[3]

 
 
[4]

[5]

TO THE ROPE FROM WHICH NO ONE IS HANGING

[6][blank sheet]

 
 
 
 
[7/7] Now that’s more like it! It seems that everything is now changing, in terms of the ways of doing things, in Redemption, good manners, and veritable virtue. It is necessary to watch one’s language. There are even decrees to that effect. I spent some time in prison, and I can’t let that happen again! Above all don’t use any names! General ideas only! Madame Broussol has it right! maiden name Plumier! Sardines in oil! prudish! no water! Pernod! Ah! Ah! Now I understand! It’s a bit of shrewdness! That and nothing else! I won’t give myself away! I won’t soften even a little bit, I’m sealing myself in, I’m tormenting myself with suppressed feelings. I’m hiding myself away. And what is more, this is completely prudent! Everything is becoming pricklier and pricklier. There are the censors, and the informers in every corner… I no longer know what to do with myself… We must suppress, suppress our own expressions!…

France has become a she-ass. The Commandant’s Office is filled with people who have come forward to make denunciations… Then they go to the Prosecutor’s Office…the next day they return to the rue de Rivoli… Always in the name of the Fatherland! to turn in a friend, or a girlfriend…just like that, don’t waste a minute… Biliousness is King! Just look at the visage of this herd, it’s a long nightmare of facial expressions. It’s a complete obscenity by way of the face. Shameful parties returned to the light of day. We must suppress, suppress our expressions! It’s high time, Bordel de merde! You can never be distrustful enough! Let us restore the respect for the chaste, the tears of [7/8] virgins, the drooling of skags. That is how we are going to reclaim Lorraine! the Rhineland! Poland! what do I know? the invincible spirit! victory! the glory of our twisted armies! the spirit of sacrifice! Our young cadets are returning to their Lozères, tongue chastised, with the Duchess of Israel, that being all of those ex-ministers, formerly the most powerful, the true pre-War aperitif, everything that was terrible with “as it was before”!… They are going to send the whole lot of you right back to the front, and then on to Hanover, and then Münster, et cetera!… There you will engage with the Russians! You’ll do a Napoleon on them! Pieces of the Kremlin will be brought back by the potful! So much the better! So much the better! Bougre de Dieu! Hurrah for us! for the kick in the ass! Charlemagne will be dug back up! he’ll be brought back in a taxi! He is going to salvage our virtue, our circumspection, our minuet!

I don’t have much time for discretion when it comes to approach and form… Quite true, things didn’t turn out very well. We never got any further than Ostende. One can say “shit” and be a conqueror, one can say “damn” and make oneself understood. And that’s the atrocity! There were some ordeals and none of them small ones. As for myself, I made my retreat just as had so many others. I chased after the French Army clear from Bezons all the way to La Rochelle, and was never able to catch up with it. It was a race for power the likes of which have seldom been seen. I left Courbevoie in the morning of the thirteenth instant, taking nothing with me. I wanted to see everything! Fifth column! You understand! Caught between two lines of fire! Or between a line of fire a line of fleeing ass ends, to be more precise!

I don’t know how to discuss the particulars by citing any similar cases. I departed along with some little girls, I’ll tell you all about this later, once I’ve cleared my head, some “less-than-ten-day-olds” along with their grandmother, in a very little ambulance. I made sure to protect their youth against the worst of those most frightful perils. (I’ll have all of this written on my tombstone).

[8/”] Believe what you want, but it was impossible to move any more quickly, one had to do everything within one’s power, in order to catch up with the French Army. From highway to highway, in zigzags, taking off like a rocket, always putting us to the test, never were we able to catch up with it, was that French Army. It was dizzying in its rolling along. O that motorized retreat! Oh! that prioritized caution! Oh! those gendarmes turning back into men! to the tintinnabulation of each-man-for-himself!

[“/9] I saw tanks weighing forty tons damn near run over our orphans, forcing us to jump aside into the colza fields so that they might dash for cover that much more quickly, at once both low-down and madcap, that stormy scrap iron in a panic. The charge of the carpet slipper brigade! The hammering of ’71 followed by forty years of shame was a magnificent feat of arms compared to this latest charge. These are not things that have been made up. This is not some vile calumny. There were fifteen million witnesses who saw it. There was no need to read about it later in Paris-Soir. They are already in Spain, despite all pretense to the contrary! They’ve abandoned us!… It was all to easy for Berlin! How disappointing! It was less than sincere, no doubt! But one was free back then… Oh! none of that is ever coming back! Today we’re in a new era! We have good manners, sincere ones, with real virtue, and tickets…

Trickery is almost impossible, one feels and one is redeemed in accordance to the Law. I can sense the renewal without having to read about it. It’s like I’m ten years old.

[9/10]

Hey there! what have you done with your rifle? It has remained behind on the Field of Honor!

Strange things come over our soldiers once they are no longer completely willing to die. Several things happen. Their élan disappears. Just look at those pretty officers bringing along their bedroom mirrors…as well as their most precious possessions…their girlfriends…in requisitioned convertibles…you won’t be seeing them again very soon…the great day of the placing of decorations… A day of glory just like any other… Nom de Dieu, the world will go on turning just the same!… We’ll be told all about it at the movies!… The Champions of the World when it comes to war!… The whole affair will be turned around completely!… You know that bathing beauty who bounces on her trampoline…flipping over in mid-air… That’ll be said about the French Army… From Saint Jean Pied de Port clear to Narvik… Everything will be turned the other way around… The conquered will become the conqueror… And it will go off without a hitch! And everyone will be quite content. It’s everything that you could ask for…it’s already a done deal!…

“Didn’t you see any of it…all of those prisoners being marched past? …and taken by on trucks?…”

“Nothing but meat! I tell you! The poor devils! Nothing but cattle!”

For us it’s a matter of the spirit!… That’s the main thing!

[10/11] Just take a look at those Eye-talians…just see whether this is at all defensible! first in Bardia and then everywhere else…in the middle of the desert…cut off from the world…against two hundred thousand madmen… Blockhaus-by-Blockhaus…for twenty-five days… I ask you quite frankly… Who can boast that they could have done any better? Perhaps they had their reversals, but they would really have had to try in order to have outdone us in fecklessness… They would have had to have retreated clear from Modano all the way to the Tiber and beyond, they would have had to have arrived in Sicily within the hour, deranged with panic and with fifteen million women, children and old geezers hot on their heels, in a fiasco the likes of which had never before been seen, the seats of their britches soaked through with fallen vanity.

That’s just one less thing that would have to be redressed tomorrow!… We can rest upon our laurels!… That’s a rather comforting thing, in a way.

[11/12] What’s comical nowadays is the trend toward placing the blame for everything on the civil servants. They’re the stinkers, they’re the mangy dogs, they’re the dastardly cowards, the foul ones responsible for the debacle. It is they, it is they, the thing can be laid at their feet and at none other. Let them explain themselves a bit! let them try to get out of it! Why were they so afraid? Why were they not heroic?…

First of all, perhaps something should be understood… Whose job is it to defend France? the civil servants or the military? Twenty ton tanks or old geezers? Under-aged hobbledehoys, maniacs, snot-nosed kids, overcautious types having particular affectations, or regiments of machine-gunners? Ah! There’s nothing very clear about these questions… One doesn’t arrive at any proper understanding. There’s some confusion, equivocation, the entire truth has not been said.

The French Army was very expensive, four hundred billion went into its saving of itself, along with eight months of card playing, and one month of being routed… The taxes for it still haven’t been paid… The civil servants were quite right to have made a hasty exit, by whatever means possible. They didn’t want to die any more so than anybody else. The only thing they could have done at the front lines would have been to encumber the battle plans, if battle were in the offing… It was the military men’s duty to be there, to force back the invader, to make a stand and to die in place, at their stations, with their chests thrown out facing the Huns, rather than their asses in flight. If only they hadn’t fled so quickly, the traffic tie-ups wouldn’t have been quite so bad. These things can be understood [”/13] without having gone through War College. The army that took flight did so because it was no good, and this served to propagate the winds of panic. From the Meuse to the Loire it was a stinkeroony, a disaster without exception. Whose diarrhea was the worst? The civil servants’ or the military’s? There’s no call to gloat, nor to advertise your high-handed contempt, who are you to judge, Scipio Shitty-Ass? Absolutely everyone had the malady, the malady of puffery and jabbering, the malady of the fear of death. The monuments to the dead which you see all about, tell you the wrong thing bout war. The entire country has become a bunch of ham actors, stock peasant-buffoons, Tartuffe-tankmen, who aren’t willing to die in the scene. To bullshit, yes! to put in an appearance? present! To do?…! No deal!…

All of these dancers who forgot their steps pretended that the fault lie in their tutus. All of those trembling military men are everywhere saying that they were betrayed. It was their own hearts that betrayed them, as that is the only thing that ever really betrays a man. They were all wanting that part of the play, of marching under the Brandenburg Gates, of being carried aloft in Triumph, of trimming off the villain’s mustache, but never of dying for the Nation. They knew their Nation well. It’s all a bunch of horse manure, plus the whores. They’re all the personal enemies of one another! And then heck, what about the postwar period? Who is going to play a role then, if not we? The clever devils! It’s only the rotters that are yelping about that! The postwar period is the good period! Everybody wants to be part of that! Nobody wants to make the sacrifice. Everybody wants to be the beneficiary. All nougat, one hundred percent. Of course, there were some dead all the same! some victims actually of recklessness! They amount to nothing compared to the millions of absolute martyrs in the other war, those who died without undue affectation, those of ’14 to ’18. Shit! You might say that there were a few back then! Much as one may regret the oppressive weight of damnable bad luck, the most shameful thing of all, is that eight hundred thousand were killed by it.

[12/14] In sum, things aren’t going very well… We find ourselves upon some extremely dubious bed-sheets…yet it’s not for want of optimism…we have endured some rough treatment, some avalanches, some veritable cyclones, and it’s the optimists who are the very best at thundering away on the radio, declaiming ecstatically in the press, crooning in song, and withering away in the Correctionnelle.

If things were based on the force of words then surely we would be the Kings of the World. No one has anything on us when it comes to muggery and self-assurance. The Champions of the World when it comes to braggadocio, to being stupefied by publicity and by mind-numbing vanity, the Hercules of jabber.

Our strong point: the Maginot Line! the Refrain: the Engineering Genius of the Race! Cock-a-doodle-doo! Cock-a-doodle-doo! Some wine flambé! You won’t get drunk but you’ll feel sure of yourself! And file past four abreast! Let’s start it up all over again!

[13/15] Anyways, there’s a big difference between ’14 and today. Back then a man was still somewhat natural, nowadays he’s something of a pervert. The mustachioed man of the foxhole was “well worth his salt,” but nowadays he’s as cunning as the gibbet, a crafty and a sly and a stupid clown. He bluffs, he lays down challenges and bores the whole world, but when the time of reckoning comes, he is no longer to be found. He no longer has any heart in face of the gun-barrels. He’s a ventriloquist, a windbag. He’s a crook no different from the next guy. He’s been crooked since the day he was born, a Tartuffe-proletarian, the very worst species of puke, a fruit of civilization. He plays the role of the impoverished wretch, but he’s no longer any such thing, he’s a whore and a beggar, a fainthearted giver, a hypocrite. The sucking brother of the bourgeoisie. He goofs up when it comes to any sort of scam, being appraised of their theory, but not remembering the details. And he knows that it’s all rotten, that there’s no reason for him to get mixed-up in it himself, and that there will always be enough criminal trash to fill in as the willing goons under a boss. He will always make sure to be the last in line when it comes to being saddled with something. It’s the opportunism of the cad, of someone who wants “to have it all” and give nothing back in return. The anarchism of shortsightedness. It’s that fine mid-level dishonesty that sends others out to war, and brings battalions into retreat, and makes one’s own navel the center of the world, the retirement of the elderly a joke, and mustard gas a benefit for all.

[”/16] In the name of what is the soldier supposed to go out and get himself killed in battle? He is still perfectly well capable of playing the Simple Jake, having a taste for the show and applause of the circus, like all of the other degenerates, but when it comes to getting killed, then excuse me! that he absolutely refuses to do! That’s not part of his contract as a free man. Monsieur guards himself against such rash action. Let the theater burn, so long as he can hop out in time! It’s not his problem!

[14/17] First of all it must be taken as a general rule, that the chiefs are no longer willing to die. You will note that the great despots, presidents, princesses, kings, and other high tenors, once everything comes undone, are to be found running for cover, and vacillating, as soon as the adventure turns sour… Thunderous stampede of retreat. Not a single one of them himself intends to pay. The saving of one’s own skin is the supreme effort. Even during their most ferocious exhortations, even while inciting the massacre, they didn’t take their eyes off of their shares of Shell. That is their true icon of Our Lady!

Low-down, but understandable!

Such is the promise! of the microphone! it’s all part of the great game! … Everything is theater for them as well… They make up a most illustrious cortège, stretching all the way from Ras Tafari to Reynaud… How many of them have been found …

This spectacle is here for good… Who would you rather believe? Which charlatan’s platform?

Just consider the effect it would have had on us if Reynaud had jabbered at us in the following magnificent fashion:

“We shall prevail! my fellow countrymen! I am damned-well sure of it! because we are the stronger [”/18] party! Roll of the drum! Roll of the drum. Bordel sang! I am so convinced of it that I am going to remain in your midst, my beloved fellow citizens! That land which is France shall be defended! With all of our bones, if need be! She the most marvelous, the most darling, the most et cetera and everything! And not by some quivering twit! It’s a matter of do or die! Let us take up the cause! Let’s set to it straight-away! And let this be understood! I am the one who is in command! I set the example! By the sacred blood of Achilles! Lighting fire in the hearts of men! Rally ’round my microphone! From the Rhine to the Somme, if I retreat by so much as twenty centimeters, I’ll off myself with my revolver! Without hesitation! Here I’ll do my Louis XIV! I wouldn’t be able to survive the shame! I’d shoot myself in my office! Nom de Dieu, you understand what I’m saying! You’ll all be walking back and forth over my lifeless stiff!… It would no longer be worth living, in a France made-up of bad soldiers!… Of slinky dogs! mangy! pathetic! everywhere hiding behind skirts!… I’d no longer want to live! There, I’ve said it! Me, the Minister of War! Once and for all, and I’m not kidding! Blow the bugles! Roll the drums!”

That’s the way it would be throughout the Vosges! The Heroes would leap outside of their frescos! People would be happy living in the Earthworks!…

Alas, such is no longer how people jabber in the course of today’s Crusade!

“Shell and Safety!” …and “Safety first!”

[15/19] … [”/20] …

[16/21] In essence the War continues, one is making it albeit without risks, without either arms or supply trains, there no longer are any, down in the depths of the movie theaters… Along the Meuse there’s no longer anybody save at “Tarapout” who’s up to snuff. The Weirdos’ War. It’s a fart in the night. It flits about like a moth around piss-pots. That’s good enough for it. French heroism one hundred percent. The courage of cads, of half-breeds, the courage of Jews, who no longer have anything left in their trunks but bile, returned with interest, and a lowly passion for chicks. Who is ultimately going to pay, I ask you, for these despicably scandalous scenes? To the prisoners, you know, it’s a fateful question! Despite all of that the little Frenchman doesn’t give a damn, so long as he can continue to play out his little comedy. “The little piece of watercress, the little hard thing, and the little bone who’s such a rough customer.”

“Guess what! Guess what! Guess what! Hortense! Ah! guess what! if only you could have seen it!…”

“What is it? what is it? my little Mimi?”

“Down on the Boulevard Magenta!…”

“What?… What?…”

“Guess what, a Fritz!”

“Ah! May we soon be rid of them!…”

“I passed right behind him… Guess what I said: ‘Vive de Gaulle! You big ox! Vive de Gaulle!’”

“Well then, that’s something, Mimi! You’re quite the brigand after all, I swear! but even so, pardonable just the same…”

“I got to them, I tell you! I got to them!…”

“Mimi, you frighten me!…”

[17/22] …
[”/23] …

[18/24]

He is being neither bossy nor perverse,
He who has a little bit of the devil in his ass.
(Popular Saying)

Washington didn’t like the Jews, but Roosevelt certainly likes them well enough, he’s their man one hundred percent, he doesn’t refuse them anything. He’s dragging everything into the War, the USA, the Continent, the Moon.

He is enormously enraptured, he’s overjoyed, it’s his time, he’s enjoying himself. After me, the deluge! Just like Louis XV. It won’t be long. I haven’t given twenty years to Broadway for nothing. You are going to see that music!… They don’t doubt that the French will come through for America, just like that. They have too many illusions. Forty million well-intoxicated white men, under Jewish command, completely degenerate, spiritually at least, plus three hundred million mix-breeds, the vast majority Negroidal, who only want to do away with everything. No more hatred of the Yellow Man!

It’ll take only a wee bit more to open the gates to the Catastrophe, and you are going to see that Corrida! It’s a Carthaginian Campaign even more brutal, more arrogant, more rotten than the first. That kind of reckless energy! The world saved by the Marx Brothers! We are in the cartoons! It’ll be something to laugh about some other time. Just as it’s something to kick yourself over, at present! to the stars! thirty-six! forty-eight! The whole caboodle! let us democratize! thirty-six candles!

Felix the Duck is with us!

[19/25]

New York, the 1^st of February.

The results of a study by the American Bureau of Statistics show that between 1939 and 1940 the population tendencies in the United States were completely upset.

The latest census reveals that the white population in America has tended to diminish by five percent, while over the course of the same time period there has been an augmentation of seven percent among people of color.

—New Times, 2 February 1941.

It is predicted that in a hundred years the whites will inhabit a restricted quarter in New York: the niggers will be going down to New Harlem in order to watch the “whities” dance the polka.

[20/26]

Enough with the Hypocrisy!
The French are contemplating Ministries…
Of which Ministries are they thinking?

President of the Cabinet:	de Gaulle.
War:	Reynaud.
Foreign Affairs:	Anthony Eden.
Finance:	No one.
Internal Security:	Mandel.1
Navy:	any Jew’ll do.
Air:	a penny.
Justice:	Marchandeau.
Health and Family:	the seminal squeezings of some Vosgean Yid-berries.
Roads and Transportation:	There no longer are any.
Indigence:	Father Christmas.
Post, Telecommunications and Broadcasting:	Sainte-Odile.
Information:	Geneviève Tabouis.

Who is the greatest man of politics that France has known ever since Louis XIV?… Raymond Poincaré! He was the one who was cognizant of our rights. He argued for the interests of France week in and week out. To him, this never became outdated. Never did he lose in our cause, he always won.

If only he were alive things would not have turned out this way.

[21/27] How vile they are, the hypocrites! Why do they say that the French didn’t want the War? They wanted it pure and simple. They were all behind Daladier at the time of Declaration, just as surely as they had been behind Clemenceau, and after that behind Mandel, and then after that behind Reynaud and then behind anybody at all!… Cock-a-doodle-doo! Eight hundred thousand imbeciles with affectations! And all of the writers with them! and all of the journalists on top of that! Here you have the simple truth.

They didn’t want the War? It would have been quite simple, it would have been very easy, each one of them could have written a letter to his Deputy, saying that he didn’t want war, that he didn’t want it at any price, save for a casus belli on the part of Germany. It would never have been declared.

This would have cost them each a franc. It would truly have been a good expenditure for a good democracy. I believe that there was a sense that this War was coming, that it was foreseeable, a hundred times, a thousand times more than it was in ’14! its causes being fully recognized! Right now you could have been well-fed, living the good life, happy and everything. The foolish deed had thus been done, knowingly, deliberately, by one band of dumbasses.

There would have been no prisoners. One would still be behind our fine army, formidable and feared, behind our still-intact Maginot Line, waiting to play the arbitrator. We would have been the big shots of Europe, adored, respected, caressed, everything.

[22/28] Every Frenchman is a Gaulist [sic] with a few rare and dodgy exceptions. De Gaulle! they’re in a swoon over him. Six months ago the Gaulists brought on a crisis when they mentioned the English. The French wanted to toss them all back into the sea. They had no more use for the English than for Ferdonnet. Now, everything’s a matter of being for Albion, of Albion, by Albion… What risk do they run? Ultimately they’re nothing more than a band of apes, a bunch of nattering old geezers, of spoiled supplicators. The French no longer know what they want other than to complain. Make a pathetic face! And that’s enough! Eventually the thing will fall from the heavens! Supplicate! Nom de Dieu! It’s the law! The world’s very favorite officially sanctioned scam! How they have adopted that fine Hebraic lamentation! You don’t want to have anything more to do with the English? Whine!…

You don’t want to have bosses any longer? Whine!

You’d like to retake Poland? Whine!

And Palestine? And Kamchatka? The Bois de Boulogne and Persia?

Whine harder and harder and harder!

Do you want the tricycle-deliveryman to drop off some Potatoes from the Earth? from the Moon? or some Patchouli? or some lobster? Don’t wrack your brains over it… Whine!

In order to take this revolution to its logical conclusion the French must be given little prayer wheels, like windmills, upon which, in black and white, all of their sorrows, hopes and expectations are written [”/29] down…just like they do at a Convention of Lamas… They would all be spinning them while in processions, or while walking along, so that the thing might happen… Each with his own little mill of eternal supplication…it’ll set up a terrible din, it no longer bears any consideration…

“I am a sentient Human Being!… I have rights!… I have rights!…” Whirr! Whirr! Whirr!… “I am oppressed!… I want it all!…” Whirrr!… WhiRRRRRR!…

As such this would be permanent… In one sense it might even have a calming effect. They’d no longer be able to make heard another word.

The Whirrrr…would drown out everything.

[23/30] It is the comportment of the Germans that is insufferable. They are too polite, too accommodating. They are behaving like boy scouts. Yet they are difficult to stomach… Why, I ask you? They haven’t humiliated anybody… They repulsed a French Army that was only begging to abandon camp. Ah! If only it were a Jewish Army, then you would see how it would be adored!

Suppose it was a Yid Army that had come into our midst from a little bit further off… Nothing would be too splendid for it! May the ecstasy never cease! The French miss the rod of the Jew, they no longer want to know any other. They’ll be happy to die under it, I’ll tell you how that is so, in just a moment. They are accursed, they are avowed. Everything else is nothing but words.

[24/31] That which the bourgeois see in de Gaulle is the “Royal Dutch,” and that excellent “Suez.” Thus he is called a man placed at the wellsprings of Life! He’s the General of Good Fortune! He’ll restore everything to us just as it was before. He’ll jack all of that down on us by way of orders! Our coupons will be touched-up a bit. We’ll once again have full gas tanks, we’ll once again be able to go out on Sundays, we’ll once again go to boozers, we’ll once again go merrily shitting in the woods to the dulcet strains of some Angevin air, and all of this will be done with a conceit mounting once again unto the heavens, replete with that fine odor of those most well-nourished tripes in the world, the Knights of the Legion of Honor.

[25/32] Let us talk about that famous “rapprochement” which has so quickly become such an alibi, such a magnificent bonus for the Jews and Freemasons.

Everyone else has been eliminated, save for a very few individuals, poor inoffensive maniacs such as myself, putting out pamphlets, screeds, slogans and jingles. To the Jewbies alone go the serious topics.

Let us speak of those “Jewish establishment” trademarks. I know of some goys who sport them. Their success is startling. Their business doubles! triples! Success!

To us go the rutabagas! the fat off of the hobbyhorse! the round eyes!

If there is to be a genuine “rapprochement” it will be necessary for us to work together, without fraud, without affectation, methodically, and with discipline, in the re-recreation of Europe.

Enough of that irresponsible burlesque, those alibis so perfect, so irrefutable, so well-worked, so magical, and so marvelous, which are everywhere degrading, abusing, and mucking things up: “The Occupation…the atrocities…the murdered passions…the righteous indignation…the death of the soul,” etc….

Tartuffe and the patriot are one and the same!

[26/33]

The presence of the Germans vexes you?
And what about the presence of the Jews?

There are more Jews than ever in the streets, more Jews than ever in the press, more Jews than ever at the Bar, more Jews than ever at the Sorbonne, more Jews than ever in the Medical Faculty, more Jews than ever in the Theater, in the Opera, in French, in industry, in the Banks. More than ever, Paris and France are delivered into the hands of the Freemasons and the Jews, more insolent than ever. More Lodges than ever are in operation, and they are more active than ever. All of them are more resolute than ever, never to remit to the Whites so much as an inch in their Trading Privileges and their Firms, through conditions of war and peace, unto the very last turning-over of the contents of the very last indigenous palm. And the French are quite content, perfectly agreed, even enthusiastic.

Such stupidity isn’t even human. So fantastic a stupefaction must merely mark an instinct for death, a penchant for the hecatomb, a perversion so mutilating as to be inexplicable, save that the time has come for the Devil to gather us up, and for ultimate Fate to be accomplished.

[27/34] How does public opinion come about? That’s simple enough, it’s made in Paris. And how is a Parisian created? That also is quite simple, he comes from the countryside. One fine morning he arrives, his little suitcase in hand, on the back of a potato truck. So there you have your man-on-the-street. The Jew is already lying in wait for him, with his press and his radio. He will be treated to that Parisian Vulgarity, bedazzled by that Vulgarity until he’s completely ripe. First of all come those brilliant slogans! Upon that asphalt of the City of Lights, any small-town cow’s bunghole will become an object for affection, and for devoted solicitude concerning every trifling detail. He’ll be given a “taste,” a flair, a discriminating quality! all decreed unto him!

A natural-born genius! the crown jewel of the planet! or so he’ll be told, and so he’ll be acclaimed, through extra-special editions, in giant letters, all in neon, bright as Bengali fire! That he’s an overwhelmingly talented author, wit, daredevil, what have you. Within the week he’ll no longer even be recognizable. The very acme of intellect! The masterpiece of twenty-two centuries! It is he who is the unique one, and none other! Everyone around him is moreover nothing but a savage! As people they don’t even have a real existence…the denizens of cowardly, loser countries, a bunch of coolies with queues running down their backs!… “His Great Gourd” is the font of all wisdom! absolutely! As precious as the Boccador! That apotheosis of the five pure essences, that golden-haired boy of giftedness most rare, that Prince of all power and wisdom, the average Frenchman! the Pekinese sleight-of-hand couldn’t have been done any better! All you have to do is [”/35] have him drink a little, stupefy himself at the cinema, spend a little time at the Folies Bergère, in order to have him lose himself in First Class depravity, to have him damn himself through titty-sorcery, and high priapic imaginings. This will leave him spoiled for anything, as he completely confuses north and south, right and left. He’s forgotten all about his timepiece, his dandelion patch, his one-eyed goats…he’s lost. His labors are disrupted. He’s a peasant ignored by his own cows. So poor he doesn’t even have a rat to eat, he’s the most highly-armed man in the world! delirious in the midst of everything! he challenges the whole Earth! even America! he sets up cartels clear to the Sky! his canons reach the Moon! which he crosses in his comings and goings!

He can no longer be compared with anything, he no longer bears classification, nor watching, nor hearing, without blushing. Here you have a madman fit to be tied, a citizen who’s become intoxicated with all of the foolishness, and who has lost all sense of the ridiculous. He no longer knows what he’s doing, or what he’s leaving undone. He no longer has anything to offer but vague desires, unclear outlines, and canned sayings; he no longer knows how to undertake anything, he no longer understands anything. He’s been cut off from his roots. He’s become the man in the advertisements, with his hapless brain washed and rinsed-out. He’ll go wherever his own stupidity takes him, whichever way the Jew blows him with slogans.

It’s no great feat to get the French to hold on with bated breath: simply shine up that old Grunt-level vulgarity, so malign, acerbic, and horse-laughing. That pretentious French opinion is nothing more than the ugly Symbiosis of the Grunt and the Kike.

Of Grunts ever more disappointing, dubious, wankerish, and washed-out.

This has been going on for a very long time, ever since Tabarin lay in wait for the Grunt, in order to get into his head, and to give him the hypnotic spell of death, leaving him lying prone on the cobblestones, as soon as Grunt got in from the countryside. Tabarin was already lying in wait for the lads, on the Pont Neuf, back in 1580.

France is dying on account of these lowbrow snobs, these dealers in rosewood furniture, “trousers,” and bunion plasters.

[28/36] Are you trying to understand what it is that the want? What do they want?… They don’t know at all! The Radicals? The Monarchy? A return to “the way it was before”? Welfare? The Phalanstères? The electoral civil war? Alexander Dumas as Dictator? The Mascuraud Committee? Léon Blum? Reynaud? The Jesuits? Proportional representation? Lotto? The Great Mogul? What do they want? They themselves don’t know… They have recklessly soiled, rotted-out, puked on everything, and everything that they touch will wind up the same, disgusting, garbage within two days.

They want to remain slatternly, slovenly, befuddled, and libatious, that’s all. They have no other program. They want to press their demands everywhere, in everything and above all, and then that’ll be enough. It’ll be the debris who will have the rights. A country finishes itself off with “rights,” in supreme rights, in rights to nothing, in rights to everything, in rights to jealousy, in rights to famine, in rights to the wind.

[29/37]

“It’s between you and me, now!”
—Rastignac²

But one must not forget about the Elite! They exist! By damn! They exist! …

[30/”] … He no longer thought of anything but the International…the “criteria of value”… Brain trusts!… Barbarians who have a poor conception of things! …

[31/”] … Isn’t he married to Rachel? Isn’t he partly a blue blood? Ah! the crime! …

[32/”] Sail on, my good little man, sail on! all of the winds will be with you! By damn, let your sail swell, spread out arrogantly across the seas! Don’t become aroused, certainly, such would poorly serve your putter-putter… You will no longer have such a Britannic air… Phlegmatic! The Phlegmatic nature of the powerful!… Completely calm as befits you…how well it suits you to affect delight…nonchalantly standing at the emasculation…let it happen…

Calmly will you be married-off…calmly will you copulate…gently will you go before the Sphinx…you will have calm grandchildren with nothing unforeseen…without accidents…all of it always by virtue of the putter-putter…in the Jewish furrow…

You will become a member of the true elite, pampered, fattened-up, protected, everything… That’s the essential thing, come to think of it, once you reflect on it a little puttering bit!…

Life is short, ferocious, and crushing, so why bother with it outside of one’s own putter-putter? Why would anybody do anything like that, I ask you! unhappiness to a bunch of ignoramuses, that’s all! Bust your ass for a bunch of cigarette butts? for fantastical redemptions? [”/43] for crusades that fall asleep while standing? when it’s so easy to look out for oneself, to attain through lip service a port that’s secure, lovely, and famous…

It is of course necessary for a shit to be born at the right time, and for his family to occupy itself with him, otherwise things don’t turn out as well. It’s a question of how one starts out in life, and even more so of a generous inheritance, the lucky star is to be well-born, to parents who are in on things. This is where the vermin are incubated, where they are cultivated in the warmth, in the shade, and where they proliferate, happy, damnably much more happy than is the eagle who soars up above through the storm.

What a tremendous future the vermin have! considerable! a sure bet! There are practically no eagles left in it!

By Hiram bordel! the World turns! It contains more of the bad than of the good! The games are fixed!

[33/44] …I know the most honest man in France.
…

[34/”] over there in Siam … that’s the great shame of our era…the I-don’t-give-a-damn of the human heart …

I met him, it was in May, at the corner of the Rue de Lille and the Rue de Grenelle, …

[35/48] Without arms, without airplanes, without machine guns,
and with a punch in the mug and a kick in the ass,
everything would have turned out the
same—the same armadillo, the same
debacle, the same catastrophe.

The nations are not passing away because their man of State are nebbishes, their governments too greedy, too intoxicated or too pederastic, all of which is unimportant, or their ministers too pretentious, their ambassadors too prone to jabbering, likewise. Nor is it because the nations have become too arrogant, overly saturated with wealth, crushed under their own industries, too luxurious or too agrarian, too simple or too complex. All of these are temporary vexations, without gravity, miscellaneous factoids of History. Is industry lacking in essential raw materials? Have the factories become quiet? This has already become a serious matter, but things can still be arranged. Look at Germany.

And the military disaster? The occupation by the enemy? as you so intrepidly point out? Of no importance whatsoever. A prolific, ardent nation will recover most admirably from the very greatest military wipeouts, the most cruel occupations, but only under one condition. That essential, mystical condition is that of remaining faithful despite every victory and setback, to the same group, the same ethnicity, the same blood, the same racial origins, without mongrelization. That which will lead to triumph, and sovereignty, in times of trial and of conquest, is to preserve oneself despite everything, from fornication with lowly [”/49] races, above all from pollution with the Jews, Berbers, and Afro-Levantines, the born agents of rot in Europe.

Has France succumbed to the evil potions, disseminated round-about by these slimeballs? It was from that moment, the entire country contaminated with degenerate Jews, that it lost its health. Languishing and foundering, the War didn’t kill it, it merely finished the job.

The essential thing is that the Castle which we had taken for a redoubtable citadel, from a distance, through illusion, and at great expense, turned out to be nothing but a fort made of cardboard boxes, enclosing a population of madmen, an odd lot of howling eccentrics, sclerotic, enraged by any discipline, given-over to chatter and to wine, ferocious amidst their ruins, and sworn to the death, to the evisceration of one another.

This horror was struck down by a bolt of lightning, every debacle is an act of divine justice.

[36/50] But here we have thirty-seven million people have found themselves, after the storm, as being shell-shocked bastards, odd, envious, sly, having no idea in common, save for some dreary aversion towards one another, flat-out gate-crashing anarchists, shabby and insipid, each for himself, one against all, and when possible all against one. It’s the decomposition of a cadaver. What can be done with this bunch? This enormous mass of wreckage? Send them all in the direction of the Urals? Consign everyone all around, the whole stinking lot, into boots and into long wagons, in order to make them puke out their hip-to-the-trick foolishness over there, and to make them sprout back more good than bad, with better attitudes, thousands and thousands of versts from home?

Perhaps this could come to pass… Perhaps it is not so impossible… Perhaps sooner than one thinks…

[37/51] As for the Bourgeois gentleman, he doesn’t give a damn, all that he cares about is to keep hold of his own pile, his Royal Dutch, his privileges, his social station and his Lodge, where he forms those good relationships, the ones that put you into contact with a Ministry. He is ultimately Jewish, insofar as it is the Jew who holds the gold, and as the finest Golden Calf in his Temple. These are the things that are never even discussed! …that follow on their own accord, now and ’ever after!… And putter! putter!… The only real regret of the bourgeois type is not having been born Jewish, completely Jewish, from the beginning, mom and dad. The true aristocracy of our times. He imitates the Jew in everything and for everything, including opinions, including enthusiastic tastes, including movie stars, including revulsions, including whores, including sable furs. He falls in line behind the Kike as well as he can, Ben Pourceaugnac.

The Jew however controls several ropes, he has Trotsky and also Rothschild, either the one or the other, or both at the same time… He has a nose for every kind of sauce. It is therein where he will dip the bourgeois.

Samuel Bernard and then Samson! Fist of all “putter! putter!” and then a great “Pffuitt!” Ah! Ah! Now here you have mystery!

[38-40] …

[41/57] A Jewish and Masonic France, this time once and for all. This is what you are obliged to keep hidden away in your trunks, dear diplomats! An infinite number of work crews exists… No sooner is one of them spent…than a new one is drawn up…getting “closer and closer” to the goals, inexorably…

It’s a hydra of a hundred and twenty thousand heads!

Siegfried doesn’t like it!

[42/58] In days of yore, in order to keep them patient, the People had the expectation of Paradise. It made everything so much easier. They placed their expectations in prayer. The entire world rested upon a foundation of the resignation of the poor, “according to Lamennais.” But now the poor are no longer resigned. The Christian religion is dead, along with hope and faith. “I want it all and I want it right now!” Paradise or no Paradise! Just like the bourgeois, just like the Jew.

Just try to govern under such conditions!… Eh! It’s hellish! A real horror! I’ve got to admit.

The proof lies in the fact that no one is succeeding at it.

[43-5] …

[46/65] The wretched of the Earth on one side, the bourgeois on the other, ultimately have but one single idea, which is to become rich and to stay that way. It’s all the same all around, the flip-side wants a place, the same money, the same coin, in their hearts not a bit of difference. It’s all tripe and side dishes. All for the stomach. Only here it is a matter of who is the most avid, the most agile, the most hardened, the most lazy, the most stupid, those who are lucky, and those who are not. It’s a matter of chance, of birth. But it’s all the same sentiment, the same disease, the same horror. The ideal “boa,” it digests things over a course of two weeks. Everything rolls forward, along with all of the poisons, lukewarm, never rising above 39º, it is an unhappy condition worse than any other, a mediocre hell, a hell without flame. There are wars which happen gladly, the more protracted, the more fatal.

The Earth is heating-up once again.

[47/66] The people don’t have ideas, they only have needs. What are those needs?

They want their prisoners to return, plus no longer to face unemployment, to find half-ways decent jobs, to have security, to be insured against cold, hunger, fire, and everything, to have paid vacations, retirement, respect, card games, liqueurs, and more movies and rosewood decors, an insipid black-tie temperament and a used car for family excursions. It’s a completely materialistic program, in which one eats well for the least amount of effort. It belongs to an embryonic bourgeoisie which has not yet found its niche. The most terrible upheavals are not going to change its program. It’s the dream of the discontented, of the peasant who no longer has his cow, his land, his chestnuts, who will grab at whatever he can find, and who is afraid that the world is passing him by, that everything is slipping away through his fingers. All of this he would say is fantastic! this alone motivates him, it will not last… I will keep a low profile as a minor civil servant… Ah! bloody hell, how I need that! Retirement or death! Security or death!

Panic is always vile, one must take things on as they really are.

It would not be so abominable, it could easily be arranged, so that the atrocious ones, those clandestine cultivators of hatreds, who never relent in their empoisonings, their setting of traps, their gooneries, and their torturings at will, would not be able to profit from their screwings of others with their [”/67] dirty tricks.

It is the Abyss, it is the Apocalypse, with all of its raging monsters, greedy, flaying the very soul, which is half-opened beneath the little people.

[48-9] …

[50/72] Ah! the finding of an underwriter is the beginning of every great enterprise, the dream of every serious person, for without an underwriter there’s no longer any sense in trying, with genius itself amounting to naught, quickly becoming buffoonish, exhausting itself after onanistic mirages. Nothing can be achieved without gold, nothing can succeed, nothing gets anywhere, everything is blown away at the very first puff. At the very least ill wind, against the very first little cabal, everything dissipates and disappears. In order to hold men together, to possess them as a viable crew, they must be guaranteed their soup, a regular and a copious bowl, or else they will take unto themselves new masters, your crew will no longer exist, your participation in the adventure will be finished, and you will be closed out of the hunt.

Ah! These are the things which one must understand, which one must respect, they’re the Law. Take for example Lenin and his Pardo-pard’ner Trotsky, who knew what they had at the bottom of their bag of tricks, that finest of magic spells…they weren’t setting off for Never-Never Land…

Admire them for their foresight, their spirit of determination, their impeccable pedestrianism, their vigilance in the watchtower for whatever moneylender that might present himself…not a second was lost at the detriment of the essential point: the moneybag! Upon the lookout, it was a perfect battle of nerves.

Ah! now here you had some serious people! These weren’t the sort to become overheated by wills-o’-the-wisp, by the wine [”/73] of cordiality spiced with anise, by screwball drunken behaviors, or by the concomitant vociferations, those thundering romanticisms, all of those crusty old bears from the menagerie which elicit fear only in little children. All that they wanted to do was to hold a few little congresses that wouldn’t have done any harm to anyone, but just show that they were listened-to in low places, by assemblages of losers, by those disturbed by injustice, those flaked-off by oppression, the nut-cases of the great cause, all of those undernourished-fed-on-swill types, the coffee-with-cream-complexioned cockroaches, the intractable ones enfevered by misfortune, bile, and stammering, all of whom provide the necessary itching, the exasperation through stupidity, and the smutty sales pitches for the masses. That is, some orators to raise a stink everywhere like wet dogs, wet on account of their own madness, considered crocodiles by virtue of their own tooth cavities, faces by virtue of their stomachs, and amenable because they’re depressing, that entire rancid venereal hot-piss, proceeding from one asylum to the next, from a packet of French fries, needed to empoison the guts, to the Board of Health. Ah! Such are the martyrs for the cause! Ah! such are the things as are known, that bite, chew and then spit out the tasty morsel, the ingrates, the infidels, full of pretension, to the extent that they’ll snack on something a little bit just because it isn’t the usual thing to snack upon.

Oh! that vulgar element, oh! that most repulsive clique, for those ambitious people who do not wish to rot on the vine, swallowed up by vain projects, bogged down in the palaver, lost in the false promises, beyond the moon. Rhetoric is for the masses, what the bosses need are underwriters, and the proper underwriter is the Bank.

[51/”] It is therein where lie the keys to the dream, the Ultima Thule and the Great Secret, the very Life’s Breath of the Revolution. Without the bankers there would be no stirring up of the mobs, nor of profound emotions, no waves of passion, no Cromwells, nor any Marats, nor any flight to Varennes, no Danton, no promiscuity, no big lies.

There’s not a single Robespierre who would last two days without shadowy financing.

He who extends the credit, calls the tune.

[”/74] Everything is a matter of credit, and of authorized withdrawals, especially during those critical times when the news reports are thorny.

Straight to the point! no frills!… Billboards don’t go up by themselves…the billboard pasters don’t work on credit… They present their bill that same night… To them, every night is part of one long night.

Such are the humble servitudes, nothing but wickedness is waiting in the wings. This is the reason why Lenin’s band succeeded. Not only because they were Yid, but also because they were serious, and abreast with events, and because they weren’t sent forth without cover, but were sure of their substance, being sufficiently endowed at the outset.

They were entrusted immediately. In whose name were they acting? In the name of the world’s oppressed? of the innumerable Wretched of the Earth? of those downtrodden by Injustice? of those appalled at Imposture?…

This is well understood, it’s self-evident! But above all couldn’t it also be said, concerning the Loeb-Warburg Bank, that it’s another matter entirely to be the underwriter under every degree of Latitude… Before they incited any riots, those sly masters of that fine red horse were full of misgivings…they weren’t for it, until they heard that jaunty jingling, and how it would be transmitted…that divine jingling…which moves Heaven and Earth…reverberating within every successful venture…it’s that sorcery of passions… It’s a wave of magic that goes straight to men’s hearts…and all of the music surrounding it serves merely to muffle that scintillating jingling of gold…the astonishing length of that wave!…

Of course, they were all amongst family, Trotsky, Warburg and Loeb… Jewish bankers…agitators…poets and peasants… All that was required was that they get together, and that they sing in the choir of the good cause, the only cause that matters, that of the Jewbies…the Grand Cause of the Grand Encirclement, the great boxing-up of the Aryans, final, covert, and sealed, for the absolute Kingdom of Isaac that stretches between Heaven and Earth. Here, it is up to Durand, stupidly unaware as always, to bear the burden, of tearing off pieces of his own flesh for his master, and serving it up unto his hot, medium-rare…all told it must be said that Durand died for love. It’s just as had been foreseen by Warburg and then by Lenin and then by Trotsky and then by many others too numerous to mention. [”/75] It’s well-understood, it’s natural, it’s the long-dreamt-of community, of a truly Kosher Communism, in which we raw meats are to be served up medium-to-well-done.

They have been learning their essential Legend ever since the cradle, just listen to the Talmud and the Torah. It’s that and a hundred times more. We the others are born on the reverse side, we’re born for the Catechism, the Angelus of Table Scraps, the Breviary for Sirloins, for men intended for consumption, for beast of battle, cartage and heavy hauling, with an inside track to nowhere, doing labor fit for a water buffalo, and whose women go to the couch of the Khedive, to distract him from his toothache, provided that he finds them sufficiently voluptuous, and that they act coyly in every respect.

Lenin, Warburg, Trotsky and Rothschild were all of one mind concerning all of that. There’s not a prepuce’s worth of difference between them, it’s all Marxism one hundred percent. Banks and forced laborers go well together. The Volga Boatmen, and the hawkish Reds of Puteaux, are overjoyed with what has taken place! They can envision that better world already, filled with nougats for their little mugs! Wait for the clouds, my dear gluttons, my toys are going to rain down upon you, and Father Christmas is coming around to see you!

They have an illicit understanding, do Warburg, Trotsky and the Bank. All of it had been foretold…a check conveyed through the good offices of the New York Times for two hundred million [52/”] dollars in gold, not two hundred million clarinets, but two hundred million in specie, in order to shoot the Tsar and all his works up into the air, to topple and flatten the Romanovs! Trotsky himself made the voyage, and presented his plans, in person, with all of his mannerisms, to MM. Schiff, Warburg and Loeb…they were immediately taken by his plans, though not so much by his personality… They found him a tad hyperactive, a little too fiery, neurotic… Of course they had full confidence, but not in spite of absolutely everything…two hundred million is a truly large sum…two hundred million dollars in gold, something might happen to it…it could easily become a crushing burden… The deal fell through because Lenin couldn’t be found at that exact moment…due in part to his having to move on short notice…he was completely serious, an ascetic, one might even say a dry bone…a man of iron compared to Trotsky… Lenin was most pleasing to MM. Loeb… They were begging for a man of his reputation…they took him on in complete confidence.

[”/76] Lenin was in Paris at that time… He was staying one step ahead of starvation down on the Rue Delambre… He himself was only a half-Jew…a coffee-with-cream Kalmuk… That was good enough for New York… The deal was done… And then excuse me!… Things went boom!… Such a tornadic departure! The tiny Bolshevik Party, which eight days earlier had been nothing but a handful of eccentrics, a chimera that barely even existed, an embarrassing little scrap…but let me tell you about that balloon! It shot straight up to the stars!… It’s funny what ten billion in gold can do!… It gobbles up the Ledgers! It races forward! It’s everywhere! It shoves everybody out of its way! Kerensky wavers, stumbles, and evaporates! He’s no longer to be seen! …so completely pulverized!… The “Bolshevik” in the boss’ chair… Ltd.… It’s a New York value… The ground cleared, everything toppled, and brought back down to zero…

Romanov is finished, the Cadets along with him, followed in turn by the Mensheviks with their shaggy beards, and the Queen of Spades!… The die has been cast! Nicholas departs in the snow, and he goes a thousand leagues away, along with his family, his short saber, and his icons… And then how the masses become impassioned! …how volcanic and possessed they become!… It’s an eruption from the profound depths! the Farandole of Great Expectations… These are the “Ten Days that Shook the World”!… Mr. Loeb is quite happy… He doesn’t bother to send a telegram!… Neither do his lesser partners… Trotsky sends them the good news…

“Loeb-Warburg Bank, New York.
“Romanov overthrown, Everything is going well. STOP. Kerensky has likewise been removed. STOP. Extend another 150,000. STOP. Victory is assured. STOP. Progress is on the march. STOP. Difficulties might arise. STOP. Confident ardent vigilant. STOP. Terrible and looking good. STOP. Trotsky.”

The Grand Kahal has been assembled. All of the Cohens are on deck. From Chicago to Wall Street there’s great jubilation… All of the luxury ghettos are in seventh heaven, the Inner Lodges are in a boil with the news… The Fraternities are enraptured… The Promised Age has finally arrived!… The sacrifice is gathered together!… All of the Jewish banks chip in… The parcel is sent by way of Stockholm… Once it arrives in Petrograd and the hundred-and-fifty sacks are opened, one might say [”/77] that things become intoxicating!… The twelve commissars, all of them more Jewish than the Twelve Apostles, are cognizant of the things that can now be done, with that which they are now touching. They don’t take it lightly, they understand the spirit of the times, that this is the sweet oil of the miracle, and that now it all can happen! It’s such a wonderful success! The machine of Progress proceeds, rumbles, heightens in enthusiasm, and twirls about; it’s a dynamo of Justice, egalitarianism, and illumination, humming along into the full barbecuing of the goyim! The Military Tribunals slay seven million bourgeois in less than two months. That clears the air in droll fashion! Elsewhere it manifests itself as the furtive motions of dandruff-ridden schoolteachers, snotty little evildoers, bilious little boxes full of spite, bad users of dangling participles, cockroaches of Future Cities, shivering myopes, those who stink unto the nostrils, lepers without ulcers, sons of dogs, nit-picking conformists, and vibrio bacteria from diseased little ponds! But then wait a minute! It does provide Theater for the Continent! With a hundred and twenty million people on stage! not counting the dead, the wounded, those executed through inadvertence, and those sacrificed in the corners…

[53/”] And then again there are still more expenses, for general repetitions, for perorators at double-pay, and for those palabrators who are crafty, and cannot find sustenance upon their own hyperbolae, and who must be enlightened night and day through the influence of honoraria and triple-pay.

The Insurrection would be down on its knees if it had to pay its own bills. Resolve begins to sag, and the Red virgins grow a bit pale… “Progress on the March” sinks into a pitfall.

Even given the Warburg Kuhn Bank, a time of reculation would arrive. There was such gluttony, such bulimia out in the steppes for Washington bills that for a brief while there was some squabbling, as the Jew-dollars created their own demand… The Russian commissars took advantage of it… Lenin drew back from mounting a coup, and retired to Finland for a while… He had been to school, he understood the price of gold…and the independence that it gives you… He didn’t want to go dry… He didn’t want to be under Trotsky… To be led around like a small child… He kept his elbow-room clear, so as not to find himself on somebody’s leash…

[”/78] “Come back now, my dear Lenin,” Trotsky sent out to him every morning… “All of Russia is demanding you… There’s a fervor for your guiding hand! The muzhiks feel as though intoxicated! at the prospect of that happiness! Return to us, radiant Little Father! Guide our steps towards that new world! of egalitarianism in justice! of the redemption of the wretched! How laid-out it all is! the entire score! Such is the ecstasy of our Ideals! the triumph of Progress has been set in motion! It is galloping onwards! It is charging! It is flying!… There will be a chorus of everyone at the station…all of the highest delegations…the entire Comintern Progressessiev…the Godlessovs…the Troglodanskiis… The Stinksteins of Syphilogov!… They’ll all be there to welcome you!… Come, my dear Lenin! Come hither! I beg of you… Come!”

But Lenin was still scratching his head… He wasn’t so sure… We was thinking about it…he truly wasn’t in that great of a hurry… He weighed the matter… He turned things over in his mind… He walked about in Helsinki… He wasn’t in such haste to join back up… A new idea rose within him… He went over to Western Telegraph… He had interests in New York as well… Now was the time for him to call in and to be served. And zip! …to get one over on Trotsky!…

“Kuhn Loeb and Warburg, New York.
“Wretches admirably overthrown. STOP. But another hundred million still needed. STOP. Big ones. STOP. To abolish the Romanovs. STOP. To erase traces of the monarchy. STOP. Send advice immediately. STOP. To myself here. STOP. Nevsky Prospect cleared. STOP. Cossacks on our side. STOP. Petit bourgeois peril persists. STOP. Lenin. STOP. Faithful and confident. STOP. Straight. STOP. Strong. STOP.”

It was a classic coup, impeccable, a blow to the head of a chain of command which was preoccupied up to its ears, which was carried away by its own advances, which was desperately seeking some dough. The Loebs didn’t want to be gratuitous or to get soaked, nor to have the Twelve Tribes, subsidizing the Grand Sanhedrin, induce a crash amongst the very highest magnates of Wall Street and the Lodges, and thus have the whole deal come unwound, their Revolution vacillate, and everything end in one vast pogrom… That impossible horror!… Alley oop! the final effort! forty big ones, up front! Forty million dollars in gold!

[”/79] All of this went to that fine handicraftsman by way of Stockholm and Helsinki!

Badaboom! Lenin gets the cash! Now there was no longer any need to hold back, any need to pretend. The affair was solidly supported, by agencies of the first order. There were bases of support, and an underwriter, so there could no longer be anything to fear from anybody.

It was an iron-clad deal, made on the spot, and most particularly in gold. That divine ballast, a treasure well-ensconced within one’s pocket. Lenin was no longer hesitant, he decked himself out, spruced himself up, gave himself the finishing touches, putting on the appropriate gear for the circumstances…the threadbare suit with tails…the very image of an accountant “going casual”…the sneezy handkerchief…he was used to this, he’d just spent twenty years perfecting the role…to a tee…thus you have this “Man-of-the-word, Soul-of-the-mobs”…he fit into the role hand-in-glove… Now that took some [54/”] intelligence! …he set off! he proceeded full steam ahead!… Clickety-clack!… Clickety-clack!… Petrograd!… It was in full riot…

It is the Messiah who emerges from the train… The wretched drink up his words… He is no longer spouting vapid nonsense… He is speaking of things that really matter… He is allowed to do so… These are the missives… These are the values… This is the Credo for the uprising of worlds! …the mountains along with them!… The Wheat of America is behind him… All of Hymiedom courses through his veins. All of his syllables are in dollars… That which he is getting in the deal includes: The inertia of his opponents, the rottenness of the adversarial cadres, all of it turned into velvet…into hazelnut butter… It’s the Mead of the Neva!⁴… Whatever he says has gold behind it, and that says everything!… The wretches aren’t left standing after the blow… The great orchestra enters into delirium, all of the musicians are on the payroll! Great drunken revelry fills the town squares with its uproar! …muzhiks, asses, forced laborers, whores, Jewbie commissars, black marketeers, that entire farandole of death, fill it up with cadavers and you have a festival! it’s one big party over at Peter and Paul! Dostoevsky doing the polka! it’s the accordion playing “The Hammer and the Sickle” in the slaughterhouse of the Great Judas. There’s a lot of laughing, there’s a lot of blood. It’s more than some modest “Carmagnole.” It’s a Sarabande of Thunder! fit to entertain God Himself, with the very Devil playing the cymbals! by Jehovah! it’s the Grand Madness! where the entire thing jumps out of His hands, and the entire Earth is convulsed! twirls about! and gets crushed! [”/80] a fiasco all the way around! oozing!… It’s no longer fit to be seen.

MM. Kuhn and Warburg regain a droll sort of confidence as they pore over the telegrams…here, this is a product from the finest vineyard, of twenty-four carat satisfaction! One couldn’t have done any better in so many days! It was expensive, it cost an entire world, but Name of Isaac, nom de foutre, it was the first sparkling of the orgiastic diamond! Such aren’t the things over which to cavil, while one has billions in the treasury! What else are those billions for?

But there was still some grist to be milled. Romanov had been overlooked. He was still in the process of being moved off towards Irkutsk…along with Madame and the children… They had quickly been spirited away… They said their prayers together as a family, deep inside the Ipatiev Mansion… Things couldn’t go on like that forever… They were rendered into pieces in a basement… Nicholas, Madame and their daughters… Nothing was left but a pâté of flesh…except for one hand which is now in Switzerland, preserved in a strongbox. So goes the life of the great… And then just so that no one forgets who did this thing… It has been engraved in Hebrew, in bold Cabalistic letters, right on the wall, here-and-there, along the ground, next to the cadavers. “Glory and Happiness to the Jewish People”… That would commemorate the thing very well. I myself have seen the photographs of these marvelous hieroglyphs. (The Mission of General Xxx in Siberia.)

Of course there are the skeptics… There always are…always have been… The Devil take all that! …those people in Irkutsk!… Go see for yourself!… The Tsar is no longer!… But I’m no longer so sure about that…that’s for certain!… I’m concerned for the consistency of rituals!… I’m concerned about that hand which is still in Switzerland! …that something will have to be done about it, on a day still to be pointed out… For the sake of the continuity of ideas…for the persistence of the Design…

[Proceed to Page 55.]

NOTES

¹Refers to Georges Mandel (né Louis George Rothschild; 1885-1944).

²Full quote, from Honoré de Balzac's Le Père Goriot (1935): "À nous deux, Paris!" ("It's between you and me now, Paris!"). Eugène de Rastignac was the fictitional character connected with it.

³Refers to the philosopher and novelist Julien Benda (1867–1956). P. 30.

⁴Refers to mead from the Baltic area.