to escape reality, to transform themselves,
in any manner other than by getting sauced…chronically… The spiritual
center, the intellectual forum, the attractive power, the “catalyst”
of the village is no longer the church, nor the chateau nor even the
town hall… It’s the bistro, front and center… What a spiritual
improvement! …and in the cities it’s the bistro plus the cinema…the
“complete set” of modern stultification. The 350,000 bistros of
France, those flattering and cloyingly sweet galley slave overseers
of the little working people, are 350,000 times more powerful, immovable,
and meticulous than all of [147] the other tyrants, bosses, lords, priests
and bullheads, both apparent and preceding… They’re beyond all comparison…
They bloody up and knock down the people at the foundation… They deliver
them up to the Jews, to the generals of the people, broken, staggering,
belching, puking, perfectly consenting to all of the slave galleys,
all of the massacres…
What have they undertaken?
what is it exactly that our immense humanitarians are trying to do?
our great dolorous brothers? Those “participants without limits”
in all of the sufferings of the people, but to liberate the people from
their most personal, their most implacable, their most insatiable executioner,
alcohol?… Absolutely nothing of the sort!… On the contrary! Never
before have the speculators at the Stock Exchange, buyers and sellers
of all stripe, both Jews and the Judaized, known a period so magnificently
fruitful for raw materials, than the one which we have been undergoing
since the victory of the Front of the Masses,1
or the “Front of the Major Distillers and Viniculturists.” The most
marvelous achievement of the “Boom Bloum” government must be the
miraculous forty hours and the incredible growth in the powers of cheap
wine over the crowd.
What are they doing, our quivering
dissipaters and dispersers of the gloom, in the way of dispersing just
a little of all of this alcohol that is killing us?… Ah! they would
themselves be dispersed rather quickly by the most resounding storm
ever blown forth from Lucifer’s pigpen…if they were to venture a
single indiscreet word! What have our great rebels of well-known visage,
our wondrous forfenders of all forms of iniquity, tried to do in the
way of cleaning up the street a little?… In the way of doing just
a little towards shaking off the most nauseating, the most vile and
the most cowardly of all known dictatorships, that of the 350,000 bistros?
all of them sparkling, dazzling in the fullness of glory and fortune…draining,
decimating and putrefying, under the full protection of all of the public
powers, with all of that famous leisure time going straight through
the neck of a bottle? The entire length and breadth of the land is nothing
more than a formidable enterprise of stultification, a gigantic cesspool
of Jews and cheap wine… Isn’t anyone up to date?… Isn’t anybody
putting up a fuss?… It’s not just a single bouillon cube but an
entire Himalaya for the tongue of the big Jews! “It’s easy but it’s
hard”… What kind of nonsense is that?… The Frenchman has been
bound hand and foot and delivered up to the big industrialists of cheap
wine, be they Jewish or not… If the Jew is king, then Lemonade is
queen… Go worry about them, crusaders! not about two or three unfortunate
whorehouses out in the sticks, in the name of public morality, or general
hygiene, or some such foolishness, for it is with impunity that you
will be led on [148] to madness, to crime, to senility right
at the counter, along the length of those four hundred thousand bartops,
and not one person will so much as wince! and everyone is quite
content!… What a lot of bitching by a bunch of shitty hypocrites!
All of our Hymies of the great socialist experiment (they who themselves hardly ever drink), show themselves in practice, in the political kitchen, as being in solidarity to the end with all of the cheap wines, and they will quite naturally go crawling unto their Emperor Piss-water in order to get people to drink him, vote for him, and enthrone him. Warnings, recognition, and homage… It’s their second circumcision. Chattering Midi,2 dodgy and vain, is an excellent Podunk for the Jews, absolutely amenable. The opium of the people is no longer religion, that poor legend now under restraint, but rather cheap wine in its full triumph. Religion is discussed, is
refuted, is given over to a
thousand occasions for ridicule, but not cheap wine… The Frenchman
no longer has anything but the Jews and cheap wine, between himself
and oblivion… The Jews and cheap wine triumph together…let us never
forget that eighty percent of the enormous quantity of alcohol consumed
in France comes from wine “The long viiine of our fathers!”… Our
fathers, those simple souls, who in truth never drank any such thing,
but rather some innocent, homemade “small beers,” and some rudimentary
fermentations. Never did they even suspect the very existence, those
old-timers, of our terrible rot-guts, of our concentrated poisons, of
brand-name vitriols, of our Elixirs for the Asylum, which are today
filling-up, overflowing and inundating the sovereign people, as these
rain down upon their bar tables and counters, under the delighted eye
of those great apostles! The Bastille?… What a joke!… Look now all
about the former site of the Bastille itself…at that great expanse
of bistros… They are worth a hundred thousand Bastilles! …in terms
of repression and exploitation. The sovereign people?… But since ’933
it has exercised its sovereignty from within the inside of a still!
It has never left there! It will never leave there!… There hasn’t
been one measure, one Edict, one simple decree since that famous day
of sovereignty, which has not been premeditated, promulgated, and conceived
in all its glory, but for the sake of the glorification, the impunity,
the insolence, and the perfect prosperity of the proliferating bistros!
We have seen it all, the very limit! We have seen a Minister, that of
Public Education no less, advocate through his official circulars the
consumption of wine in all of the schools in France!… For fear that
one might not think of it often enough… To pressure all of the teachers,
through very lively exhortations, to devote themselves in their classes
to an elegy on cheap wine, and the creation in essence of the greatest
possible number of epileptics, by sovereign order.
O government of the people,
for the people, by cheap wine!
[149]
O Hydra of Ignorance!…
This is in a country, we should note, where each year, fifty percent of all conscripts are eliminated on account of various forms of underdevelopment, “deferred” as being completely worthless, by a Selective Service4 both increasingly indulgent, and very concerned with the maintenance of the lists of eligible recruits, and the retention of as many as possible under the flag… Fifty percent of the French population, thanks to booze, has thus fallen very clearly into the category of physical rejects. This libatiousness, this alcoholic massacre of the entire race is moreover not the least cause of that overall droopiness…of that enormous anemia, impotence, banality and boredom, of that effeminization, tedious repetition, lack of inspiration, and nit-picking gossip-mongering, viciously vindictive, all being that collectivity of defects most unfortunate, but very remarkable, which seems to have stymied all of French intellectual production, for nigh-well the last hundred years… The intellectuals, like the people, have gradually lost all of their significance, all of their power, all of their enterprise, all of their veritable music… Weak-willed types imprisoned within a thoroughly, fatally alcoholized flesh, dissolved into cheap wine… The recurring tragedy of the physical and mental decadence of alcoholic, condemned races. The big Jews of the Popular Front are perfectly-well informed about it, and are not mistaken… They’ve quite naturally established their headquarters in the major wine-producing départements5… They well know that a dictatorship in France cannot take hold, and cannot last save through this enormous libation, this besottedness, this colossal stultification of all individuals, children included, into hereditary winos… The Frenchman is actually the only living creature under the skullcap of the heavens, be it man or beast, that never ever drinks pure water… He is so inverted in his tastes, that he now regards water as toxic… He turns away from it, as from a poison. In what way, I ask you, were the Chinese definitively and absolutely conquered, relieved of their valuables, annihilated, dissolved, and pulled-down? Through opium!… And the Redskins?
they who had at first given
such a splendid thrashing to the Yankees wherever they had been encountered,
by what were these valiant fellows finally reduced, to slavery? …by
brandy! …and all of the niggers? …all of those which are colonizable
in general? by rum! …by whichever poison is the most popular at the
time of conquest… Nothing is more sinister…
The French will submit to their
destiny, they will be put, some day, into vinaigrette sauce… They
are there already. Make no mistake… The conqueror must be [150]
assured under all circumstances, that his slaves are always well in
hand, sordidly submissive, and he must be certain of his power to project
them, at the given hour, perfectly debilitated…docile…unto the bone…broken-in
to service, into the very reddest, most roaring meat-ovens…without
their ever bucking the trend, without a single hide of this troupe being
predisposed towards hesitation, without the herd letting out even the
most furtive whisper of complaint… Even so, the herd does admirably
master all of the Calvaries which present themselves, and it climbs
up to the crematorium very strongly, all by itself, under the simple
stimulus of exhortations, and of cries from the gallery which it understands.
This miracle has become common, it has taken place every day since the
dawn of history, of tyrannies and wars…but all of this can occur all
the better, even more admirably, more spontaneously, and all told dizzyingly
successfully, when the organizers are able to warm up, prepare, and
cradle the grand sacrifice in their precipitates from various philters,
of some sort of well-concentrated chemical rottenness, some sort of
powerful, everlasting, indelible, economical nerve poison, that being
our cheap wine, for us Frenchmen… Thus, it is quite easily doable!
the Paradise of the hecatomb right here on Earth, where all are gathered
together, upon one another, on the surface of the Earth as it is down
in the depths… On one side of the slaughterhouse, preparation and
prettying-up takes place…while on the other side there’s distillation,
with kegs and barrels being filled-up at full blast… The banks are
happy, while the pressing, squeezing, and filtration goes on, full speed
ahead!… Instinct does the rest… That instinct, ever present, crouching,
unmistakable and inerrant, that Death urge, at the heart of men. at
the heart of races which are on the road towards extinction, that instinct
of which one never speaks, and which never speaks, the most powerful,
tenacious and impeccable, the silent instinct… He who is never drunk,
listens, and understands… So many billboards! so many promises! so
much euphoria! …demagogy appears,6 thunders, explodes!… It’s a fair!
the great carnival of the mendacious word… Listen to these torturer’s
assistants as they shout bold-faced lies right into the faces of their
victims… They have the lies right on the tips of their tongues:
“What do the people want?…
What do the people demand?…
“Work. And bread!…”
But no! but no! foolishness!…
And you well know it! better than anyone!… The people demand leisure
and cheap wine! above all. A working class family in France spends much
more for wine than it does for either milk or bread… Alcohol and tobacco
cost the people much more dearly than does their food. Own up to this
rottenness!…
[151] Wendel! Wendel! Wendel!7 Hypocrisies of Tartuffe!8 Laughable obfuscations! I know of a hundred distillers, each a hundred times as criminal as Wendel! …who year in, year out, kill a hundred times as many people as do all of the Wendels in the world… And their businesses are much more reliable, much less threatened than those of Wendel!… But aren’t they allowed to prevail, as you well know, all of you electors with lists in hand, while you keep your dirty stinking mugs of so many menacing ham actors shut, because you are yellow, living in an infernal fear of your masters the distillers?… Would you just take a quick look at their
“dealings”?… Their augmentations
of capital!… Has it even crossed your mind to begin regulating them?
Don’t be stupid! They are the darlings of the regime, of all regimes,
including the one for which you are preparing. These Praetorians of
the Poison can always afford to wait, like the Jews, under the elms,
in complete serenity at their “tavern-headquarters,” until the end
of your masquerades, clown shows, frivolous upheavals…they know what
is wanted over the course of every Revolution… They have anchored
everything down with kegs, with barrels, everything, and they know that
without them, all authority in France would founder, without recourse,
without appeal… They know that nothing must ever be allowed to befall
them… It is they who send our electors crawling to the polls, it is
they who stir-up the blood of our soldiers. Without taverns, you are
nothing, with taverns you are everything. Tomorrow, the revolution accomplished,
“communist,” there will be more taverns than ever on our territory…
“Free France: staggering, swinish and happy!…”
As vain, narrow-minded and
frivolous as you might be…it is the lessons of History which one remembers…
You surely that the Tsar paid heavily for his last “Ukases,” his
ordinances against Vodka. Those are the actual edicts which led to the
overthrow of the Tsar, the toppling of the throne, and the final discombobulation
in a Siberian cave…much more so than the natterings of the Jew Ul’yanov-Lenin.
But Stalin, he’s not so crazy… Despite everything, he always leaves
his muzhiks a few rubles so that they can somehow get plastered, quite
profoundly shit-faced, in view of all of their miseries. It is above
all a man such as these, of whom there is never a time in which he is
not more-or-less soaked, “between two wines,” who will never be,
whether here or over there, anything more than a wash-out as a citizen,
meticulously stupid, a villainous comrade and a doubtful soldier. He’s
a dubious man, all puffed-up with defiance, an anarchist full of piss,
in whom it would be nice to punk a hole.
[152] With the ransom that you turn over
to the Jews, to your masters the international bankers, tomorrow the
great commissars of the People, you would be able to have two days off
out of every three.
Yet another impudent lie, a
credo for winos and mugs, an infamous bit of cheek, is the “Proletarian
International”! In all the world there exists only one true International,
and that is the Jewish tyranny, racial, financial, and absolutely political…
That is your International, there! one can say it! without interruption,
without a deficiency, total, from Hollywood, from Hymie Wall Street,
from Washington (Roosevelt9 is only the marionette of the big
Jews Morgenthau, Loeb, Schiff, Hayes, Baruch, and ilk) to Moscow, from
Vancouver to Milan… A true International, quite complete, quite intricate,
quite inflexible, quite gold-plated, insensitive, suspicious, criminal,
anxious, insatiable, always after conquests, never appeased, never relaxed,
never sleepy. For Aryans, for workers, the “Internationale” is only
a song…exactly! nothing but a song for slaves, nothing more… One
day the people must violently, furiously wipe the bug out of their eyes,
so as to recognize that their familiar “Internationale,” that famous
fanfare, is only yet another record most warped, most bent, the enormous
fantastic con-job of its appointed ring-leaders… Yet another Yid swindle!
…the “Internationale” is no more for the “wretched of the Earth”
than is the butter on the balcony!… The Workers’ International is
a bit of prestidigitation, a socio-megalomaniacal imposture of its great
ancestral “Marx Brother,” the first to go by that name…the Hirsute
One, so as to rip-off the stupid Aryans. He jolly well [153] succeeded! To the Jews went gold and
beefsteaks, to the stupid Aryans, cudgels and songs…according to one’s
kind…one’s destiny.
The “Internationale”: a bunch of
noise! A complaint by a drunkard, a lullaby for captives. There’s
no longer a single workers’ fraternity across the breadth of this
whole wide world, but that the Jews are at the head of it… It’s
even the exact opposite of that which actually exists, as is quite evident,
from one end of the planet to the other… That those peoples who are
seeking to embrace one another, to meet with one another across forbidden
frontiers…are unfortunately impeded by the evil capitalists from pressing
together heart to heart… What a frightful refrain! What a shameless
imposture!… There is nothing more absolutely contrary to reality!…
But yes! in the Congresses, no doubt! in the endless jabbering and the
banderoles, of course! …at the Grange-aux-Belles certainly,
plus a few other places, there is fraternization! between “delegates”
having a lot of verve, who have a lot going for them, who are not depleted,
who are not incompetent, and with whom one can jabber oneself hoarse
with the same sort of stupidities! What fine bullshitting! What risk
does it entail? There are toasts! the toasts are returned! promises
are made! …and how they castigate! …made into as much mincemeat
as you’d like! all of those profiteers of the various Regimes, and
the iniquities, the exploiters, the organizers of “Scarcity” ah!
ah! that fine tall tale! …the gluttons of one stripe…the ferociously
well-fed of another… But in practice? Ladies, Gentlemen?… Once they’ve
returned home, these very same sell-outs, these very same ones, how
they converge on the police. to beg, to demand that the restrictions
be reinforced, that immigration be cut off. turn off the valve! Then
there are no more fine phrases, Ladies and Gentlemen, no more sighing!
no more nonsense! …no more warbling!… Only reality! some very egoistic
directives, quite insipid, quite formulaic… Devil take the down-and-out!…
Devil take the “de facto” communists! And to all those who would
divvy up and share the riches of the land, among all peoples! …who
would organize redistribution, and social justice… All of those slinky
dogs, wandering about, sniffing! at will! nom de Dieu! club ’em
down! Such is the real language of the fraternal delegates of the most
opulent “trade unions” once they’ve returned home…
Countries no longer exist! But those fine “standards” of living have never existed more than they do now… There are as many “standards” of living as there are countries, all of them ferociously defended, I would ask you to believe, by those who feed off of them…as well as being madly envied by those who aspire towards them… It is a profound, everlasting war…silent…inadmissible…between the various proletariats…and it’s no less ferocious than any other…between the very lowest “standards,” and those standards [154] “filled clear to the top”… The various standards have borders with barbed wire, even more so than do Countries… Go try it then, proletarian, lathe operator, hairdresser, milliner, typist, mediocre dabbler, to earn your daily bread in the United States! …in England, Sweden or Holland…spontaneously, just like that! …entirely without pretext…to have yourself just a little taste…of a higher “standard of living” (of being paid more for a little less drudgery), and in just a little bit you are going to see how you’ll be thrown right back out! straight away! without appeal…ejected with a few whacks in the backside like some impudent, purulently mangy cur! Ah! that will not be a pretty thing to look at!… Ah! Working class fraternity, she is quite dead, it is so sad! …if she ever existed at all!… No sooner do you leave off with the formulae, naïve believer, and show up in your flour-covered face,10 anticipating a degustation of the fruits of the promise, of that excellent thing that is fraternity, so highly vaunted and ranted over, participation in which is spoken of in all of the congresses, and echoed all over the world, than you see how you’ll be knocked down!… It’s not hard to find out! That adorable fraternity, it’s nothing but rhetoric, it doesn’t exist!… They’ll show you, right at the border, with one of those merciless cudgels, one of those “iron-tipped” nightsticks, which will drop you right back down the whole that you’d crawled out of! impertinent madman! …no mercy! no lamentations! …each to his own galley, as in the working of slaves… No daydreaming… The deck on which they’re better fed, isn’t taking on any moochers or runaways from the other triremes…those who are swimming alongside that fine hull, how they’ll be turned away! with a few big cracks with a drift pin right on the noggin! that’s what they’re going to get in the
…end for such foolishness! swollen up the hard way!… Ah! How well the defense of these fine democratic frontiers is organized! No mercy! No error! No sneaking in! Those envious types! those pugnacious types, to the shit-house with them! Each people for itself!… Use the dagger! use grenades if they’re handy! On the door to each country it is clearly written, in black on pink…the fine welcome that awaits all of you proletarians of the world! “WE ARE FILLED TO CAPACITY HERE”… There! it’s done!… Don’t go imagining by way of an explanation, that it’s the “fat ones” or the “two hundred families” who are tossing the scoundrels back out… But no! but no! understand this well…it would give these “exploiters” far greater pleasure…to take them in, in great quantities! some “greasers”11 from other hemispheres!… Why not? They can only profit therefrom… Less costly manual labor…a greater number of clients… For their mugs it’s completely beneficial!… In this instance, [155] in each country it is actually the proletarians who, unionized, organized, on guard, and retrenched behind their bosses, are absolutely defending their borders…their “standard” consisting of their radio, their frigidaire, their car, their manner of dress, in sum their species of luxury (usually on credit), by every means of force and ill intent…above all through “Deportation,” using an intractable police. From the first word to the last, one must take exception to those affectionate pratings which are jabbered forth at full volume. Any Trade Union, no matter which, be it English, American, Danish, etc….is infinitely more dastardly towards the “lean” workers of other countries, than every kind of possible boss all put together would be…implacable! The stinking hypocrisy of this entire immense recruitment, sentimentalo-Masonic, this infernal babbling about class brotherhood certainly constitutes the most disgusting farce of the past century… The very fact of all of those boundaries drawn before us proves the absolute opposite, in terms of “who eats,” which is the only fact that enters into the bottom line, “speaking to workers’ interests.” The “favored” proletarians have never been more strongly attached to their relative patriotic privileges, with those possessing within their borders the wealth of an abundant land, having no particular desire to share. “Nature did not make boundaries” Cheers! She has perfectly well endowed certain countries with all of the World’s riches, while leaving other countries with nothing but flint and cholera as their entire appreciable fortune. Boundaries came into being by themselves, entirely by nature… Men set themselves to the deadly serious task of standing guard over as much as they can, holding higher than honor, the fine riches of the land… Truly, they defend them as they would the pupils of their eyes…against any intermingling of interests, against any kind of sharing with the proletarians of those other wretched countries, those children of misfortune, who didn’t happen to be born on top of petroleum… Anything else is nothing more than larking about, clowning around, Marxoidalism. One has never seen, you understand, the rich British Trade Union introducing into Commons any sort of fine motion in favor of welcoming those unemployed specialists, be they Belgian, French, Japanese, Spanish, or Wallachian, “class brethren” fallen upon hard times. Never!… Nor do the labor unions of the USA demand a little flexibility in the severe quotas… Not at all! no way! on the contrary!… To the well-off proletarians, the others can either manage by themselves, or succumb in their own mire…neither more nor less… They deserve it… They’re enemies…enemies from within the same [”/156] “class” when it comes down to the terrible issue of beef… Categorically! Each man for himself!… Galley slaves no doubt! All of them! But one must not confuse one galley with another!… Those which groan along with banks of oars, those that run on oil, “sailboats” and “steamers”… There are differences all the way around! Some capital nuances… No defectors… No master plans! Those who must remain shall remain!… This isn’t some Salvation Army! …a most substantial leg of lamb, and a full face for he who chooses not to understand!… Only the Jews may, at any time, at any moment, enter into, filter through, and take up residence in any State in the world, enjoying completely and everywhere the exact same privileges as did Roman citizens of yore, across the breadth of their own Empire… The Jews
are at home, everywhere…given
that, everything’s fair game!… The Jews, the “Devourers of Civilizations,”12
have never ceased to swarm, to wade back into the fray, always, ever
more, on several new fronts… Therefore they always show up as a band!
completely camouflaged, very sinuous, very supple, very greedy…bankers,
Virtuosi, pilgrims, movie directors, ministers, Masters of equivocation…
They are immediately adopted, pampered, fit-in, doped-up, and tipped-off
about everything…the darlings… These are the lords of this world…
Nothing is normal anymore!… They begin to devour as soon as they’ve
arrived. But for us, those simple tasks, those coarse gooneries, those
petty tricks which alone are fit for our hands…what is there left
for us to do in this great adventure? …so far from our own bell towers?13…
The Aryan must not count for very much when it comes to barriers to
immigration14… With a single stroke he is going
to lose all of his illusions, his proletarian “humanity.” As soon
as he hits the very first customs post, he is going to find himself
being leapt upon, tossed out, moved along, and broken up. No sooner
will he cast a single glance, or take a furtive look at that promised
land, that happy shore, than he will find himself undone, injured, put
in a box, and cast into the depths of the cargo hold… This will teach
that rotter not to repeat his old habits, something that he must not
comprehend very well… Never has the Aryan been so ferociously interdicted
at the borders and ports, bristling with absolutely exclusionary regulations,
draconian prescriptions, isolation wards, and martinets… Interrogations,
searches, fines, and disgusting quarantines all await him…the entire
gamut of police humiliations, both unclean and prophylactic. every armament
is brought to bear in the good war against the shit that is coming this
way, he must be nipped in the bud! relieved of the very idea of ever
returning…reprising to a limited extent the soldier of fortune…let
him go play with himself! and let him go rot besides! That’s the way
the law is in the powerful countries. Pitiless [157] quotas protect all of those States,
where life is a little less severe, against the inrush of beggars…the
“proletarian proprietors”…against an invasion by the famished
who come to whine at the frontiers, and to huddle about the pot in the
fire…
It is only in France where
all of them are allowed in… That is to say both our Jewish conquerors,
and those who they are dragging in behind them…all of Africa, all
of the Middle East, with all of their goatherders,15
all of their assassins, all of their lackeys, all of them! and more
and more of them are electors…
Apparently we can appreciate
that the Low Kike, the butt, the “one-shirt” who has just recently
emerged from his bazaar…coming out of the depths of his Romanian ghetto,
he finds things seemingly different, humorously changed once he sees
the Place Pigalle… All of those stores, those torrents of little bottles,
those pyramids of trinkets, All of this becomes reflected within him…all
of those most succulent salesgirls also please him enormously… At
that instant he finds himself delighted, madly transported, he who for
fourteen centuries has not ceased in conniving, in leaping from one
bout of cholera to the next, from a bout of typhus to thirty-six massacres,
shitting blood while making his escape, across all of the steppes and
pogroms, then finding himself in this completely open country, prettily,
madly delicious… One oughtn’t be surprised to find that he has become
delirious…that he’s quickly taken himself for being some kind of
pope… But we mustn’t allow ourselves to become derailed, and to
have it declared that it’s a done deal… The reality is completely
to the contrary!…
France is not a rich country, far from it!… It’s even a poor country, a country with few resources and a small economy, a country which naturally has an avaricious and petty feel to it. A land which does not put forth either petroleum, or copper, or cotton, and which for all that, because of that, permits only a very mediocre agriculture, is not a rich land! It’s a country with pitiful ground, for a pitiful people… It’s a country where a guy has to bust a gut, to slave away, simply in order to survive. Above all with the enormous tithe (three-quarters of our revenues, or thereabouts) that we pay to our Jewish parasites, both nationally and internationally. If the natives overspend themselves, the Jews won’t hesitate to throw them into the jug. That’s the way the law is in wretched, “avaricious” lands. That’s
just the way things are, neither
more nor less. It is necessary for us to procure from abroad, all of
the raw materials and essentials for our existence (except for wine,
alas!) These economic conditions render us completely beholden to foreigners,
form the outset… This is no more the land “blessed by the gods”
than there’s sugar on the balcony… The regions blessed by the gods
are America, England (and colonies), the Scandinavian countries (on
account of their location), Holland and a few others, in which the [158]
proletarians ipso facto have no species of desire whatever to
share their native resources with the wretches over here… Even better
than that, it is they who are exploiting us! without mercy, and how!
fronted by their Jews…they are all one as though a single man!…
They are the privileged slaves, the captives in a sound galley… One
must never be confused about things…
Every good English proletarian
is to be found abundantly felicitous and ultimately in solidarity with
the Lords on this point, their hearts beating as one,16
in that the three hundred million Hindus in rags, plus various other
exploited dudes, give him great pleasure. He’s entirely of the same
mind in that all of these miserable types, scattered hither and yon
in the depths of the universe, half-human, half-animal, these fellahcioes,
Incas in their plumes, coolies, Hottentots, ape-men, red Capoids, square
heads, and Black Indians down there, can just hop too it, and get smoked,
be tortured, go hungry, and bust their asses just for his sake… Working
the mines, tending the rice paddies, combing the pampas, in order to
send him his comfort… Upon that he is merciless!… Egoistic, “British
first of all”! He doesn’t feel himself at all to be “a brother
through suffering….” He has no desire to share either with me, or
with him…or with you… Only with “Britons” and their Jewish masters.
He finds that the conquest of the weak presents significant advantages…
It’s the Puritan hypocrisy, though you’d no longer recognize it
in the form reprised by the Trade Unions, and even then it’s “glossed-over”…
If you would like to find some amusement, then go try this experiment,
just present yourself, at the Alien Offices (from the Latin alienus:
crazy) in no matter which port along the coast… Dover, Folkestone
or whatever… Go ask for information as to whether you might disembark…in
order to go look for a little job for yourself in London…some trade
somewhat up your alley… Unless you intend to cease your miserable
existence, you’re going to have to learn at least two… You will
provoke their indignation, so violently, that you’ll be hooted off
the stage, blown away into the atmosphere… And the same goes for America!
for Sweden, for Holland, for the Argentine ports, Cuba, Canada… Honduras,
etc…. Anywhere where people can do well, all of those places where
there are edible things…you are not invited…
Proletarian from these shores, my friend, if you were to want some petroleum, some cotton, or some copper, you will find it first of all be necessary to make your buddies see the light by giving them a little fat, somewhat and seriously, those proles opposite you…on the other side of the border, where those fine humanitarian sayings, once you’re over there, won’t be enough! Your brother by class, whose head was allotted more than yours by virtue of birth, soil, and luck, must first of all be paid his tithe… He was born over there, atop an oil well, and that counts for something… And how! And all the better for him! He’s never going to make a gift to you of a piece of [159] cake that he might eat… He awaits your tithe…joyously! You could be dying over here, he’s as completely insensible to the question of sharing as a Jew, as a boss… At that exact moment he becomes in inflexible chauvinist… “Comfort” doesn’t have ears for everything going on in the world… Keep your simplistic slogans to yourself!… The absolute sharing of all of the world’s assets, is nothing but part of the chorus for the Jewish Congresses. an orchestra for the people!… It doesn’t proceed any further than the music, like that beautiful hymn of Degeyter… That’s all… In practice, your brothers by class, once they’ve cleared customs, once they’ve returned from the chat-fest, once their drool has dried, and they’ve ceased annoying you, become perfectly patriotic, finding themselves in perfect solidarity with their police, and their bosses, when it comes to your dying beyond their borders. Even if they have some merchandise to spare, and no longer know where to put it, they
would rather have it go to
rot17 than make a gift of it to you…doing
so would make them ill… Literally… So doing would lower all of their
prices, their way of life, their tithe on your head, and their bathroom.
Given that, no more friends, no more phrases! no more brotherhood of
the galley! Dog go lie down!… They wouldn’t want that, nom de
Dieu! Anything but that!… Frightful patriots as soon as one comes
to repossess their bathroom… Down! Heel… Outside! calamitous dirtbag!
cruddy, rotten, crab-infested!… That’s how they would receive us!
Now you know… Infinitely willing to share! humanitarian without limit,
the eternal righters of wrongs, so long as it doesn’t cost them so
much as a single bite of food, nor the least little hampering of their
comfort, of their security, of their super-radio…otherwise…Not a
thing! they become paralyzed, entranced… There’s no sense in getting
all worked-up over it, or of crying murder, because it’s only human,
it’s quite natural! The only things which are causes of concern to
a “tributary” country, which is exactly what we are, are those essential
materials, those items indispensable to daily life, and which enable
us to function, with some effort, on credit, and by dint of luck, after
which the honeymoon’s over! You could await some sort of reawakening
of extraordinary dimension, during which you would be seized by extravagance,
outstrip your means and burn up your last reserves…as though you could
fart higher than your hot-dog18… The dreadful realization awaits
you…and it’s not the least bit funny at all… It may even seem
a bit strange… Even worse than you’d ever expected…to wake up
one fine morning to the realization that, given your pressing and onerous
chores, you are the slave of all of the others, decidedly and [160]
irrevocably…of all of the world’s Englishmen, Brazilians, cowboys,
everyone…and of the Jews more so than of anybody else… This will
become your hellish prison, and it will weigh on you enormously…you’ve
automatically tumbled to the level of the Bushmen, roundbodies, yataghan-wielders,
Zulus, caffres, and the like, who get flogged under “Colonial Governments.”
The entire lousy existence of the sub-slaves whose bones are left ’round
about, in the deserts, steppes, and glaciers, so that the gentlemen
on high, the workers as well as the bourgeoisie, won’t suffer overmuch
from hard times, so that their cricket season will still begin on schedule,
so that crises will not inflict too much suffering upon those magnificent
English dogs, so that kittens might have their milk to drink, so that
the football season won’t bring too many colds and flus upon the gentlemen,
so that it will rain down upon he who calls for it…with the finest
fabrics, two-hundred-franc-a-liter whiskey, and imperial dignity.
[161] I was about to fill you in concerning
a few professional matters attaching to the book crisis…and then I
allowed myself to be interrupted… I am going to reprise the subject
just a bit… This should put you at ease. “Books” are nothing very
serious… They’re rather a secondary subject…a divertimento, I
should hope… Everyone is discussing “literature.” In my own turn,
might very well let on to my humble opinion as well…
Touching upon this subject,
I recall a brief series of articles which struck me as being extremely
droll…in issues of Les Nouvelles Littéraires19
(which I buy whenever I want to get hopping mad)…
The so-called critic, Yves Gandon,20 armed with a powerful polishing brush, reviews for the delectation of the reader, with such care! some of the most well-chosen texts, by some prominent contemporary writers… The trick of this reviewer, the prowess of whom is completely admirable, consists of drawing attraction to the Charm, the fine artifices, the pertinent subtleties, the entire magic spell of the Masters, their indescribable sorceries, all by means of an intuitive, quite “Proustian”21 analysis, of certain texts particularly charged with genius.
Labor, enterprise, and devotion
of an extreme audacity! of a dangerous delicacy! The reviewer quivers
with the prospect of taking a few more risks still…but while doing
so, sweating in his agony! into the Holy of Holies! unto the very Treasure
itself! unto style! unto the reflection of God! unto the vibrations
of Form in the hands of the Messiahs of Beauty! After several pious
approaches! What an ineffable luxuriance of preambles!… How many delicate
swoonings!… Ah! If only I were to be treated this way, how quickly
I would become impossible! Let us watch him at work… He soon [162]
begins to stagger…completely bedazzled…our guide sets out again…and
falters. The words begin to fail him… Breathless, he asks if we are
still able to follow him…to endure such splendor… Are we worthy?…
Are we worthy? He believes himself to know everything…troubled, he
loses his direction… He comes upon an idea…some sort of chimera,
confused in its scope, its profundity, and its stylistic pitfalls!…
Presumptuous!… He doesn’t know anything!… Scarcely even at the
Introductory Level!… Within that manor of a thousand and one marvels,
everyone succumbing in admiration… Gandon staggers! …completely
shaken… Goose-bumps!… Tragedy!… Ah! The Tragedy! That Intrepid
Soul! of that exquisite cascade of indescribable ornaments…of sublime
passages of ever-increasing sublimity…and of vertiginous falls…these
texts of mastery…literally magic in the way that they reveal themselves
as tributary streams of an aesthetic of the infinite…as overwhelming
Revelations…as priceless spiritual gems… One no longer knows which
way one is now supposed to prostrate oneself… Ah! truly it is too
much!… Gandon however, transposed by the cult that surrounds him,
does all that he can do… He gives of himself!… He offers himself
up!… He gives us the promise of his saving grace. Ah! quickly! We
must act, we must go to his assistance! We must support Gandon!… We
must prevent the worst! We must forestall any sort of atrocious cessation…
Mercy! Let us consider every aspect! Let us partake of his ecstasy!
Humanity is at his command! Be brave! Be valiant! All is quite simple,
it is for him alone, either to grant, or to deny! There is a certain
lethality! In these phrases! by way of these phrases! To be taken away
from this world by way of beauty! …by way of Phraseological Beauty!
Gandon! Ah!
It is too much! Too much verbal
perfection…for one single devotee… It’s a hell! …we are suffocating
ourselves for him!…
O delightful littérateurs
who kill! O murderously delectable phraseological inkslingers! To such
atrocious paroxysms! saved from the profane, cease making a fetish of
Purism! your finest children! Happy-go-lucky mud-encrusted louts! Blissful
brutes!…the consonances of so many squatting tribesmen!… In the
rough skins of bad syntax, you mount unto the heavens!22…
But Gandon himself does not belong to the race of officious close-enough-ists…who are content to casts texts in an indirect light… Mordieu! He’s a Jansenist,23 damnably impeccable…lukewarmth drives him to kill… He doesn’t wish your health save by way of ecstasy…and it’s no dreamlike ecstasy… But a palpitating ecstasy! …transfigurative!… Ah! he exhorts us, of Grace…receive me then…such nuance! …here! …pursuant to that changeable turning of the phrase… Ah! To be blown away by that monstrous zephyr…that iridescent wave…haven’t you been seized by it?… I am not going to survive!… Ah! Take me up, I am succumbing… Ah! I am fainting from it, [163] dear reader, with delight… Ah! the power of that “metaphor”…coming so hard on the heels of that “syntactical display”24 ah! ah!… I’m in a tizzy… I’m blanching…that priceless audacity… Ah! how the Master has us transfixed! Ah! what a wonder-working virtuoso… Ah! tragedy enough to make you sigh! And the violence! Imagine it! contained in that single comma! It’s pure genius! Genius!… And the irresistible delicacy, of that difference of degree in declination? Ah! don’t you appreciate that most unique characteristic…those two conjunctions…in direct confrontation with one another… Ah! isn’t that just like him!… He does Pascal in three words… Racine in
twelve!… Ah! how he takes
us by the adverb! Ah! the monster! Ah! the god!… Ah! That Gide finally!…
That Maurras!25 Ah! that Maurois!26
What is it that Proust said?… Ah! the dizzying heights of that Claudel!27
Ah! the eternal Giraudoux!28 Ah! Gandon! Why won’t you sing?…
That would be, I assure you, even better, even more marvelous! …more
amorous!…
Look over here! Look over there!
What do you think of this?…
Look over here! Look over there!
What doooooo you think of that?
So it goes in The Clodhoppers
of Horntown29 with the music, the parasol and the
intonations…
I certainly wouldn’t want
to attack Gandon’s30 effort, his Mass, or his devotional
trances, nor to play the part of the little prankster, the bilious non-believer,
the little spitter, the vandal, the denigrator for any reason, whether
logical or for sadistic pleasure… That’s not my way, or my intention…but
all the same I’m not of the same opinion… Insofar as Letters are
not a serious matter, one can say whatever one thinks… As for myself,
in all of this, as admired as Gandon is, I can’t find so much as a
rabbit’s fart of substance, so perhaps I must feel ashamed! though
as much as I try to open my mind, the insights just don’t come…
I must really be dense… For my money it’s only so much “Goncourt”31…pick
me up, lay me out, pinch me again, and hang me, I can’t find anything
at all… Not among any of these aforementioned folk, nor among any
others of the same vintage. I must be slightly handicapped. To my obtuse
senses, they all look the same…ferocious in their insignificance…
With a little more or a little less mummery, pedantry, wriggling, vague
desire, and onanism. That’s all that I’ve been able to discover!…
I am fully well aware that they were trying for effects both great and
small, and that they went to a great deal of effort, but just try to
make dough rise by using such platitudes…and the dough will never [164]
rise… It’s a fact…as must as one might pretend to the contrary,
it’s a failure…a defeat…a lost cause…
The more effort they make, and the more they overwork the old cranium, the more all of their organs and drums sound terribly contrived… The more painful they are to look at…the more they talk garbage and the more they boil over with rage and hatred!… Let he who is in doubt go and see for himself… They are no longer capable turning out anything but “information,” as can be seen by their oracular magma, of “lifelessness”… They are no longer sufficiently living as to engender anything other that hollow histories which won’t stand up… These false pregnancies, so infinitely pretentious, authoritarian, oversensitive, delirious, and arrogant. The bone has become hollow, devoid of marrow… Some droll noises can still be made with them…but they no longer render any marrow at all… It’s nobody’s fault in particular, but they would rather have the whole world be that way… Even the most beautiful girl in the world… It could be that they’re no longer capable of getting it up… They talk about nothing but creativity, in the same way that frigid women, between themselves, talk only about sex…uninformed, babbling, moralizing, idiotically vituperative. They are no longer capable of attaining climax, these great stylistic artists of ours… They’re a bunch of poor pieces of work who while away their time by judging, co-opting and modifying the doings of others, in sex and in art… Such make up the worst leaves of the books that bore us shitless…interminable due to the reticulations of their style. They damn well never
really had any sort of style!
and they never will have any such thing! The problems of such exceed
them in every quarter. First of all, a style is an emotion, above and
beyond anything else… They have never had any emotion…therefore
no kind of music. Do they possess the saving grace of intellect?…
This remains to be seen.
This is not entirely their
fault…the fault of these great writers… Since childhood, since the
cradle true to speak, they have devoted themselves to imposture, to
pretension, to rationalization, and to plagiarism… Starting at the
school-desk, they began to lie, to pretend that that which they read,
they had personally lived… To consider this “read” emotion, this
second-hand emotion, as their personal emotion! All of the bourgeois
writers are at bottom impostors! swindlers in experience and emotion…
They began their existences upon footings of imposture…they are following
through…they made their debuts in life by way of an imposture…and
the original protected environment is the “High School”… This
seminary of Freemasonry, this incubator of every privilege, every treachery,
every symbol. Those who have felt themselves superior, nobles “called”
to a special station, ever since they were six years [165] old… An emotional world, an entire
life, for one’s entire life, separates the grammar school graduates
from those of the high school32… The former are equally well-grounded,
from the very beginning, in the world of experience, while the others
are a bunch of big jokers… Their experience doesn’t come until much
later, by way of high station, as lords, as impostors…even Vallès.
They had taken the route to school by car, while the grammar school
kids went by bike…the first had seen the route, while the others had
memorized the route, doggedly, subduing it step-by-step… A man is
completely made, emotionally so to speak, by the time he’s about twelve
years old. Thenceforth all he does is to go through repetitions, which
is too bad! all the way through ’til death… His music is fixed once
and for all…within his very flesh, as upon a photograph, on its first
printing… It’s that first printing that counts. The childhood of
bourgeois children is the childhood of parasites and louts, having the
sensibilities of parasites, of sensualists, of a privileged caste on
the defensive, of little darlings, affected, artificial, with a vicious
emotional dislocation lasting unto death… They have never really seen
anything…they never will see anything…humanly speaking… They’ll
have acquired their experiences through the Greek translations, and
learned about life through the Latin versions and the chattering of
M. Alain… It’s as though a recruit were trained to sit in the saddle
wrongly, mounting with his balls towards the rear, and were to go on
doing so throughout the remainder of his service…all of these little
bourgeois products are doomed from the outset, emotionally perverted,
desiccated, withered, affected, and decomposed, from the beginning,
Renan included…
They will only “think” their way through life…never “testing” themselves, not even in war…in their vile “precious” flesh, those sly show-offs… Humdrum, sclerotic, unctuous, embourgeoisified, overly-elevated and whining,33 beginning with their very first compositions, Throughout their entire lives, they’ll retain a poker up their asses, and Latin pomposity on their tongues… They enter into secondary school like little Chinese girls with feet to be bound, and they’ll emerge from it emotionally monstrous, amputated, sadistic, frigid, frivolous, and crafty… They will no longer understand anything but the grammatical tortures, of exchanging syntaxes and adverbs one with another, across the stumps… Never will they see anything… They will never have seen anything… Aside from the formalistic tortures and the scruples of rhetoricians, they will remain forcefully closed-off, impermeable to the waves of life. The parents and masters have dedicated them, beginning in high school, that is to say forever, to the simulacra of emotion, to all of the spiritual charades, to sentimental impostures, to word play, to equivocating incantations… They will remain set-up, penetrated, blissfully unaware of having been pilfered, rigidly pedantic in every fiber of their being, [166] convinced, exultant in their superiority, babbling their Latino-gibberish, blown-away into that Greco-Roman emptiness, with their buffoonish “humanity,” their false humility, their fantastically serendipitous
second-handedness, pretentiously
cooing formulae, and shaking the tambourine of axioms, all of which
has been proffered and held high throughout the ages, in order to justify
the stultification of the young by the most parasitic, phrase-mongering,
sly, irredentist, politicized, profiteering, inexterminable, incompetent,
eunuchoid, wormishly theoretical, disaster-creating clique in the Universe:
the Stupid Teachers’ Brigade…
The worship of the Greeks,
the Latin versions, the pretentious, tendentious and Judaized twaddle
by Alain, and the MultiBendas34…will always be correct in the mind
of the graduate as opposed to direct experience and direct emotion,
with which the simple life and direct living, with all of its personal
risks, abounds… The “amenability” of the high-schooler becomes
inverted, once he leaves the “sixth grade,” and this is a much more
serious matter than are the first wankings and spillings-forth from
the “onion”35… Life is an immense bazaar in which
the bourgeois enter, circulate, help themselves…and leave without
paying…only the poor pay…the little bell of the cash drawer…that
is the bourgeois emotion… The bourgeois, including the little bourgeois
children, have never had any need to go by the cashier… They have
never had emotion… Direct emotion, direct anguish, direct poetry,
inflicted by conditions upon the poor of this Earth, beginning with
the very first years of life… They have never felt anything other
than high schoolish emotions, bookish or familial emotions, and then
later in life, some “distinguished” emotions…that is, “artistic”
emotions… Nothing upon which they subsequently elaborate in the course
of their “works,” can be anything other than a patchwork of reprints,
of things seen through a windshield or a buffer…or simply stolen from
the depths of the library…translated, tinkered with, and rearranged,
from the Greek, or from classical motifs. Never, absolutely never, any
direct humanity. Only phonographs. They have been neutered of any direct
emotion, sworn to eternal chattering from the very first hours of childhood…just
as the Jews are circumcised, and sworn to vengeance… All of this is
biological, implacable, nothing left to say. The combined destinies
of bourgeois Aryan children and Jewish children, almost always brought
into association, engendered, and given cover by their families, school
and education, consists above all in being desensitized, humanly speaking.
It is above all a matter of turning them into cheats, impostors, ham
actors, the privileged, the socially frigid, and artists at “dissembly”…
The finely French French language, “clean-shaven,” is marvelously [167] adapted towards these ends.
It’s actually the absolutely indispensable corset for these little emotional geldings, sustaining them, reassuring them, doping them up, and furnishing them for every circumstance all of the charades of imposture, and that “gravitas” which they so desperately need, for fear of foundering… Not only is the fine style “relevant,” but it also contains a miracle! in that it equips all of these impostors, all of these frigid and rapacious types!… It provides them with a providential vehicle, an exact, balanced, and meticulous language, in which you have an impeccable shelter for their vapidity, a hermetic for all things insignificant. It’s a rigid framework of a “style,” an imposture without which they would find themselves literally denuded, blown away instantaneously by the brutality of life, having in themselves no sort of substance, no sort of specific quality…not the least weight, the least gravity… But in that proud classical corset, completely reinforced with formulae, excerpts and references, they can still play their roles, and how! the most monumental roles in the social farce…so wondrously fruitful for these eunuchs. It’s always the fake, the tacky, the wretched and imitative trash that winds up being imposed upon the masses, the lie always! authenticity never… From that point on, it’s all over! The issue has been decided… This is the “French” of the high school, the titrated and filtered “French,” the all-cleaned-up French, the frigid French, the rubbed-smooth (modernized Naturalist) French, the loutish French, the French of Montaigne and Racine, the Jewish French for secondary school examination essays on Anatole Jew,36 the Goncourt French, the disgustingly elegant,
closely-molded, oriental, unctuous
French, slick as a turd, perhaps the very epitaph for the French race.
It’s like the Mandarin form of Chinese. It no longer takes any real
emotion in order to express oneself in “high school” French, any
more so than in Mandarin Chinese… It is enough just to pretend. It’s
the ideal French for Robots. The ideally, truly cleaned-up Human, about
whom all of the literary artists nowadays seemingly want to write, is
a robot. Any Robot, let us note, can be rendered as brilliant, as shiny,
as rationalized, and as streamlined, with “clean lines,” as is desired,
as well as most perfectly elegant, according to the tastes of the day.
The Robot is destined to become the centerpiece of the Palace of Discovery…
It is he who is the end-all and be-all of so much civilizing “rationalistic”
effort…admirably Naturalistic and objective (the Robot occasionally
becomes intoxicated, however! the sole human trait of the Robot at this
time)… Ever since the Renaissance there has been this tendency to
work with ever-increasing enthusiasm towards the advent of the Kingdom
of the Sciences and the Social robot. The most reductionist…the most
objective of languages is the journalistically [168] perfect one to fill in as the objective
language of the Robot… We are already there… It’s no longer necessary
to maintain a soul in opposition to the reality of death, in order to
express oneself as a human… And how many volumes! how many aspects!
how many facets! and what a lot of publicity! …any sort of robotic
jabber whatever can be a triumph! We are already there…
All of those writers who are
vaunted before me, and whom I am supposed to admire…will never, it’s
quite evident, feel the least little inkling of direct emotion. They
will continue working in the manner of “surveyors” up to a moment
to come very soon, whereupon they will cease working as anything other
than surveyors… Perhaps at the final moment, at the moment of death,
they might feel some wee little authentic emotion, some little tinge
of doubt… Nothing could be less certain… The style of smooth neoclassicism
for which they are famous, that shining breastplate,37
beveled and adjusted with exactitude, without pity, impeccable, and
having girded them against any intrusion by life ever since high school,
forbids them now as much as ever from allowing anything whatever to
penetrate to the insides of their carcasses, under penalty of being
immediately dissolved, and reabsorbed by the waves of life… The least
little contact with the human emotional torrent, and it’s death! …this
time, without any phrases… They move about beneath the current, as
in the depths of too deep a river, under an enormous weight of mutely
treacherous caresses, in diving suits, out of sorts, inhibited by a
hundred thousand precautions. They don’t communicate with the outside
world save by microphones directed towards the surface. They pontificate
in their impeccable “public” style, towards and against everything,
those acrobatic, soothsaying cuckolds… They grew up with their breastplates…
They will die with their breastplates, inside of their breastplates,
embraced, swaddled, and trussed to the peak of perfection. wavy-haired,
spice cake, polished, shining robots, crawling about in diving suits
under an enormous paraphernalia, inhibited by ten thousand tubes and
wires to the point of being almost immobile, practically blind, feeling
their way along, they crawl thusly towards that pretty light at the
end of the tunnel of their existences, at the end of the shadowy depths…
Retirement…Nothing emanates from the fissures of their armor, from
the joints of these “elite” robots, than a little spray, ephemeral
bouquets, of infinitely microscopic gurglings, the bubbles of which
rise. to the open air. One will never have to congratulate them for
tearing apart their extraordinary metallic yoke, in light of the fact
that they will have to die one day anyway. Such a realization to the
contrary usually only succeeds in making them secure their harnesses
even more tightly than formerly, into even more opulent bridles, embroil
themselves with even more overbearing “cultural” appurtenances,
and then maintain while going into their shadowy depths, despite everything,
the possibility of some sort of slight gesticulation…contrived schemes,
light-hearted sleights-of-hand, and equivocating hesitations, all known
as “stylistic finesse.”
[169] Once they’ve returned to their “cozy little rooms,” enhanced with chamomile, they are seized with anguish, for a long time, a very long time, strangled, livid, obsessed by the memory of those infinite murky waters, those abysses. These they depict with a distraught hesitation, along with all of those monsters that they’d glimpsed…those other monsters… They
are always very poorly revealed…very
bruised, very painful…under the caresses of the light, of those tragic
boy scout handlings, of their reductions to their causes. Therefore
they must be “worked out” most laboriously, gut-wrenchingly, so
as eventually to dissipate all of their fears, and to cradle them, so
that they will finally take to paper, depose themselves, and adhere,
black, soft and warm, on white… All of that affection ever so attentive,
ever so vigilant, of a family looking out for one another until their
diarrhea goes away, and their toothaches are appeased… Their very
greatest Love of loves being but that redundance of nothingness, their
great earpiece to the hollow soul. How is it that all of these castrati
have come forth to plague us with their novels? with their simulacra
of emotions? Let it be said once and for all that they are opaque, blind,
deaf, and one-armed! Don’t they fit the description perfectly, when
it’s said that they merely parrot and patch-together that which they’ve
read in other books?… Aren’t they conducting their careers strictly
within the confines of a droll “Baedekerism,”38
a descriptive Goncourtism, a thoroughgoing objectivist rummaging, a
Zolaism for ’37, even more scientifico-Judeolatrous, Dreyfusard, and
liberationist, into the most microscopic analysis of the ass-reamings
of Poo-Proust, of “mounting nuance” unto half a quarter of the ass
of a fly?39 or more simply still, furious with
constipation, which only makes them more obstinate, to the relentless
sawing of wood, regardless of the weather, of a few cords, every day
after lunch, and then in the middle of the night? Their fatal and robotic
insensibility condemns them all, once and for all, to rigid estimations,
to descriptions, to overviews of sentiment, to grimaces, to collective
movements, to brochures in the interests of tourism, to captions for
photographs, to subtitles and inserts for advertising, to programs for
events… Aside from that, they’re screwed. They can’t take the
risk of mixing themselves up in the least little reproduction of emotion,
for fear of committing atrocious gaffes. We’re embarrassed just looking
at them, quavering, floundering about as soon as they venture into the
very least expressions of sentiment, even the most natural and elementary,
making of it an abjectly [170] disheartening catastrophe. Indecent,
rude, and refractory, they immediately bury themselves beneath an avalanche
of oafishness and obscenity. Upon inciting the very least sentimentality
they inflate and explode into a thousand infinitely fetid pieces of
excrement. It’s nothing but a thicket of refuge for all of the robots
supersaturated with objectivism.40 Surrealism. In it, there is no longer
anything to fear! No sort of emotivity is necessary. Anyone who wants
can take refuge therein, and proclaim himself a genius! No matter which
castrato, no matter which inverted Kike in a delirium of imposture,
can make his own way to the top. There only has to be a little
understanding, very easily concluded with the critics, that is to say
amongst the Jews… “My grandmother in the stratosphere hunts for
M. Picard’s connecting rods. The little fish at the Exposition are
thinking of the war…the ones in the Seine are being quiet…sea-sickness…
I will not be going to America…eels…munitions…my forty-two aunts…”
An admirable Jewish trick!… The empty hype of the Jewish critics!… At a single stroke above all judgment! …superior to all points of reference! …to all humanistic texts… And the more emasculated, impotent, sterile, pretentious and farcical it is, the more of a bore and a poor impostor it is, the more forceful will be its effrontery, and the more genius and fantastic success it will have…(with Jewish publicity “on command,” you understand). Admirably simple! presto!… The Renaissance splendidly paved the way, through its Judaic fanaticism and its worship of the pre-scientific, for this stinking evolution towards all things seamy. This catastrophic promotion of all the world’s castrati into the Kingdom of the Arts… As a cultural manifestation of the “boys from the Freemasonic laboratories, and as claptrap even more bound-up, more constricted than Positivism, naturalism has since the Renaissance carried forth the same gigantic stupidities, the same
calamitous prejudice in favor
of the ultimate power of vapidity. This trick has not fallen on a deaf
Jewish ear…
Sterile, conceited, destructive,
swinish, and monstrously megalomaniacal, the Jews are currently accomplishing,
to full capacity, and under the same standard as their conquest of the
world, the degradation, the monstrous crushing, and the systematic and
total annihilation of our most natural emotions as conveyed in all of
our essential, instinctive arts, in music, painting, poetry, theater…
“Replacing Aryan emotion with the Nigger’s tom-tom.”
Surrealism, an extension of
naturalism, is art for hateful robots, an instrument of Jewish despotism,
swindle and imposture… As an extension of imbecilic naturalism, and
as the rod and pruning shears of the Jewish eunuchs, surrealism is the
registry of our [171] emotional disenfranchisement…the
ground for our hecatomb, our communal mass grave for idolatrous Aryan
cretins, duped and cuckolded on a cosmic scale… And then it’s an
entirely done deal! admirably done…for mugs like us!… At surrealism’s
door, long quivering with impatience, with reductionism, and with objectivism,
to all of its degrees, all or nearly all of our great writers ceaselessly
hone themselves down to the infinitesimal, to the loss of that “jingling
bell,” to the loss of the very last bit of substance. Were they to
continue to handle themselves somewhat badly, were they to apply themselves
to fantasy, were they to be drawn into idealism or romanticism, there
are those who would immediately and fatally so smooth them out, after
so many analyses, as to put them on their way towards surrealism…
That is to say those who are promoted, well positioned,41
and delirious with impunity, in the most astounding imposture of the
age, whose aim is the stupefaction of the people and the bourgeoisie…by
way of the amassing of meaningless frenzies, para-symbolic simulacra,
and frenetic fraudulent wanking… All of these are jingling bells as
well! …jingling bells! …not even real bells! but vile little jingling
bells! for rabid little beasts!
Every time, whenever it’s
a matter of whether it’ll move to a greater or lesser extent…it
goes…out of it come some odd little noises, some hail-like tintinnabulations,
some little false notes. And then there’s only so much of it, and
then it’s all over… The surrealist invasion, I’ve found, is absolutely
ready, and it’s going to proceed without hesitation, by virtue of
the law of numbers… Therefore there remains nothing left to be said
about Robotic art, before it swoops in to stay.
The standard-bearers of high
culture, those works continuing in the classical tradition, at some
point become deformed, due to stylistic constipation, and a certain
degree of weakening brought about by internal friction, gratuitous wanking,
pointless buffoonery, the transmutation of unworthy bladders, and the
shopworn quality of certain symbols fallen into desuetude, and rendered
turgid with certain jaded hypertonics and bubbling banalities, all of
which come together to lie upon all of the straw mattresses in all of
the lofts of the grand official Jewish whorehouse!… They all come
from the same vessel, the same infinite glass…of Goncourtian meaninglessness,
of the slatternly recasting of Zola, from the same overused dishwater,
from the same plunging into things squishy, opaque, suspect, and Medusa-like!…
Perhaps my taste is poorly developed, but in my humble opinion, I’ve ultimately come to find that Monsieur Duhamel’s42 chattering works serve admirably as continuations of those of M. Theuriet43…his powers of edification, coming from the House of Bordeaux, Bazin, cousin Bourget, and son Mauriac,44 might admirably substitute for M. Gide when it comes to the weaving of cocoons. [172] The
“complicated babies of Goncourt”
might yet take all of the critical acclaim and all of the prizes, it
being enough simply to make the effort to “Freudianize” them a little…
M. Giraudoux, as a most pertinent fact, polishes while putting out,
just as much as Poo-Proust did. M. Paul of the Cemeteries Valéry makes
his appearance, pecks about a bit, disappears into the waves, Baedeker-like,45
consensualizing,46 surrealizing if he must as a Roman…reappearing
along one bow as Maurras, coming back as Barrès, losing himself again,
now Bergsonized, irritated, taunting us with little nothings… And
finally M. Maurois, who is by no means anything like du Gard, but even
so, Vautel seriously quite makes us forget them all…over the course
of several months erasing them completely…he alone might be enough
for the entire Jewish future. Why not?…
I don’t see anything among
all these trinkets that might truly impassion us…that might revive
so much as a single fly, a living fly, a fly that flies…the cause
appears to me to be understood, Renaissance, naturalism, objectivism,
surrealism, the perfect progression towards the Robotic. We are already
there. As far as I’m concerned, everything is in admirable agreement.
Baby rattles, childish games, Calvinists, “Vermouth” varnish. Baedekerisms,
and an asshole. There’s no way to bring the water in this vessel to
a boil. Assorted groups of mixed lanterns, croutons of sweetened textbooks,
Latin-book hair curlers, “Translation” chickens in “measure”
sauce with the entire box of nuanced garnish. Meaninglessness raised
to the ten thousandth power. A show, a fair of eunuchs dressed-up as
dildoes, with a big strongbox, a lantern, a can, a bladder, more soakings,
and slices of re-circumcised prepuces! There’s not one from among
all of these vague motifs, these effronterous importunings, which has
not been worked-over at least a hundred times and in all of its aspects,
without ceremony, in vague high school recollections. All of these stories,
these styles, these scenarios, these mannerisms are put into one’s
head at school… Never occurring to a fellow in and of himself. They
are nothing but so many alibis, so many parvenu pretexts, for the consolidation
of careers, for irrational academic crazes, as ornamental knickknacks
for wine cellars… Contemporary literature is a calamitous crumbling
catafalque of phrases, acrostics and flub-dubs, so dry, so chapped,
that not even the maggots come to swarm upon it any more, a cadaver
with no tomorrow, lifeless, ghostly, an oozing without color and without
horror, more disheartening, more repugnant, a thousand times more disappointing
than the most rank, most stark, most bloated, most oozing carrion, a
literature in sum more dead that death, infinitely.
[173]
He
who does not wish to be negrified is a fascist to be hung.
Anything that might elicit the least little emotional uplift, the most furtive revolt, in the hearts of the perfectly degraded masters, abused and deceived in a hundred thousand ways, anything that might reawaken among the indigenous people the vaguest desire, the least recollection of their authentic, instinctive emotion, will find immediate, hateful, ferocious, and implacable opposition on the part of the critics. The debate will become personal. It’s their commercialized meat that has been called into question… They who had usually been so benign, so passive, so perfectly willing to shove their “meter sticks” into whatever slots, marked Jewish, that were placed before them…now snap to attention, immediately, upon the least appeal to the well of Aryan emotionality, the well of spontaneity. They hop to it. They sense that they are going to be strangled along with the rest of the Judaized Negroids. Authenticity will kill them pure and simple, the undeniably know it, they begin to
act rashly in a most terrible
manner, they possess a sense for danger, for catastrophe, just like
rats sensing the sinking of a ship.
[174]
Even as the French are setting up an anti-Semitic league,
the President, the Secretary and the Treasurer are all Jews.
Insofar as all of our great authors, those who determine the rules and the tone of good style, emanate from high schools emphasizing dead languages, having learned since infancy to fatten themselves on that fine mixed feed, of perfectly sterilized Greek roots, parchment, Mandarin mannerisms, examinations, and plutocrap Dictionaries, they no longer have anything to fear, being emasculated for life. No unforeseen circumstance, no rerouting, will ever induce these eunuchs to churn out humanitarian brochures. It’s all over, they’ve been painstakingly cleansed. Won’t they forever be nothing more than pretentious babies? sworn to defunct things, enamored and impassioned strictly by mummified substances. All of their life experience is in academic treatises, “entrance examinations,” and the cinders of an existence of conferences, and in psychological and medical staffs. They were devoted ever since the wet nurse to an existence based upon hearsay, to contrived emotions, to subtle set-ups for determined cheaters, to incubators within clubs, libraries, Stock Exchanges, Institutes and Deputations, and finally all of those cushy jobs of such an astonishing diversity, which run from Gobelins47 to the Houses of Culture, from the Mines to the Tobaccos, and from the Transatlantic to Finances, cushy jobs, where all of that pampered flesh, infinitely preserved and enveloped in their “versions,” will find all of the comfort and security of the family cradle, throughout the length of their existence. They thus preserve within themselves, completely and for all time, an anxiety for all of the shocks coming from the outside, from real life, from pleurisy, from upheaval by the lowly, from all of those catastrophes which [175] stand to vaporize or blow away in an instant, all of those big babies of Administration and the Arts, should they ever risk the light of day…the great winds of the world. One must take it as evident, that the majority of our great authors have never been cut free, and that they remain attached throughout life to problems fit for infants, from which they do not detach themselves save after drink upon drink, and with an infinitude of misgivings, and interminable hesitations known as “mature works”… At the very end they tip over into senility, and into death, without ever having done anything throughout the lengths of their careers but make little iridescent bubbles, plus some fragments of chewed-up lexicon, re-sucked a thousand times over, and re-chewed unto infinity, into spit-balls, surprises, and rebuses. Should they be in a tearful mood, they are perfectly content to seize up the bicorn plume, that tickling epée, and then on top of it all, at the height of heights, have it put down right in the middle of the onionskin, that fine hollow epitaph for a eunuch: “All has been said.” This three-of-a-kind of such militant, implacable meaninglessness, this gigantic piece of buffoonery featuring every infantile fear, travesty and pomposity, plays-out admirably in the game, and fits in quite well with all of the plans, all of the tricks of the Jews. Practically all of these stammerers and pampered pontiffs are damnably incapable of reviving a taste for authentic emotion among the masses, the “translations” more so than the others. Why bother?… Let us standardize! the entire world! under the ensign of the translated book! the flat, descriptive, objective, quite insipid, proudly and pompously robotic, presumptuous, rambling and null book. The book for spectators completely absorbed by the cinema, and for lovers of the Jewish Theater, Jewish painting, and Judeo-Asiatic international music… The book which completely extinguishes the spirit and authentic emotion, a book like The Cat who Sins, à la Vicki Baum…the book for the stultification and the obliviousness of the goy, designed to make him all that he is, his truth, his race, his natural emotions, and to have him learn erroneous precepts instead, of shame for his own race, and of his own emotional repertoire, a
book for the betrayal and the
spiritual destruction of the indigenous people, in sum, for the completion
of the work already well advanced by movies, radio, newspapers, and
alcoholism.
[176] This is because all of the “native”
authors, of this soil, are striving to write in an increasingly “reductionist”
style, banal, lukewarm, insensible, and pointless, exactly like the
“translations.” This is because as students of a dead language,
they naturally turn to dead language, to dead histories, to the flat,
unwound bandages of mummies, to the extent that they have lost all color,
all savor, any humor, or any personal, racial or lyrical tone, because
it no longer makes any sense to go to all the trouble! The public takes
what it is given. Why not submerge the whole thing! quite simply, in
one supreme effort, in a stroke of supreme effrontery, the entire French
market, under a torrent of foreign literature? completely insipid?…
The Jewish critics (as intended for the less carefully Judaized, in
their most obscure columns, whether of the right or left), order-up
and prepare the passing of fancies. The windmill turns from day to day,
putting out, in its oafish way, criticism so pedestrian, so perfectly
obtuse concerning anything outside of its usual run-of-the-mill jabber,
that there’s no longer anything to it but Anglomania, and enthusiasm
for the most dried-up old turkeys48 of Anglo-Judeo-Saxonry. Completely
lacking in perception, the critics set about trying to predict the future,
they so kept-in-mothballs, so perfectly “elms of the croquet alley”49
…homebodies living comfortably “inside the coffin!” …suddenly
making a hyperbolic leap with a thousand international streamers…
You’d no longer recognize them! Magic!… What happened? They haven’t
enough adjectives with which adequately to vaunt the English authors’
“admirably understated affections”…their marvelously elliptical [177]
palpitations, their treasures from the super-virtual depths… Our most
seasoned Zolatrous50 pontificators, our “purest of the
pure” naturalists, our “free theater” types since day one, babblingly
swarm to sensitization therapies at “Miss Baba’s”… They all
come back completely transfixed by exquisite ecstasies…thenceforth
only sweetly favorable epithets flourish concerning this spring’s
English campaign… That’s the way it is for poetry… But when it
comes to psychodramas, there’s no praise higher than that which they
have for that super-overwhelming genius Lawrence51…the
incredible courage of his sexual messages…(six hundred and fifty pages
on some game warden’s poor dick) of his world-renewing premonitions…of
his inspirational tortures…of his trans-medullary disappointments…his
matrimonial reversals… Was that her? Was that him?… What was he
doing? What was she doing? Finally comes the entire Jewish tempest,
that rigmarole of publicity, personally insinuating, Hollywoodian, which
works just that much better on the suckers, to the extent that the merchandise
is even more vain, hollow, impudent, and catastrophic. From that moment
on, once the Jews have decided, promulgated and made the acknowledgment.
once and for all that all works of art with emotion may thenceforth
be suppressed…the melody, the living rhythm, (the only test of authentic
value) confusion reigns and triumphs, with farce, publicity and imposture
moving in, instantly proliferating, and replacing everything. They are
waiting only for that day of the Jew in order to replace everything,
intrude on everything, erase everything. We are there right now. In
the vanguard comes “straightforward” descriptiveness! those ill-prepared
pastas! …those trouser flies without dicks! those spastic sphincters!
those false tits, and every other trashy form of imposture. Immediately
they all become completely legal, official, predominant, dogmatic, despotic,
intractable… The dictatorship of phantoms is the most stifling and
suspicious of any. From the moment when they take power there’s nothing
that they can’t rape, tamper with, travesty, bog down, destroy, or
prostitute… Any sort of crumby dastardliness whatever might instantly
become an object of worship, eliciting typhoons of enthusiasm, this
being a matter of nothing but publicity, whether scant or robust, in
the press or on the radio, that is to say, definitely a matter of politics
and money, and thus of Jewry.
[178]
By the time you think your ass has been reamed by a single centimeter,
it has already
been reamed by several meters.
The meager little market for
French books, already so completely shriveled-up, beset, and under siege,
has quickly found itself crushed beneath the novels and the pamphlets
of M. and Mme. Lehmann, Rosamonde, Virginia Woolf… Vicki Baum… M.
Ludwig… M. Cohen… M. Davis… Mlle. “The Cat who Sins” …each
and every one of them either a Jew or a Jewess…each one mieux mieux52
even more tendentious, more vapid, more plagiarizing, more of a “genius,”
more cut-and-paste, salacious, underhanded, depraved, supercilious,
destructive, weepy, glib or longwinded than the last. All of them are
of course well publicized, well received, consecrated, inflated, and
overblown, with a great deal of assistance by international Jewish literary
circles and juries…(the Jewish International Prizes for Literature)
managed in France through the good offices of Jewish agencies…adopted
with enthusiasm by all of the Judaized newspapers (that is to say all
of them). Giant Jewish cocktail parties… Champs Elysées…orgies…
Jewish cocaine… Jewish ass-reamings, etc…. If all of the authors
being translated aren’t Jewish, they are at least painstakingly Judaized,
the spouses of Jews, pro-Jewish, devotedly, insatiably…pro-Hymie,
more than Hymies, hostages… All of the literary agents, the impresarios
of literature, just like the impresarios of every other “artistic
expression,” are Jewish. The directors, the stars, the producers,
and shortly all of the so-called creative talents in theater, film,
radio, song, dance and painting will be Jewish. The public, that is
to say the belching horde of drunken Aryan cuckolds (in the cities,
the countryside and outlying regions), [179] out of the same craving, feed indiscriminately,
dine opulently upon all of M. Sacha’s53 turnips,54 M. Bernstein’s leftovers, M. Maurois’
salsify, M. Cocteau’s peelings, and the fricassees of the Comédie.
Our snobs also swallow it down whole, the dos Passoses as well as the
Sinclair Lewises, the Mauriacs, the Lawrences, the Colettes…the same
rehashing, the same grease, the same pointless chatter, stultifying
droning, sub-cycles of greater and lesser “implied elements”…
Whether translated or not, they remain identical, absolutely, one to
another, turgid and loutish, with the same tambourines, the same confusion,
the same pointlessness, the same insensibility, fake and laborious,
the same trashing of values, the same bankrupt debauchery. In order
to assure the triumph of such stupidities, the Jewish critics, evidently
going all the way (and they exist only for going all the way, towards
such ends) insist, pontificate, praise, acclaim, and proclaim… Adorning
all of these bladders with golden phrases… While tracking down and
bringing the very worst opprobrium and ultimate tortures to bear upon
those rare hooligans, those last doubters, those final scrapings of
iconoclasm, scattered here and there, who allow themselves the liberty…of
throwing a little cold water upon such fervor…of not being able to
find that absolutely everything that happens to be Jewish is absolutely,
transfiguratively divine.
[180]
We
are living under complete Jewish fascism.
One mustn’t
believe that I have become lost, or that I am spouting off just for the sake of it, for though I have
made a slight digression, I am now returning to my hobbyhorse… In
their great, steeping puddle of plasmatic puke, that phraseological
swamp, all of it run-through with mildewy filaments, and all done-up
in successive rhetorical curlers, the Jews have not remained inactive…
They are prospering from it marvelously.
All of the ages of decadence, all of
the ages of rot, were superabundant with Jews, critics and homosexuals.
The Jews are actually in seventh heaven, in finance, politics and the
arts. More persuasive, intrusive, insinuating, and worm-like than ever,
they file into the wake of the Picassos, the Sachas, the Cézannes,
the Poo-Prousts…they set sail in unsettled seas, they submerge everything…
In the process the Jews consolidate their supreme Reform, the ultimate
deconstruction of the Aryans. The forcing of the Aryans into ghettos
cannot come much later…all done under Nigger enforcement. This will
coincide with the advent of the very greatest Jewish Art, and of Robotic-Surrealist
art for the robotized indigenous population. There is nothing secret,
nothing occult about the “take-nique” of this conquest of the world
by way of the Jewish cloaca, this consecration of Jewish Imperialism,
and apotheosis of the Jew, both spiritually and materially. It’s there
for everyone to admire… It’s taking place right beneath our windows…
One only has to lean forward a little…
[181] What a fine thing it is that M. Faulkner,
Mlle. Baum, M. Cohen, M. Lévy, and M. Jew Geniustein, copycats throughout
the entire lengths of the triumphal careers, have been rifling through,
redacting, and plagiarizing our most shopworn and superannuated naturalists,55
even while disgorging onto us the gritty American “tough” taste.
They cannot help but to win both ways…they and the Jewish cause with
them. Our theatrical Jews both here and over there never do anything
other than pillage, redact, and resell the folklore and the classics
of the countries that they are devastating. They carry it off admirably.
The universal mob of indigenous cuckolds, at the bottom of the waterspout
at the various tellers’ windows, are happy and supine. At a high price,
the Aryan crowd is resold copies of its own heritage, all well-soiled,
beshitted, and goofed-up every which way… But what a fantastic gem!…
The bloody stupid has become gold!… All by virtue of Jewish mutual
assistance…its racism. its effrontery and its publicity. The critics
never fiddle around, they set to it hammer-and-tongs! What a sudden
stampede! irrevocable! Not only do they themselves withstand everything,
but they exalt in every blow! They shine! They extol unto the heavens,
unto paradise, the most rancid of deceptions, the most swinish of impostures.
As for the Frenchman, he never recognizes his own best interests. He
has completely forgotten everything about his own heritage. His eyes
and heart are focused only on his tiny four percent! which by the way
the Jews also squelch, through the same fortuitous process. The Frenchman
places everything at their disposal, his entire mind, all of his guts,
all of his dough… He who is always so avaricious, is no longer able
to hold on to anything. He is no longer a man, he’s a veritable gift…
The Jewish Miracle! He [182] buys his guts back from the Jew. Shylock
resells to Dumbfucq his own grease-meat of a book, after it’s been
thoroughly bastardized, squeezed, made to give up all of its juice,
and then basted and garnished with Jewish spittle and shit. And the
best part of the deal is that Dumbfucq is delirious with gratitude.
(A great victory of the cuckoos over the cuckolds.) Durand56
plays the Jews’ game, Durand adores them, so that he can be all the
better brutalized, inverted, perverted ever more profoundly, ruined
in his sensibilities, and impaired in his judgment, above all in his
own emotional rhythms… And the critics?… They speak to him with
but one voice, and in what accents! heralding, praising, elevating unto
the skies anything that might prepare, facilitate, and complete the
masses’ imbibition of the stupidities and shit of the Jewish publicists.
In this way they themselves
plant the fence posts and meticulously lay the steps for the Jewish
global conquest, of souls, bodies and goods. With rare exceptions, they’re
a bunch of well-embuggered choirboys. Kikes and half-niggers, my good
Sirs, you are our gods!
[183]
Why has M. Martin du Gard57 taken the Nobel Prize? because
he has spoken very well of the Dreyfus Affair in his books.
(See:
l’Univers Israélite, 3 December.)
That fine literary standardization,
most degrading and most astounding, will, once accomplished, be the
finishing touch of that labor of desensitization and artistic leveling,
which the Jews have already accomplished in painting, music and cinema.
Thus the cycle of the international robotization of thought will be
complete. The Jewish serpent, as the oracles have said, will eventually
wind himself around the entire world, smashing, gumming-up, perverting,
and mercilessly exploiting everything in his wake, in that well-known
demagogic, pacifistic, progressive-educational, liberationist, Freemasonic,
Soviet, and salvationist sauce. The only thing that the Jew dreads in
this world is authentic emotion, spontaneous, rhythmic, and in its natural
element. Any work that has not been adulterated, that has not been rotted-out
to the core, unto its very most intrinsic fibers, provokes the very
most defensive reaction, on the part of the Jew. In authenticity he
immediately smells the loss for himself, and chastisement for his frightfully
cosmic hype, for his phenomenal, cataclysmic Jewish imposture. The Jew
avoids authenticity just like the snake avoids the mongoose. The snake
fully realizes that the mongoose doesn’t joke, and that it will strangle
the snake, with one solid blow… Authenticity is the only set of scales,
by which to weigh the Jew against the masses of his garbage and fraud.
To pillage, to steal, to pervert,
to pollute, to bleed everything that he encounters, be it modesty, music,
rhythm, or value, that is the gift of the Jew, that is his ancient reason
for being. Egypt, Rome, the Monarchies, Russia and tomorrow, us, everything
will go that way. He chews up the very least [184] literatures just as he does the very
greatest empires, using the same “Art and Take-nique,” of confusion,
of poisons, of plagiarisms, of incantations, of a thousand different
kinds of swindle. Ten thousand different poisons for doing all of the
works of death, just as with certain toads. The Jew scarcely possesses
any other talent, than that one there, and that one he possesses unto
the roots of his prepuce. Even the most obtuse, the most greased-over,
the most bumbling of Jews ultimately possesses that sense of attentiveness
towards all that he able to take for himself, that he is able to ensnare
with his web, topple over into his cesspool, and rot through with still
more rapine, in his vat of evil spells.
The rest, all that he is not
able to absorb, pervert, swallow, or bastardize through standardization,
must disappear. It’s as simple as that. He has so decreed it. The
banks carry it out. In the robotic world that he is preparing for us,
a certain few articles will suffice, reproductions unto infinity, jaded
simulacra, harmless cardboard cut-outs, be they novels, cars, apples,
professors, generals, movie stars, or trendy piss-pots, all of them
standardized, with enormous doses of the tom-tom of imposture and snobbism
In sum, that universal junkiness, noisy, Jewish, and foul… The Jew
is in charge of every government, he is in command of all of the mechanisms
of standardization, possessing all of the cables, all of the currents,
and tomorrow all of the Robots.
[185]
What would you have expect from these bastard hearts,
but to see my book tossed into the trash.
—D’Aubigne.
The Standardization of everything,
that is the great panacea of the Jew. There’s no longer any possibility
for revolt in favor of the pre-robotic individual, since we ourselves,
in our furnishings, novels, movies, cars, and language, for the preponderant
majority of modern populations, have already become standardized. Modern
civilization is the complete standardization, in body and soul, under
the Jew. These “standard” idols, born of Jewish publicity, can never
be very threatening to Jewish power. Never have idols been, true to
speak, so fragile, so friable, so easily and completely forgettable,
come a moment of disfavor. The adulation of the masses is at the command
of the Jew.
All of the idols, be they political,
scientific, artistic, etc., are cat’s-paws of the Jews in every aspect.
All of those movie stars, directors, musicians, and modernists, from
the modernist junk-heap, all of them looters and plagiarists (of folklore
and the classics), outdoing one another at it, and compelled to bluff
and to plead and to lie, slatternly unto the utmost fiber, are built
up, are torn back down, and fade away completely, in accordance to the
least little whim of the money and publicity of the moment. These pretended
immense creators are only so many imbecilic puppets, and virtuoso ventriloquists,
both Jewish and not, which their masters, the potentates of High Jewry,
the Learned Elders, allow to parade and to pirouette around the whole
world, for the sake of the stultification and the anesthetizing of the
debased colonial peoples, those niggers of the niggers. Up to the moment
when, having grown weary of their own grimacing, they cut the wires
away completely, whereupon the little shits fall clean away into nothingness.
This won’t even create a void, because there’ll no longer have been
anything there. [186] These authors of all that is false,
trashy and imitative, tin horns of modernism, and of all modern art,
of surrealistic deceptions, worked-over, be it in dramatic, humorous
or burlesque sauce, will never be very threatening to their tyrannical
Jewish masters. Strictly denuded of any direct emotion, singing, these
clowns are incapable of awakening or releasing anything dangerous among
the masses. They will never be anything other than the employees, the
lackeys to power, the butt-lickers and the suck-slaves of Jewish despotism.
For each one of these clowns that happens to succumb, a hundred immediately
leap forward to take his place, even more supine, even more servile,
even more ignoble if possible… The great whorehouses of the modern
arts, the immense Hollywood clans, all of the sub-galleries of robotic
art, are never at a loss for these depraved acrobats… The recruitment
knows no bounds. The average reader, the semi-refined amateur, the cocktail
circuit snob, the horde of abject movie-eaters, the radio-stupefied,
the starlet-struck fanatics, the entire public in essence, that enormous,
nattering, swarming international of drunkards and cuckolded dupes,
constitutes in every city and continent the stable foundation, the magnificent
humus, the miraculous topsoil in which the shit of Jewish publicity
can flourish, seduce and bewitch as never before. The modern public
has been carefully conditioned by science, objectivism and the Jew,
to be disgusted by any authentic emotion, and is inverted down to its
very marrow, asking only to feast upon Jewish shit…
Given the signal, given the
hype (the Semite, a nigger in reality, is nothing but an eternal brute
with a tom-tom), the Aryan mass responds with a thrill, relieving itself
of all of its dough, so as all the better to jump, and doing all that
it can in order better to enjoy Jewish, to wallow Jewish, and to rot
Jewish, in its head, its flesh, its soul and in all of its stupidity.
It gives itself over to it. It goes to perdition with it. The Aryan
mass believes only in the billboards of Jewish politicians and Jewish
movies, and in the newspapers and movie reviews and art critics, all
Jewish.
By contrast, everything else seems
to him to be entirely conventional, odiously contrived, quibbling, crude,
vulgar, and hammy.
Never have domestics, never
have slaves been in reality so totally and personally subjugated, inverted
body and soul, into a posture so servile, so supine.
Rome? By comparison?… But
an empire of whimsy! a fanciful philosophical Disputation!58
The Middle Ages?… The Inquisition?… Eras of freedom! Libertine adventures!59
of intense casualness! of unbridled free will! the Duke of Alba? Pizarro?
Cromwell? Artists!
[187]
Behind all of the crash and thunder, of the great Communist and
Socialo-obscurantist hullabaloo, there is but one sole passion, one
sole cry from
the heart! Everything for the Kikes, and death to the Goys!
Things have not been going
very well in the Kingdom of the Fine Arts, ever since the Renaissance,
that great triumph of the “false note”! We have already become completely
lost, copiously Judaized, negrified even, by the tripe going through
lying projectors, but now we are completely capsizing into the shit,
we have fallen into it, reduced to a sub-Proustian sub-level, into spinelessness
and insensibility, due to the influence of smug analyses, of academic
arcana, of an offhand objectivism, of an emasculating scientism, “ever
closer to the facts and the causes,” of brazenly stupid speech, of
super-wanker scenarios, of that entire immense spiritual and organic
debacle owing to those great outpouring of loutishness, to that obfuscation-induced
crumbling, to that Jewish flood, communistic, pursuant to which come
the Jewish Ark and the Jewish prison, that is to say being ready to
set sail on the ocean of Jewish murders. The World at the level of the
Robots… You don’t really understand anything, do you, Mister Bishop
Turpin?…
No! No! Those are the souls
which are going up into the air over the vapors of the flames…
The Jews’ colossal trick
consists of progressively taking away from the crowds, and then from
the indigenous artists, through the standardization of all taste, any
possibility for the natives to express or to communicate their sensibilities
to their social brethren, which would stand to reawaken in them some
sort of authentic emotion. The Jews are avenging the Abyssinians! they
have inverted the tastes of the Whites, so profoundly, to the point
where the French now prefer the false to the authentic, the grimace
to sensibility, and imbecilic mimicry to direct emotion. The time is
not [188] far off when the French will blush
at Couperin.60 Modern music is only the tom-tom in
transition… It’s the Jewish nigger who is palpating us in order
to ascertain the extent to which we’ve become rotten and degenerate,
and our Aryan sensibilities negrified… Then all of the nigger Jews,
having already robotized us, and turned us into Stakhanovites, will
then see fit to unload on us only their trashy merchandise, that being
good enough for dirty slave meat like us. (Just look at Russia.61)
From that moment onward, given
the perfect realization of all of their grand designs, the Jews will
be able to operate with complete confidence in their omnipotence. By
means of the police, and by means of gold, they will maintain the world
in absolute slavery. We will return to the days of the great Jewish
pharaohs. Under the feet of the Jews we will no longer be anything but
an intense proliferation of obstinate animals, to be beaten along with
billboards.
[189]
“The
Christian merchant conducts his business by himself, each establishment
being in a way isolated, while the Jews are like
globules of mercury which, given the slightest inclination, glom together into a block.”
(Petition
to Louis XV by six merchant
guilds.)
It is not without utility to
revisit the subject. We might say right at the beginning that every
commodity which is “standardized”: movie stars, writers, musicians,
politicians, bras, cosmetics, laxatives, must typically be, above all,
essentially mediocre. This is an absolute condition. In order to win-over
the taste and the admiration of the most stultified crowds, of spectators,
of the most muddle-headed electors, of the stupidest drinkers of twaddle,
of the most frenetic slack-jawed dupes of Progress, the item to be introduced
must be even stupider and more reprehensible than any up ’til then.
This species of science-worshipping, materialistic, “Cozy Corner”
cretin has proliferated, pullulated since the Renaissance… They would
kill themselves for the Palace of Discovery. As for the “standardized”
literary productions desired by these neo-brutes, the modern Anglo-Saxon
“masterpieces” rather well represent an appalling level which is
worse, and much less artistic (there are a thousand examples) than that
of the Cro-Magnons. What is more abusive in the making of moralizing
foolishness, aside from cinema, than a pretentiously literary English
novel, in the genre of Lawrence? or any other genre?…
Hardy, Chesterton, Lewis and the rest? I ask you!… The most contrived,
the most vain bleating of livestock? …the most stupidly vicious? blunderingly
“slice of life” chaotic in their impotence, than the Dos-Passoses,
the Faulkners, the Cohens62 and accomplices? The worn-out redundancies
of “mounting tension,” the gratuitous extravagances of “mounting
delirium,” reworkings of our most outdated naturalists, hardback editions,
the most hackneyed “true confessions,” reheated leftovers, travesties,
“gangster sauce”? …and more, and more…
[190] I am somewhat familiar with all of
the eminent personalities of Anglo-Saxon Hebraic art, the “Hellions”
of Bloomsbury, the neo-Murgerians of the “Village,”63
in reality the most damnable clique of little artsy-craftsy fakers,
and lackeys to the Jews that one can imagine…the most hackneyed little
mystifying cocaino-literary marionettes brought together to slaver and
to wriggle, under the skullcap/aegis of the Jewish piss-houses of publication.
All of the delicate paralytics à la “Wilde,” all of the
little Frankenstein-imitator dervishes persist in their clown-shows,
be they “lyrical” or “powerful” in style, only through the effrontery
and the enormity of Jewish advertising, and the superannuated naïveté
of Aryan snobs. Here are the rotten clowns of our debacle, the pederastic
destroyers of the Aryan Epoch.
[191]
“The Jew does not live from his own labor, but from the exploitation of the labor of others.”
-- Rochefort
It seems hardly possible to capture all of the little crooks in flagrante delito of imposture, at least so long as they don’t get mixed-up in “transposition” and “lyricization”… Copy, plagiarize, as it’s been given!… All of our libraries grind and groan
to be so pillaged, with neither
reason nor justice… But to transpose directly from life itself, that’s
an entirely different pair of balls!… Good ideas arise only from truth,
from authenticity, those which are born from the lie have neither grace
nor force. But who cares?… The world no longer has a melody. There
is still folklore, the last murmurings of our folklores, which rock
our cradle… After that is finished, night…and the nigger’s tom-tom.
Good ideas come to, and are born in the flesh, never in the head. Nothing
issues from the head but lies. Life as seen by the head is worth nothing
more than life as seen by a goldfish. It’s a formal garden.
The only defense, the only recourse of the white against aesthetic robotism, and without doubt against war, the regression to the worse, much worse, than the troglodyte, is the return to his own natural rhythm. The circumcised Jews are in the process of emasculating the Aryan of his own natural emotional rhythm. The nigger Jew is in the process of forcing the Aryan to topple into communism and robotic art, into the objectivist mentality of perfect slaves of the Jews. (The Jew is a nigger, the Semitic race does not exist, it’s a Freemasonic invention, the Jew is only [192] a cross between niggers and Asiatic barbarians.) The Jews are the born enemies of Aryan emotionality, which they find insufferable. The Jews do not feel emotions, in our sense, they are the sons of the desert Sun, of date palms and the tom-tom… They can only hate us thoroughly…with their nigger soul, they abhor all of our emotional instincts. Established, emigrants, looters, impostors, under our skies, deracinated, unbalanced, they ape our reactions, gesticulate, rationalize, ass-ream a thousand times upon a thousand times the repulsive before beginning vaguely to understand that which an Aryan who is not too alcoholic, too stultified, too much a wino, seizes on the wing once and for all in twenty seconds…emotionally, silently, directly, impeccably. The Jew will never assimilate, he apes, soils, and detests. He can devote himself only to a rude mimicry, without possible repercussions. His African nerves always being more-or-less “galvanic,” the Jew possesses only a strongly vulgar network of sensibility, not at all advanced on the human scale; like all who come from the hot countries, he is precocious, he is of expedient construction. He is not made to rise very far spiritually, or to go the long haul… Jewish poets are extremely rare, and all moreover do nothing more than reprise Aryan lyricism… A born trickster, the Jew is insensitive. He appears only in episodes of perpetual clownings, simulacra, funny faces, imitations, parodies, affectations, cinematographic allusions, exact reproductions, bluff, and arrogance. Even in his very flesh he possesses only a nigger’s completely rudimentary nervous system for the eliciting of emotion, giving him the emotional balance of a slob. The Jewish nigger, mongrelized, degenerate, has forced himself upon European art, mutilated it, massacred it, while adding nothing. He is compelled from time to time to return to nigger art, lest we forget. The biological inferiority of the nigger or the half-nigger in our climates is evident. His “expedient” nervous system, sold-out to precocity, doesn’t go the distance very well… The adolescence of the nigger is extremely brief. A nigger is made by the time he is four years old. The Jew is anxious for refinement; it’s his obsession to surround himself with gold and precious objects, to make himself “refined.” But for him ever to be innately refined, physiologically refined, is impossible. I am well-traveled in nigger lands; I know him. Funny faces. Like the Jew the nigger needs golden adornments, many golden adornments of the drum, of the tom-tom, of the advertising which wakes him up… He understands only the full coffer, or the hypodermic Arab trumpet, at best. He passes over all of the nuances, he bounds, gallops, doubles-up, and shits on the violets as soon as you bring him into the garden, [193] like an ill-trained dog… And to think that we have become the slaves beneath these deracinated sub-brutes! At the end of his clown show, despite all of his contortions, the Jew remains considerably more akin to a log than a violin…disastrously impenetrable to any wave of intuition, given over to impersonal
enthusiasms, as well as being
a greedy buzzard, madly pretentious and vain. And then, in a supreme
act of effrontery, he sets himself up as a critic.
[194]
At
my burial I want the “Fanfare of Tel-Aviv” and the
“Cadets” of the Rue Triangle.
Lord knows
the Jew has tried to polish himself up, to give himself an “Aryanized”
patina, so as all the better to fool us, to trap us, to strangle us. Despite this enormous effort
he remains, after so many centuries, the unsurpassable muck-up of the
five continents.
It is in fact difficult to
discover even amongst the most alcoholically mind-numbed, down-and-out
Aryan losers, any individual who could be compared to the most “refined”
Jew, when it comes to the matter of “goofing up.” In every circumstance
requiring a certain degree of delicacy, you will recognize the Jew as
the one who literally plunges headlong into making a gaffe. He will
betray himself by splashing about with both feet, and what feet! (palmate,
of the Afro-Asiatic, a child of the sands). It is normal for him to
hate us, all the more for our spontaneous emotional faculty, our Aryan
sensibilities, our Aryan lyricism attaching to our direct humanity,
then for all the other reasons in the world combined. These will certainly
do for now… This biological superiority vexes him, humiliates him
personally, irritates him as much as possible, infuriates him much more
than any conceivable opposition which might arouse his suspicion…
Worried over committing gaffes, he is quick to redouble his tyranny.
But after the great “standardization,” the Jew will be able to rest
easy, his gaffes will no longer count… Who will be able to perceive
them?… Certainly not the robots! Long live the Liberty of the gaffe-ridden
Jew!…
[195]
I am not some “Mr. On-the-One-Hand-and-On-the-Other.”64 I don’t weigh the Pros and Cons.
It is they, the Jews, who are swarming, stripping and expelling us. These dosages of “for and against,”
these pusillanimous
debilitations, are only for us. We are dying from them.
The Jew has already “standardized” just about everything in the domain of the major arts. Some very great efforts are going on behind the scenes at this very moment towards the standardization of the world’s literature, translations, literary agencies, literary circles, and academies, from the undertaking of a work, clear to the end. One little fact among thousands: Do you think, dear cuckolds, that it is only innocently, through the effect of pure chance, that the Académie Goncourt is becoming more Jewish with each passing year…in its choices, its laureates, its academicians?… The Jewish power needs numerous agents, some very zealous quartermasters, well-placed, docile, devoted, refined gangsters, they being indispensable to the Jewish army of standardization as it proceeds without a shot being fired, in the strangulation of indigenous art in every domain, down to the very last redoubt, whether spiritual or material. The translations, those great works in brutalization, will do the rest. But it is indispensably the case that one is already expected to trivialize, undermine, saw away at, and be disgusted by the entire Aryan elite, and by all of its creative people, And that the platform, the lectern, the tenured positions, the security and the throne, all filled with the refuse, the worst remakes, and other spongy Jewish offerings, be built rapidly over the ruins of indigenous art. Nothing must be allowed to stop the great invasion by the movies and translations. When being embuggered millimeter-by-millimeter, the first centimeter is the hardest, and the most costly…it blazed the trail for those that follow! All of the faggots attest to this for us. Well-embuggered by publicity,
any sort of asshole can become
an immense something-or-other, be it a religious article, a [196]
movie star of the first magnitude, a superlatively horrible criminal,
a leviathan catastrophe, a Dantesque film, a transatlantic liner sufficient
to make the sea overflow, an aperitif that makes the world go ’round,
the very greatest Jewel in History, a President of Council who bites
off living heads. The more asinine and vapid it is, the better it’ll
go. The common taste exists at this level. The “good sense” of the
crowd is: ever more stupid. The spirit of the ringmaster, it finishes
with a trained flea, the achievement of realist and surrealist art.
All of the political parties know this well. They are all the masters
of trained fleas. Pimple-faced Melanie will take her dickin’ like
a queen, provided that twenty-five thousand loudspeakers shout above
all the rooftops, across all the echoes, that she is suddenly Melanie
the incomparable… A minimal amount of originality, but an enormous
amount of exposure and cheek. The being, the turd, the object which
is the intended recipient for publicity’s outpouring of its massive
propaganda, must above all from the very beginning be as insignificant,
as bald, and as null as possible. The paint of the publicity-hype will
spread out over it just that much better, to the extent that it is painstakingly
deprived of rough edges, of any originality, to the extent that all
of its surfaces are absolutely planar. Nothing about it, from the get-go,
can be allowed to elicit attention or above all controversy. In order
to work its magic effect, the publicity must not be bothered, hindered,
or diverted by anything. It must be allowed to affirm, sanctify, proclaim,
shout through the megaphone, the very worst stupidities, no matter how
thundering, phantasmagorical, mind-blowing, or positively Himalayan
in exaggeration they are…whether concerning automobiles, movie stars,
toothbrushes, writers, club singers, hernia belts, without which no
one can function…nor raise from the parterre the most innocent minuscule
objection. The parterre must at all times remain perfectly hypnotized
by stupidity.
[197]
“You know how considerable is their multitude, how united they (the Jews) are,
and how much influence they have in our assemblies.”
—Cicero.
It is quite evident that the
Jews, at the outset, had taken great care in their choice of Judeo-Anglo-Saxon
writers as the leaders in their global standardization of literature,
while the movies are of the same tobacco. Identical schemings. A language
immensely widespread throughout the world, books in which already sell
perfectly well in their market of origin. Herein lies the trump card
of all those “standardizing” Jews. Take for example the “average”
French author, who publishes in France, if he’s lucky, about twenty
thousand copies. That same author, completely average, but English,
would publish, quite normally and automatically, on his own Anglo-Saxon
market, about two hundred to three hundred thousand copies.
This is due to the simple reason
that the Judeo-Anglo-Saxon market is much richer and has infinitely
greater potential than has the pathetic French market (a hundred million
possible readers as opposed to two or three million). Though perfectly
equal on every point in terms of mediocrity, the English author nonetheless
becomes an author “of renown” and an “immense talent,” by virtue
of ten-fold greater publication, while the poor French author vegetates
or literally succumbs to his misery (provided that he is not also a
part-time Civil Servant, which is twice as stultifying).
The theater contains several exceptions, but it is nevertheless entirely Jewish. They put the Jewish International’s worst rot into all of their tableaux: be it in cinema,
police, radio-theater, politics
or banking, they are avowed unto the prepuce, to the international [198]
trade in reworkings. But when it comes to books, the advantage is immense,
incomparable, the royal privilege of the Anglo-Saxons, their market
being a hundred times ours…
It is in this way, through
the “effect of numbers,” that we get the quite mediocre Lawrence,
Huxley,65 Cahen, Lewis, Faulkner, dos Passos,
etc….with whom we have long been bored stiff by all of those Reviews
so tinged with traces of snobbism and with inflated publicity for those
fantastically renowned personages! these “Victor Hugo Prize winners”!
…all of them completely droll once one comes to recognized these birds.
The Jews, in order to impose them upon us, count to an enormous extent
upon the snobbism and the gibberings of tiny cliques of the so-called
“avant-garde”… Judeo-artistico-communardo-embuggerers and you
can hardly think otherwise. Everything is proceeding perfectly, our
asses are in the full view of others.
[199]
Long live
Liberty! No! Long live Liberia! Under some sort of Tatar! Even better!
Insofar as the Jews have a
passion for Folklore and the classics (note that the Comédie Française
is eight-tenths Jewish) it is only in order all the better to smother
us, my children! to place their own works little-by-little on the same
level as the classics, and then to eliminate the classics, and Folklore
even, to sack them, completely, you’ll see! The Jews are the world’s
greatest readers, they rifle through, redact, pillage, and Judaize without
end, everything that falls before their spectacles, everything that
serves them, or might serve them, or that can be translated into Jewish
propaganda, songs, novels, music, is Judaized.
Aryans, above all the French,
detest books and “bare-bones ideas” (Ah! but!… Ah! but! …well
then, do they give a damn about them?). They demand something positive!66
something rational! objective! with substance! What is it that takes
them in? Good blood! Good sense! Nom de Dieu! Good sense! Descartes!
Upon closer examination, this demand for the “positive” consists
in rambling about in a circle, not in any exact pattern, encompassing
all of the “scuttlebutt” of the day and the bar table, while recklessly
stammering the various slogans from billboards. The great ability, the
proud achievement, the adventure, is to learn and to know by heart the
contents of an electoral billboard, inevitably, completely Jewish in
its entirety, with perfect clarity. To drink cheap wine, to gossip some
more, to bleat, to add to the collection, and to go out after new challenges.
This is positively the complete spiritual, artistic and moral life of
the Aryan.
Perhaps we should move on to
leisure, and sound off at the behest of hiccups…a little all around…the
times which are spend with cheap wine…may she bring cheer…[200]
still belching forth the fine contents of the Jewish newspapers…to
show one’s culture to the passers-by…to have them learn as well,
in this way, the extensive orders of the day from our Jewish directors…
Those orders in sum which have been deciphered to a greater or lesser
degree… The instructions of the invisible masters…who haven’t
forgotten you…those whose command…inevitably…invariably, is that
brothers of the white race hate one another more and more, and hurt
one another by all means possible, in the build-up to the next war and
“the Hour of the Jew”…all of the Aryan cuckolds will be of one
heart, truly unanimous, finally unanimous… They will go to have themselves
massacred in their entirety for the Jews.
The women, all of whom are just as alcoholic as the men, are a little bit more stultified even than the men, as though that were possible…through their interminable gossip, their delirious
“housewifely” pettiness,
“the lady concierges’ spy alert,” the rage and the mania for rendering
everything mediocre, for reducing everything and judging everything
according to the least common denominator, or even lower still, to the
lowest of the low, every word, every unknown idea, every work, every
lyric, every mystery, except for the shit already well known, that magnificent
Jewish shit, which the women adore and feast upon even more blindly
and frantically than do the men… It is they who drag their husbands
along, and force them into the theaters where the most super-silly offerings
of the screen are shown, those of good “ideologgy,” materialist,
objectivist, Kikeish… For the veneration of super-luxury, blockbuster
productions, and super-wanker Jewish platitudes; for super smoking jackets,
super-cocktails, super-cars, in essence the entire mechanistic and robotic
super-stupidity of those darkened rooms, those caverns a hundred thousand
times as stultifying as the worst idolatrous catacombs of the first
centuries. All of those poor devils, those delirious serfs, completely
wormed-up with the “ideolozhical” propaganda of film and radio,
and of the current delirious “buzz” over material desires and militant
loutishness. Unemployed types are standing around in rented smoking
jackets!
“It happened to us as well,
right in the face! they’re going to embugger your bitches.” Cuckolds
indeed! The Jews are waiting for you just around the bend, cretinous
libertines! in order to give your gongs one hell of a ringing, leading
to the final incarceration, the definitive slipping-on of the ’cuffs,
the ultimate complete success, at the precise moment…at the moment
when the impeccable, communist Jewish jails (Russian model), already
prepared, close in around you, your words and your dicks, wine-pukers,
she-asses! They will close up around you!… Your words of hatred and
vindictiveness will be drawn out of you, with great blows of rifle butts
in the gut. You [201] will collapse in your irons completely
exhausted, ruined, while you continue puking forth cheap wine, completely
brainwashed by the various and sundry stupidities being shouted forth
in every tone in the universe, by which all judgments will be made.
Aryans-become-good-“Robots,” you will vote like all of the robots,
for those who will reset your guillotines and your hangmen’s ropes,
and who will furnish you with every aspect of your daily lives: the
Jews.
[202]
Why
don’t I have the right, in my own country, to shout aloud that I don’t like the
Jews? The Freemasons are not embarrassed to conduct a war unto the death
against the priests. We are under Jewish fascism.
In speaking to you about matters
such as translations and bookstores… I had become somewhat animated…
But don’t think of me as being jealous! To do so would be to fail
to recognize my complete impartiality. I annoy the Jews quite a bit,
though the are capable of getting back at me, from the right, from the
left, from the center, and crosswise, in particular. Personally they
bother me very little, practically not at all. Our conflict is entirely
one of “ideologgy.”
Quite naturally, I can see that it is through the intermediation of the Jewbies: editors, agents, publicists, etc…., plus the influence of the movies, Jewish scenarios, those aggressors and wanking rotters, in sum all of that Jewish policy coming of Jewish provenance, whether clandestine or official, that that slight French artistic production, already so meager, and so limited in distribution, is in the process of dying out completely and absolutely… That the Jews must destroy everything, is well understood… But life is neither so long nor so carefree, that this in and of itself is sufficient to roust you out of your slumber. And
to be completely fair, the Jews have
always been well-assisted in their work of destruction through the good
spiritual offices of those mannerisms deemed of “noble” or “renaissance
fashion,” followed by pusillanimous and official bourgeois mannerisms,
and then finally by that emasculated set of academic, purist, and desperately
obtuse mannerisms, to which our so-called French arts have succumbed.
When one considers the situation,
the thing that pains us most about the Jews is their arrogance, their
vindictiveness, their perpetual martyrological fanaticism, their foul
tom-tom. In Africa among the same niggers, or their cousins in Cameroon,
I lived for [203] years by myself, in one of their villages,
in the deep jungle, in the same thatched hut, at the same drinking-gourd.
In Africa, these were good people. Over here, they pain me, they dishearten
me. They became completely unacceptable in Cameroon only at the time
of the full moon, when they became torturers with their tom-tom… But
on other nights, they let you rest in peace, in complete safety. I’m
speaking of the “Pahoin” country, the most nigger of nigger lands.
But here, in France, at present, Moon or no Moon, always the tom-tom!
Nigger for nigger, I prefer the man-eaters…but not here…just in
their own country… In the end, the only damage that they did to me
was an aesthetic damage: I don’t like the tom-tom… As for the material,
my God! it would be extremely easy for me to arrange it… I would be
able to pay for first class, rather than having to ignore all of these
turpitudes, but it would be childish of me to profit, however so abundantly
and marvelously, from this invasion of the walls…putrid… A thousand
ways, a thousand examples! Among other things, I could have married,
without much ado, considering my excellent physique, my charm, and my
solid financial situation, some well-placed little Jewess…of good
parentage… (This comes from my always being on the prowl, scoping-out
the lay of the land), and by so doing have myself naturalized as being
“somewhat Jewish”… A quality which will take a guy far in medicine,
in the Arts, in politics, and amongst the nobility… A passport for
every success, carrying every immunity… All such ideas, I have come
to convince myself, amount to babbling… Little nothings!… Gibber!…
As we have already noted, the Jews seem to have chosen English as the
language of universal standardization (they having failed to opt for
German)…
Is it not amusing likewise
to observe that young Jews from the best families (French Jews included),
most often show-up at Oxford in order to complete their studies. “The
finishing touch!” The final coat of varnish! If I wanted, if circumstances
obliged me, I could perhaps write my books directly in English. It’s
a cord with which to defend myself, one little cord in my bow. I will
not need to cry… But no one ever gave me my little bow as a gift…
I’d always wanted to be given come gifts in life! This is all I have!…
For the moment, I still prefer to write in French… I find English
too soft, too delicate, too namby-pamby. But if it is necessary… And
then another reason, is that the Anglo-American Jews translate me regularly…and
read me!… We are not very numerous, we French authors [204]
of the “international class.” That is the saddest thing. Five or
six, I believe…there are a few more, that we could jot down… That
is few…much too few!… The invasion is one-way, and that pains me.
The Judeo-Anglo-Saxon publishers, very up-to-date in matters of literary fabrication, identify “standard” novels, and are going to make exact reproductions, every year, by the thousands, in our country. They are going to make only “reprints,” and are burdened by other fripperies… It seems possible for me personally, beyond doubt, to defend myself during such a time by virtue of my incantatory genre, my trashy vociferous lyricism, anathematizing, in its very special genre, Jewish-sounding enough to be
passable, I did better than the Jews,
it was I who gave them their lessons. This was my salvation.
Amongst the Jews of the United States I was taken for being something
of a hard-ass. May it ever be so!
[205]
We recommend that every Jew three times a day curse the entire Christian people,
and pray to God for their extermination along with their kings and princes.
– The Talmud.
Quite by accident the other
day, I happened upon a newspaper that I would usually have ignored:
L’Univers Israélite67 of 15 November 1937… We are remiss
not to read L’Univers Israélite on a regular basis. Just one
issue of this U.I. would teach us much more about the essential
things going on in the world today, than does our entire treasonable
press, fit for slaves, over the course of a month.
Thus we read: “The Art of
the Habimah.68 At the ’37 Exhibition.” We are
going to see why this is so instructive…
“Art can generally be divided
into two categories: national art and international art…
“Belonging primarily to the
first, are the artists of the spoken word:
poets, orators, actors…
“Belonging to the second,
are the painters, sculptors, musicians, and singers. The scope of the
artists of the spoken word is very limited; it extends to one particular
country, or another—sometimes it embraces a neighboring country as
well. In other words, the artists of the spoken word are organically
connected to their land, and only their own people know, understand
and appreciate them at their proper value.
“International art is more
fortunate: its gifted children are cherished by the entire world, and
they are everywhere at home, and for them, the eyes and ears of every
people are open. There is no dearth of examples! Picasso and Chagall,
Rodin and Epstein, Duncan and Fokine, Menuhin, Heifetz, Chaliapin…
[206] “From time to time the very greatest
artists of the spoken word do break the barriers of language and country,
and become international—such as Sarah Bernhardt, and the Duse.69
But this occurs very rarely, requiring as it does an extraordinary,
prodigious talent, particular circumstances, a rare energy, and a universally-recognized
language.
“The director Vachtangov, a cordial Russo-Armenian—and in a certain sense a Jew as well—is the creator of a new method. He has not wanted to wait until the great, the very great artist has been born: he whips them into being himself, he infuses them with living soul. He has succeed in this primarily because he has known how to unite the talents of the spoken word into a magnificent ensemble, giving the diverse artistic temperaments a single rhythm, in which the qualities of some complement the deficiencies of others. In addition, he has incorporated every possible art into each theatrical piece, —music and painting, choral pieces, dancing and song. This he does
not do in a mechanical fashion,
but in an organic fashion suggestive of religion, with its ecstasies
of prayer and faith.
“The language of the Bible,
beautiful though it may be coming from the mouths of the ‘Habimah’
artists, plays only a minimal role.
“It is not in vain that numerous
theaters are trying to imitate the ‘Habimah’ in their art, for they
have caught sight of the dove of Noah’s Ark, the enunciator of an
international expression for artists of the spoken word, these spiritual
emissaries who are creating bonds between peoples better than can any
sort of diplomatic representation. This is why we must all welcome the
‘Habimah’ and its artists, on the occasion of their renewed appearance
in Paris, and contribute to their moral and material success. No one
is better able than ‘Habimah’ to speak for us to the hearts of foreign
peoples who might not know us or might not want to know us.”
*…*…*…*…*
We are told:
“On the occasion of the
performance at the ‘Habimah Theater,’ a reception committee has
been formed and is composed of MM.:
“The Grand Rabbis M. Lieber
et Eisenstadt, Louis Jouvet, Charles Dullin, Gaston Baty, Georges and
Ludmilla Pitoëf, Pierre Renoir, Marc Chagall, Max Nordau, Naoun Aronson,
Chana Orloff, Jules Adler, Georges Duhamel of the French Academy, Victor
Basch, André Maurois, Chalom Asch, Z. Schneour, Paul [207] Abraham, Edmond Fleg, André Spire,
Henri Hertz, Joseph Milbauer, Ivan Goll, Dr. Weill-Hallé, Marcel Mirtil,
Esq., Louis Asscher, Robert Lévy, O. Pernikoff, I. Jefrykin, Léonard
Rosenthal, René Rocher, Maurice Lehmann, I. Naïditch, Léonce Bernheim,
M. Jarblum, Nahoum Hermann, Joseph Fischer, etc...”
Prague:
“The Jewish Telegraphic Agency
informs us that M. Léon Blum, Vice-President of Council, who represented
the Republic at President Masaryk’s funeral,70
turned his stay in Prague to good effect by paying a visit to the famous
old synagogue, Altneuschul. M. Léon Blum, who was accompanied by Mme.
and Mlle. Blum, was received at the synagogue by the president of the
Jewish Community of Prague, who welcomed him in both French and Hebrew.”
Palestine:
“The Tel-Aviv Municipal Council
has decided to name one of the city’s streets after President Masaryk.”
(Despite all of these journalistic effronteries, President Masaryk detested France; the grand prince of Freemasonry in Central Europe, he did everything in his power for Jewry, both Freemasonic and Communistic. He swore by nothing but Judeo-English culture. Along with Beneš he did everything in his power to prepare for the advent of
Judeo-Bolshevism in Europe.71
Czechoslovakia is merely an advanced citadel of the Kremlin in Europe.)
Vienna:
“At the request of the Hungarian
Government, Viennese authorities have arrested one Dr. Buxbaum, of Jerusalem,
delegate to the recent Congress of Agoudath Israël held in Marienbad.
“The Hungarian Government
requests the extradition of Dr. Buxbaum, who in 1919 took part in the
government of Béla Kun.72 He was condemned to death by the military
tribunal, following the end of the Communist regime, but succeeded in
fleeing and seeking refuge in Palestine.
“The British Consulate in
Vienna has protested the arrest of Dr. Buxbaum, as he is a Palestinian73
citizen.”
(“Jew” and “English” are perfectly synonymous, one must convince oneself that a Jew and an Englishman are the same.)
[208]
Miscellaneous
Notices
Palestine:
“While the
KKL remains now as always the great procurer
of land for the Jewish National Home, it has so far in 1937 come to
acquire 20,000 donums of land, out of the 25,000 of which Jews have
just become owners.
“Despite all obstacles the
KKL intends to raise, this year, half a million pounds. There is no
shortage of offers, as the strike has been disastrous for the Arab economy.
Thus the Arabs are ready to sell everything that they can.
“Sixteen years ago, Keren
Kayemeth possessed only 20,000 donums of land. Today we have over 400,000.
We have conducted a land reform, consisting of the nationalization of
farmland, which we have done magnificently.”
The Army:
“We have learned with the
greatest pleasure of the nomination of Dr. General Worms, Adjunct Professor,74
currently the Director of Medical Services of the 1st Army
Corps, as the Director of the School of Military Medicine in Lyons,
and we extend to him our sincerest felicitations.”
And each edition of l’Univers Israélite contains at least as much information and instruction, as precious as does this ordinary specimen. It is absolutely useless to read our other indigenous gossip-sheets, all completely soporific, distracting, and slyly frivolous (in that order). L’Univers Israélite outpaces them, scoops them, dominates
them, and kills them all, from
on-high to far-away. It gives us the actual news of France and of the
world. Here is the true “Enlightener of France.”
[209] More from l’Univers Israélite
of 19 November 1937:
“Mr. J. Chernov, Esq., on
Sunday the 7th of November, before the audience of ‘Chema
Israel’ held a very remarkable conference on Judaism, the source of
justice and morality… Our readers would recognize Mr. Chernov, respected
lawyer at the Parisian bar, and one of the undisputed masters of financial
criminal law, as well as historian, sociologist, writer, and excellent
Jew (sic). Mr. Chernov has always with understanding and sympathy
concerned himself with ‘Jewish problems,’ etc., etc.…”
What do we then learn from
Mr. Chernov, Esq., in the course of that “remarkable conference”?…
“It is absurd and criminal to want to identify Judaism with Bolshevism,
a doctrine of peace and morality with a doctrine of violence and revolution…”
Is there anything more cheeky?…
What more does Mr. Chernov,
Esq., tell us?…
“The Bolshevik Revolution
of ’17 had taken place among ‘some other dejudaized Jews’…”
Magnificent! …sublime… Look here at the Jew in flagrante delito
of self-exculpation, of oblique Communist propaganda… “Some!”…
“Dejudaized!”… Delicious! Adorable! Supreme!… And the synagogue
dies laughing!… But the original Soviet of People’s Commissars75
of “’17” was precisely composed entirely of Jews…and since then
nothing has changed! Mr. Chernov knows that better than anyone!… “Dejudaized!”
But the Comintern is Judaism itself! …the [210] Supreme Executive Consistory! …the
most ardent, the most intransigent, the most bloody on the Planet!
So long as we are discussing
the Revolution of ’17, this is a good time to say a little bit more
about the famous Felix M. Warburg76…you know, the big New York banker?
the son-in-law of Jacob Schiff, head of the Warburg family, of the clinic
of Loeb, Baruch, Hanauer, etc.77 … Warburg who subsidized the old
Breton Trotsky78 (15 billion, then 200 billion francs),
Parvus, Lenin and all the rest to make revolution in Russia in ’17.
Was he also one of the aforementioned “dejudaized”?… Was he “one
of some Jews”?…
It would scarcely seem so… The very powerful Felix M. Warburg, the veritable instigator and creator of Communism in Russia, just so happened to die in New York last 20th of October79 (rest assured, the Warburg family is not extinct)… And what do we hear concerning his death… That all of the synagogues in the entire world are humming, resounding with prayers for his soul’s repose… What emotion in the Consistories!… There is solemn funeral service after solemn funeral service… In Paris last 31st of October specifically, M. Leon Bramson, president of ORT (the Jewish charitable works organization)80…M. R. de Rothschild, MM. Bodenheimer, Bader, Weill, etc. …brought words of lamentation… We find all of High Jewry in tears…and Little Jewry as well…with “charitable work”… The entire tribe has clustered around its rabbis in order to wail at the loss of its oh-so-great Jewish Patriarch, the Americano-Sovietico-billionaire. “The extraordinary charm which emanated from Felix M. Warburg, his great ‘nobility of character,’ his generosity, his devotion to the work
of the economic reconstruction
of the dislocated81 Jewish masses… It was during the
course of the Great War and of the years that followed that the deceased,
constantly filling the breach, employed himself most actively and most
generously in the alleviation of the sufferings and in redressing the
incredible hardships caused by the War to millions of Central and East
European Jews… Thanks to him, American Judaism coordinated these efforts…,
etc….”
You don’t say!… In essence, the funeral eulogy of a great universal monarch… Justice moreover… Justice! Louis XIV was just a country squire, considering the victories on the side of Felix M. Warburg of New York!… A triumphal reign was ascribed to him!… Do you understand those very handsome euphemisms? …“the dislocated [211] Jewish masses…” dear cuckolds? “the coordination of efforts? …the redressment of sufferings?…”. “Dejudaization”?… Fork over the dough!… Let’s go do it one more time!… The Jewish sign of the Cross! As in the synagogues, likewise at the Place de la Nation! for the soul of Mr. Warburg… For his complete felicity! My good knucklehead!… The Warburg children have their eyes on you! …as well as do MM. Baruch…Loeb…Hanauer…Brandeis…Samuel…Belisha…
Kaganovich…Rothschild…Blum…and
even His Holiness the Pope…”dejudaized”…as you say.
[212]
It is a commandment for every Jew to make the attempt to annihilate all that appertains to the Christian Church and all who serve it. Christ is the son of a Prostitute. He is ben-Panthera, that is to say, the son of a lascivious beast.
– The Talmud.
From l’Univers Israélite
(25 June 1937), as always:
“Whither Europe without the
Judeo-Christian Spirit? Conference by R. P. Dieux (superb!), Ambassadors’
Theater. Dieux is not paying us to say:
“‘Between Christians and
Jews there is no divergence…Israel has suffered for having spread
throughout the world the conception of God of the greatest beauty…the
greatest purity…the greatest nobility…” Long live the Bible…
Nom de Dieux! And the author cites André Gode (sic)82
on human indignity in the USSR…further on, Dieux adds…: “The Pope
and qualified representatives of Protestantism and Judaism have solemnly
condemned racism (the very idea!), and ordinary citizens must follow
that example… But no single ignition is powerful for the undertaking
of an effective struggle. That is why it is necessary to organize the
Judeo-Christian Front (in essence a celestial Popular Front) for defense
and liberty”…
“‘Two specters must be consigned to the past: anti-Semitism and anti-Christianity, as anti-Semitism is the first chapter of anti-Christianity. In a few places ’round-about, believers from all confessions are already associating. French rabbis are protesting the persecution of Catholics in Spain, while an understanding of the grandeur of Jesus has begun amongst Jews… The great future event will be the meeting of all of the [213] sons of the Bible and the Gospel… But while awaiting that far-off
day, in order to preserve the
Revelation, civilization and peace, we must lend them a helping hand,’
concluded the orator to enthusiastic public applause…”
We are not dreaming… That
plural usage of “Gods” (“Dieux”) is assuredly Freemasonic…and
even more assuredly as Jewish as the Pope… To the utmost! the Devil
is everywhere! the review of this meeting is signed: Mandel.
[214] In spite of all this I don’t mean
to imply that my humble opinion has anything other than mediocre influence,
being merely an annoyance to those about me… Amongst so many who are
limp-wristed, embuggeromaniacal, multi-Proustian, or Gidean83
Bordeaux-ugly, a few heroes are to be found… Their merit is just that
much more immense, in a country where readers and book-buyers have shown
themselves to be just as incredibly few and far between, as are the
furtive grouse of Buttes-Chaumont. They thus constitute a most stoic
phalanx, growing ever smaller, giving way to attrition day-by-day, all
eventually succumbing to the base needs of journalism and radio. Chained
by the Kikes into the galley of Jewish litanies for the drunken masses…
And one more thing, I’ll
tell you this right now, you’d be mistaken to think that I’m taking
myself as a model, in the hopes that others will copy me!… Of course,
I make my own little music, and those who can say the same are no longer
very numerous in the times which transpire… The are even becoming,
due to the machine, to mental fatigue, and to frenetic objectivist emasculation,
ever-increasingly rare. This prevents me from being jealous… Jealousy
is for others. It would be inept on my part… I rail out of principle.
That’s all. Challenges, impostures, false names, I don’t like any
of that. I am shocked and appalled, by all of these people who are moving
in. It’s my right. I know incontestably that the art of Gide following
the art of Wilde, following the art of Proust, makes up part of the
relentless continuity in the Jewish master plan. [215] To draw in all of the goyim, all the
better to embugger them. Painstakingly to rot out the goy elite and
bourgeoisie, through an apologia for every form of perversion, snobbism
and vanity, to irritate them, to infect them with gangrene, and to ridicule
them in such a manner that the least little movement by the proletariat,
which the Jews will have so perfectly and meticulously doped-up in advance,
priming them with envy and hatred, will make that supposed elite dump
everything through the end of its cloaca. One good flushing of blood,
and it’ll be all done! …carried away by the sewer! …a triumph!…
Let us return to that which in all humility concerns myself. I don’t force anybody to buy my books. All of the critics are ever on guard, at the door of every bookstore, to keep people from buying my books. Any prospective reader will find himself painstakingly forewarned by extremely virulent, thoroughly Judaized criticism (from the right as well as from the left, I repeat), to steer clear of my junk. Even a majority of the bookstores themselves are hostile towards me. They have their own particular tastes, the tastes of rather narrow-minded Frenchmen…they deplore my work…the dirty cuckolds! Ah! If only I had seen fit to sing along with the “emancipators,” how much they would have offered me for that at one time! A week before the publication of my Death on the Installment Plan,84 not a single “lefteest” newspaper would have failed to have sent around a special courier offering me a well-illustrated little blurb…giving me advertising space, and at what great prices!… And a week later, what a deluge of orders! Ah! those shitty bastards!… Ah! how vile and reprehensible they all are! How well Gide, Nom de Dieu, has already reamed-out all of their asses! As for myself, I would just as soon that people no longer buy my books. I know of two hundred other less fatiguing ways in which to earn a living… All of these four-eyes would have eaten whatever shit I’d have deigned to beat out. Ah! if only I had sung their tune, how fine they would have found me! a Lion! a Prophetic Messenger! Unsurpassable! Ah! this is what they would have called me: One of the Great Voices of the World!… Ah! if only they could run as quickly as I am capable of boring them, they’d go on to win the
Grand Prix. Of what importance
are these adversities? I digress!… I do have a few admirable colleagues,
but I am not going to cite all of them for you, as I do not want to
do them an injustice. Take Siménon85 of the “Lean Ones” for example,
one would have to discuss him anew every day! Marcel Aymé succeeds
at the short story even better than Maupassant. The Conquerors
of Malraux, as far as I am able to judge, is a masterpiece! Evidently
an “asthmatic” Jewish press has now managed to lose its breath.
Such are the terrors of the trade. Elie Faure interests me, insofar
as a half-Hymie Freemason is able, save when he talks of love, whereupon
he bullshits full bore, laying [216] down at a single blow several tons
of malapropos shit, as do practically all of the Judaized who venture
into the sentiment. As for Lenôtre, I would die for him.
Dabit86
of the Villa Oasis, so little remarked upon… Morand87
(when he is not trying to write a novel, with emotion) seems to me to
be the very model of a completely vigorous writer of that genre. And
Mac Orlan!88 He had foreseen it all, and put it
all to music, thirty years ago. I would like to have at my disposal,
if I could, all of the “Comic Strips.” I am as you would say something
of a crusty type, not being delicate even for the sake of civility…
I want that which is best in every genre (as you can see), none of which
I regard as being inferior in itself, provided that the material is
organized and organic, that its blood circulates, everywhere, all about
and within, beginning with the heart, and breathes with its lungs, and
stands upright, in sum, that the whole deal turns upon a quite living
catalytic nexus, as living as possible! unbearable, to the well-hidden,
well-sealed-off center, in the shadowy depths of the flesh, where I
cannot be sure whether that which is being vaunted before me is pulsating
with life, or is some sort of poor cadaver with babbling twitches…
All of those inorganics, those rotten tricksters, those limp-wrists
of the “genius” genre make me puke. I’ll give you all the Prousts
in this world and in another one besides, for one “Brigadier you are
right,” or for two songs from Aristide.89 If one is determined to become delirious
then it is truly necessary to have the fever…and not to do something
similar!… I very much prefer Claude Ferrère90
to twelve or thirteen counterfeiters. On my very short list of personal
favorites I gladly put Barbusse,91 and Daudet92 of The Awakening Dream. Among
painters, Vlaminck93 seems to me to come the closest to
my ideal, along with Gen Paul94 and Mahé… Now don’t go imagining
that these aforementioned people are my buddies, or would want to be…
That would be a fatal error! Perhaps it’s even the case that they
detest me, or use me as a whipping-boy. For the most part, I’ve never
met them. I have no intention of ever meeting them, or of pleasing them,
but to the contrary, I regard them as being the hairdressers of life,
who are always trying to please everybody, the whores. I’ve found
that the more hated you are, the happier you are… It greatly simplifies
things, in that there’s no need to be polite, since I’m not trying
to make myself liked… I have no need for “affection”… It’s
always the most abject things of which I’ve ever heard, which have
been done in the name of “affection” … It is through “affection”
that the abject things reassure themselves. It’s just like honesty,
probity, and virtue… What walls in this world hear these things being
discussed the most?… Those would be the walls of a Judge’s95
office. In which arenas do they shout out loud in the name of every [217]
Liberty? of France for the French? of the abolition of injustice and
privilege?… In the arenas of Communism, which are filled to bursting
with Jews delirious with racism and voracity. It’s insupportable!
Dear wild men, allow me to tear down all of these golden calves!…
Let us return to our gay sheep…
I have digressed like some old gaffer.96 In matters of “literature” I am
not presenting myself as a model, nay! I have been extensively imitated,
certainly, to put it mildly! without divulging anything, that would
be fatal… Here and there, ’round about and in a number of foreign
countries… Those who imitate me pointedly find me abominable, and
excoriate me as much as they can, more than anyone else at any given
time. I am the papa of many little children, to the point of having
spent my balls, having been returned for my efforts some little pretenders,
some little inspired ones, and some feverish prophets, in one short
“hop” to the next, to the right, to the center, and above all to
the left. I do not want to disturb them, I being discreet by nature,
knowing as papas do that it’s best to stay in the background, and
that it’s a child’s pleasure to show off a little bit… I do not
want to play the party-pooper, and disturb them… I even have for them,
I must admit, a quite understandable bit of affection… I would like
to be able to give them all a drop of glycophosphate, to help strengthen-up
their bones a little…to give them more solid a framework… In general,
they are soft, lacking in heart, carrying the odor of the high school,
of babbling, and of wanking. It pains me to have to look at them…
Every now and then I briefly disown them. It’s a sad thing, in fact,
in essence, that they haven’t continued to write in the polished “Goncourtian”
style. That Goncourtian genre goes so well amongst the louts. All polished
people are louts. No one is more polished than an executioner… Once
one has taken the time to determine whether such-or-such an adjective
is the most appropriate, it’s going to come out as dry as a blow from
a cudgel, by the time it gets to the pen. Believe me, I have often had
the experience. Our fine neoclassical literature, Goncourtian and Proustophile,
is nothing more than an immense parterre of desiccated louts, an infinite
dune of delicately wavering ridgelets. In order to succeed well at brutal
candor, at direct emotion, it is not enough, it would be too simple,
to invoke shit every time that the opportunity presented itself. As
soon as they feel themselves stymied or led somewhat astray by treacherous
terrain, such classicists and romanticists seize upon it for salvation,
God the Father! and impose it as soon as possible. Cheap tricks! silence!
and veneration! In order to devote yourself to the “profane” all
the better, it is increasingly imperative for you to retain all of your
instincts, the further you go along…and that is the paradox, of these
wallowings in the garbage…of these things left behind by the ordinary…of
this dead material in [218] essence…of all of this trash, in
a word… May it all serve despotically to bring you back to that which
is fluid, that which is dance, that which is life.
Coarseness is insupportable
save in the spoken, living language, and there is nothing more difficult
than to dominate, direct, and transpose the living language, the common
language, the language of emotion, the only sincere one, into written
language, to fix it down without killing it… Try it… With this you
have the terrible “technical problem” in which the greater number
of writers founder, a thousand times as arduous as the so-called “artistic,”
“smooth,” or “standard” forms of writing, close-fitting and
affected, which are wankingly taught in grammar classes at school. Rictus,
who is forever being cited, wasn’t always successful at it, far from
it! He was forced to resort to elisions, abbreviations, apostrophes
Trickeries! Villon97 was the master of the genre, no contest.
Montaigne, full of pretensions in that regard, wrote in exactly the
opposite way, Jewish, a sower of arabesques, almost a “France”98
before his time, a Pre-Proust…
As soon as you feel yourself
to be somewhat “ordinary,” in your being and in your relations,
the best thing to do, by far, no contest, is to commit yourself to good
manners, to make a career out of “a smoothness of ‘an elegant conciseness,
a delicate sobriety, a tremulous refinement, Colettism.99’”
All of those “perfect styles” will thenceforth belong to you, with
the pinkie finger more or less distended 1
There’s no longer anything
to fear from your desultations!… You will never discover the world,
so turbid, so swinish, always so irremediably lower than the bottom
of your ass end, its “shit-holes” always so close by your heels,
and you never wiping your self with anything other than fine paper,
sanitized… That’s the entire distinction!… The only one, true
to say. For that reason and for no other, you will observe how the ladies
are challenged by the hard issues, becoming panicky and disconcerted,
while wincing at the least vulgarities. They who are always so quick
with the broom, always such maids by nature, as soon as they take to
writing become as affected, as refined, and as flowery as they are capable
of being… It is only from Musset, Marivaux, Noailles and Racine, that
they borrow their seductions and travesties. Let us suppose that they
were to let themselves go…what an outpouring! wait a minute! Divine
Judgment!… It would truly be the end of the world! Whether writing
about shit, or dickheads, nothing is obscene in and of itself, or vulgar.
Vulgarity begins, Ladies and Gentlemen, with sentiment, all vulgarity!
all obscenity! with sentiment! Writers, in parallel with the lady writers,
being equally reprehensible these days, Judaized and domesticated unto
their ventricles ever since the Renaissance, without cessation, have
frenetically done their all for the “delicate,” the “sensible,”
the “human”…[219] as they call it… Towards these ends,
they regard nothing as being more convincing, more decisive, than a
recitation of the ordeals of love…of Love…for Love…by Love…the
entire “lyrical bidet” in sum… The lips of these crumbling degenerates
and affected pigs are full of their “Love 1!”…
It is in writing about Love
unto damnation, in vocalizing a thousand tons of verbiage about Love,
that they reckon themselves saved… But this is precisely it, scoundrels!
the infamous word! the rancid effluent from the cattle barns, the most
onerously abject vocalization that there is! …the evil trash! the
most stinking, slimy, obscene word in the dictionary! along with “heart!”.
I had forgotten about that other viscous expectoration! The mark of
the personal baseness, the immodesty, the insensibility of a wallowing
slob, irredeemably destined for extraordinarily wretched artistico-sludge-encrusted
sties… Each letter of each one of these suave words is weighted with
its own half-ton of exquisite diddle-shit… All of the Femina juries
give it a degustation, not breathing save through these turds, as they
swoon, intimately enraptured, in feasting upon “all about shit,”
being drawn into it by sonnets, photographs, conferences, a thousand
screeds and telephone calls and love letters…
Racine? That deceitfully flickering
exhibitionist! That obscene, swooning weirdo of a cur! And a half a
quarter of a Jew besides!… Just look at the wild animals for a while,
always noble, always modest. But the rabbits in their hutches, the dogs
in their kennels, the pigs in their sties, there you have beings who
speak, dream, think, and act out of Love! All of the degeneracy and
reduction to servility of races originates, and is attained by way of
love, the “competitions,” the excitements, the whisperings of Love!…
One good dose of alcohol from above and down they go! They are now the
well-bastardized, well-matured types for all forms of slavery, provided
that they continue to embugger themselves for ever and ever…in all
of the kennels and coops in which they find themselves…wallowing in
their subtleties and their arabesques of Love, they are exultant!…
It’s their proper straw bedding!… To speak frankly there is but
one obscenity. But it is elemental, inexorable, and infinitely corrupting
biologically, this putrefying “Tell me about love.” Nothing can
resist it. All who find themselves in it become, in a very short time,
corrupted, worm-eaten, and loutish as never before… This is the true
“debauchery”… This unbridled whoring of words and sentiments must
certainly cost very dearly, and result in some very cruel tortures.
To the deformed, “love-smitten” hordes, infinite servitude!… All
of the prostitutions of the ass end are nothing but [220] trivialities compared to the “Niagara-like”
puking-forth of “soft murmurings,” “burning sentiments” and
“ineffable intoxications”…that entire deluge of reprehensibility
which is submerging us in our decadence. The effete nature of these
things of the heart has turned us into a bigger bunch of dolts, serfs,
irritating madmen, and deaf and obtuse maniacs, than a century’s worth
of poxes all put together would have done.
[221]
The Jew who violates or corrupts a non-Jewish woman or even kills her must be absolved by justice,
as
he has only made an error in judgment.
– The Talmud.
“What is
it that goes in hard and comes back out soft?” This is a good riddle…
Those who know respond: a biscuit!… Movies
are the same way… They begin hard and finish soft…in the shit of
schmaltz! …the juice of “sentimentality.” The crowds eat it up,
it’s their great joy, their intoxication, they must have their shit,
their fine Jewish shit, shit-radio, shit-sports (all boxing matches,
and all car and horse races are fixed), shit-alcohol, shit-crime, shit-politics,
shit-cinema, they just die for it!… There’s never too much! Never
too many turds! Never too costly! Literature moreover prepares them
better to appreciate that fine guano. Literature is set at that level,
which is most necessary, of the most overwhelming, the most over-stimulating
scenarios. It now vegetates at that level, as Judaizing as it knows
how to be, consequently being amenable, falling a little deeper into
the pot, exceeding itself in sentimentalism… All done-up with turds!…
Coming ever closer! Ever closer to the people! more political! more
demagogic! The “ringmaster” spirit in essence… The spirit of the
clown Tabarin100 (things were already Kikeish enough
in 1630)… And now for our next act, the trained flea! Ladies and Gentlemen,
by the third day, the people will have had you sent back to the jug!…
And then everybody will be in prison! …and then there’s the Robots,
Nom de Dieu! …with surrealism taking the lead!… The trick of
modern art is simpler still… I’m going to show you how to do it
for nothing… You photograph an object, no matter what object, chair,
umbrella, telescope, bus, and then cut it up into a “puzzle”…
You then scatter these fragments, these scraps, across [222] an immense sheet of paper, green or
orange cream. Poetry!… Do you understand?… When the robot tries
his hand at poetry, people eat it up… We are now merely in the final
stages of the decrepitude of naturalism, stylized, cosmeticized, Neapolitanized,
persuasive, fawning, shouting. You just wait a few months!… You are
going to see robot art! The Aryan slave will be spoiled rotten by it,
he has been preconditioned for it in all of his behaviors: he’ll be
a glutton for it!… Whenever some sort of little Jew, by dint of luck,
comes up with some new way of stupefying and debilitating the Aryan
even more thoroughly, more intimately… His future is assured… And
what a future!… What a spectacular contract! He’ll need only three
weeks in Hollywood, with its intensive worldwide publicity, in order
to transmute the scrawniest, most polluted, rancidly ulcerated little
piccolo of a Hymie, who would normally be in the process of rotting
away entirely, into a most resplendent Phoenix, the reincarnation of
Michelangelo! or Rembrandt even, or a Mirandole! Look for yourself right
here! You don’t exist!… The Jew is the source of all cinema…at
the headquarters, in Hollywood, Moscow, Billancourt… Meyers upon Meyers…
Korda, Hayes, Zukor, Chaplin, Paramount… Fairbanks… Ulmann… Cantor…,
etc.…, etc. He is within his own milieu in those “interconnecting”
studios, and those editing offices…and with the critics. He is at
the end of the deal…at the cashier’s window… He is everywhere…
That which comes from the Jews returns to the Jews! automatically! …inexorably.
Having in his comings and goings along all of the routes in the world,
drained all of the spiritual resources as well as all of the dough off
of those stupid Aryans, so stupefied, cuckolded, inebriated, and driven
to fanaticism by all of those shits! for all of those shits! as well
as being in the shit!… How well they have taught the crowds, those
Hymies of the reel, all of that obscene sentimentality! those “promises
and caresses”! …that dumping ground of long kisses…the shamefulness…the
enormous pukings of “Love”!…
One of these evenings, very soon, the
theater is going to capsize in its entirety, without making much of
a splash, into the cinema! …that twisted turd! through the gigantic
drain, into the common tank! into the Universal Attraction! the global
art of the Jew. You can see how the crosscurrents of starlets (all of
them great theatrical geniuses, apparently) have become increasingly
active and intense these past few months, between Hollywood, Moscow,
and the capitals of Europe… These “artists” travel only on business…
They are all participants in the Jewish cinema’s great colonization
of the world… Each one of them in her turn bringing along with her
to Hollywood her own little personal treason, her own little intimate
agenda, her own little treacheries, being ever so anxious to give pleasure
to Ben-Mayer and Ben-Zukor101…just itching to convey unto them [223]
yet one more emotive trifle, stolen from the indigenous arts, from Aryan
arts, in order to make that filmed Jewish rot more acceptable. A surreptitious
little penetration… This entire abject traffic is painstakingly remunerated,
I assure you…spiritually… Jews of all grimaces, unite!… It’s
done!…
There’s another parallel traffic between Europe and Hollywood, of aspiring starlets. The trafficking in the most beautiful, the most desirable, the most succulent little Aryans, most docile, well-selected by the negrito-Jewish khedives of Hollywood, the “Directors” (!) writers (?) dykes, technicians, and other pashas…assorted bankers… All of our viziers of the Jewish Universe!… It’s no longer the route to Buenos Aires…it’s the route to California and to the “life of luxury,” and vice versa. All of those little Aryan pussies, the most tender, nubile, and cute, the best that the herd has to offer, all of it absolutely prime cut, goes to those negrifying geezers…to the Hymies of the most concentrated fermented rot, of the high cinema!… Jewish all-around! right in the ass! of all of them! and right in the dick! …that good Jewish screwing!… You are going to get your hemorrhoids buffeted about by that fat, doughy, waxy, famous Kike, that hateful pasha, little sister of the race! …beauty queen!… They do so love underhanded maneuvers! You’re not even sixteen years old, for such nonsense! You want to have a career?… Pretty face? You want to be adored! you tell me?… You want to be Queen of the Jewish Universe! Just a minute!… First of all you’ll have to attend to a little something…tremblingly! Get down on the dick, child!… Do you believe that it’s enough just to be beautiful?… First of all open up that fine front of yours… Do you believe the movie magazines?… You are not finished! Do you want to reign supreme, little bitch?… The world’s favorite? Very well! Then first of all go down just a little bit upon the anus of Mr. Levy-Levy, also known as Samuel the Abyssinian, also known as Kalkeinstein, also known as Ben-Cinema, and amuse him in spite of his prolapsus…gently suck in that entire large wad…let him try you out!… Enough talk! go!… Don’t gnash your teeth so!… Glory is an asshole! well worked-over, and delicately swollen-up, with Jewish tallow…gently!… And above all, my charming little one, don’t spoil things! Don’t make Mr. Kalkeinstein suffer… He is waiting for you!… Hurry along, dearie! Quietly!… And now another one! Mr. Kalkeinstein, Ben-Cinema is above all else crazy about “blondes”…just like all niggers… He already possesses, dear applicants! all of the photographs, standing on his great directorial desk… He gets wet. The Stag Park of Abdul Hamid? Rio de Janeiro? Primitive bordellos! Hollywood does them one better…an even finer selection…much more astute, and more rational… The rule of [224] this great Preserve is, that the most beautiful white women go to the Jews exclusively. A new roundup is made every Sunday. The great Jewish jackals of California pay particular attention to the French contingent among these beautiful young sylphs. A magnificent reputation as cutesy, succulent whores precedes Frenchwomen wherever they go… That Judeo-Kanak of a Hollywood nabob, just out of his ghetto…quite naturally, he thinks that he’s a king…think about it… I once knew one of these pashas, a splendid example of the type. He even died on the job… From the time of his debarkation up to the time of his departure he didn’t cease enjoying himself… He personally tried out
all of the aspiring starlets,
as long as his dick and the night held out… It was impossible to imagine
that man ever being satiated… The number of sweeties who presented
themselves in order to secure nothing more than the indefinite prospect
of a Hollywood contract…or even a little screen test somewhere around
Paris… This brought them in by the dozens! Completely alluring! each
one cuter than the last, there to suck the dick of Monsieur…and his
hot piss and his syphilis… And these weren’t dogs, I can assure
you! nothing but tenderloins! …all of them presented by their families,
even virgins. Nothing but Aryan and bourgeois girls, none of them underdeveloped.
None of them above the “age of consent”… Ambition!… And that
Abyssinian was horrible and more! ugly, old and dirty, lumbering and
stupid, a real piece of garbage, in his person and in his surroundings…a
real vomiting forth from the ghetto. He never encountered any resistance…
He took them all in…with great expectations, the Jewish mirage, a
turn of the phrase! Ah! Don Juan! What a bullshitter! The mothers did
everything in their power, to get their pretty young daughters embuggered
even more! they being so well-endowed for the Arts… He couldn’t
take any more… They licked him all over…his old balls went flaccid…
Hollywood! The more they considered themselves “fiancées” the more
he licked it… He kept a little book in which he enumerated the maidenheads
taken…sometimes twenty-five a month… He was as sadistic as thirty-six
Persian cats… From time to time things went badly, there were altercations,
when fathers and brothers of the families showed up…some little blackmailings
concerning prospects… But these pashas are protected…this one even
had, attached to his own person, and at his own disposal, an actual
police commissioner whose job was to get him out of trouble…when things
became too heated… The police would intervene. Even the Prefect down
at the Prefecture would be roused in the middle of the night, in order
to be given his instructions…and so that some sweeties could be sent
his way, when they had to be put up for the night…when Monsieur’s
retinue kept him [225] from his sleep…just like it was
under Louis XV… That’s it. our taxes go to serve some purpose. Only
it’s necessary for me not to spoil you, and have you going around
thinking that you’re a Pasha… There’s an enormous difference!…
The “Pleasure Palace”102 still exists…it’s just that it’s
not the same people who are benefiting from it, that’s all… One
mustn’t be confused!… You little dunderhead, you mope of an Aryan,
you’d certainly make yourself sound silly if you were to partake of
the fantasy of acting like those little satyrs! even to a quarter part!
even to a tenth part! you would quickly lose the taste for it… You
wouldn’t even get as far as the fall of the Bastille!103
You’d have the right to play your “castanets”… Phooey! indigenous
hack! who’s now pissing all over the place! Unclean coyote! Ball-licker!
to the kennel! wretch…dog lie down!… There’s nothing in it, I
swear to you, but so much juvenility… Rest and relaxation for conquerors!
entertainment for khedives. Trifles! A serious work will not be tolerated!
Quite the opposite!… The Talmudic program will tolerate no delay in
execution. A smutty eroticism is part of the program. End of discussion.
An intimate chapter.
As for the general principles,
they are intangible. Observe how all French, English, and American films,
that is to say Jewish films, are infinitely tendentious, always, even
the most benign and the most amorous! …the most historical and the
most idealistic… They wouldn’t exist and wouldn’t be made save
to serve the greater glory of Israel…under various guises: democracy,
racial equality, the hatred of “national prejudices,” the abolition
of privileges, the march of progress, etc. …in essence the entire
army of democratic myths…their strictly defined objective being to
numb the mind of the goy even further…to bring him around as quickly
as possible to the renunciation of all of his traditions, all of his
unhappy taboos, his “superstitions,” his religions, to have him
abjure in sum his entire past, his race and his own rhythm, to the profit
of the Jewish ideal. To bring to bear within himself, through film,
an irresistible taste for all things Jewish, be it of materiel, or of
luxuries, through the purchase of which the Aryan, himself, will forge
the irons with which he will be shackled, and the rods with which he
will be beaten…and so that by paying the entirety of this exorbitant
“profit,” he will so pave the way for that entire apparatus of his
servitude and his thorough brutalization.
You will note that in the movies, the
Jew, insofar as a “Jewish character” is represented, never appears
before our eyes save as some sensitive, “persecuted” character,
beaten-down by malicious events, by malign chance, and above all by
the brutality of the Aryans… (Just look at Chaplin)… “Crying for
something to eat” admirably! Jewish humor is always unilateral, always
directed against Aryan institutions; we are never [226] shown the Jew who is greedy, voracious,
larval and vulture-like, and arrogant or as supine as a flounder, so
great is the extent to which he is able to transform himself, tirelessly
to dissemble and insert himself, into the everyday life of every age,
according to the needs of the conquest. What a prodigious field offers
itself to the whimsy of humorists! analysts, satirists, fanatical righters
of wrongs, virulent redressers of all manners of injury, fine scalpels
against iniquity! What a godsend! what astounding unforeseen material,
incredible imbroglios, pursuant to that gigantic inrush of Kikeish rats
upon the universe, insatiable, unquenchable, deliriously voracious,
maddened by a virus which has the whole World annihilating itself…with
them, under them, before our very eyes, what a universal cyclone!…
From cataclysmic grotesqueness to the most heartbreaking Punch and Judy
show…everything!… From trans-Carpathian Russia to the American deserts…to
those little “fancy cafés.” The world is in torture!
Funny! At the moment when one
broaches those infernal topics, concerning his own problems, his own
destiny, the Jew, the djibouk of the arts, becomes self-absorbed
and elusive, and evaporates… There’s no longer anyone at home!…
Upon the moment when one confronts the only real, human question of
the day, that same old song of the Earth, of attaining some small measure
of remission from that anthrax: the Jewish Conjuration…the infiltration
and monopolization by Kikingdom, of all of the world’s levers and
mechanisms, all of its headquarters… In essence the loom of the Demiurge,
the apostolic Hebrew… There’s no longer anyone there!… Not one
Jew!… The same bright flashes of humor, the same merciless scalpels,
those super-vibrant dramatists, go soft…all of those extra-lucid types
become muddled…those astounding super-analysts begin to jest, the
entire clique of Hymie super-artists dodges, weaves, evades, lies, freezes
up, and then rallies, pivots, and comes back at you at a gallop, stabbing,
whining once more, with even greater moping, though that were possible,
once again aiming to lambaste, rip into, and abolish that old dastardly
bourgeoisie (always nationalistic), that most dissolute, most fetid
old nag, fatigued by its own rottenness…to the point of no longer
giving a care… We are once more served-up with “those privileged
by birth”…the “prejudices of title,” “criminal jealousies,”
contrarian “passions”…mid-life crises leading to extramarital
affairs…disastrous hesitations, archaic traditions, the perversities
of inheritance, the stupidity of Aryan industrialists…the menopause
in Genius…, etc…., etc…., and finally the entire theater of Bernstein104…international…that
stock of ancient, overworked second-hand goods, that bazaar of overweening,
faded old phantoms, in dramaturgical noodle-wigs… That entire hollow
discourse, crude, fictitious, and absolutely unreal, a con-job cried
out loud… Always about “the two hundred families,”105
more or less!… But who is coming forth to recount to us the fundamentally
Jewish [227] …dirty dealings of the five hundred
thousand unaccountable Jewish families, encamped on our soil?… Of
the frightful progression of the worldwide Jewish horde? No one!…
Of our progressive strangulation? For this is the real tragedy! By comparison
no other tragedy exists… For great and small, for each individual
and for us all…
I myself have not made it a habit to surround myself with a bourgeois existence. In this I am doing much better than a Jew, ever-so-much better, in full recognition of the reason why. But each in his own turn! let the barbs fly!… I would very much like to see, at this time, the Jews also being treated to them! They deserve it! enormously!… What are they waiting for, before they have at themselves with those fine lancets, those super-vibrant cellos of humor and tragedy?… Merciless, meticulous, reckless, under every sort of Regime, in exposing the lepers, and everything that is awry, driven to fanaticism by the least little social blemishes, heroic in lancing the most
[Proceed to page 133.]
Notes:
1 I.e., the Popular Front (electoral victory of 1936).
2 “Midi” = France south of Lyon.
4 OV: “le Conseil de Revision.”
7 Refers to a French armaments manufacturer.
8 Refers to a hypocritical character in a work of that name by Molière.
9 “Roosevelt” = Franklin D. Roosevelt.
10 Refers to the practice in traditional theater, of applying excessive powder to the face of an actor portraying a naïve character.
11 OV: “des ‘peigne-cul’,” literally, “some ‘butt-combers’.”
12 OV: “Civis devorans” (Lat.).
13 “Clochers” (bell towers) here signify local affinities, or values which are not universal, as in “esprit de clocher” (parochialism, or chauvinism).
14 Or, more literally, “The (interests of the ) Aryan must not weigh very heavily upon the barriers to immigration.”
18 OV: “oignon,” literally onion, referring to the entire male genital structure.
19 Lit., Literary News, or, The News in Literature.
20 Refers to a popular French literary critic of the 1930s.
22 OV: “De cuirs en velours,” literally refers to suede leather, but also alludes to illicit connectivity (liaison) in French pronunciation.
23 Facetious attribution; refers to a follower of a strict religious sect, influential in the Seventeenth Century.
25 Refers to Charles Maurras (1868-1952), royalist and anti-Dreyfusard, coeditor of L’Action Française.
26 Refers to Émile Salomon Wilhelm Herzog (1885-1967), pseudonym André Maurois, biographer (Disraeli, Byron, Turgenev, Voltaire, others).
27 Refers to Paul Louis Charles Claudel (1868-1955), diplomat, and symbolist poet and dramatist; Ambassador to U.S., 1927.
28 Refers to Jean Giraudoux (1882-1944), writer, later chief of propaganda, 1939-40.
29 OV: “les Cloches de Corneville.”
30 Refers to a popular French literary critic of the ’30s.
31 Alludes to the Prix Goncourt, which to Céline rewarded mediocrity.
32 Implied here was education beyond that which the normal person received. A high school education in 1937 was about as common as a college education is today.
33 OV: “muffisés,” of indefinite meaning; “moufter” or “moufeter” substituted.
34 OV: “PluriBendas,” referring to multiple persons by the surname of Benda. This would include the philosopher and critical writer Julien Benda (1867-1956; also see p. 3/1), author of such titles as My First Testament and The End of the Eternal. It also alludes to such persons as the actress Simone (Pauline Benda, 1877-1985), who appeared in plays by Henry Bernstein.
35 “Onion” alludes to the entire male genital structure.
36 I.e., Anatole France (Jacques Anatole François Thibault, 1844-1924).
38 Refers to the works of Karl Baedeker (1801-59), German publisher of tourist guidebooks. (Corrected from “Beadeckerism.”)
39 As in the standard usages “enculage de mouches,” and “couper de cheveux en quatre,” signifying an obsessive meticulousness.
40 The term “objectivisme” is attested back to 1900 (and “objectiviste” to 1901), several decades before the work of Ayn Rand (1905-82). The correspondences between the various usages of the terms are problematic, having some overlap, and some particularities.
41 OV: “embusqués,” meaning either ambushed, or lying in ambush.
42 Refers to Georges Duhamel (1884-1966), pseudonym: Denis Thévenin.
43 Refers to André Theuriet (1833-1907).
44 Refers to Henry Bordeaux (1870-1963), René François Nicolas Marie Bazin (1853-1932), Charles Joseph Paul Bourget (1852-1935), and François Mauriac (1885-1970).
45 I.e., in the manner of Karl Baedeker (1801-59), German publisher of tourist guidebooks.
46 OV: “unanimise,” alluding to “unanimisme,” a literary school emphasizing collective consciousness.
47 Refers to the Manufacture Nationale des Gobelins, a state-owned manufactory.
48 OV: “navets,” or turnips, signifying a failed theatrical or literary work.
49 OV: “orme du mail,” alluding to the playing of mail (a game similar to croquet) in an alley or public square bordered by elms (ormes); also a novel by Anatole France (L’Orme du Mail (1897)).
50 I.e., in imitation of Émile Zola.
51 Refers to D. H. (David Herbert) Lawrence (1885-1930), author of Lady Chatterley’s Lover, and similar works.
52 Play on words, between “de mieux en mieux” (increasingly), and “miaou miaou” (meow meow), alluding back to the title of the aforementioned novella.
53 Refers to Sacha Guitry (1885-1957).
54 OV: “navets,” literally turnips, also signifies theatrical failures (Eng. “bombs” or “turkeys”).
55 Refers to the literary “naturalism” of the Nineteenth Century.
56 “Durand” = the typical Frenchman.
57 Refers to Roger Martin du Gard, winner of the 1937 Nobel Prize for Literature, who would go on to write such lines as: “Des avions boches ont bombardé la gare” (“Some Kraut airplanes bombed the train station”).
60 Refers to a family of organists, associated with the Church of Saint Gervais, Paris, c. 1660s-1820s.
62 Refers to Octavus Ray Cohen (1891-1959), a writer of Negro stories.
63 “Bloomsbury” = London literary circle; “neo-Murgerians” alludes to Henri Murger (1822-61), author of Scènes de la Vie de Bohème (Views of the Bohemian Life, c. 1847-49); the “Village” = Greenwich Village, artists’ quarter in New York City.
64 OV: “M. Chèvre et Chou,” or “Mr. Goat-and-Cabbage,” alluding to the irreconcilable interests of a goat and a cabbage plant.
65 Refers to Aldous (rather than Julian) Huxley (1894-1963).
66 I.e., that which pertains expressly to that which materially exists, as emphasized in the “positivist” philosophy of Auguste Comte.
67 I.e., The Israelite Universe.
68 Refers to a type of Jewish theater.
69 Refers to the Italian actress Eleanora Duse (1859-1924).
70 Refers to Tomáš Masaryk (1850-1937), the first President of Czechoslovakia, 1918-35.
71 Refers to Eduard Beneš (1884-1948), President of Czechoslovakia, 1935-38, 1939-45 (in-exile), and 1946-48.
72 Béla Kun (1885-1937), a Hungarian-Jewish Communist, was Premier of short-lived Communist regime in Budapest, March-July 1919.
73 I.e., a British citizen residing in Palestine.
74 The designation was “professeur agrégé,” meaning that he had passed the necessary competitive examinations (concours) to claim the title of “Professor,” whether or not he was actively engaged in teaching at that particular time.
75 “Sovet Narodnykh Komissarov,” or “Sovnarkom”; appellation remained until 1946.
76 Felix Moritz Warburg (1871-1937), member of Kuhn, Loeb and Co.; brother Paul Moritz Warburg was a member of the Federal Reserve Board (1914-18); brother Max Warburg was advisor to the Reichsbank (1924-on).
77 Refers to the firm of Kuhn, Loeb and Co., in New York.
78 Facetious attribution; Trotsky was born in what is now Ukraine.
79 I.e., 1937, contemporaneously with the writing of Bagatelles.
80 ORT = “Society to Promote Trade and Agriculture,” established in St. Petersburg in 1889. Headquarters were relocated to Berlin in 1921, to Paris in 1933. Activities in the USSR were suspended in 1938. (See: Atlas of Russian History, p. 70.) At the time of the writing of Bagatelles, the ORT was an agency based in Paris, financing activities in the USSR.
81 OV: “déclassées,” signifying economically dislocated persons.
83 I.e., in the style of André Gide.
84 Refers to Mort à Crédit (1936), Céline’s second major work.
85 Refers to Georges (Sim) Siménon (1903-1989), Belgian writer of detective stories (“Inspector Maigret”).
86 Refers to Eugène Dabit (1898-1936), left-wing writer of novels and short stories, to whom Céline dedicated Bagatelles (see p. 3 (1)).
87 Refers to Paul Morand (1888-1976), writer of stories about the “smart set.”
88 Refers to Pierre (Dumarchey) Mac Orlan (1882-1970), writer of adventure tales.
89 Refers to Quintilianus Aristide (c. 1st Century AD), Greek compiler of songs.
90 Refers to Frederic Charles Bargone (1876-1957), writer of naval/exotic-location stories.
91 Refers to Henri Barbusse (1873-1935), editor, internationalist, and writer of war stories (WWI).
92 Refers to Léon Daudet (1867-1942, son of Alphonse and nephew of Ernest Daudet), journalist (Le Figaro), cofounder (with Charles Maurras) of the royalist/right-wing journal L’Action Française, and writer of books in a variety of genres.
93 Refers to Maurice de Vlaminck (1876-1958), French “Fauvist” painter.
94 Refers to the expressionist painter Gen Paul (Eugène Paul, 1895-1975), an acquaintance of Céline, who was the real-life basis for the character Popaul (or Popol, see pp. 34-5, 39, 206 (353), and Bib.).
95 Or, Examining Magistrate’s (OV: “de Juge d’instruction”).
96 OV: “chaisière,” signifying one who has an undemanding occupation.
97 Refers to a poet known for his use of acrostics in verse.
99 I.e., in the style of Colette.
100 See: Soiled Sheets, p. 27/35.
101 Refers to Louis B. Mayer and Adolph Zukor.
103 Or, “You wouldn’t even get to first base” (the fall of the Bastille being at the beginning of the French Revolution).
104 Refers to Henry Léon Gustave Charles Bernstein (1876-1953).
105 I.e., the two hundred wealthiest families of France, who were supposedly acting in collusion in the direction of capital.