overjoyed when it put forth juice, a very greasy green, very thick… Two, three tampons. All is going well! Colleague! All is going well!… 

But I had to be going… These things couldn’t last forever… We parted amicably. I passed back through the office of the director, a Jew, this time, quite Jewish, and likewise his secretary… They were speaking German between themselves… They lay out before me, for my edification, an entire series of splendid plans, some models…some sketches, some projections, some diagrams, all immense, and some reports. All of these things dealt with the Future… The projected construction of a magnificent hospital… But the future doesn’t interest me, it’s all a bunch of lies… It’s the astrology of the Jews. As for myself, that which interests me, is the present. 

“How many resources do you have at your disposal for the operation of your hospital? How many patients do you have?… Doctors? personnel? …bedridden patients? ambulatory patients?…, etc…., area? …fuel? bedding?…” those things which are ultimately measurable…that I had to know , so as not to have wasted time in idle chatter… 

I don’t like hospitals enough to spend four hours out of my bitch of a life in one, and then come back out of it a no-good tongue-tied idiot… When it’s necessary to learn, one learns…When it’s necessary to laugh, one laughs… The first is given! …so is the other!… I looked at the books, I went through them thoroughly, scrupulously… I was shown the [123] columns of figures (numbers are numbers even in Russian). Into this immense, festering lump, nearly five thousand patients were received, annually, on the average, bedridden, plus a few outpatients under treatment… I calculate that with the costs of administration, the current personnel, the ninety full-time housekeepers, the nurses, the lighting, transportation, and the prices of food, medicines, etc…., etc…., a minimal budget of twelve to sixteen million rubles was necessary in order to stagger forward without falling… In order for such a hospital to function at a halfways decent level…and not to remain, as I had found it to be, a sort of protracted death-house… Yet this Institute, all told, as its entire allocation, receives only two million rubles annually, a sum one-sixth of its vital minimum… Certainly, I shall refrain from comparing the conditions in Russia to those in Scandinavia, in the hospitals of Copenhagen. I am simply referring to a very mediocre standard, that is to say to the French standard. A “Standard for niggardliness” 

But, at this stage, we still remain very far from the final count… 

Every Russian administrative agency suffers, is overwhelmed, is condemned to the same grotesque penury, and even to similar nonsense “in manpower, in materiel, in funds”… All of them, except for the theaters, the police, the military, the commissars, and Propaganda…to the same seamy conniving, to the same contraction to one-tenth of a normal budget (by normal, we mean some very modest, very reasonable “covering of costs”). 

 

But do not be impatient, it will cost you nothing to wait! We will soon envy the Russians!… We will become like them! And then become even worse off than they are!… It would seem incredible! even worse off than the Russians!… We have their disease! the Russian disease! we already have it! We will be rounded-up out in the street. 

[124]

“The Lie is a means which one is not only permitted to employ, but it is the most proven means in the Bolshevik struggle.”

– Lenin. 

Under the penalty of remaining as stupid, oblivious, and credulous as a week-old calf, should one fail, one must learn to recognize the marks, the tracks, the possession, and the instigation of the Jews in all of the world’s upheavals, which they have perpetrated…in Europe, in America, in Asia, wherever…where they are preparing the hecatombs, and the systematic, relentless destruction of the Aryan spirit and flesh… One must learn to detect in everyday practice the color, tone, and arrogance of Jewish imperialism, and of Jewish (or Freemasonic) propaganda… One must learn to penetrate, to clarify, to the bottom of all the shadows, through all of the phraseological mazes, between the guide-wires of all the calamities, behind all of the funny faces, the universal lying, the implacable conquering megalomania of the Jew…his hypocrisies, his racism – sometimes incipient, sometimes arrogant, sometimes delirious. Plus that enormous armament in this permanent cosmic apocalypse: his imposture.  

It is necessary to catch the scent of the devil from a good distance…in all quarters, around the world…within the narrow paragraphs of whichever ostensibly innocent daily paper (either Left or Right)…that little press of the thumb upon the scale, furtive…applied…signal…the favorable epithet…flattery…the augmentation of value, free advertising…the supposedly impartial denigration…nothing is indifferent to the Jewish Triumph… The opportune and even unscheduled addition of a ten-lettered word, of half-ways attempted praise…for the success of the least little Yid “presentation” matters… The buffooneries of [125] no matter which Jew, the most insignificant Jewish painter, Jewish pianist, Jewish banker, Jewish movie star, Jewish hoodlum, Jewish author, Jewish book, Jewish play, Jewish piece of music…proceed to add, now as always, one small stone, one vibrating atom, to the construction of our prison, our prison for Aryans, under Jewish management… At the height of its perfection, the Jewish Tyranny will leave nothing to chance: if everyone is having “sex,” then everyone will be doing it “Jewish-style.” This internal colonization operates either mildly or through force, according to the general utility, of the Jewish rhythms of the moment… In France, the iron hand is still somewhat deadened by the velvet glove, but not for much longer, for soon the cards will have to be laid down, those who aren’t of the right opinion will have their throats cut (they are getting it done already), and the Jew will appear unto the admiring gazes of the prostrate herd, as is necessary! solid, stolid, knout in hand… 

Already, by chance, our journalists, announcers, authors, film directors, find nothing more admirable, in the historical past, present, or Future, whether in the arts, or in political, financial, and scientific journals, than the Jew…the efforts of Jews, the successes of Jews, the projects of Jews and the Judaized (See Montaigne, Racine, Stendahl, Zola, Cézanne, Maupassant, Modi, Poo-Proust, etc.).  

 

The Exposition of ’37 brings this concept home to us with a magnificent, crushing demonstration, of that Jewish colonizing fury, increasingly insouciant concerning indigenous resentments and reactions, each day more incontestable and more clamorous, to like measure to which the native is more submissive, more slimily crawling, more cowardly. That treacherous fanaticism for strangulation will soon become a delirium… Thus that Peace Asparagus,⁶⁶ monumental, planted right in the middle of the Trocadéro… What can you say? With an immense Jewish star (the Star of David, the star of the synagogues) at the very top of that bush… What does it tell us?… This: Frenchmen! the Jews, as of this moment, are ass-reaming the whole lot of you! As they want, where they want, when they want!… With this tall rotten dildo, consecrating their triumph! Let that be repeated! Crowds! For the sake of the Jewish peace, you shall tomorrow be hauling your guts to the four corners of the globe… It’s already a done deal! On your knees, people! …and be quiet!… Watch your own asses, while awaiting new orders, and sending in money… 

Before taking leave of the triumphal ghetto of ’37, take advantage of the opportunity, by taking a glance at those oh-so-highly vaunted literary exhibits… The same sticky salad, the same overrated tendentiousness. Examine a bit more closely all of that folderol of the unctuously explanatory broadsides, the precautionary references, the omissive [126] outlines… What are they trying to tell us? To straightaway admit, avow and proclaim unto us? henceforth this and mind your manners: The Decision of our masters: “Ministers! the decision of the aforementioned artists and Jewish critics, after much careful deliberation! and forethought! has been arrived at! and officially tendered! Let it be known: As he has well been proven, quite clearly, to be in every way a classic, that beginning today the irresolute, betitted ass-reamer Poo-Proust,⁶⁷ ‘the Jewish butt-boy of the Camellias,’⁶⁸ shall occupy the same preeminent rank, everywhere and in everything, in our textbooks and in our souls, as does Honoré de Balzac!… Sound the trumpet!” It is held high! It is triumphal! Like it or lump it! that I can guarantee you, and how!… But now would you like to listen to some other music? some other slightly more serious sounding of the trumpet? …of course! in this case you would want to hear Mr. Hoare Belisha, Jew, the English Minister of War. He expresses his confidence in us, and his wonderful enthusiasm, upon his return from the French military maneuvers…his amazement, at the tenacity, the tirelessness in the face of the worst ordeals, the magnificent martial élan of our little soldier-boys… Ben Hoare Belisha declaims: “I am now convinced that the French Army is the best army in the world! and that it will be able to maintain the front anywhere and everywhere, in victorious opposition to any attempted invasion!… Our forward position is along the Rhine!” As it is, it’s gracious. But translated from Jewish into French, what it really means is: Bidart! Norbert! Lacassagne! Miraillet! Lendormi! my little buddies! into your trenches!… And hop to it! Brutes! Don’t be clowning around so! throw yourselves forward into the blades! open yourselves up, quite literally!… Yes! Like the lot of boughten livestock that you are!… Let your meat serve some purpose!… The time is now! May you in that way well help to preserve the prosperity and the happiness of the Judeo-British Isles! your bones will make fine gates for our lovely English gardens… Doesn’t that make you jubilant?… Shit! How else would you rather serve? Taratboum! Di! yié! By gosh! Long live the King! Long live Lloyd’s! Long live Tahure! Long live the City! Long live Madame Simpson! Long live the Bible! God’s own bordello! the World is a Jewish whorehouse! 

 

[127]

Fifteen million Jews are going to stick it up the asses of five hundred million Aryans. 

Here in France, the little guy, the one who is going to be holed up within, and who is going to garnish all of the trenches, doesn’t know very much about the Jews, he doesn’t recognize them amongst the masses… He doesn’t even know where they are to be found…their ways, and what sort of mugs they have, or could have… 

First of all, they are all camouflaged, cross-dressed, chameleon-like, the Jews changing their names as often as they change countries, having themselves at times called Bretons, Auvergnats, or Corsicans, and variously Turandots, Durandards, Cassoulets…whatever…he makes the change, and he sounds the deceptive notes… 

Amongst this band, it’s the Meyers, Jacobses, and Lévys who are much less dangerous, much less treasonable. It is necessary to go to some trouble, in order to learn how to recognize the Jew, and the people don’t want to go to all the trouble. To the people a Jew “is a man like any other”…that’s enough of an explanation for them 100 percent of the time… The physical and moral characteristics of the Jew, his infinite arsenal of ruses, fawnings, and surreptitious acts, and his delirious cupidity…his prodigious treachery…his implacable racism…his ineffable power of lying, absolutely spontaneously, monstrous in its effrontery…the Aryan puts up with them in every instance…will submit to them wholeheartedly, will dissolve, will founder, will die without wondering for even one wee instant just what is happening to him…what’s going on? …what’s that strange music?… He’ll die just as he had lived, forever deceived, cuckolded down to the gut. He’ll act wholly and with all his flesh…spirit and carcass for the prosperity and greater glory of his most intractable, most voracious, most debilitating parasite: the Jew! and will never [128] even realize it; out of every twenty sous that we spend, fifteen go to Jewish financiers. Even the mortal remains of the Aryan, again as always, serve towards the greater glory of the Jews, in propaganda. There exist in Nature only a few rare species of bird which might illustrate just how weakly instinctive, how imbecilic, and how easy to deceive these debilitated Aryans actually are. Some of the more oblivious species of the avian class deign to hatch-out the eggs of the cuckoo, the hatchlings of which immediately assume the right to toss out of the nest all of the other eggs, their adoptive parents’ entire natural clutch! …all that isn’t cuckoo! Such species of bird are as stupid for not recognizing the cuckoo in their nest, as are the French in not recognizing the Jew, while the latter is in the process of spoiling, pillaging, robbing, and dissipating the former’s proper inheritance. Such is the grotesque carelessness, such is the diseased impassivity, of the stunted brain of a dirty bird. 

The Westerner represents the ideal dupe, all cooked, and completely offered-up to the Jew…to the chameleon nature of the Jew! …to the foggy, prophesying dialectic of the Jew…to the socialistic-oracular-communistic cant of the Jew! Such sparkling facets!… Ideologically the Aryan is the cuckold, the indispensable pigeon in all Jewbie endeavors⁶⁹… No matter how unlikely the scientifico-socialistico-progressivistic the Jewish concoction, the Aryan takes the bait! His head has been worked on, in advance; he’s lost to us… It’s too late to try to stop him! …he is the avowed, unbridled, exuberant parrot of all of the Semitic fantasies⁷⁰…  He is ready to die for them… The Aryan has been admirably prepared, we must note, by his entire heritage…completely hardened by all of the dirty, mean usages of his peasant past… He

 

makes an outstanding cuckold: both mistrusting and gullible, a “passive aggressive” par excellence, an extraordinary dupe… 

The Aryan never goes anywhere, he’s a bumpkin,⁷¹ a provincial, an incurable gossipmonger by tradition, and by constitution. He doesn’t know anything, he doesn’t read anything…he is forever talking, getting carried away by his own ideas, his own words… He is fatuous, and considers himself as being critically-minded… “He who lies well, goes far,” and the Jew can lie better than he can breathe!… Are you Kikeish?… Ah! but let’s see!… What do you think?… I’m Catalan! …just look at my hair!… I’m Basque! a sailor! A sorcerer! An Albanian! A pétanque⁷² player, a zither salesman, a fireman from Nanterre, anything at all, but Jewish? fie on that! never Jewish!…  

The people don’t believe in Jews; they have the ironclad belief that the Jews no longer exist. To them the existence of the Jews is a malevolent tale, newly made-up by blood-drinking “Nazis.” 

[129] His newspaper, his radio, his cinema never tell him anything about the Jews, or rather, if they should broach that taboo subject, it is with infinitely precautionary praise, with a mass of infinitely respectful commentaries, quite devotedly admiring. “That most supreme intelligence, that extraordinarily farsighted man of politics, phenomenally overwhelming, of the Generalissimo Raba Bloum!⁷³” …that is all that they will proffer, over the course of weeks and years, with regard to the question of the Jews… 

Does he dare? the average Frenchman? to swear, to make it understood, that he does not like the Jews? or Jewish racism? or the great Jewish swindle? to do so would be to get himself classified, irremediably, at one and the same instant, as being amongst superlatively beyond-the-pale cankerous throwbacks, of absolutely irrespirable presence, in the universe! obtuse, immovable in the face of all progress, the opaque depths of bespittled wastebaskets, insipid shards of a cracked pot completely beshitted with stinking racial prejudices… Reactionary macaques,⁷⁴ vicious old mummies, pathetic dried-up turds, stagnant and appalling at the bottom of their pot ever since their evacuation from the great cloaca! Dreyfus! Enough of those unsightly things…frighteningly monstrous, unthinkable, not worth hearing… 

A Jew is 85% bravado, and 15% hot air! The Aryan has no bravado… He is brave only in war…he’s timid in normal life…a sheep… And what is it that makes him ashamed? and he is ashamed! at the drop of a hat!… He is ashamed of his own race! They have made him believe everything that they want…that is to say, everything that the Jews want… As for the Jews, they have no shame of their own Jewish race, quite on the contrary, nom de Dieu! …nor are they ashamed of circumcision! As though they were the least little bit ashamed of being Jews, It has been for quite a while, the course of centuries, that they have been assimilating themselves into the general population…the Jews would no longer exist, save by virtue of their being Jewish racists… To them their Jewishness is not their blemish, on the contrary it is their pride and joy, their ultimate affront, their mania, their religion, their glib tongue, their reason for being, their tyranny, their entire arsenal of fantastic Jewish privileges… As the lords of this world, the Jews well intend to remain the Jewish lords of this world, indeed the despots, to an ever-increasing extent… For us, the “Myth of the Races”⁷⁵ is itself a prejudicial lie! for us a screwing up the ass! for which we are spreading our buttocks wide! while they are sticking it to us and taking their pleasure. One would have to be as sappy as an Aryan not to be able to pick up on these characteristics, which are so extremely evident, concerning the Jewry which possesses us, which is crushing us, and which is bloodying us up in every possible, imaginable [130] way… The Jew possesses the goy unto the very roots of his entrails, unto his vertebrae, confidently, effortlessly, by appealing to his vanity, and to his hickishness… The Jew wins every time. The Aryan, so unaffected, so rough-hewn, has been turned by the Jew into a so-called

 

critic, distrustful and predisposed towards the denigration of his racial brethren, indeed automatically predisposed towards the destruction of his racial brethren, and never towards the destruction of the entire Jewish phantasmagoria. The Aryan is no longer anything but the ape of the Jew. He makes funny faces on command. Nowadays, even the most obtuse goy becomes outraged, and recoils, when presented with anything which might possibly have conserved a few little racial prejudices in the bottom of the bag… He becomes distraught and agonizes over not being sufficiently up-to-date, modern, liberal, global, cozy-cornerish,⁷⁶ democratic, casually sophisticated, and politically liberated, which in practical terms means being sufficiently well-oriented, thoroughly possessed, divided by lot, unloaded, worked to a sweat, and negrified by the Jews, unto each hair of his eyebrows, each drop of his sperm, each pubic crab, from the membrane of each internal organ unto the grain of his bread…from the style of his garrison cap to the ball which is coming along to run it through…things are never slimy enough, shitty enough for the Jews…by the Jews… 

Were he to show himself as being somewhat curious, somewhat suspicious, he is quickly called to order, and immediately made to understand, and to repeat over and over, until he is able to repeat the fine lesson all the way through (like a good little Aryan parrot): One cannot possibly imagine anything loftier, more preeminent, more perfect in the whole world, than a Jewish scholar! a Jewish Minister!⁷⁷ a Jewish movie star! a Jewish singer! a Jewish painter! a Jewish director! a Jewish fashion designer! a Jewish financier! a Jewish architect! a Jewish doctor, etc.!… That these Jews surpass everybody… Roll of the drum! The Chosen People! supremely gifted! suppressively,⁷⁸ did I say? erase that! in a class all by themselves far above any comparison! reciprocity or contest! leaving behind them in the infinite distance, as pathetic and inferior, those baubles and cast-offs of the indigenous castes! those quartos by babblers, by embittered scatterbrains, pretentious rotters, puerile trash…embarrassing even to look at! their ugliness doesn’t bear scrutiny, so shameful are those ignorant rivals, those grotesque pretenders! ha! ha! h! cannibals, gossipmongers, minstrel showmen, sad and snotty clowns, a bunch of dirty degenerates, rejects of the soul, a lowly caste of which one must never again be proud to have origins… Shame of shames! Mark of the Unclean! not to have a few drops of Jewish blood is nowadays to be an “untouchable,” more or less.  

Those who are here-and-there still exercising their small malice, those who [131] are still maintaining some small semblance of existence, must be obtaining their reprieve from extinction, a reprieve which is by the way revocable in an instant, only through the great indulgence of the Jewish powers-that-be… If he minds his manners, and is most submissive, if he doesn’t emerge from his Podunk corner, out in the depths of his countryside, and he “makes himself as small as possible,” then this fragile reject, the “white intellectual specimen, won’t arrive at a dead loss: schoolmaster, sawbones, forest ranger, cavalryman, house-painter, drudge… He will perhaps be left to breathe a little while longer… But if he becomes pretentious, if he talks about trying to make the scene, then Tudieu! curses be upon him!… Too bad for him!… Complete destruction!… Wuss!… In the world of the Jew, the “white man” can no longer be anything but a manual worker or a soldier, nothing else… The intellectual, the artist, the “boss” must be a Jew, always. The selection has already been made, and the onslaught functions admirably, mercilessly… The entire press, whether of the left or of the right, are so completely Judaized, and are such tributaries to the Jews, that were they to peep so much as a single seditious word concerning what is truly going on at the command level in our colonial country, and in the background of our affairs, not a single syllable, not a single letter of their layout would truly be left to their discretion, either today or tomorrow. 

 

If there are by chance a few possible anti-Semites still hanging-on, miraculously persistent, here and there, in the depths of whatever crevasse, such scarecrows can only be for the evocation of laughter. That’s their role, given their incongruous propositions, their glibness, their perfectly vain gesticulations, and their in-your-face lashings-out. To demonstrate even more clearly to the genuflecting masses, through their farcical mutinies and comical pseudo-revolts, just how completely grotesque, completely fatuous, and discouragingly stupid such burlesque, sporadic enterprises really are. To divert the people, to have them make asses of themselves for the sake of such buffooneries! It works perfectly. Ever since the Dreyfus Affair the cause has been buried, and France belongs to the Jews, to the globalistic Jews, body, heart and soul. They dominate completely. — France is a colony of the international Jewish power, and any desired grass-roots rebellion is doomed in advance to ignominious failure… Materialistic, rationalistic, perfectly muzzled, perfectly subjected through Jewish underhandedness, alcoholized to the core, practiced in petty thievery, venal, absolutely sterilized of all lyricism, and Malthusian with regard to its own growth, France is devoted to its own destruction, to its own massacre at the enthusiastic hands of the Jews. Any uprising will only be rapidly contained, and liquidated by the crushing of the rebels, while provoking the unleashing of even worse reprisals…[132] a complete apparatus of services and servitudes even more cruel, More meticulous, more punitive. That’s all… 

The French no longer have a soul, a cancer has eaten it out of them, a cancer of loutishness, a malignant tumor, though they are even more obtuse and overly-propagandized than they are loutish or malign. Every anti-Jewish act instantly rekindles the pathological Jewish sensitivity, which never lets them sleep…the grand Jewish propaganda of  “the Martyred Jew,” serving that never-completely, never-sufficiently consummated cause, that of triumphant Israel… Until the end of time the Jew will crucify us in order to avenge his prepuce. It is so written… How gay!… Every anti-Yid campaign justifies by way of immediate reply, the calling of a thousand congresses ever more overheated with Jewish remonstrances, dripping with feverish Jewish lamentations, the sending of a hundred thousand petitions, and finally all of the howling, saraband, and mutual tickling, so terrible, all of the overblown play upon the organ of the eternal Jewish jeremiad…the hum of Jewish anathemas. There is nothing too scurrilous, too defamatory, to be use henceforth in depicting to the world the complete monstrousness of those effronterous freaks, those abnormal phenomena, those stiff-necked Aryan animals who are incapable of swallowing, assimilating, tolerating, or reconciling themselves to the diabolical effronteries, to the myriad cataclysmic Jewish dirty tricks. — Vampires from the cave! Salacious Cro-Magnons! Circus lackeys! Persecutors of the martyrs! Delirious beasts thirsting for the blood of democrats! Leprous sub-fascists! the crash and thunder of apocalypse instantaneously dominates the entire universe! pulverizing the microphones, breaking across every wave, every echo! deafening, crushing, vaporizing all possible opposition… Useless! pathetic! you will never even be heard!… You could get yourself killed! The infernal Jewish hype attaching to persecution dominates, extinguishes, and obliterates, from upon high, and with such crushing effect, all truth, all reality, to the extent that any attempt at redress becomes absolutely laughable… This disgusting, endless Jewish chanting has by now stultified the entire world, for so many centuries, that it’s no longer possible to comprehend its full dimensions…the great cosmic train-wreck, the confusion of all values, all to the universal tom-tom of the crooked, perverse, disruptive and sterile Kikes… The noblest, the purest, and beyond doubt the most precious sentiments of human societies…mercy, friendly affection, loyalty, respect, genuine scrupulousness, truthfulness, and trustworthiness, have over the course of the ages so often been abused, swindled, raped, prostituted, betrayed, cast as maudlin, speculated upon, and sold-out by the Jews in a hundred thousand [133] different ways, that they have

 

lost all currency, all value, all bargaining power. These ancient sentiments are, from now on, absolutely suspect, and amount to nothing more in the eyes of the world than so many burlesque or pathetic overpriced goods, dissembling sure as shootin’ some sort of ignoble intention, some new lowly scam or criminal scheme. But in spite of all experience, the ploy of the “harried,” “martyr” Jew always works, without exception, on that bloody stupid bitch of an Aryan. A little lugubrious history of the persecuted Jew, plus the Jewish jeremiad and “Chaplinism,” always makes him go soft. Infallibly!… Were his own people, his own racial brethren, to go up to him complaining of some specifically Aryan unhappiness, just look at how he’ll blow them off! He’ll immediately execrate them for their complaints, and on that basis alone, he will judge them severely…he’ll hate them for their effrontery, their appearance, their tricks… Only the unhappiness of the Jews moves him, sure fire! He takes in the tale of those “atrocities” without mistrust, without resistance, without skepticism. He swallows it whole. These Jewish travails become part of a legend…the only legend to boot in which the Aryan still believes… The supreme miracle!… Whenever the Jewish thief, the Jewish looter cries out for help, that stupid sucker of an Aryan hops to it straight away…bleating…falling… A tasty snack!… This is how the Jews have come to possess all of the world’s wealth, all of its gold. It’s the aggressor who screams the loudest while cutting the throat! The trick is as old as Moses… It always works… And just as surely it was the Jew, caught red-handed, who deemed us worthy of the Deluge, of all the Deluges. The Jew sets the rest of the world to swimming, while he jumps into the Ark and saves his own skin. The people don’t see the Jews, any more so than the troopers ran into many generals during the War. And as for those generals, who made the troopers take up the gun, they were certainly “generals for the Jews,” they being the instruments of the Jews… It’s the Jews who possess all of the world’s money. With or without war. And the people? their guts are already seized-up, strained under billions of mortgages, while all of the carcasses of the people have been enumerated, promised, sworn, solemnized! to all of the Jews on Earth, bankers, courtiers, and Commissars, from New York to Helsingfors,⁷⁹ from Pernambuco⁸⁰ to Moscow…tortured, cut-out, skinned, counted-up, and speculated-upon, in their entirety! everybody in advance and “on the hoof”…towards that next great butchery… And let me tell you about it… In order to make things waltz along as they should, the whole thing will be put to music!… Impulsion, and a steady cadence… That which promises all the better to provoke, to incite, to spice-up within the flesh…to crystallize the terrible Death Urge throughout the herd… [134] the “Hobbyhorses” of the great slaughter… That Communist tune, for example, that great fanfare out of delirium? Jewish!… It’s the fashion at present…of Death at present… The main thing is that it works…that it jumps and it whirls… That affairs do not drag on, or get put off, that the world takes the leap, that States topple, that inflation comes crashing back down…, The Jew holds all the ropes, the lodges, banks, States, opinion, command, and music, and he will render the Aryan into slices, rolls, in machine gun sauce, on the day of his choosing, on the Day Zero and Hour H of his choosing! soon!… 

It is time. I believe, Aryans, to say your prayers, in recognition of the fact that you are all condemned, the happy, consenting victims, perfectly willing, offering yourselves up immobile and cognizant… “My dear Hymie, my dear insolent tyrant!” Let’s all say it in unison! “I implore you! show yourself! my dearly cruel atrocious master! Deign it be so! O beloved monster! my overly discreet crucifier! whom I’ve too seldom seen! I adore you! Grant all of my wishes! You are leaving me on tenterhooks! you see me in tears! transfixed with joy at the thought that I am ultimately going to suffer even more still…more profoundly than ever… I who has already given you everything! All that I possess! All of my land! All of my children! There remains to me however several bowls of blood in my veins! I want to be skinned alive…for you! You will see my blood flowing for you! all of you! to fertilize your earth, my adorable

 

Jew!… Deign it be so…! deign it be so! I adjure you! if you are as good as they pretend, as they promise…from all sides, then, cut our throats, yourself, O my Jew! Cut my throat, with my eyes wide open! O your divine cruelty! All of you, in the end you will see everybody! everybody brought together, rejoicing! my merciless executioners! Everybody! You will see everybody beaming one last time. And then to die for you! Under your knife at last…” 

This is a good prayer for veal calves, most perfect, for the bloody stupidest vealer in the world! of all the slaughterhouses in the world! of all the sacrifices in the world! the best prepared vealer in the universe! the one that bellows! that gallops after its butcher supplicating him for its throat-cutting. 

[135] Let us be accommodating. Let us set a compromise. 

But first of all, what are they to be called? There is no more delicate a consideration… Her Majesty Madame Edward, the Jewess, the quasi-queen? …and he?… Monsieur Simpson VIII?… No one any longer knows… There’s always that matter of identifying Jews, Masons and the Judaized… I wonder whether a numerical designation within each profession wouldn’t make the best of the affair? …a registration number for example, all done quite simply… Monsieur 350 the Film Director. No need to add Jewish, that will be understood by everyone… Monsieur 792 the great painter… Monsieur 1617 the admirable virtuoso? 

“Oh! what do you think of that pretty folk singer?” 

“Why, that’s little 1873! I recognize her perfectly! How striking! what an allure! what feet! …what brio! But wasn’t she at the X.Y.Z. last Tuesday?” 

I applaud her knowing of whom they speak… 

“Who wrote that poignant article?” 

“That’s by the noted journalist 7735… Wait! wait! let’s read it again a little more closely.” 

No more ambiguity, no more pseudonyms, or names which dissemble… Numbers!… 

“Whose lovely pavilion, so wonderfully gilded?…” 

“That’s by 1871, the illustrious architect! Ah! Ah! and how many others?…” 

“And that splendid delegation, which is going to represent France in the American exhibitions?…” 

[136] “Here we see, as usual, those great representative missionaries: Messieurs and Dames 1411, 742, 635, 14 and 10,357… And that’s it.”    

“There’s no Durand?…” 

“No! No! No! my friend! never a Durand! or rather a Jewish Durand.” 

 

“And that professor, whom everyone has been saying is such a genius?” 

“Don’t you know?… Why, that’s the ineffable 42186!” 

“You don’t say!…” 

For years they’ve been beating us over the head concerning the top two hundred famous families. Yet another fantastic bit of fluff! There is but one big family, much more powerful than all the others…the great international Jewish family, and their little “Masonic” cousins… 

Insofar as Frederick the Great used to replenish his finances through the sale of noble “surnames” to the Jews, why can’t we, in our turn, make a little money by obliging the Jews to buy registration numbers from us?… In accordance to the importance…the taste…the accomplishment…the profession of the client! with well-recognized international currency! with shillings, with Pounds, with one-hundred-Pound notes, in accordance to their affluence…per number registry unit. Those new arrivals with six-figure incomes will thus pay much more than will the older immigrants… Justice! 

The small-time teacher, rag-picker, garment worker…etc…., one shilling per unit. Bankers, a hundred Pounds per unit. Justice… Certain professional placements, such as in medicine and law, which are overpopulated, will become priceless! …the number registry will moreover be annual, with an annual license placard and an annual fee, just as with motor scooters…it must be decided upon… Do something! 

[137] Adherent of the Common Front, the raised clenched fist has been the Jew’s “sign of the cross” for some two thousand years now. They still do it in the synagogues. 

I have recently received a book by J.-R. Bloch,⁸¹ a book on the war in Spain, adorned with a violent dedication 

“To Louis-Ferdinand Céline,

because down there, people kill!” 

Possibly so! but isn’t it really that some people don’t get killed, J.-R. Bloch? So much the better! Nom de Dieu! So much the better! That they’ve respected the life and the liberty of J.-R. Bloch well and proper, who has returned from Spain all safe and sound! informed, robust, imprecatory, as warlike as General Cherfils, advocating intervention with every breath! more extreme, more passionate than ever!… I came, I saw,⁸² I returned, I gave some lectures, strongly applauded, I embraced La Passionaria!⁸³… I climbed into my fine airplane, I buzzed off, my morale was rejuvenated, I came back again!… That’s a drôle de guerre even for the war in Spain!… One goes in, one comes out as through a revolving door… The real wars are those from which one doesn’t come back out… Already, the “parliamentary delegations” are at the front? already? already with the little “Poincaré-style” helmets?⁸⁴ already?… Little thrill-seekers, little sadists for the occasion, quivering to live to the full “the extraordinary times” of a world in catastrophe… Everything for the stimulation of the vagus! …and nothing in the hindquarters!… The race of the tendency-towards-crime is always true to type, the “go-to-war” bourgeois, the “tendency-towards-crime” Communists, absolutely zero difference! identical, like drops of guano! Apostles and strategists gambling with the guts [138] of others… It all serves to elicit some fresh sensations, no more, no less…”better than cocaine.” 

 

There is a strong possibility that in a very short while the revolutionary leaders will be obliged to assassinate, obliged? to have the people in the opposition assassinated, before they themselves get run over… Such is a part of the great order of things, classic, fatal… This is starting to take place under our very eyes… But to engage in combat, whether it be for the famous ideal or absent an ideal…that’s a completely different pair of balls…completely different, is it not… I’m not talking about entering into the line against “the masses of Franco’s army,” but combat straight and simple against bona fide regular troops…German regular troops, for example, and what’s more to the point, fully armed… The real hammer-and-anvil, in essence… No amateurism… So? …what’s my point?… Broadcasting and disseminating advice, orders, and raging manifestos, stimulating the morale, bringing the stockyards to arousal…all of that is nothing but play…the thrill of subterfuge, pretext…theater…bravado…cinema… The only proof concerning matters of idealism is your own personal ordeal, without spectators, early in the morning…of leaving your cover, like a man sentenced to death, and hauling your own guts up to the “barb-wire,” at the level of the very highest ideals, much higher in fact than the very highest Ideals… That is what counts… And these are the proofs that are very rarely encountered, by consequence, as not being very “artistic,” as bearing scant usable fruit… Everyone who is an artist must have a following, a “plantation”… Genuine sincerity doesn’t have a following… The worship of heroes is the worship of good luck. 

“Don’t you agree?… Would you still have heart in face of the holes prepared for you? …at the logical conclusion of each one of your gestures? …yes?” I think not… I get the distinct impression that you are looking at things falsely...that you are living falsely...everything about you sounds false... Spectators! ...thrill-seekers! you, to look at yourselves, want to enjoy...to profit from the great Jewish and Masonic victory…you don’t understand that it will cost you your existence—and you’re not even willing to risk your job… You’re going to be ambushed in the next war even more badly than the bourgeoisie was in the last one… Like the machine gun, the art of the ambush has made enormous progress, from what I can discover, currently eclipsing and eclipsing again its practice in years past… I don’t know of a single apostle who isn’t at least a staffer at General Headquarters…either that or a garrulous and photogenic super-aviator… 

Those who are burning with the Soviet apostolic faith are not the ones who are [139] at present manning the trenches before Madrid and Saragossa, but are ultimately nothing but equivocating “little chatterers.” For them, it’s the Culture clubs! and picnics in the Cemetery. 

During the next war, which is being drawn up and organized on every side of us, one shouldn’t be surprised to find, way in the back of all of these arms caches and armories, so many apostles and fervent warmongers in deep hiding… The world is rotten, it has been made so by the cinema, and by ham acting… (Oh those charges of the light cavalries!…) The most outlandish, the most indecent look-at-me-ism is the foundation, ultimately, of all of the important Ideological movements today, inseparably… The world in ’14 was much more simple, more natural, more sincere, and much less deceptive, less vicious than it is today. In ’37, ham acting and phrasemongering have sprung up everywhere, dominating everything, debasing everything, even the people, alas! themselves already quite overripe, well-advanced in their rotten hamminess… I remember my being in the firing line alongside some Breton combatants. They didn’t know how to either read or write, brigadiers included… They inspired an absolute confidence, which could not be denied! “ac cadaver.” I have a tremendous distrust of soldiers who know how to read…who go to the cinema… In the face of danger, he who knows how to read easily becomes argumentative, somewhat hesitant, subtle… He believes in the cinema, he wants to see what follows… Nothing follows!… Attention!… Everybody in the ranks must forget all about the cinema!… This would guarantee a lot work for the MPs’ Office… They

 

would hardly go unemployed. They would be working themselves ragged going after all of those “spectators.” Nor would the grunts be idle any longer…nor the issuing of orders… 

[140]

“Each war, each revolution brings us closer to the moment for which we await,

the supreme goal towards which we incline…”

– The Grand Sanhedrin, 1884. 

This revolution has decidedly presented itself as being an enormous, fanatical augmentation of security… An adroit and gigantic consolidation of already-acquired beefsteaks. 

Concerning this proposition, nothing is more demonstrative and more enlightening than to glance through, and then to examine somewhat more closely, those long lists embellished with the names of celebrities, for the purpose of recommending the various firebrand political parties, be they pacifists, liberators, interventionists, emancipators, etc…. Daily, concerning every question, leftist organizers put forth diverse documents, pamphlets, etc., covering the entire press and the Sovietophile literary circles… There is nothing more ridiculous. Take a quick glance through those lists of the important friends of the USSR.  All or nearly all are politicians, bureaucrats, the privately wealthy, or retired Jews or Freemasons… And how! All of them amply remunerated, I might even say perfectly opulently, a hundred absolutely comfortable damned souls, impudently, grossly parasitic, each one making an average of one hundred thousand francs (francs Blum) annually… Parasites of the Super-States! Unite! assure yourselves by gathering around the big Jews! 

The “well-to-do” of the Earth have arisen!… How many from among these “fat ones” share a few of their dividends with the community of the skinny?… I ask you? How many are going off to prove themselves, to die upon the crenellations of Madrid, should things turn out badly?⁸⁵… Knock! Knock! Knock! …who’s there?… A friend! a friend of whom? a friend of the Jews! a friend of the people! a friend of that fellow! a friend of himself! a friend of the sofa!… Of the real combatants for Spain, quantities of them are to be seen, [141] debarking from the third class of whichever Transatlantic liner, returning from New York. These here, as far as combatants go, are the real ones, the authentic ones… They won’t be heading to any Conferences! they won’t be embracing La Passionaria.⁸⁶ Like all of the real heroes of this world, they make it from the carrier to the trenches in a single leap… They are not Jews!… One must not confuse the two, lest they become lost in transit! The ones destined for the rifle are over here, and the immigrant rejects are over there. The Great “Morganthau-Baruch-Loeb-Warburg Committee for the Liberation of Peoples” has paid for their fine voyage. By-and-large the heroes are going to give them their money’s worth… They are going to see the thing to the end… I came, I saw, I engaged.   

[142] A few days ago Denoël⁸⁷ had sent to me, for my personal instruction, a “C.G.T.”⁸⁸ report on the book crisis in France. A most insubstantial document which exhausts itself giving the “on the one hand and on the other”…in which over the course of one long chapter one wonders whether it will ever reach a decision after so much “hemming-and-hawing.” Nothing doing. The affirmative would have surprised us… One short passage, however, at the end of this magma of

 

inconsequential complaints, suddenly reawakens the reader… Oh joy!… Passages, all in figures, which, finally, mean something. I will cite: 

“Mean annual expenditure in various countries, per inhabitant, per annum, for the purchase of books (the sole basis of comparison possible) 

United States: 25 francs per capita. 

Germany: 20 francs per capita. 

Great Britain: 10 francs per capita. 

Belgium: 3 fr. 50 per capita. 

France: 0 fr. 50 per capita.” 

This is the thing that is overcoming us! and it is the simplest thing in the world, to reveal the problem before our eyes in all of its crude simplicity, as to why our daughter is mute,⁸⁹ and why the French have so recklessly abandoned the book, both individually and collectively… There’s nothing to mull over, it’s all black and white. Let us accept the thing for what it is… Well more amusing than tragic…as well as gratifying in that it had been enunciated at all. No need to make a fuss over it… But let us reject outright, for example, as [143] calumnies, as lies most repugnant, all of those explanations handed-down to us from academics most soporific, that it is to wit the cinema, the radio, sports, periodicals, etc., etc., which are responsible for the crisis…in impeding the French from reading, or from availing themselves of the good authors… Effronterous asininities, shameless screwings-over! The United States, England and Germany possess all of these forms of amusement to ten times the extent as we! and look at how they are continuing to read…  

Benign Duhamel⁹⁰ the soporific, very measuredly moved, by all of the hubbub going on concerning the book, in all of the Reviews and Conventions, comes around in his turn to put on airs, to plaster-down a sentence or two, to ass-ream several pertinent adjectives, and to adverbalize unto death agony. He deems this delicate occasion sufficiently worthy as to deliver unto us yet one more magnificent bouquin⁹¹ (the critics delight in the word “bouquin,” in that it has such a use-worn ring to it, while being all the same respectfully admiring, tender, and filial). The Benign Duhamel waxes eloquent upon this malaise, with two hundred well-reamed pages, which are given over to his contrived sentiments…making the endeavor with a thousand recursive pieces of fluff… “But! yes! But! yes!…” as the Benign One wonders why things aren’t going right anymore! What a crisis, my emperors! How excruciating it is, down to the core! …to be in such little demand! to die unproven!… Where does it then go? Where is it dispersed? I ask you? that little piece of dough? …the clients’ little wad of cash… I’m agonizing! I’m agonizing! There it is! …where the little wads of our clients’ cash are dissipating, our dear clients, so reserved, so fine, so French so subtle so nuanced, etc….!etc….” But Duhamel, o illustrious one, don’t give yourself a headache! my dear Dumouton,⁹² it’s all quite simple, easy, elementary, all of their cash-wad is going into cheap wine! It’s not hard to discover! we see our clients’ little wad, as we put our glasses back on, and admire yet another passage of this lovely report, with some different figures… “Alcoholism in France” perfectly eloquent, as well as substantial. “France is the country which is the strongest consumer of alcohol of any in the world… 21.300 liters of pure alcohol, as taxed per capita amongst inhabitants…per annum…(if one includes homemade booze, that figure rises to about twenty-six liters per capita…). All of the other peoples of Europe have lower rates of consumption… By a quarter, or a half, or by

 

three-quarters… Italy 14.84 liters, Spain 14.80 liters, Belgium 9.27 liters, Switzerland 8.37 liters, Austria 5.64 liters, England and Hungary 4.89 liters, Czechoslovakia 4.52 liters, Germany 3.85 liters, Holland 3.5 liters, Sweden 2.99 liters, Denmark 2 liters, Iceland 2.77 liters, and Norway [144] 1.81 liters. Though the consumption of distilled beverages has declined by about a quarter (three liters of alcohol per capita instead of four) since the War, such a diminution has largely been offset by an augmentation in the consumption of wine, which having stood at about thirty-five thousand hectoliters annually, before 1900, has in the past few years come to stand at about fifty million hectoliters annually… 

“It is thus inaccurate to maintain that alcoholism has declined in France, quite to the contrary, it has augmented, though it is today the product, more so than in years past, of fermented beverages… And what is more, as the habit of drinking has gained ground in feminine circles, certain alcoholic usages have become particularly tyrannical, such as that of taking an aperitif, for example.” (P. Rieman). 

Note that in France, people still know how to amuse themselves… In matters of rot-gut, it is absolutely official, tangible, palpable, that the Frenchman need fear no one… He has shown himself, according to the stopwatch right at the bar, be it with demijohns, boots,⁹³ liters or whatever receptacle desired, to be the universal champion of cheap wine!… A pathetic reader, possibly, but peerless as an alcoholic! There’s not even a question of rivaling him… Who wants the glass? Even the Englishman who is so often cited as a redoubtable toper, when put to the test, doesn’t even exist. What bluff! what pretentiousness! It’s quite simple, that no Nordic type, no nigger, no savage, no civilized person, can even remotely approach the Frenchman any longer, when it comes to speed and capacity in putting away the wine. Only France itself stands to beat its own records in wininess, in its bending of the elbow. These are moreover practically the only records that France is capable of beating. But in this competition it’s “First Class,” “Without Competition.” In other sports, involving muscle, involving windedness, the Frenchman is reserved, he holds back… He never appears very ardent, very gung-ho. He who shines so brilliantly in his savoir vivre, no longer shines so brilliantly in the stadium… Does the Frenchman hate reading? Such can very easily be understood and defended, while at the same time even becoming an endearingly unique trait… That he prefers chatter to texts, and labial rhetoric to the deciphering of paragraphs… Why not?… Where’s the harm in it? But when he shows himself, on every occasion, without fail, for nigh-well fifty years now, whenever he is put on the line, to be unfailingly dull, flat and infantile, in no matter which sport, truly the laughingstock of all of the stadiums in the universe, though this could also be considered a form of uniqueness, it is nonetheless tenaciously humiliating. The enormous, infinite numbers of these athletic setbacks [145] trouble but little the natural self-assurance and conceit of the French people. But once all of these regularly imposed and inevitable defeats have become a given, their masters begin somewhat to cavil, and the masses become apprehensive…flustered…and begin to think it over… But why think it over?… The answer is right there, bursting forth, overflowing its sides, I am bold to say: Cheap Wine!… 

This preamble has not been in vain, it has brought us into the presence of yet one more little King of France, a monarch in his own right, and viceroy, suzerain, and ever-loyal vizier to the great Jewish King…old faithful himself, well-seasoned, and entrusted with the stultification of the masses, using the bar, idle chatter, and the chemically-altered juice of the grape… King Bistro possesses, by himself, all of the rights, through absolutely intangible political arrangement, to complete immunity and total silence, with every encouragement, for the exercise of his formidable traffic as empoisoner and assassin… Nothing is allowed to cause him trouble: the press, the radio, the Commissioners, and the entire State

 

are, in consideration of his business needs, entirely submissive to him and his orders, on the alert and hasty for ways all the better to serve him… The two roaring lions of contemporary publicity, out-roaring all of the other noisemakers, are Cinema the Stultifier and Wineco the Empoisoner. Attaching to the amazing privileges given to cheap wine, this is the only crime in France that is showing rapid progress… France has been sold in its entirety, liver, nerves, brain, and kidneys, to the large vinicultural interests. Wine is the national poison!… The bistro is polluting, knocking out, assassinating, and putrefying the French race just as surely as it was opium that rotted out and completely liquidated the Chinese race⁹⁴…hashish the Persians, and coca the Aztecs… 

The Jew, when his papers are demanded from him for examination, immediately declares himself to be an old Auvergnat worker, a faithful Bigourdan, a loyal Corsican, a Tourangeau, a Landais, etc.⁹⁵… Neither does skunk-wine possess such virtues, or such unanimously favorable references, good for all occasions, that much is understood! as is promulgated at the cost of billions annually… Cheapo wine is never anything other than an inoffensive, hygienic, anti-rachitic, Gallic, digestive, antiseptic, fortifying, Intelligence-fueling (for the most brilliant people in the world) thing, in addition to being a panacea for “long life.” But despite all of this the mortality rate in France remains one of the highest in the world… 

France 15.7 (per 1000),⁹⁶ England 11.7, Germany 11.8, Belgium 12.0, Spain 15.6, Ireland 14.4, Greece 15.5, Sweden 11.2, Switzerland 12.1, Norway 10.2, Australia 9.5, New Zealand 8.2. 

In this respect, as in every or nearly every respect, and in spite of the [146] heavy torrent of encouraging fawnings which are poured upon us each morning in full columns by our fine demagogic press and wastebasket-liner, France remains one of the most backwards countries in the world… The figures are in your hands. Let’s give plonk its due, however. Nothing could replace it when it comes to pushing the masses forward into crime and into war, by stultifying them to the desired degree. The most thoroughgoing, the most economical moral anesthetic known, that’s wine! and it’s first class… “One blow on the bugle! and they will all fly to the frontiers!” Gutman gloats. Gutman is right, he sees things correctly. But “having drunk!” let us add! The bugle is not enough. The link between stomach and heart is “wine at your discretion”… The crowing clarion is the music, the very soul of wine… 

Without taking sides, I’ve found that elections favoring the Left do even more for the bistro than do elections favoring the Right. Never have the bistros known such crowds, as those that the “forty hours” have earned for them. And the people? Never have they had so much leisure time, Never have they been so boozed-up… Never has the lemonade business been so encouraging, never have the major aperitifs known prosperity of the like. Would you just take a look at their advertising layouts?… What sumptuousness!… A perpetual Bastille Day… Democracy above all… Never has the publicity attaching to wine (and to wine-derived liqueurs, etc.) shown such effrontery, such insolence… The pretentiousness of the major nectars is at its apex… What are they risking?… Not a thing!… France’s 350,000 bistros have replaced everything in the lives of the masses…the Church, the songs, the folk dances, the legends, etc…. The little people, that crowd representing the poorest of the poor, is drawn in and drained at the bar, mechanically, like vealers at the watering trough, the first step on the way to the slaughterhouse. The people no longer feel the need for anything new other than for new bistros, “more leisure and more bistros.” 

And the libraries?… Just ask yourself, whether the libraries are frequented any more often under the forty-hour rule⁹⁷… The very idea has been taken away from the people, even in the imagination, that they might be able

[Proceed to page 89.]

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Notes:

¹ Refers to Robert Denoël, Céline’s own publisher. (Cited also on p. 85 (142) of this work.)

² Refers to modern Israel when still under British mandate.

³ Refers to a work by Céline, published the previous year (1936), in which he renounces any Communist affiliation.

⁴ I.e., Bolshevik v. Menshevik, in Communist theory and affiliation.

⁵ Refers to a Roman Catholic order dedicated the commemoration of the Passion.

⁶ I.e., the Muslim equivalent of “Kosher,” or “according to the law,” which along with “alibi” implies a legal rationalization for something.

⁷ OV: “carafouillage.”

⁸ Alludes to a Kantian “categorical imperative.”

⁹ “Cave” here refers to a bar in a basement.

¹⁰ OV: “Charlot,” referring to Chaplin’s “Little Tramp” character.

¹¹ Refers to the court painter Jean Honoré Fragonard (1732-1806).

¹² Ferdinand is here speaking of himself in third person.

¹³ Refers to Céline’s (Ferdinand’s) Journey to the End of the Night (Voyage au bout de la nuit).

¹⁴ Refers to Gide’s writing of his Le Voyage d’Urien (1893).

¹⁵ Gide was sixty-eight in 1937; hyperbolic characterization.

¹⁶ Or, more literally, “I didn’t (even) need to know how to read.”

¹⁷ OV: “en cour au balcon,” lit. “in the court(yard) upon the balcony,” implying both official protection and prominence.

¹⁸ Alludes to Céline’s second major work, Mort à Credit, or, Death on the Installment Plan.

¹⁹ OV: “Soviets partout!” or, lit. “(Let there be) Soviets everywhere!”

²⁰ OV: “Y a de la joie!” (a common leftist slogan).

²¹ OV: “myriakilogrammiques.”

²² Or, calotte.

²³ “’93” = 1793 (year of the demise of both Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette).

²⁴ OV: “fias.”

²⁵ Or, “in the breakdown and in the settlement.”

²⁶ Refers to the Chambres de Commerce de France (under whose imprimatur French coinage was produced during the inter-war period).

²⁷ I.e., the station of departure for the Eastern Front.

²⁸ “The City” = London’s financial district.

²⁹ “Corrida” = bullfight.

³⁰ I.e., Bank of England.

³¹ “Trafalgar” = Trafalgar Square, in London.

³² OV: “rats,” could signify either understudies, or rats.

³³ Meaning a low-ranking infantryman, or “Grunt,” used here sardonically as a last name.

³⁴ I.e., WWI.

³⁵ Refers to Walther Rathenau (1867-1922), German Foreign Minister, signed Rapallo Treaty, 1922; assassinated.

³⁶ Refers to the Soviets, rather than Russians per se.

³⁷ “Papaoutjans”: identity uncertain.

³⁸ Facetiously refers to leftist/coffeehouse intellectuals.

³⁹ OV: “rosières.”

⁴⁰ OV: “Valaques.”

⁴¹ I.e., the right of the (manorial) lord, usually a euphemism for “the right of the first night.”

⁴² I.e., colonization through immigration.

⁴³ “…grand illusions”: alludes to the movie The Grand Illusion, of 1937.

⁴⁴ Refers to Henri Bergson (1859-1941).

⁴⁵ I.e., Haile Selassie.

⁴⁶ Also see: pp. 197 (338) to 198 (339), and 217 (374), of this work.

⁴⁷ Colloquial expression based on the number of states in the United States at the time.

⁴⁸ Facetiously alludes to the League of Nations; Geneva is on Lake Léman.

⁴⁹ Refers to Fernand Widal.

⁵⁰ OV: “d’oiseau,” lit. “of a bird.”

⁵¹ Alludes to the Hobbesian state of a “war of all against all.”

⁵² I.e., the tobacco smoke of a “smoke-filled room.”

⁵³ Refers to the French writers Marcel Proust, Jean Giraudoux, and Paul Claudel.

⁵⁴ Refers deprecatingly to recipients of the Prix Goncourt.

⁵⁵ Refers to the academic journal Annales E.S.C.

⁵⁶ Refers to the tone of the work of André Gide.

⁵⁷ OV: “it mustn’t make any ‘Champignoles,’” such being a sort of faux pas.

⁵⁸ I.e., spirochetes.

⁵⁹ I.e., gonococci.

⁶⁰ I.e., some states of the USA.

⁶¹ At one time mercury was administered directly to syphilitics to retard the activity of the spirochete; the known ravages of the mercury were held as being less than those of the spirochete.

⁶² Refers to a penal colony in western French Guiana.

⁶³ OV: “Toutvabienovich,” from “Tout va bien” (All is going well), plus the Russian patronymic suffix -ovich; facetious appellation.

⁶⁴ I.e., debilitated persons in the final, terminal stages of syphilis.

⁶⁵ Refers to Baron Dominique Jean Larrey (1766-1842), French military surgeon, served under Napoleon in the Egyptian and Russian campaigns.

⁶⁶ Facetiously refers to a tall, cylindrical public sculpture, reminiscent of a giant asparagus sprout, once standing in the Place du Trocadéro, at the entrance to the 1937 Paris Exhibition. Also see p. 137 (236).

⁶⁷ Scurrilously refers to Marcel Proust.

⁶⁸ This is a take-off on La Dame aux camélias, by Alexandre Dumas fils.

⁶⁹ “alouette” = lark; “pigeon” substituted.

⁷⁰ “cacatoès” = cockatoo; “parrot” substituted.

⁷¹ OV: “bouzeux.”

⁷² Refers to a game similar to bocci ball and bowls.

⁷³ Refers to Léon Blum (1872-1950), head of the left-leaning Popular Front government of 1936-37. Note that “Raba Blum” rhymes with badaboum. Also written as “Blaoum.”

⁷⁴ OV: “magots,” either a macaque (tail-less monkey), or an Oriental-style porcelain garden-gnome.

⁷⁵ Refers to the idea of race being a myth, rather than to race as being a myth.

⁷⁶ Denotes a familiarity with contemporary literary trendiness.

⁷⁷ I.e., a cabinet-level officer in government.

⁷⁸ “Supprimant,” as opposed to the preceding, nearly-homophonous “suprêmement” (supremely); pun intended by the author. 

⁷⁹ Helsingfors = the old name for Helsinki.

⁸⁰ Pernambuco = the old name for Recife, and the current name of the Brazilian state whose capital is Recife.

⁸¹ Refers to Jean Richard Bloch.

⁸² OV: “Veni, Vidi, [etc.],” rhetorical lead-in, d’après Caesar. 

⁸³ Refers to a celebrated female Communist activist in the Spanish Civil War.

⁸⁴ Refers to an accessory for a pseudo-military uniform, various styles of which were sported by civilian politicians during both World Wars.

⁸⁵ Refers to the ongoing Spanish Civil War.

⁸⁶ Refers to a celebrated female Communist activist in the Spanish Civil War.

⁸⁷ Denoël = Céline’s own publisher (cited also on p. 45 of this work.)

⁸⁸ C.G.T. = France’s Communist-affiliated labor union.

⁸⁹ This is a figurative rather than literal attribution.

⁹⁰ Refers to Georges Duhamel, who wrote Le Voyage de Moscou in 1927.

⁹¹ I.e., a venerable or otherwise precious book.

⁹² “Dumouton” = Duhamel + mouton (sheep).

⁹³ OV: “à la péniche” (lit. “by the barge (-load)”), refers to a large unit of drink.

⁹⁴ Or so it seemed in 1937. Opium had indeed debilitated, though not completely destroyed, the Chinese.

⁹⁵ Refers to inhabitants of Auvergne, Bigorre, Corsica, Touraine, and Landes, respectively.

⁹⁶ OV: “(pour 100),” or “per 100,” sic; the author certainly meant “per 1000.”

⁹⁷ Refers to new laws instituting a forty-hour workweek (not to library hours), which allowed the workers more leisure time.