"Il Borghese", ottobre 2016.
mercoledì 18 gennaio 2017
martedì 17 gennaio 2017
domenica 15 gennaio 2017
Una delle lettere più iperbolicamente sulfuree di Céline scritte alla stampa collaborazionista francese tra il 1940 e il 1944 (inclusa nel libro Céline ci scrive), propugnante non solo una divisione "semitica" della Francia, ma anche tra Nord e Sud della nazione. Letta da un punto di vista distaccato e con un minimo di distanza, piuttosto che muovere all'indignazione fa comprendere come molte (ma non tutte...) delle frasi di Céline in stile Bagatelle fossero più forsennate invettive polemiche che lucide analisi politico-ideologiche... ad ogni modo, a voi:
Fouesnant il 15 giugno
Mio carissimo Poulain, mi coglie su due piedi! Ah, capita bene! Capita a fagiolo! Mi chiede un articolo. Prenda questa lettera e a gratis! Celebrare un anniversario? Quello dei Beaux draps? Perbacco! Sempre proibiti! I governi si succedono, giostrano i loro destrieri, la loro musichetta, e patatì e patatà… e niente cambia intendiamoci. Glielo dico molto educatamente. La storia della Francia continua. Piccolissimo indizio mi dirà: narcisismo d’autore che vede il mondo solo dal suo ombelico. La Francia continua! Come vorrà! Andrà avanti senza di me! Non se n’avrà a male. Maurois, Bernanos, adulati, classici a Tolosa, Céline nella merda.
Domani Duhamel grande censore. Tutto questo è proprio regolare, può sorprendere solo un coglione. La Francia odia istintivamente tutto ciò che le impedisce di darsi ai negri. Li desidera, li vuole. Buon pro le faccia! Che si dia! tramite l’Ebreo e il meticcio, tutta la sua storia in fondo è solo una corsa verso Haiti. Quale ignobile cammino percorso dai Celti agli Zazou! Da Vercingetorige a Gunga Diouf. Tutto qua! Tutto sta lì! Il resto non è che farsa e discorsi. La Francia muore dalla voglia di finire negra, la trovo piuttosto a puntino, marcia, zeppa di meticci. Mi fanno proprio ridere quando mi dicono 5 o 800.000 ebrei in Francia! La battutona! Solo Saint-Louis, l’eletto, ne fece battezzare 800.000 tutti in una volta nella Narbonense! Pensi se hanno avuto prole! Altri 50 anni, e nemmeno un francese che non sia meticcio di qualcosa in “ide”, araboide, armenoide, bicoide, polaccoide… E chiaramente “francese” 100.000 volte più di lei e di me. L’arroganza “patriottica”, la faccia tosta, è sempre in proporzione al meticciaggio, alla giuderia personale. Un altro bel giornale è da creare, molto opportuno, il “giallo e nero” em – blema del futuro francese. Se la guerra civile fosse durata sarebbe del resto già fatto. Avremmo due milioni di morti, ariani, sostituiti immediatamente (Mandel dixit) da due maggioranza schiacciante desidera con tutto sé stesso la sconfitta assoluta della Germania e del suo ideale razzista. Bisogna come proclama Churchill «cancellare l’Hitlerismo dalla mappa del mondo». Mi spiego.
Il padiglione nazionale francese copre tutte le mercanzie. La Francia attuale così meticcia non può essere che antiariana, la sua popolazione assomiglia sempre più a quella degli Stati Uniti d’America. Stessi auspici, stessa politica profonda. Attoniti dappertutto riuniti per ordine ebreo, più qualche rimasuglio nordico e celtico a rimorchio, del resto fusi, in via di estinzione (suppergiù come i pellirossa). Veda le nostre squadre nazionali sportive, accozzaglie grottesche, frettolose ammucchiate di non importa chi, pescati non importa dove, dall’Africa alla Finlandia! Il colpo di grazia, senza dubbio, ci fu inferto dalla guerra del ’14-’18: due milioni di morti, più di cinque milioni di feriti e di abbrutiti dai combattimenti e dall’alcol, ossia tutta la popolazione maschile valida, (in maggioranza ariana ben inteso) sfinita, annientata. E tra questi certamente tutti i nostri quadri reali, tutti i nostri capi ariani. La faccenda dei capi! La massa non conta. È plastica, anonima, fa carne, peso di carne, tutto qui. La guerra, la vita lo dimostrano. La massa, la truppa non vale che solo attraverso i suoi quadri, i suoi capi. La truppa meglio inquadrata vince la guerra. È il segreto, il solo. I nostri capi, i nostri quadri sono morti durante la guerra super criminale del ’14-’18. Sono stati immediatamente sostituiti al volo dall’afflusso degli armenoidi, araboidi, italoidi, polaccoidi etc. tutti estremamente avidi, cullati da sempre nel sogno, nei loro paesi infetti, di venire a recitare qui la parte dei capi, di asservirci, conquistarci, (senza alcun rischio). Un ottimo affare! I nostri eroi del ’14-’18, cedettero loro senza esitare i posti ancora caldi. Furono occupati immediatamente. 4 milioni di pulcinella anti-francesi nell’anima e nel corpo, soltanto francesi di chiacchiera, si è visto bene quanto valessero i quadri Boncourt, i naturalizzati Mandel durante la guerra ’39- ’40! Le donne si sposano con ciò che trovano! Certo! Nuova fioritura di meticci! Che commedia! Che lupanare! E così sia! «Vengono fin tra le nostre braccia! Sgozzare, ecc.» non sono affatto i “feroci soldati” a devastare e distruggere la Francia quanto piuttosto i rinforzi negroidi del nostro stesso esercito. Per essere precisi, non sgozzano niente di niente, montano. Ed è l’imprevisto della “Marsigliese”!
Rouget non aveva capito niente, la conquista, quella vera, ci viene dall’oriente e dall’Africa la conquista intima, quella di cui non si parla mai, quella dei letti. Un impero di 100 milioni di abitanti di cui 70 milioni di caffellatte, per volere Ebreo è un impero in via di diventare Haitiano, in modo del tutto naturale. Siamo completamente abbrutiti? È un dato di fatto, per via dell’alcol e dell’in – crocio, e poi per molte altre ragioni… (veda i Beaux draps, proibiti…). Anestetizzati, insensibili al pericolo razziale? Lo siamo, è evidente. 50.000 stelle gialle non cambieranno niente. La Francia intera per un po’, più dreyfusarda che mai, per simpatia così cristiana, sfoggia con fierezza il simbolo giudaico. Nuova Legione d’onore, zazou, molto più giustificata dell’altra. E tutto per Blum e per de Gaulle! Maturi per essere colonizzati? Lo siamo! Da non importa chi! Parlare di razzismo ai francesi, è parlare di sangue puro ai nordafricani, stesse reazioni. Non si fa piacere a nessuno. Vichy si occupa, sembra del razzismo, a modo suo, come si occupa dei miei libri. Vada un po’ a chiedere a Claude Bernard quel che pensa del problema ebraico!… Sarà servito. «Si figuri raccontano i suoi assistenti che se il Sig. Bergson fosse ancora qui, i tedeschi gli farebbero indossare la stella gialla!». Altrettanto attaccabriga! Allora bella cosa, ci dica lei stesso, un po’, quel che preconizza? Ah! quant’è più delicato… scomodo… arduo… crudele… che Dio mi guardi dal potere! Dalle pesanti confidenze popolari! Le ridurrò tutte in poltiglia! Taglierei innanzitutto la Francia in due parti. Per la comodità delle cose, la tranquillità dei partiti. Lo slogan “Una, Indivisibile” mi è sempre sembrato una cosa da “massoni”. Al punto in cui siamo arrivati nella decadenza, saremo per forza le vittime nell’“Indivisibile” noi gente del Nord, poiché è il Sud che comanda, cioè l’ebreo. I Romani troppo meticciati si sono dati due capitali, farò altrettanto. Marsiglia e Parigi. L’una per la Francia meridionale, latina se vogliamo, bizantina, “sovralgerica”, tutto ai meticci, tutto agli zazou, dove si avrebbe tutto il piacere, tutta la libertà di ospitare, amare profondamente tutti i più bei ebreoni del mondo, di eleggerli tutti deputati, commissari del popolo, arcivescovi, druidi, geni, di farsi inculare da loro, all’infinito, aspettando di diventare tutti negri, questione di trenta o cinquanta anni, per come vanno le cose, di raggiungere infine lo scopo supremo, l’ideale delle Democrazie. L’altra per la Francia “a nord della Loira”, la Francia lavoratrice e razzista, è da tentare. Credo che sia forse il momento di attuare alcune grandi riforme…
La Francia tipo Santo Domingo non mi interessa davvero. Può farsela chi si presenta, me ne frego alla grande. Mi dispiace semplicemente di aver lasciato tanta carne per difendere questa porcheria che non sogna altro che Lecache. Una così grande guerra, tanta miseria, per andare da Rotchild [sic] a Worms! Ci vorrà davvero del nuovo per farmi ritornare patriota. Credo che sarà per un’altra volta, forse per un altro mondo, quello dei morti se ho ben capito, la vera patria dei testardi. A lei Poulain! Stia ben attento! Ah! non mi tradisca! la minima parola! tutte le virgole! e coraggio!
domenica 8 gennaio 2017
Res sacra miser. Sacro è l’infelice, scrisse Louis-Ferdinand Céline a Ole Vinding. Perché spesso custodisce verità inattuali, in anticipo sui tempi, che gli valgono scomuniche e messe al bando. Accadde al dottor Filippo Ignazio Semmelweiss, condannato al manicomio dalla comunità scientifica e a morte dai suoi carcerieri, ma anche a Céline, che a lui dedicò la sua tesi di laurea. Forse non lo sapeva, ma quello scritto giovanile avrebbe praticamente condensato la sua vita. In quell’eretico il suo daimon avrebbe celebrato un futuro al di fuori di ogni conformismo e ortodossia.
È uscito di recente Louis-Ferdinand Céline. Saggi, interviste, ricordi e lettere (Italia Storica, Genova 2016), frutto di una ricerca che ripercorre la vita di uno dei «maledetti» del XX secolo. Un autore che rivoluzionò e si rivoluzionò, adottando stili diversi, per meglio comprendere le antinomie del suo tempo – che, tanto per cambiare, sono pure le nostre. Un autore, soprattutto, contro, che non sarebbe male leggere oggi, in cui è molto più consigliabile essere pro: pro-maggioranza, pro-minoranze, pro-critica, pro-accademia… Il volume è curato da Andrea Lombardi, animatore di un blog tutto dedicato all’autore e già curatore, tra le altre cose, dello splendido La morte di Céline di Dominique de Roux e di Un samurai d’Occidente di Venner, breviario di chi non si sottomette alla tirannia del nostro tempo.
È a tutti gli effetti un diorama di Céline, che ne affronta la vita come la lingua, gli amori come le infatuazioni politiche. Lui, esteta armato, per dirla con Maurizio Serra, schierato da solo contro la volgarità di un mondo che aveva fatto dell’oro la propria madrelingua. Lui, che affermava il primato dello stile su tutto, anche sulla vita – ché è per assenza di stile che muoiono le civiltà, non per cause materiali…
Ed è proprio lo stile a unificare le sfaccettature letterarie e metaletterarie dell’autore del Voyage au bout de la nuit. Come i tanto deprecati pamphlet, da Mea culpa a La scuola dei cadaveri e Bagatelle per un massacro (questi ultimi banditi dalle librerie ma disponibilissimi on line a mezzo di una semplice googlata…). La critica politicamente corretta ha speso anni e anni per separare il polemista dallo scrittore. Come salvare il Viaggio dalle Bagatelle? Di queste “premure” – le quali spesso non fanno che svilire un autore, consegnandolo tutto imbellettato alla critica ufficiale – nel volume in questione non c’è traccia, segno che finalmente qualcosa sta cambiando nel mondo delle Belle Lettere.
Il fatto che i pamphlet, poi, in Céline siano qualcosa di più che dei trattatelli politici è evidente dalla loro lettura. C’è un aneddoto, raccolto da Lombardi, piuttosto illuminante. Il “collaborazionista” Lucien Rebatet, autore de Les decombres e dello splendido Les deux étandards, scrisse che durante una delle sessioni giudiziarie per l’imputazione di Céline vennero letti alcuni passi delle Bagatelle come prove, e il pubblico non smise di ridere a crepapelle, tanto che non fu più possibile continuare la lettura. Una risata che non nasceva da un antisemitismo latente ma era piuttosto provocata, strappata ai nervi stanchi di una civilizzazione fatta a pezzi. Lo comprese bene uno scrittore d’oltreoceano, il quale, al pari di molti altri, cimentandosi nel dominio delle Lettere pagò il suo debito nei confronti di Céline. «Céline, secondo la mia opinione» è Kurt Vonnegut a parlare, «diede nei suoi romanzi la miglior narrazione storica del totale collasso della civiltà Occidentale in due guerre mondiali, come la videro donne e uomini comuni e terribilmente vulnerabili.» Consapevole di trovarsi a un crocevia della storia, parlò di attualità, ma come? Da un luogo altro dall’attualità stessa, che si esprime nella letteratura ma non vi si esaurisce… È la vita vera quella che amava Céline, quella dei bassifondi della storia, dove le magnifiche e progressive sorti non hanno più valore del delirio di un ubriaco, sovrano interiore in un mondo di rovine. La vita che passa senza soluzione di continuità dalla carne alle lettere, in quel binomio che è la cifra più autentica di Céline, come disse una volta Godard.
Un autore generazionale a cui scrittori, filosofi e intellettuali (termine, quest’ultimo, che non sarebbe piaciuto molto al dottor Destouches…) d’ogni risma ed estrazione hanno dedicato qualche riga, pagine, finanche libri interi: Dominique de Roux e Alberto Arbasino, Gilles Deleuze e Felix Guattari, Gianni Celati e Cesare Cases, Dominique Venner ed Ezra Pound, Robert Brasillach e Charles Bukowski, Saul Bellow e Pierre Drieu La Rochelle, Henry Miller e William S. Borroughs… Questi alcuni dei testimoni del genio di Céline, le cui parole accompagnano il lettore in questo viaggio.
L’hanno chiamato anarchico, più che altro per dimenticarsi e dimenticargli l’errore di essersi schierato dalla parte sbagliata. Più che anarchico potremmo chiamarlo Anarca, attento alle dinamiche del potere ma immune alle sue malie. Un anarchico di destra, se vogliamo, come lo definì Giano Accame nel suo ultimo libro, La morte dei fascisti, che conobbe i carnai della Prima Guerra Mondiale rompendo, al pari di Pound e Jünger, l’incanto del Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori. Un Anarca, critico del materialismo capitalista (emblematico il suo sgomento durante la visita alla Ford, in qualità di medico per la Società delle Nazioni) come di quello comunista, affrescato in Mea culpa, uno dei testi che hanno strappato a chi scrive le risate più sonore di sempre.
Un Anarca, a cui vale la pena lasciare la parola, citando una sua lettera a Élie Faure del 1934, tra i molti materiali raccolti in un libro imperdibile per gli amanti dello scrittore francese: «Sono anarchico da sempre, non ho mai votato, non voterò mai per niente né per nessuno. Non credo negli uomini. Perché vuole che mi metta all’improvviso a suonare lo zufolo solo perché decine e decine di falliti me lo suonano? Perché? per mettermi al loro livello di gente meschina, rabbiosa, invidiosa, piena d’odio, bastarda? Non ho niente in comune con questi froci che sbraitano le loro balorde supposizioni e non capiscono nulla». Eppure, molti altri scelgono vie diverse… Céline ne ha anche per loro: «Si immagina a pensare e a lavorare fra le grinfie di quel gran coglione di Aragon, per esempio? Questo sarebbe l’avvenire? Colui che dovrei adorare è Aragon! Puah! Se fossero un po’ tutti meno cialtroni, se fossero così pieni di buona volontà come dicono, farebbero quello che ho fatto io invece di rompere i coglioni a tutti con le loro stonature». Parlano di rivoluzione, ma non è che apparenza. «La ritardano invece di facilitarla. Somigliano a quei maschi che non han più istinti, che feriscono le femmine e non le fanno mai godere. Non sente, amico, l’Ipocrisia, l’immonda tartuferia di tutte queste parole d’ordine ventriloque! Il complesso d’inferiorità di tutti questi agitatori è palpabile. Il loro odio per tutto ciò che è superiore a loro, per tutto ciò che non capiscono, visibile. Hanno la stessa gran voglia di sminuire, distruggere, di insozzare, di recidere il principio stesso della vita che avevano i preti più volgari del Medio Evo. Gli uni e gli altri forse mi fucileranno. I nazisti mi detestano al pari dei socialisti e i comunisti anche… si intendono tutti quando si tratta di sputarmi addosso. Tutto è permesso, tranne di dubitare dell’Uomo… ma io me ne frego di tutti».
Una terapia per le anime destinata a tempi come i nostri, nei quali trionfa il conformismo, il Pensiero Unico in assenza di pensiero. Che si alzi allora la voce degli eretici, dei dissidenti. Res sacra miser.
martedì 6 dicembre 2016
mercoledì 21 settembre 2016
venerdì 16 settembre 2016
J. J. Przybylski
This essay was originally published at Counter-Currents in the USA and subsequently published by Euro-Synergies in Brussels. It basically argue that Shakespeare had the advantage of writing at the dawn of the Golden Age of Elizabethan Theater. His work, no matter how dark, ends on a sunny note. In juxtaposition, the author suggest that Céline was writing at a kind of Spenglarian dusk when Western Civilization was entering decline. So Céline's work carries a more muted glint of light. Much of the article, written in somewhat Célinean language, gives testimony to the decline in Philadelphia.
Last night I ushered at the local Shakespeare Theater. I had to look the part. So I bought shoe polish at the dollar store, lathered my loafers three (3) times, and glossed my footing. Meanwhile, I discovered the secret of Chinese shoe shine exporters: mix dog shit and lard, slip it in a tin, seal it with a Royal English label.
Dollar stores in Philadelphia must carry all brands of shudras. It’s a footnote in federal non-discrimination posters. Freedom Dollar Store more or less complied. A tall Jamaican worked and preened as a bouncer, a short Mayan-Mexican worked and worked as a stock boy, and a stout Paki in ahijab worked as the owner-overseer from a raised deck with a battery of cash-registers. Finally, a Dominican with rosy lipstick ran the main register and did the dirty-work of taking money. Ha. Ha. I mean she did the dirty-work of interfacing with every fugitive, sickling, church-lady, doped-up mumbler and cheap urban gigolo who counted pennies on the counter.
The Dominican was very nice. Authentically nice. She wasn’t some missionary White Liberal signaling her love of poor darkies for all to see. I think, speaking of trade secrets, that the Dominican girl’s strategic advantage was that she didn’t give a shit. 1) She didn’t give a shit about the backsliding American Blacks need to show, via the stink eye, a smug hatred of Whites. 2) She didn’t give a shit about the USA’s enterprising spirit and/or Judeo-Christian blather which means, for the wage earner, the freedom to work faster and faster to go deeper and deeper in debt while buying costlier and costlier crap. Because the island girl was a champion at handling the leery niggers, stumbling mongrel junkies, and freelance critics who walked in the door, the Paki overseer gave her space. She let the Dominican work at her own fresh and breezy rhythms which are most alien to Filthadelphia.
Life is rich at bottom. A White racist can learn valuable lessons from non-Whites who’ve adjusted to the truth and lies of devolving America. The brown Dominican girl will be just as free and lovely when Western Liberal Plutocracy goes down the toilet. Why? Because her womanly discipline is to be free and lovely right now, regardless of empty promises blabbed by wooly race hustlers, porked-pink politicians and blah, blah, blah. She’s a sparkling gem. Her counterpart is the Black bus driver who’s well seated. Almost like a post-volcanic island. Almost like the Rock of the Ages. But surely the well-seated Black bus driver is like Our Lord’s humble proxy, a salty apostle at the helm of the rolling boat while currents of assholes and elbows flow on the street. And trickled on and off the bus, ebbing and flowing like h-o-p-e.
If you’re a thinking bub with a mind to study a non-White who’s reconciled, within his own cultural referents, the metaphysical truth that we’re all equal in Almighty God’s eyes with the material truth that humanity is a mixed bag? Look to the African-American bus driver. My present point is that the increasingly angry Whiteman can learn from post-disappointment Blacks. Perhaps meta-mature Blacks. On a personal level, even as nailed Christians they don’t give a shit about you. They don’t care whether you’re racist or non-racist or grey in your skin. They solely care about being true to their own inner-standards of Soldier of God comportment. The very best Black bus drivers are bible driven. As Baptists, they are what Evola would call late and faded echoes of the Heroic Navigator. Very late. Very faded. Very barely tuned to the stellar pulse of Aryan lore.
Maybe it’s more like the best Black bus drivers have taken the Hippocratic Oath: First do no wrong. Which reminds me of the trade-secret of Philadelphia’s 5 Star Hospitals. At the pinnacle of tech and brainpower, you get a variation of the same muffled bullshit that passes for harmony on the street. The working truth is that it’s the bosomy White nurses, the modestly high-IQ and pathologically caring goy women, who interface with the human wreckage. They wipe hurt butts, clean pus from fetid wounds, and handle blood and urine samples. If they’re to be trusted with intellectual labor, then they translate aching and garbled complaints into medical terms for the international elite doctors who enter the treatment room like NWO super-stars. The Indians, Asians, Israelis, and shellacked Iranians who ultimately make the call: emergency surgery or modulated therapy or pasty white placebo. A Caucasian Male MD, hired into the hospital on 30-year probation as a congenital but dormant racist, would say that I’m exaggerating the truth. Ha. Ha. A fey diagnosis. I’m exploding the truth.
As for prophetic telling? As for the future of poor White pawns when we’re a minority in America? It’s foretold in Philly if you can read the bumps on the heads of backsliding and dazed Catholics. It’s a trade-secret of serene immigrants to hire a Christianized naif to handle the irate Blacks who enter the door. Preferable, a poor White girl from the depleted Irish Catholic neighborhoods who’s a single mom and reconciled to low-grade abuse. When you see a NE Asian-owned cleaners, with a monkish Asian doing the tailoring and banking, and a rag-faced goy answering complaints about chemical stains and lost pants, you’ve found foreign newbies who’ve aced the New America. They’ve solved the mean streets. It’s up to the native-born White, the face of punch-drunk sympathy, to deliver the law to homeless dregs, “I told you yesterday that you can’t use the toilet. It’s still for employees only. I’m sorry. Sorry. Sorry.”
That’s today’s Philadelphia in the public and semi-public commons where Whites are irrelevant. Reduced to fear and piety or jailhouse bravado. It’s better if you have can afford valet parking. In any case, last night I went back to 1600 and saw a Shakespeare play. I’ve ushered at the theater about 25 times, and that’s my most venal trade-secret as a cheap-ass writer who’s often too lazy to read. It’s said that Shakespeare was a closet-Catholic. Judging by the bewitching hoo-doo in Macbeth, he was also a closet Pagan. It’s a weakness in Christian lore that Mary Magdalene isn’t too appealing as sin’s female agent. But Lady Macbeth has dark feminine wiles that are almost equal to Cleopatra, who Shakespeare renders most lustily. For a while, in the black heart of the play, Shakespeare doesn’t give a shit about the need to present the noble, regal and queenly female ideal. He flies the devil’s kite. He creates stormy fun. But in the end, proper moral order is restored with the thrust of an avenging sword. The good guys win, and social harmony returns to The Realm.
Shakespeare has given me a considerable trade-secret: be irresistibly nasty and politically obscene in my script until the very last moment. Then, like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat, produce a warm ’n fuzzy ending. In shoe-shine terms, produce a nicely polished finish and don’t worry about the thin gloss. In 101 textbook terms, produce a plot resolution wherein public order and Divine Order are restored as One. Be wholesome as an afterthought. Take it to the bank.
Thanks Bill. You’re the greatest! But I’m a follower in hard times. I’ve got my own trade-secret to sculptify as a writer. I’ve got my own deep personal resolution to chisel into a plot resolution upon the public stage. Too bad that my ends are as time-specific to the Leaden Age of Western Liberal Plutocracy as Shakespeare’s ends were time-specific the Golden Age of Elizabethan Theater. I’m living at the bottom, maybe beneath the bottom, of a World Historical Cycle if not the Kali Yuga. The point? Regardless of my powers as a cheat, I just can’t pretend to think that the Public Order, the Moral Order, the Natural Order and the Divine Order can be reconciled as One in Philly. Neither can a redeeming spin be synched to the roundly vacant USA and the flickering Globalist Hairball. So much for climactic catharsis with a familial denouement. Shakespeare’s advantage was that he had a knowing race of Englishmen to honor as a loyal and loving prick. He lived at the golden dawn of the British Empire wherein even a vicious pirate like Sir Francis Drake could sincerely drop to his knees and praise The Island Throne. The crowning Spirit of England with its guarded line of aristo-buccaneers. Maybe Sir Richard Burton, as epic writers go, was the last of the breed. Dr. Albert Schweitzer called him “a moral idiot.” But Burton was a heroic navigator of Olympian stature nevertheless. In body and spirit, he was a jealous pedigree with a blinding light.
Life is funny at bottom. It’s amusing to belong to the nadir of Western Man. I’m perfectly cozy here and now. I merge effortlessly, as a natural, with Filthadelphia and its soiled joys and catastrophes. The problem? The trade-secret that’s caught in my throat? The truth that inflames my neck? As a writer and voice, I segregate! I segregate my own frail creative germ from the filthy pedestrian soul-bath regardless of lost profit. I just don’t give a shit about the poor and wailing demos that I know too well. To make matters worse, I don’t give a shit about my financial betters who control the purse-strings, the puppet-strings and the heart-strings of public theater. Neither do I favor their actors in reserve, primed like bombs for the 6 o’clock news: anti-White revolutionaries, volatile immigrants and nihilistic rioters with red-hair, freckles, and dog breath. All that cheap shoe-shine, all that cheap moral or editorial gloss, all that crap lathered over power politics. Really, racial politics.
From the bottom of the Kali Yuga, the grease-pit of the Aryan roller-coaster, my job is to error on the side the Higher Orders. To come clean, as a privileged species of dirty White voyeur who has glimpsed the summit. Revealed in it’s clear majesty by Shakespeare at the top of the ride. Concealed in its gloom by degenerate carriers at bottom. Céline, a man amongst lethal cry-babies and cussed goyim, took it upon himself to grasp the low light. I know some, not all, of his trade secrets. First Céline recognized the luminous germ in the rhapsodic tripe of belly-aching Celt rustics in Paris. Then he recognized the lyrical germ in himself. That was a fateful day. A heroic prick, Céline made his noted lingo, his ripped ditties of genius, untranslatable even into languages like German and Italian that have a kinship with French. It was Céline’s take on low-down fun. It was also Céline’s take on the sport of kings.
A backstreet metaphysician, Céline took the Left Hand Path to the Olympian Heights of Immortal Fame. To cover his tracks in plain sight, he sputtered an asinine ferment of giddy yet scorched-earth prose. There’s do-or-die conviction in his funny steps. The man put himself to the test! And whatever Céline’s ultimate trade-secret, it can’t be severed from his core muse to leave French literature, maybe Western literature, in a vacuum after his death. He refused to be followed.
This explains, at bottom, his anti-Semitic rants. Céline’s paranoia in the face of shysters who’d make a global prole, a pan-humanist, an embalmed ambassador for Colored Revolutions in Africa and Slavonia out of his corpus. Céline: a self-immolating genius. Too hot to touch and leaving friends and foes majestically incensed. Maybe he over-reacted. But maybe he didn’t.
Il mensile "Le bulletin célinien" è da ben 35 anni la più importante pubblicazione céliniana, grazie alla passione di Marc Laudelout. Nel numero di questo mese, ben tre pagine sono dedicate al libro "Louis-Ferdinand Céline - Saggi, interviste, ricordi e lettere", il titolo della recensione che riporto in calce al post, "Andrea Lombardi erige un monumento a Céline", dà veramente la cifra di un impegno non tanto a "glorificare" uno dei romanzieri e rivoluzionari della letteratura maggiori al mondo, quanto alla mia passione nel "costruire" mese dopo mese e anno dopo anno (come citato nell'articolo, il mio blog di inediti e novità céliniane nel 2017 compie dieci anni... e per l'occasione è in preparazione una nuova edizione, ampliata negli scritti céliniani, del libro - questa attuale, limitata a 200 copie e in esaurimento, diverrà quindi "da collezione") una sempre più sfaccettata visione del geniale "Profeta dell'Apocalisse" di Meudon.
Andrea Lombardi érige un monument à Céline
Cet ouvrage, formellement très élégant, est dû au céliniste italien Andrea Lombardi. Il regroupe une vaste production éditoriale faite de témoignages, lettres et écrits –majoritairement inédits pour le public italien – de et sur Céline. La matière du volume rappelle celle des Cahiers de l’Herne réalisés par Dominique de Roux auquel il est d’ailleurs dédié. (En hommage à ce précurseur, rappelons l’édition, dirigée par le même Lombardi, de la traduction italienne de son essai La mort de L.-F. Céline). Les cinq volets qui composent cet ouvrage (essais, commentaires, souvenirs, entretiens, lettres) sont judicieusement entrecoupés d’une série de photos à haute résolution en noir et blanc ou en couleurs, dont certaines rares ou inédites, comme celle de Céline en compagnie d’Abel Gance. La deuxième partie, qui va des entretiens aux lettres, est passionnante, tout comme la partie consacrée aux essais et commentaires, parfois fulgurants, de ceux qui ont lu ou côtoyé Céline : Kurt Vonnegut, Ezra Pound, William S. Burroughs, le prix Nobel Saul Bellow (“Céline ? Un incroyable casse-tête”) et Charles Bukowski (lequel, après avoir mangé des tonnes de crackers en lisant Voyage d'un seul trait, affirme être le deuxième plus grand écrivain du monde après Céline !).
Ce recueil n’est pas organisé autour d’un thème précis et le contenu de chaque section est riche et varié. Au-delà des réflexions sur le style révolutionnaire, l'argot, le rôle de médecin, l’exil enduré au Danemark, les longs débats suscités par les pamphlets et le refus d’être inclus dans toute chapelle littéraire ou politique, ce qui émerge de ces pages est une surprenante – voire constante – contradiction entre l’homme et l’écrivain, la même qui suscite vif éloge chez certains (Maud de Belleroche, Éliane Bonabel, Gerhard Heller) et implacable critique chez d’autres (le témoignage du compagnon de nombreuses réunions montmartroises Gen Paul étant, à cet égard, exemplaire).
En ce qui concerne le rayonnement de l’œuvre célinienne via les traductions, Gianni Celati se souvient qu’à son époque, il était fréquent – mais vain – d’atténuer l’impact de l’écriture de Céline avec de frileuses préfaces opérant une distinction entre le pour et le contre et en ne mettant l’accent que sur le génie maudit en soulignant le prétendu état d’inconscience de ce qu’il faisait ou disait pour conclure en affirmant que décidément il était à prendre avec des pincettes. L’impression étant qu’il n’y a guère de place pour Céline là où les frontières de l’officialité culturelle sont érigées, aujourd’hui comme hier. Cesare Cases, Leonello Rimbotti, Pol Vandromme et Pierre Duverger nous parlent d’un Céline incarnant la « lucidité de notre horreur » ou traitent de sa puissance prophétique sur plusieurs thèmes (guerres, colonialisme, société américaine, banlieues parisiennes, vanité et hypocrisie des grands sentiments humanitaires), quelque chose d’encore plus inquiétant si nous l’appliquons à ce qui est en train de se dérouler en Europe sous plusieurs aspects depuis très longtemps.
La traduction inédite de Girolamo Melis de l’entretien de Céline à Robert Sadoul en 1955 (“Au début était l’émotion”) rend hommage au premier entretien donné après son retour du Danemark, texte précurseur car il anticipe toutes les idées que Céline reprendra dans ses conversations ultérieures avec les journalistes.
Nous avons beaucoup apprécié le témoignage touchant – et juste – de l'artiste et poète Emilio Tadini sur la figure de Lucette, présence silencieuse et dévouée, à la fois docile et forte qui a toujours parfaitement contrebalancé les extravagances céliniennes ; elle représente vraiment ce que recouvre l’expression “se mettre dans la peau de quelqu'un”. Nous signalons également l’entretien donné à Jacques Chancel sur le rôle de la télévision dans nos vies (“C'est un prodigieux moyen de propagande […] un élément d'abêtissement en ce sens que les gens se fient à ce qu'on leur montre. Ils n'imaginent plus. Ils voient. Ils perdent la notion de jugement et ils se prêtent gentiment à la fainéantise” et encore “Tout comme la littérature, la télévision a besoin d'un style”) et l’extrait d’un long entretien d’Éric Mazet où il aborde à contre-courant les aspects « brûlants » de la vie et de l’œuvre de Céline (notamment, l’importance capitale de Mea culpa qui représente un tournant littéraire, stylistique et existentiel chez Céline ) pour nous faire voir que du Destouches, l’homme et l’écrivain, nous n’en avons pas fini de faire le tour.
Ne pouvait pas manquer une sélection des lettres que Céline a écrites à la presse collaborationniste française – dont Lombardi a dirigé les traductions inédites dans un recueil paru en Italie en 2011 – où il tient à préciser le fait que certaines études récemment publiées en Italie ont tenté de peindre un Céline complètement étranger aux milieux collabos, ou, pire, un Céline communiste, lorsqu’il est évident que dans ses lettres il reprend – de façon plus patriotique que dictée par une orthodoxie national-socialiste – les arguments des pamphlets ; de la France enjuivée aux critiques des politiciens français de l’époque, en passant par une division « raciale » entre le Nord de la France, celte et actif, et le Sud, provençal et oisif. Même les échanges épistoliers de Céline avec le docteur Alexandre Gentil, dont nous retrouvons un exemple traduit ici, révèlent des détails précieux sur la vie quotidienne avec Lucette pendant l’exil danois, leur odyssée en Allemagne à la fin de la deuxième Guerre Mondiale, ainsi que la réapparition de ces fantômes maintes fois ressassés avec une virulence extrême dans Bagatelles pour un massacre et dans les autres pamphlets.
Toutes ces considérations faites, nous sommes tentés de dire qu'il s’agit de la suite – sans doute plus aboutie – d'un volume précédent dirigé par Lombardi dont le titre est L.-F. Céline in foto, comprenant les articles des quatre premières années de son blog, le premier à être consacré à Céline en Italie et qui fêtera ses dix ans d'activité en 2017 (http://lf-celine.blogspot.be) Selon l'avis de plusieurs journaux italiens (régionaux et nationaux), ce vaste aperçu de témoignages comble une lacune éditoriale peu compréhensible pour un pays ayant une longue tradition d'études sur l'écrivain français et son œuvre. Une œuvre ouverte, in fieri, celle d’Andrea Lombardi, qui s’adresse aussi bien à des néophytes qu’à des céliniens patentés ; un fleuve qui par moments « étourdit », comme une légère ivresse ou l’écoute d’une séance de free jazz, tellement se superposent les images d’un seul personnage. Lequel, encore aujourd’hui, rugit contre tout et tous et que les voix – une centaine ici recueillies – connues et moins connues, étrangères et italiennes, l’éclairent ou le noircissent.
En guise de conclusion, nous souhaitons reprendre les mots que l’artiste protéiforme Gian Ruggero Manzoni a dédiés à Céline : (nous traduisons) « Nous sommes tous dignes l’un de l'autre ; entre les murs du désespoir, demeure notre orgueil ; la fonction des intellectuels est de sortir de la masse et d’aller là où personne n’a mis le pied ; quoi qu’il en soit, nous aurons essayé ; nous n’avons pas d'autres droits que celui de creuser ce qu’une minorité a pressenti, afin que tout le peuple puisse en tirer profit. »
• Andrea LOMBARDI (avec la collaboration de Gilberto Tura), Louis-Ferdinand Céline. Saggi, interviste, ricordi e lettere, Italia Storica, 2016, 324 pp.gg.
Contact : A. Lombardi, Via Onorato 9/18, 16144 Genova, Italie. Adresse électronique : email@example.com
sabato 27 agosto 2016
A Fine Mess (1941) – Four Excerpts
translated by Alexander Jacob
Louis-Ferdinand Destouches (called Céline) was born in Courbevoie, outside Paris, in 1894 of Norman and Breton parents. He joined the French Army in 1912 and in October 1914,
at the beginning of the First World War, he was wounded in the arm and transferred to the French passport office in London. He worked briefly for the Congolese Sangha Oubangui company in the Cameroons between 1916 and 1917. After the war, he pursued medical studies at Rennes and completed his doctorate in 1924 with a dissertation on the Viennese physician Ignaz Semmelweis. In 1925 Céline began working for the League of Nations and travelled extensively until 1928, when he worked as a medical practitioner, first in a private clinic and then, from 1931, in a public dispensary.
His first literary endeavour Voyage au bout de la nuit (1932) was met with considerable success and his second Mort à crédit (1936) was equally remarkable for its innovative literary style. In 1937 and 1938 he wrote two pamphlets Bagatelles pour un massacre and Lécole des cadavres, which focussed on the Jewish contribution to Europe's contemporary calamities. They were followed, during the Occupation, by Les beaux draps (1941), which continued his indictment of the Jews and sought to present a utopian socialist solution for the corrupt French nation. Although e seemed at times to favour the German occupation, Céline was clearly not a National Socialist and scorned the Aryan theories of the Germans. In fact, as the following extracts will show, he was much more of a Communist and, instead of glorifying the Aryans, he is filled with contempt for the impotence of the ethnic French against what he presents as the invincible financial strategies of the Jews and Freemasons. It is because of this utterly negative aspect of his anti-Semitism – apart from the scurrilous and hysterical nature of his literary expression - that Céline was never accepted by the Germans as a true comrade. Both Voyage and Mort were banned by the Reich in 1938 and Dr. Bernhard Payr, a close colleague of Alfred Rosenberg, head of the Shriftumspflege Amt (publishing surveillance office) wrote in a report in January 1942 that Céline “put into question and dragged in the mud just about all the positive values produced by human existence”.
However, fearing the Allied reaction to the apparently anti-Semitic nature of the pamphlets written between 1937 and 1941, Céline decided to flee France in 1944. He moved to Germany in June 1944 and later in March 1945 sought refuge in Denmark, where he stayed until 1951. During his exile he was convicted, in absentia, by the French government of collaboration, although he was granted amnesty in 1950. On his return to France he wrote three books about his exile, D'un château à l'autre (1957), Nord (1960) and Rigadon (1961). He spent his last days as a doctor for the poor and died in July 1961.
In this edition I present four extracts from the last of his so-called anti-Semitic pamphlets in order to make clear Céline's socialist concerns as well as the true nature of his “anti-Semitism”, which, in spite of its ranting tone, seems to be a subtle glorification of the secret financial Jewish rule and a scornful satire on the stupidity and powerlessness of the French, and of Europeans in general, against this rule. Furthermore, Céline cunningly makes his anti-Semitism the bearer of a severe, quasi-Nietzschean, anti-Catholicism as well, under the pretext that the Christian apostles were all Jews. In fact, according to Céline, the anti-Semitism of the French racialists Arthur, Comte de Gobineau and Édouard Drumont, was also risible since it was bound to the traditional Catholic hostility to the Jews.
The opening section of the pamphlet, before the first extract, is, in the main, a commentary on the psychological weakness of the French soldiery, especially during the first World War - in which Céline did military service for a short time.
The first extract presented here deals with the formation of the French elite out of country bumpkins by wily urban Jews, the second and third with the apathy and inertia of the working classes that do not have the financial resources to mount a revolution against the bourgeois whom they envy, while the Jews themselves have the big banks to support world-transforming revolutions like the Russian. The last section reinforces the selfishness of both the working classes and the bourgeois and their easy deception by the Jew, who “is always in agreement with you, on one condition: That it's always he who is in charge.”
The sections that follow the fourth extract discuss the deleterious effect of factory work, the need for a quasi-Nietzschean revival of “gaiety” in French social life, and a ethnically homogeneous communist school system which would exclude Jews and foster the native creativity of its pupils. The exclusion of the Jews that he insists on may be in accord with his advocacy of a “super-Communist” egalitarianism that would liberate the common man from the bonds of Jewish finance. On the other hand, when he expresses his support for the proletariat doomed to drudgery and “the crematory of life”, one wonders whether Céline was perhaps aware of the deadly measures that had been initiated against the Jews in the Reich from early 1941 and - given his constant railing against both the Jews and the Aryans - whether his sympathies were really with the latter or with the former..
Who was the greatest politician that France has ever known since Louis XIV? ...Raymond Poincaré! He knew our rights. He pleaded the cause of France one after the other every week. With him it was never too late. He never lost our cause, he always won.
If he were alive it would not have happened like this.
How ugly the hypocrites are! Why do they say that the French did not want the war? They really and truly wanted it. They were all behind Daladier at the moment of the Declaration, as well as hehind Clemenceau, and then later behind Mandel and later still behind Reynaud and then behind God knows who! … Cocorico! 800,000 bureaucrats! And all the writers with them! and all the journalists! There's the simple truth.
They did not want the war? It was quite simple, quite easy, they only had to write a single letter, each one to his member of parliament, that they did not want this war, that they did not want it at any price except a “casus belli” on the part of Germany.
It would never have been declared.
It would have cost each one of them one franc. It was really a good expenditure and good democracy. I think that they sensed this war coming, that they were fully warned a hundred times, thousand times more than in '14! in full knowledge of its cause! At the present moment one would be comfortable in the good life, happy and all. So the fuck-up was done, consciously, deliberately by a gang of dickheads.
One would not have had any prisoners. We would be behind our fine army, still dreaded, formidable, behind our intact Maginot, one would be waiting to make arbitrations, we would be the stars of Europe, adulated, respected, petted, everything.
All Frenchmen are Gaulists (sic) with the rare exception of some clowns. De Gaulle! they swoon Six months ago they suffered breakdowns when people spoke to them of the English. They all wanted to drive them into the sea. They were equally for Ferdonnet. At present they are all for Albion, by Albion, under Albion …
What does one risk? Basically they are only a group of monkeys, indecisive magpies, doddering claimants, They don't know any more what they want except to complain. Shout, and that's enough. It will finally fall from the heavens. Make claims! God! It's the law! The biggest cop? in the world! The great Hebrew Jeremiad that they have adopted! You do not want any more of the English! Complain! …
You do not want any more landlords! Complain!
You want to remake Poland? Complain!
Palestine? Kamchatka? The Bois de Boulogne and Persia?
Complain louder and louder!
You want their potatoes? Those of the moon, and patchouli? from the delivery man? Lobster? Don't break your head … complain!
To finish the revolution it would be necessary to offer them the prayer-wheel or bell, and see that everything is written down on it clearly in black and white, the grievances, the hopes, the demands … like at the Conference of the Lama … they would turn it while walking, marching in procession so that it drops … Each one with his little wheel of eternal claim … that would make a frightful din, one can only think of them …
“I am the man who is aware! … I have rights! …” Rrrrr! Rrrrr! Rrrrr! … “I am oppressed! … I want everything! ...” Rrrooooouu! … RrOOOUUUU! …
That would itself be decisive ...People would be appeased in a way.. One could no longer mention a word.
The Rroooouuuu … would drown everything.
It's the presence of the Germans that is insupportable. They are quite polite, quite reasonable. They act like boy-scouts. However, one can't stand them … Why? I ask you. They haven't humiliated anybody … They repulsed the French army which only wanted to scram. Ah! If it were a Jewish army, how one would adulate it!
Imagine a Yiddish army which comes, say, from a little farther off … There would be nothing too splendid for it! How many never-ending ecstasies! That's what the French lack, the Jew's rod, they don't want to have any more rods. They want to be beaten to death by it, contented, I'll soon tell you how. He is cursed, dedicated. All the rest is only words.
The bourgeois who sees in De Gaulle the “Royal Dutch”, its fine “Suez canals”. He says to himself here's a man placed at the fountain of life! He's the general of Fortune. He will set everything back as before for us. He will get everything back in order! His coupons will be issued again! One will have again full petrol, one will go out on Sundays, one will go to the feasts again, one will laugh silly in the groves again in the gentleness of the Angevin air, and pride will rise again to the heavens, the fine smell of all the best nourished bowels in the world, knights of the Legion of Honour.
Let's speak of the famous “rapprochement” that has suddenly become kosher, a wonderful bull for the Jews and Freemasons.
All the others are eliminated, apart from a few individuals, poor maniacal harmless people, of whom I am one, manipulating hobby-horses and pamphlets, reed-pipes and bells. The serious matters are only for the Jews.
Let's speak of the “Jewish house” insignia. I know Goyim who display them. Their success is stunning. Their business figures double! triple! Triumph! Our Swedes! our fat from wooden horses! our round-eyed men!
If one really worked at a “rapprochement” one must work together, without fraud, without airs, with discipline, methodically recreating Europe.
Enough of the anarchic drollery, the admirable irrefutable hair-raising magical wonderful excuses? to fork out and muck up everything and do fuck all:
“The occupation … the abuses … the murdered hearts ...the justified anger … death in the soul, etc.… “
The patriotic Tartuffe is really someone!
The presence of the Germans annoys them?
And what about the presence of the Jews then?
More Jews than ever on the streets, more Jews than ever in the press, more Jews than ever at the bar, more Jews than ever in the Sorbonne, more Jews than ever in medicine, more Jews than ever in the theatre, the opera, in the cinema, in industry, in the banks. Paris, France delivered more than ever to the Masons and Jews more insolent than ever. More Lodges than ever behind the scenes, and more active than ever. All the more determined than ever to never cede an inch of its properties, its white slave traffic privileges, in war as in peace, upto the last breath of the last native soul. And the French are quite happy, entirely in accord, enthusiastic.
Such stupidity is beyond man. Such a fantastic stupor betrays a death instinct, a charnel-house ponderousness, a debilitating perversity that nothing can explain except that the time has come, that the Devil informs us that Destiny is being completed.
How is opinion fabricated? It's quite simple, it's made in Paris. How is a Parisian formed? It's very simple, he comes from the country. He arrives on a fine morning, with a small suitcase, on an apple cart. Here the man is on the pavement. The Jew is there waiting for him, with his press, his radio. He is going to make Bidasse a Parisian, the dumbfounded soldier is quite mature. First of all the ingenious slogans! A bovine arsehole from the village, here's the soldier promoted to somebody on the asphalt of the City of Lights, become the object of an affection, a passionate solicitude every minute. He has a “taste” that is decreed to him, a flair, a delicacy!
An innate personal genius! Is he not the jewel of the planet! let him be confirmed, declared, through extra-special editions, with great titles, fireworks, bright neon! Let him be overwhelmed by it all round, capricious, swirling and all. In a week he can no longer be recognised. A giddying intelligence! The masterpiece of 22 centuries! He is the only one and there is no other! The rest are savages elsewhere! People who do not exist ...wretched and frightful countries, monkeys! … “His Apple” is the talk of the town! perfect! As favourable as Boccador! Quintessential apotheosis! Average Frenchman, the darling with the rarest gifts, the prince of strength and cunning! one does not make a better counterfeit! It's only a matter of getting him to get drunk, of distracting himself at the cinema, of making him go to the Folies, of depraving himself wildly in great luxury, of damning himself in magical breasts, in the mirages of Priapus, there he is all mellow and ready to melt, confusing the north for the south, right for left … He has forgotten his clock-tower, his dandelion, his one-eyed goat, he is lost. Rupture of work. A peasant abandoned by his cows. Even poor enough to be starving he is now the most armed person in the world! raving to the whole universe! he defies the world! America! he dashes crockery to the zenith! he has cannons for the moon! he criss-crosses it! He is no longer comparable to anything, he can no longer be shown off, taken out, listened to without blushing. Here's the madman to be bound, the citizen intoxicated with absurdities who has lost all sense of humour. He does not know any longer what he does or does not do. He only has vague inclinations, incipient desires, fragments now, he cannot undertake anything any more, he does not understand anything any more. He has lost his roots. He is the man of the media, rinsed, saturated, a boastful rag. He goes wherever his stupidity pushes him, wherever the Jew whispers slogans to him.
To keep France breathing is not very difficult: have Bidasse polished up, clownish, nasty, jeering. The pretentious French opinion is the ugly symbiosis of Bidasse and the Yid.
Bidasse increasingly disappointing, exhausted, shaken, equivocal.
It's been functioning this way for a long time, that Tabarin waits for Bidasse to get to his head, to fill it with papers, to hypnotise it to death, at his arrival from the country. Already in 1580 Tabarin was waiting for boys on the Neuf Bridge.
France is collapsing of its snobbish peasants, its rosewood furniture, “trousers”, patent leather-covered “corns”.
Try to understand what they want? What do they want? ...They don't know at all! The radicals? The monarchy? The return to “the way it was”? Socialism? Fourierism? Electoral civil war? Alexandre Dumas as dictator?The Mascuraud committee? Léon Blum? Reynaud? The Jesuits? The proportional electoral system? The lotteries? The Great Moghul? What do they want? They have no idea …They have mucked up, rotted, puked up everything through and through, everything that they touch will be the same, vomit, excrement, in two days.
They want to remain old horses, unkempt, paddlers, drunkards, that's all. They don't have any other plan. They want to make claims everywhere,totally and on everything, and then that's more than one can bear. A country is destroyed with “rights”, with supreme rights, with rights to nothing, with rights to everything, with rights of the jealous, with rights of famine, of storms.
But one should not forget the elite! It exists! Fuck! It exists! Where does it come from? It comes from its village in the same way. It comes to consecrate itself ...to smell the Parisian atmosphere... the sophistication, the shrewdness, the refined understanding … the unimprovised elegance. What is consecration? It's the art of doing things … It's not so simple as it seems… It's an entire career, tests ...Must first go to the university, get into the skiff of the bachelor's degree …
The voyage begins! ...Pass the qualifying exams … pass geography … algebra ...agronomy ...inject oneself with encyclopedias …Political Science … Learn perfectly the very Jewish and Masonic and rotten, the well-cooked, counterfeit history of France … Come out of it with a degree … Already a cow with dim enlightenment … a chatterbox with pros and cons Basic boorishness … basic scepticism ...an already not very valiant heart of a thrifty and sluttish race … is hardened further ...shrunk to a stock-exchange form which is jingled really more than for just money … thanks to the cold, rational and papyrus instruction … Here's the adolescent member of the elite ready for the ten thousand profits, well protected from his youth, from the enthusiasms of his age … having well retained papa and mama's morale … the horror of spontaneities .. the dishonour of sacrifices …
Here's the adolescent member of the elite ready for the ten thousand profits … little first-class apple-cart .. a village lad snobbish in a Montaigne-like manner … hundred times more avid than his father, who was however a famous coward who did not let much come in his way … Here's the son sniffing the city air ... Aiming high, worldly wise, a straw man. He is going to enter into relationships, he is going to frequent the salons, the Lodge of the “Hairy Bears United” (affiliate of Brith-Brith), two or three fashionable bars. It's launched! Now there's the great can can! fashion, couture, the artists! Ah, really giddying people! who have a heart that does not beat any more except a little for the “Persic” and two or three beats for the orgy when it's the party at a big farmhouse that only some foreign exchange dealers sustain! Oh, it's a sublime bungalow! one plows into the heart of refinement! wih every intoxicating comfort, ambergris perfumes, paid pansies, crafted bracelets! Hammams, embassies, hot water, League of Nations furs … one sucks up formidable secrets … What luxuriousness! Our buddy becomes quite like a pooch with all that ...He no longer knows what to do with his job ...He no longer speaks of his sub-prefecture ...He daydreams when he thinks of high society ...of the golden gates that open to it ...of its elusive culture … of the way it eludes him ...that he is at the moment greater than papa ...He only thinks now internationally ...of the “criteria of value” ...”the abjection of the profane scum” … Think-tanks! … Barbarians who conceive things badly! small brains, vile wretches … his now! … And the torments of Mr. Benda? But he takes part at once! never too many promises for the Jew! never too many gentle alarms, reverences, bowing knees … Still two or three tasks at the Lodge … some good notes of the Honourable … our lad enters the high elite … he climbs into two or three salons … but he should not be entertained by them! Embarrassed that he forgets his “can, can” at the right moment! … Catastrophe! ...straightens out the geniuses he frequents! … the princesses of distinction Sarah Barbizol-Cudégonde née SchwobArzincourt and the dazzling Durand-Kahn, who is the present Montaigne at the Sorbonne … who is so sceptical that he does not sleep there any longer ...who is such a casuistic treasure that he produces shit while eating bread! … Let everybody be dazzled by it … What happens to his memorable theses when it emerges from his backside … That's how the elite works! … The little buddy should not fall asleep, he would be torn to pieces by the wolf-pack … Either one frequents or one does not frequent! Ah, but wait ..It's the “can, can” or death! Can, can! in half-disgusted contempt with a fraction of a blasé smile for anybody that is not Jewish shit … Even that is full of nuances ...shouldn't abuse one's lips … One is at the court of Mammon, at the court of the great golden Shit! Importunate people are discouraged … The courtier plays on one's palate. Certainly! not more than is necessary … with good knowledge! … That is the function, the privilege, the proud defence of the Bar-stool. He would be eminent in finances, of the very first order in phosphates, amazing at the breeding of pigs, of high quality in beetroots, he would be Michelangelo in shorts, it wouldn't be worth much to him if he does not know how to do the “can, can”. Oh the merciless exclusivity, the ferocious ordeal!
And is that how one does the “can,can”? It's done by picking on the lads with regard to nothing and everything. It's a way of shitting through the mouth about no matter what is presented … can! can!. The moment it is not a crazy Yid, precious Semitic shit. But pay attention to the brass! the superlatives! all the pomp! if it's a drama of intentions … of the spicy end of the Yiddish cabaret … negroid rebel against the Aryan, in the unequivocal sense ...of the newspaper which does not mean anything but which is full of sighs that are called 'long' … and of photos of true friends ...We understand! … Bravo, good Provençal Jew! all round with the accent! eighteen times! twenty five times French! and what talent! Two hundred and fifty times more than you! ...the competitor for the Goncourt who arrives sharply! but you see! An assured reform council! naturally! And the ballet at the Opera? … And the last nice vaseline tone! Ah, it's the novel of the exiled man! ... It's the ministerial gossip! … It's Vichy! … Oh! but the basses ...Take care! … sense the trap! Be vigilant! Sense it from afar! Telephone Rue Cadet … the new Mason, please, at the other side of the Petit Palais .., Get the information and go! It's mockery, scepticism, the superior contempt of Aretin … that crushes for you with a single word everytning that does not have a Yiddish odour, a simmering manure of the Secret…
Sure? Then go to it directly! Raise your voice! … Make a declaration cheerfully! … Raise! Raise! … can can, big-mouths! You're in good form! on the royal road! In one stroke you're going to cross three stages, three steps of the temple! the twelve coffins of your Lodge! Your future is almost Jewish! A single voice is sufficient for that! at the optimal moment! … You're being spied on … you're being watched … repeat the exercice hundred times, what am I saying, hundred times? thousand times, hundred thousand times! and talk again! talk! That's all that counts in your life! You're not of the goyim race for nothing … that would be unfortunate at your age! Go! Blasé … alerted ...wrinkle your nose just a little … like that … the nostrils … cultured .. one who is aware of the end of things ...sceptical ...irritated … shake your head if necessary … be very disdainful ...scorn! ...the slimy bad-mouth … the short-winded very French crook … your double... Ah! the pompousness, where does he come from? He was just born here? He is not married to Rachel? He is not a First Degree Mason somewhere?Ah! the crime! then sorry! strangle this for me! A cord! Kill this pig for me! Everything that he may attempt is shit! and not just! It's not even worth looking at! It's all done! It's early bird-shit! To the kill, my sly friends! Scramble for the spoils! Don't worry! The widow will arm our avenging arms! Shout in horror! And all together! Destroy this mob for me! let nothing stop you! Turn it into slime! fresh cow-dung! Destroy your brother? That's your duty as a Frenchman or you will never understand anything! That's true patriotism and the liberation of humanity! Two birds with one stone! Ten birds with one stone! the cart! may he never emerge from it! Ah! above all no contempt! Keep your eyes peeled! A good career hangs on a thread! Do not write that it's worth it if it's not an occultist! …You would be a stinker for ever! … Ostrracised to death! Without the possibility of a pardon! That's much more serious than incest! “Have found a very nice native!” I don't say anything better of anybody but a Jew! It's really unthinkable! … It's a crime that is unimaginable! … It's something beyond the French nature … They could never decide to do that. They would collapse there on the spot ...of horror, forgetfulness of denigration … not ruin your racial brother? But that is unheard of! That would really be the end of France! .. Oh! Watch out for the reprimand! Oh! let it be correct and prompt! Indubitable, quite repulsive! Ah! then read my critiques again! … You're going to enjoy yourselves this time, to cite only my little case … can can! ...and can can! Enraged! … That's good work together! … truly exact lessons for everybody! What one should say .. and not say ...appreciate … bite ...sully ...smear ...One just has to assume the tone and then follow ...then you'll sail on velvet, the cushy job will be filling, distended, bursting with success! That will not prevent you from being a zero, but you will have the authority and nobody will overtake you any longer. You will enter the council of the Order. Take me on my word, my little friend. It's you who will judge all the others, once and for all, and big shot, you will be on the side of the victor, in politics, the arts, or finance, an eminent voice, a truly feared can can. You'll call the shots at the “Tattersall” as well as at the “Croissant”.
“What do I know?” I know that it's “judaise or die!” … instinctively then and intractably! as soon as you sniff something French! You get my point? That's wonderful!
The super-select places are yours, the elite posts, the supersecret telephones, the entrenched cushy jobs, the cakes, the real golden fleece, no matter that you come from your Brouzarches, from your Conches-sur-Eure, the treasures of your Creuses, still full of the prison straw-bed and fouasse, your neck still elastic, your brow ready for centuries of subjugation, that doesn't matter, you will be recognised as a master, a tough and transcendent head of the elite, the way you do 'can can'! Let everything Aryan infuriate you, let everything that is not Jewish make you blush with shame and horror, let it be instantaneous in you, let it not be necessary that you should be implored, never let anyone discover that you have had anything but burps when you sniff anything that is not Jewish. Difficulty stimulates you, even in folklore, you will immediately find everything full of Yids.
I'll be damned if you are not a poet with faculties like that! What a future, my pretty boy! What an amazing can! can! Write to the N.R.F.! A dim seriousness emerges, a dull mucus is exuded, and extends delicately over two hundred pages. The divine effort is accomplished! Another tremendous writer! …
The heartbeat that is quite slowed down, stops. It's nothing more than a little leather jacket with its little purse for one's cards. Like that you'll have no more annoyances. You'll have no more annoyances. You'll only have to register new triumphs, keep silent, from one victory to the other, marry a suitable heiress, the one with the best connections, be greeted at the restaurant.
Sail, sail, little fellow! You'll have all the winds behind you! Spread your sails, contented and arrogant, on the seas! Without getting excited of course, that would damage your can, can ...You would then no longer have a British air, … Phlegmatism! The phlegmatism of the powerful! … Fully calm as you should be, as it is fitting for you to ravish … nonchalantly on the gangway … let them come …
You'll calmly remarry ...you'll calmly copulate ...you'll go kindly to the Sphinx, you'll have calm little children without any mishaps … without avatars ...all that always thanks to the can-can … in the Jewish furrow …
You'll be a part of the true elite, pampered, force-fed, nourished, everything ...That's the main thing as soon as one dreams, as one reflects a little can-can! …
Life is short, exhausting, ferocious, why bother doing anything beyond can.can! What does that resemble, I ask you! So much the worse for the ignorant, that's all! Break one's arse for peanuts? for fantastic redemptions? crusades standing up? when it's so simple to defend oneself, to reach a safe haven through talk, ravishing, famous …
Of course, you should be very young shit, the family should be involved in it, otherwise it goes less well, it's a question of early years, with a more than fortunate lineage, having a lucky star is to be well born, of understanding parents. That causes the vermin to be sown, that produces a warm culture, in the shade, it proliferates, it's contented, more fucking contented than the eagle that passes above in the storms.
What a tremendous future for the vermin! reasonable! certain! There are hardly any eagles left!
By fucking Hiram! the earth is turning! It contains more evil than good! The die has been cast!
The nations are not going to die because the statesmen are zeros, their governments too greedy, too drunkard or too pedophile - all this is unimportant - their ministers too pretentious, their ambassadors too talkative, more than they are themselves, these capricious nations have become too arrogant, oversaturated with wealth, crushed by their industries, too luxurious or too agricultural, too simple or too complicated. All that is not serious, transient trifles, mere news round-ups of history. Are the essential raw materials lacking in industry! Are the factories slowed down? … These now are serious matters but which can still be taken care of. Look at Germany.
And military disasters? Occupations by the enemy? what do you say about them, fearless one? No importance. A prolific, ardent nation raises itself admirably from the greatest military shambles. The cruellest occupations, but only on one condition, this very essential, mystical condition, that of being faithful through victories and reversals to the same groups, to the same ethnic group, to the same blood, to the same, unbastardised racial origins, those which made it triumph sovereign during the testing times and those of conquest, of having, in spite of everything, preserved itself from the fornications of lower races, above all from the Jewish, Berber, Afro-Levantine pollution of the born corrupters of Europe.
Has it succumbed to magic potions thrown to the riffraff everywhere? From this moment on no more salvation, every Jewish contaminated country degenerates, languishes and collapses, war does not kill it, it finishes it off.
The essential has already happened, the fort that one considered from afar, through an illusion, a trick, to be an impenetrable citadel was only fortified with cardboard, encloses a populace of madmen, a yelling crowd of maniacs, raving madmen in shackles, all soft in the head, lost in talk and wine, bitter after their ruin, all dedicated to death, to disembowelment.
The lightning has struck this horror, every debacle is a final blow.
But here are 37 million beings, idiots who are there having fun, the torment having passed, odd, envious, sly, not having any idea in common except some dismal aversion for each other, shallow, seedy and faded anarchist gatecrashers, each for himself, one against all, and if it were possible all against one. Decomposition of the corpse. What can one do with this mob? this immense pile of rags? Deport all of it to the Urals? Put all those booted authors, stinking people in trailer vans, make them throw up their stupidity over there in prostitution, have them repelled somehow, in a kindly arrangement, to thousands of miles from their home?
That could perhaps happen ...It's perhaps not so impossible … Perhaps sooner than one thinks ...The bourgeois does not give a fuck, what he wants is to keep his loot, his “Royal Dutch”, his privileges, his situation and his Lodge where he makes good contacts, those that connect you to the Ministry. Definitely he is Jewish because it is the Jew who holds the gold, has the finest Calf in his Temple. These are things that are not even discussed! … which are taken for granted once and for all! … and can! can! … the only real regret of the bourgeois is not having been born a Jew, a full Jew, from the beginning, papa and mama. The true nobility of our epoch. He imitates him in everything and for everything, same opinions, same enthusiams, same stars, same repulsions, same tarts, same sables, He follows the Yid train as he can. Ben Pourceaugnac.
Only the Jew has many strings, he is Trotsky and then Rothschild, the two at the same time ...He makes it fit every occasion. That's what's going to fuck the bourgeois.
Samuel Bernard and then Samson! At first “can! can!” and then a big “Ugh!” Ah! Ah1 There's the riddle!
The worker doesn't give a fuck about being a pure Aryan! mixed-race or brown! being descended from Goths or Arthur! as long as his stomach does not growl! And precisely that is what is happening … He has more important things to do! What good can it do to him to be of pure blood or mixed! Why not the Marquis of Priola? the Duchess of Gonesses? All that is fairy-tales of the Krauts, tricks to annoy the Jews, conduct pogroms against them, shake out their cash. These are the vengeances of Hitler who has not been able to rule the fucked-up world. There are very nice little Jews and Frenchmen who are perfect cows, disgusting types. It's not at all a question of race. It's a question of class. Everybody knows that ...The Jew is the friend of the worker, a democrat, a friend of progress, champion of public education, of women's suffrage. That's what matters!
He is the same as a Cagoulard, a friend of freedom! The Jew's one who is persecuted, a man who suffers for his religion! A victim of dictatorships! The Jews responsible for the war? Now there's another mess! An invention of capitalism to exonerate the truly guilty, the men of the fifth column. The truly guilty ones are Hitler and then Wendel, perhaps Dreyfus (and even in his case one is not sure), all three totally in agreement (the great are not for eating), with Churchill and Franco to strangle the proletariat, take back from it its conquests of '36, its dignity at the weekends, its Simca and its rosewood.
For it is a world war against the proletarian, that's why he bursts, why he explodes. His view cannot be changed with songs and smiles. The question of today and of the future. He has truth in his marrow, he will not change any more. All the rest is conspiracy, anarchy of deceivers, guys paid for by the pricks and consequently by the rich to frustrate, to confuse the issue, to put the damned of the earth to sleep.
Oh! la! la! how delicate, how arduous, painful to deal with such subjects! Here for example is a person … He perhaps has syphilis, you can tell yourself: Oh! that's alright! ...it's a not very convenient disease … I'm going to cure his little spots with an anodyne ointment … some little yellow or red pills … he will be very happy … I'll talk to him of the important thing … that will get me a satisified patient who will talk well of me everywhere … I won't do it with injections .. Surely he will cause me distresses ...his teeth will come unloose.. he will throw up on the stairs ...he will perhaps fall in a faint … do you see that thing in my armchair? that I am obliged to hide him .. with a third … fourth ampule? to imprison him a little in the armchair … that he makes me end up like a Bougnat … in life one never knows .. malevolence is everywhere … One is thrown into a panic and then it's the horror … the drama begins, the Grand Guignol .. One should not look too deeply into things … not too curiously! It's a good rule: 'Curiosity kills the cat”, as De Gaulle would say .. But let's return to our patient ….If we made a piercing to look a bit into his brain … If his cerebrospinal fluid is not disturbed ...what his brain tells us … Oh! la! la! ...watch out! … Suddenly you are ready for Hell! … You don't know where to go! In twenty years … thirty years .. more! This gentleman will return to see you … to haunt your nights with atrocious dreams … have I killed him, or haven't I? … he would have cursed you so much … He will be your vampire in the refuge that you have just reached, you who are scruples personified … for having disturbed a little like that his spinal fluid … Ah! so don't move anything at all! Even for the love of God! For the devotion to the crippled! you'll be screwed to death!
Be calm! Treat a person benignly ...little pills that offend nobody … Leave the syphilis where it is. It asks nothing of you. It feels well in the depths. Cradle it with your good words. It's not medicine that is demanded of you, it's magic. Never attack the essential and people will be very grateful to you, moved, very touched forever, for that. Happiness consists in not speaking of anything, to let the suppuration burst, at the hour and on the day destined, in not taking care of the the new one.. Paying court to Treponema with small white pills and big lies.
I know a distinguished patient, she tells me always when I meet her .. that I preach to her somewhat ..
“Oh! Doctor! no! .. it's not necessary … I only had the small beginnings of … You know it well! I'm not going to take care of myself for a small start of that … You have alerted me so well in time! … Oh! Doctor, be reasonable!”
And it's not money that is the motivation. I have never taken it from anybody. No! it's quite simply the fact that it bothers her to go into details. She does not wish to admit that which is painful. That's how it is and that's all. Nobody wants the truth.
In another way note that, in the speeches, in the newspapers, which speak of raising France again, they never attack the subject, they scratch their heads, they wriggle all round, they lay their hand on their heart, they speak in a trembling voice, and then two or three rants, and then they've had it and that's all. Those who really speak badly of the Jews, the terrible adversaries of Israel, they do not speak of the question of classes/races, or they deny it quite simply, they evade, they have other preferences, they baulk, they beat about the bush … They do not make an incision, they praise pills, ointments with melolin dressings … which are perfect for hiding the evidence.
Those who write in the Communist genre gas a lot with the Yids, they are firmly in their grip, they are their great adjudicators.
All that is very gentle, very kind, skimming, grazing on the surface, easy, chattering, plastering, unguents, calming ointment, tiger balm, for the big days when one goes up to the Bastille! … Lots of luck! and then that's enough and that's all. Let them say Boo! Boo! to ghosts and then return home very proudly … Long life to the syphilis! The earth is not going to quake for such a small thing! Absolutely useless diversions that keep the people fully divided, incapable of short-circuits … What guarantees against lightning, the blessing of shops.
Jewish and Masonic France, once and for all. This is what should be put into the poor-box, dear diplomats! The teams are infinite … hardly is one exhausted … than the other is drawn up … more and more “rapprochements”, forcibly …
It's the hydra with a hundred and twenty thousand heads!
Siegfried will not return!
In the past the people had the perspective of Heaven to give them patience. That really facilitated things. They invested in prayers. The entire world was based on the resignation of the poor “dixit Lammenais” Now the poor man is no longer resigned. The Christian religion is dead, along with hope and faith. “Everything in this world and immediately!” Whether there be Heaven or not! … like the bourgeois, like the Jew.
Go ahead and govern a bit in such conditions! … Ah! It's infernal A horror! I must really admit.
Men seem to experience a great fright, absolutely intolerable to find themselves one fine morning quite alone, absolutely alone, before the void.
The most audacious, the most fearless hold on, in spite of everything, to some welcome, classical expreienced worn-out thread that reassures them and connects them to reasonable, accepted things, to the crowd of respecable people. One might say that they are seized by the cold. Thus Drumont and Gobineau hang on wildly to the Mother Church, their most sacred Christianity.
They brandish the cross before the Jew, the authorised attendant of Hell, exorcise him with the cross. What they reproach above and before all in the Yid is the fact of being the murderer of Jesus, the one who sullied the host, the corrupter of the rosary … Let these grievances be vented a little! The cross as an antidote? what a farce!
How badly thought out all that is, lopsided and false, bumbling, whining, timid. The Aryan really succumbs through gullibility. He has caught hold of the religion, the legend woven by the Jews expressly for his fall, his emasculation, his servitude.
Propagated to the virile races, to the detested Aryan races, the religion of “Peter and Paul” did its work admirably, it lapsed into liars, into sub-humans from birth, the submissive people, the hordes inebriated with Christian literature launched wildly towards the conquest of the Holy Shroud, the magic hosts, abandoning forever their exalted gods, their religons, their gods of the blood, their gods of the race.
That's not all. Crime of crimes, the Catholic religion was, throughout our history, the great procurer, the great mixer of the noble races, the great procurer for the rotten (with all the holy sacraments), the furious contaminator.
The Catholic religion founded by twelve Jews will have proudly played its entire role when we will have disappeared under the waves of the enormous rabble, of the gigantic Afro-Asiatic whorehouse that is being prepared on the horizon.
Thus the sad truth that the Aryan has always been able to love, worship only the god of others, and never had their own religion, any white religion.
What he worships, his heart, his faith were provided to him fully by his worst enemies.
It's quite normal that he breaks under it, the opposite would be a miracle.
I had conceived a very pleasant, interesting plan, I wanted to reunite the articles of the masters of the pen, of the eminent, prominent, moving members of the elite in the course of the panic of history, of the fatal months between '39 and '40 .. I would have called that Lost Pages .. I didn't yet know very well … the Anthology of Jean Jizz … Bravery in prose … Bravery in paper ...certainly I would have found ...with a little preface: “Everything that is loyal is great ...One should violate the modesty of our heroes of thought … etc. …etc. “
They will certainly “make a rapprochement” to those valiant troubadours one day or the other .. They don't know yet with whom ...That's why they still scratch their heads … They are strange, you see ….Ah! Splendid shitty notaries! Family counsellors ...There are still some Aryans to be sold! Go, don't worry! … there always will be! … in a Crusade, or in another!
They will of course want something greater! … but that will always make a little money … Your Study is not yet dead! … It will be necessary to revise the formulae a little … but I'm quite sure of you ….It's a coup of the “hand on heart” … will it be to the left? will it be to the right? ...Ah! we don't know! … It's delicate … Mustn't fuck up all the study of the world with a single thoughtless movement … The client should return by himself ...that he may suddenly feel comfortable again ......with someone whom he can chat with ...A book is an honest affair, it's a value, it's everythng! It's a piece of yourselves! It has your tastes and colours! but one makes up for one in another!
That which is censured today will be wonderful tomorrow! .. day after tomorrow consigned to prison! …. it's the new joy! the great Trafalgar of luck! today it's a proven shit … next spring moist with myrtles! Apotheosis of hawthorn! … Ah! comrades, don't languish! you've really made me crap, I owe you my little puny sigh, lasting only a little while, in a weak tone, fragile in malice, not to be dismissed by you at all!
Fuck! on the contrary, much amused! Everything rejoices in your return! the praise is heaped, the doublets of gold, fantastic stately trumpet-sounds, well-dressed choirs with virgin voices, of English histories or of America!
One says heaps of things, arranging the world is easily done. The social question remains, the Jews didn't invent everything, that would be too good, the inequality of the classes, the privileges of the rich, the injustice in everything and for everybody! The Jews would not have had the opportunity to foment revolutions if there were not reasons for them. They did not create them from scratch, it's true that they manage around them, they defend themselves with blows of Humanitarianism, they have made it their great machine, of so-called “rights”, it's the most formidable in the world, and is entirely in their hands, they are astute, that's all.
They have the gift of the gab, the platform, all the Lodges that follow them close behind.
He's somebody, no illusions. It will not be sorted out with smiles, with emotion, or with Papal bulls. One must regulate the big question, the question of dollars.
And I fear him once and for all. Good accounts make good friends, and not just a little bit, fully.
The world is materialist, including the smallest nation. It no longer believes in anything but that which is tangible. That's how public education is, the disappearance of legends. They no longer wish to set out on their voyage before their accounts have been settled. A civilised society asks only to return to nothing, to go bust, to become savages again, it's a constant effort, an indefinite recovery. It's an effort and it is fatiguing. Ours no longer wishes to give a fuck about anything, it does not want to become fatigued at all. It increasingly rejects them. It collapses all round.
It's the base that is worm-eaten, having been built on hope, they do not want any more hope at all, that's too much like wisps of air, they want “comfort and immediately”.
They are no longer “legendary” men, they are no longer men of imagination, they're mechanical men. Pascal was astonished too by the infinite space of the heavens, he preferred the wheelbarrow. That does not make mechanics good, it makes it prosaic and breakable. As such they will never set out again, they will sabotage machines, they will increasingly go on foot, they will become increasingly more unhappy and the police and the prisons will be weighed down with the rest, drowned in the debris.
But a flight of the mind, an enthusiasm, is something else.
Oh, what's God? the new God? the God who dances? … the God in us! ...who doesn't give a fuck! who has difficulty making ends meet! The God that snores!
The damned of the earth on the one hand, the bourgeois on the other, they have basically only one idea, to become rich and remain so, it's all the same, heads and tails, no difference in their hearts. It's all tripe and cattle. Everything for the stomach.
Only there are some who are more avid, more agile, some tougher, some lazier, some more stupid, those who are lucky, those who are not. A question of chance, of birth. But it's all the same sentiment, the same sickness, the same horror, The ideal “boa” with fortnightly digestions. All of that rolls on, rolls quite venomously, tepid, does not exceed 390, it's a misfortune worse than everything else, the hell of mediocrity, the hell without flames. Fortunately there are wars that will come, increasingly longer ones, it's fatal.
The earth is heating up.
The people don't have any ideal, they only have needs. What are needs?
These prisoners return, who have no more unemployment, who find delayed work, who have some security, who are insured against everything, the cold, hunger, arson, who have paid holidays, retirement, some consideration, card-games and liqueur, then the cinema and rosewood, a cigar smoking temperament, and a second-hand moped for trips with the family. It's a fully material programme, of stuffing oneself and making the least effort. It's the embyronic bourgeoisie that has not yet found its RNA blot.
The most terrible upheavals are not going to change its programms. It's the dream of the disconcerted, of the peasant who no longer has his cow, any land, any chestnut trees, who hangs on to anything that he finds, who is afraid that he will lose the world, that everything will fall through his fingers. All that, he tells himself, is fantastic! it grows by itself, it will not last ...I'll watch my step as a functionary ...Ah! fuck, I don't give a fuck! Retirement or death! Insurance or death!
Panic is always ugly, have to take things as they are.
That would not be so abominable, that could easily be sorted out, if the atrocious people did not profit by playing their dirty tricks, the occult cultivators of hatred, who never let go, poison, set traps, devastate, torture at will.
It's the abyss, it's the apocalypse, with all its unchained monsters, avid, disintegrating upto the soul, which half-opens under the little people.
Misery is not enough to stir the people up, the ill-treatment of the tyrants, the great military catastrophes, the people will never be incited, they tolerate everything, even hunger, never any spontaneous revolt, they have to be stirred up, with what? With cash.
No money, no revolution.
For the damned to become conscious of their abominable condition they require a literature, great apostles, people with highly developed conscience, vitriolic pamphleteers, fat leaders that yell, leading lights experienced in these matters, a hysterical press, a radio with divine thunder, otherwise they will not suspect anything, they'll fall asleep over card-games. All that is paid for, it's not free, it's a matter of hyperbolic budgets, cartloads of cash that discharge on the garbage to make it smoke..
One should show the invoices, who is causing the waste? That's to be seen.
No cash, no pipes, no big cash registers, no riots as a consequence.
No gold, no revolution! no more Volga than butter on trees, no more boatmen than caviar! They're costly the leaders who resonate, who raise the crowds into a trance. And the rapidly disseminated whisperings with five hundred donkeys at every crossroads?
That comes to astronomic sums of money! It's a show, must set its price, the costs of the riots, that quadruples, it's ruinous! to bring the garbage to a state of delirium, that they will shake their chains, the cooking pot, the Duraton beef stock let all that be overturned and the tyrant be happily disembowelled! fraternity reconquered! freedom of conscience! progress on the march! Let it be the great opera, the most gigantic of two or three centuries that it is another life that is beginning! Ah! that then is expensive! extraordinarily! An entire world of little asses that one must be fed, celebrated, brushed, chicken of all feathers on the full feed of the Lodges, slugs to be turned over, greased, heated slowly, let all that wear out, hiss and corrode the building at great cost. It will be never-ending bills.
The police that prepare a revolution are unaffordable, the pullulation of emissaries, the agents provocateurs, the thousands of rancours that follow, and venom that is returned.
And it's necessary! never too much! How passive, oblivious the poor world is! the hot-air of the one who is damned! this is the infernal noise, the one for whom red wine is sufficient to give him a taste for blood, who can no longer bear his misfortune, whose condition makes him mad, atrociously savage, anthropophagous. The one who asks only that he remain as he is, grumbling, boozing, lazing. He wants to complain, but nothing else. Everything must fall into his platter. Sorry! Bad luck, Mimi! It's at that point that he allows himself to be revived by the “ardent” for so much money a day, the functionaries of the revolt. And it's only the first act, the prelude to the drama, the synopsis of the play, the noisy gatherings. One should not promise subsidies for it, one should bring them in luxuriously, it's a catastrophe to cause the small fry to revolt, it's Peru that is being mobilised, the treasure of “Shell” moves into action.
No money no revolution.
It's not convenient for the damned person that he should be fucking enlightened so that he may throw himself at the barricades, that he may start to make a fool of himself. He prefers family life, the bus and the drooling meeting. Deep down he does not like stories. He is a perfect conservative, he is from the land, a born Bidasse, one should not forget. Voting should indeed do, that's what he thinks deep down. He does not believe in sacrifices, in pools of blood. He does not even want to go there. For that reason it is necessary to enrage him, pierce him like a bull to death. He's a thundering mess. He is loud-mouthed, but peaceful. More bluffing than smashing. Of course he still wants violence but only if it's others who suffer.
He is like the entire French army, he wants to march in triumph. He wants his car, his rosewood, his old-age pension at thirty, all the reasons not to die. The fish at the bait. Who says more? He does not wish to die at all. The civil guard kills very well! They have machine guns! Caution first of all!
What's the use of changing the social order that others may enjoy themselves and that one is dead or a martyr? Victory? That's easy to say! But there's no omelettes without breaking eggs! And no good victory for the dead! Everybody is forced to reflect ...What guarantees? Everybody asks himself silently ...Is this really serious? Is one going to die for comfort?
Let the others collapse if they want to! We'll see soon how that goes! … that's the snag, the sensitive point, the peasant who “will not go out on a limb”, it's that which one should propel towards crime! at full volume! let the money enter in a panic! The old Bastille and its nine walls, will always be there, haughty, arrogant, formidable, and would really not bother anybody, not even Fresnes or the Īle de Ré, if the bankers, the demons of London, had not done the required, set alight the laced meat on time, unleashed the riots, the carnage, raised the hurricane of the peddlers, the conventional torrents of slime,the boiling of the blood. The great-grandson of Louis XIV would still be at the Elysée and Marie-Antoinette revered by all the school children, patroness of sheep farming, if Pitt had not incited the little pen-pushers of the epoch, corrupted the doddering nobility, distributed cash in full sacks, bribed the court and the country, the mother abbesses and the executioners … Without gold ideas are nothing. One must dole out cash in abundance, in bushels, in tons, to incite the people. One who does not have that will not incite anybody. Not today any more than in the past. First of all a sponsor! That's the condition of the show! And no little vain losers! a scatter-brained wild stooge! Ugh! What a horror! What insolence! No! Such a colossal sum of money! The most expensive of operas! Can you imagine it? The opera of insurrection! With floods! Symphonic choirs! Oh! la! la! If that draws you! Feel it before touching it! You have it? You don't? What's your bank? You're stiff?
Then shut up! Scram! Don't bullshit anybody! You're just a little smartass! a badly bred little boy! Go and learn some music! That will discipline your mind! One organises an insurrection only with cash and no fakes! little flicks! No! No! Torrents! Cyclones of cash!
The Guillotine is the daughter of Guichet. Ah! finding a sponsor is the beginning of every great affair, the dream of every serious person, without a sponsor no take-off, the genius himself runs idle, a buffoon soon, exhausts himself in onanistic mirages. Nothing can succeed without money, nothing is accomplished, completed, everything evaporates at the first blow. At the first wicked contrary wind, the first little cabal, everything is dissipated and disappears. To hold the people together, have them as a free pack of wolves, one must guarantee soup to them, a regular and copious bowl, otherwise they will take many masters and your pack does not exist any longer, the adventure is finished for you, the hunt is closed off to you.
Ah! these are things you should know, respect, these are laws.
Take, for example, Lenin and his comrade Macaire-Trotsky, they know the bottom of the sack, the lucky end of spells, they did not embark in a rush …
Admire their foresight, their administrative spirit, their impeccable sobriety, their vigilance at every watch for any decent sponsor …. never a second of distraction from the essential point: cash! On the lookout from the nerve-centre of fool-proof battles.
Ah! how serious these people are! They would not be heated up by airy motions, by aniseed-flavoured wines of friendship, by crackpot ventures, by ham-actors' vociferations, by Romantic sound-explosions, all the mangy bears of the menagerie that frighten only little children. They perhaps wanted little congresses that harm nobody, to show that way that they have some troops, and quite submissive, that they are listened to in low places, at the gatherings of the wretched, those agitated by injustice, the outward shows of oppression, inanities about the Great Cause, those undernourished by filthy broth, the café-au-lait cockroaches, the feverish mixture of wretchedness, bile and gibberish, it's necessary for the itch, the exasperation of stupidity, the pathetic hot-air of the masses. Orators who puke everywhere, the soaked dog without an overcoat, fangs produced by caries, splayfooted because they are in mourning, with mouths for their stomachs, everythng that is to be found in a rancid corpse, which moves from one shelter to another, a bag of fries for the Santé prison, that's necessary for envenoming the crowd. Ah! these are the martyrs of the cause! Ah! these are things one should know, how they bite, growl, and then throw up on the morsel, ungrateful people, disloyal and ambitious as soon as they have dined a bit, because it's not often.
Oh! the coarse class, oh! the extremely repulsive clique, for the entrepreneurs who do not wish to collapse hunting mushrooms, engulfed by crappy projects, muddled with debates, lost in moonlight, promises. Rhetoric is for the crowds, for the leaders a guarantor is needed, the true guarantor is the bank.
There stand the keys to the dream, the little North and the great secret, the Whispers of the Revolution. No bankers no mass movements, no emotion of the deep strata, no passionate surges, no Cromwell, no Marat either, no flight to Varennes, no Danton, no promiscuity, no nonsense.
No Robespierre who resists for two days without the black stock market .Who opens credits, leads the dance.
Everything is credit, validated treaties, especially in the critical moments when the reports are prickly.
No fussing,!no trifling! … Advertisements are not posted by themselves … the billstickers do not give credit ...they present their invoice the same evening … For them every evening is the big night.
These are the humble servitudes, Everything is mean in the corridors. That's why Lenin's group succeeded. Not only because they were Yids but they were also serious, up to date on affairs, they were not launched in an exposed manner, they were sure of their cash, they were stuffed right at the start.
Immediately they gained people's confidence. On behalf of whom were they talking? On behalf of the world of the oppressed? the innumerable damned of the earth? those crushed by injustice? those distressed by imposture?
That's quite understood, that goes without saying! But also, may one say especially, on behalf of the Loeb-Warburg Bank, which is something else as a guarantor throughout the world,
They were filled, these big slimies on high horses before propagating the riots, and no 'for whom?' is heard, that sounds cheerful, that reverberates … except of the divine jingling … which moves heaven and earth … all the echoes of success ...which is the sorcery of the passions ...Which is the wave of magic straight to the hearts ...that around it all music is extinguished, the fresh jingling of money ...the prestigious wavelength! …
Of course, one was at home, Trotsky, Warburg, Loeb ...Jewish bankers .. agitators ...poets and peasants … It required nothing but to meet one another, to serve in unison the Good Cause, the one that counts, that of the Yids ...the Great Cause of the Great Trick, the great, definitive, sealed, secret bundling up of the Aryans, the absolute Kingdom of Isaac which extends from Heaven to Hell with Durand who runs stupid as always, skin burning, feet burning as he runs across the ashes, tearing his flesh for his master, serving it to him quite hot, bleeding, to the point that he has nothing to say of his Durand, who has perished of love. This is what Warburg and then Lenin and then Ttotsky and then many others whom I shall not name certainly saw. It was understood, natural, it was the community of dreams, the true Kosher Communism, all of us bleeding served well-cooked.
They have learned this in the cradle in their essential legend, read a bit of the Talmud and the Torah. There's that there a hundred times and more. We were born upside down, we were born for catechism, the angelus of the horse-hair shirt, the breviary of sirloins, consumers, beasts for the battle, carting around and peddling deadweight, worthless streetwalkers, contemptible peasants, our women for the Khedive, to distract him from his toothache, if he finds her buxom enough, if she makes herself pretty in every feature.
Lenin, Warburg, Trotsky, Rothschild all think together of all that. No difference in prepuce, it's Marxism hundred percent. Banks, convicts all are in accord. It's the Boatmen of the Volga. It's red hawks of Puteaux who are delighted that this has happened! They already see the world becoming better, full of nougats for their little mouths! Wait dear gluttons of clouds, you are going to gorge yourself on my toys, Santa Claus is going to take you on a walk!
They understood one another immediately, Warburg, the Bank and Trotsky. All that was in the signs … a cheque presented by the New York Times clinched the deal, 200 million dollars to destroy the enterprise of the Tsar, topple, flatten the Romanovs, not 200 million clarinets, 200 million for costs and kind! Trotsky himself made the voyage, presented his plans, his personality, his methods, immediately he pleased Mssrs. Schiff, Warburg and Loeb with his ideas …but not too much with his personality, … They found him a little too restless, a little too ardent, hysterical ...of course, they trusted him perfectly but, finally, isn't it, in spite of everything ... 200 million?, that's a real sum. … 200 million golden dollars, he could quickly have an accident ...an assassin may emerge quickly ...It arrived at the wrong time that Lenin just found himself without a position ...somewhat the trigger of the movement ….he quite serious, an ascete, an iron bone one might say … next to Trotsky .. He pleased Mssrs. Loeb very much ...They took him on his reputation ….engaged him with full confidence.
He was then in Paris, starving in Rue Delambre … Kalmuk white coffee … he was only half-Jewish ...That was the minimum for New York … Deal done … Sorry! … This boom! … This departure like a tornado! The mangy Bolshevik party which a week before was only a painful little piece of trash, a curiosity hardly public, a handful of lunatics, now I say this balloon! This shot at the stars! … 200 million dollars works funnily! … it scores! It electrifies! It is everywhere! It knocks everything over! Kerensky shakes, baulks, disappears! He is no longer to be seen! .. the effect is so sudden .. He finds himself quite pulverised! .. The “Bolshevik” in an armchair .. Limited … It's a New York value …Everything is knocked over, brought down, the earth opens …
The Romanovs are caput. the Cadets with them, the Mensheviks over, and their hairy beard, and the Pique Dame! … the game is over! Nicholas II departs into the snow, he goes there a thousand leagues away with his family, his little sabre, and his amulets …The masses then, how they feel! they enter into a trance volcanically! … it's the eruption of the deep strata! the farandole of the Great Hopes … It's “ten days that shake the world”! … Mr. Loeb is very happy … He does not waste time at the telegraph! … his little associates neither … Trotsky their son, the good news …
“Loeb-Warburg Bank, New York
Romanov fucked. Everything's going well. STOP. Kerensky effaced similarly. STOP. Release another 150,000. STOP. Triumph assured. STOP. 'Progress' in progress. STOP. Difficulties may arise. STOP. Confident, ardent, vigilant. STOP. In a terrible and good conditon. STOP. Trotsky.”
Over there the great cabal is moved. All the Cohens are on the bridge. From Chicago to Wall Street it's an immense jubilation … All the luxury ghettos are delighted, in the rear Lodges things are boiling … the Fraternities are convulsed with joy …It's decidedly the promised age! ,,, The sacrifice has succeeded! … The entire Jewish bank contributes …The steamship arrives via Stockholm … When it arrives at Petrograd, the 150 bags are opened, then its ecstasy, one might say! … the twelve commisars, all Yids, just as many as the Twelve of Misfortune, they know what hurting means, they do not mistake that for slight cuts, they know the song of the world, that it's the good oil of miracles, that now everything could happen! Now it's the marvellous gala! The Progress machine starts. puffs, revs up, whirls vertiginously, it's a dynamo of Justice, of Equality, Enlightement, buzzing with a full Goyim barbecue! Seven million bourgeois are slain in less than two months of courts martial. That funnily clears out the air! This is something else than small movements of flaky primary-school teachers, snotty little villains, bilious little snoops, insomniacs, cockroaches of Future Cities, stinkers and purblind people, lepers without ulcers, dogs, conformisms of slight bitterness, choleric bacteria of shady waters! But then, sorry for a minute! It's a Continental Theatre! 120 million people on stage! without counting the dead, wounded, those killed collaterally, sacrificed in the corners ...
And then more expense, general rehearsals, perorators on dual pay, sly wordsmiths who are not nourished by their hyperboles, who have to be instructed day and night through remuneration and triple wages.
The insurrection is on its knees when it has paid its invoices. Resolutions waver, the red-cheeked virgins become somewhat pale … “Progress on the move” is an abyss.
Even with the Warburg Kuhn Bank, it croaked one moment. It was such a surfeit, such an overeating in the steppes after the excitement in Washington that there was a little moment of squabbling, the Jewish dollars needed to be persuaded … The Russian commisars cheated … As soon as Lenin subsided, he retired to Finland … He had been to school, he knew the cost of gold … the independence that it gives you … he did not want to dry up … led like that, the gentle child … He did not want to be under Trotsky ...he did not want to be restrained ...nor find himself lagging behind anybody … “So return my dear Lenin”, Trotsky contacted him every morning … “All of Russia asks for you … it's a fervour for your skill! The mujhiks do not feel any intoxication any more! at the prospect of happiness! Return, radiant little father! Guide our steps towards the other world! of legal equality! of the redemption of the damned! It's a piece of cake! with music! What an ecstasy of our ideas! the triumph of Progress on the move! It does not gallop any longer! It charges! It flies! … We shall all be in unison at the railway station … all the last delegations ...all of the Progressosieff Comintern ...the Godlessovs ...the Trotsgranskis … the hideous Siphonievs ...all these to greet you! … Come, dear Lenin! Come! Please … Come!”
But Lenin still scratches his head … He is not quite sure … He reflects ...he is really not in such a hurry … He concentrates … he weighs the matter … he takes a walk in Helsingor … He is not in such a hurry to rejoin … Here's an idea that occurs to him …He goes to the Western Telegraph … he feels an emotion also for New York ...This is the moment that he tells himself to take advantage of … And that's it! ... Trotsky is cheated! …
“Kuhn Loeb and Warburg, New York.
Damned admirable uprisings. STOP. But they demand 100 million more. STOP. Better. STOP. To abolish the Romanovs. To efface all trace of monarchy. STOP. Advise immediate despatch. STOP. To myself here. STOP. Nevsky Prospect flooded. STOP. The Cossacks with us. STOP. The danger of the petty bourgeoisie persists. STOP. Lenin. Faithful and reliable. STOP. Pure. STOP. Hard. STOP.”
This was the classic, impeccable blow, the bang on the gong of the sponsor, who is engaged to the gills, who is transported by his “advances”, who runs after his loot. The Loeb did not want to be sentimental, be dampened, along with the twelve tribes, poked the Sanhedrin, made the highest magnates of the Lodges and Wall Street spit it out, that everything might not unwind, that their revolution might not shake, end in a vast pogrom ...The impossible horror! … Let's go! The final effort! 40 more in advance! 40 million dollars!
All that via Stockholm-Helsingor for the workers' goal!
Boom! Lenin packs up! Now there was no point in delaying, in fussing about the preparations,. The affair solidly laid out, beyond the initial stays, could fear nothing more of anybody, the bases were there, the sponsor.
It was conceived on the anvil, hot, with gold above all, the treasure well hidden in holes, the divine ballast. Lenin does not hesitate any more, he perfects himself, he dresses up, livens up, assumes fitting clothes, the worn-out suit with a short jacket, the definitive accountant “at home” … the winter scarf … he's working, he repeats his role of twenty years ago … perfectly … Here's the “man of his word, the soul of the masses” … he enters the scene in perfect form ...That's intelligence for you! … he becomes the tough guy! he embarks! … Bang! … Bang! .. Petrograd! … He is now boiling …
It's the Messiah who emerges from the train … the damned drink up his words ...He no longer speaks of airy currents ...He speaks of things that mean something … He can now allow himself … These are messages ...These are values ...It's the Credo that causes the world to revolt! … and the mountains too! ...The American wheat is with him … Yiddishness courses through his veins. All his words are in dollars. He has paid upfront: the inertia of the opponents, the corruption of the adverse leaders, that becomes velvet… hazelnut butter … It's the mead of the Neva! … He is speaking of gold, you know, that's saying everything! .. Immediately the damned hold themselves back no longer … The great orchestra becomes delirious, all the musicians are paid for! The great drunken orgy fills the crossroads! … mujiks, donkeys, convicts, whores, Yiddish commisars, blackmarketeers, all of them in a danse macabre, full of corpses, and that's the party! that's the shindig at Peter and Paul, Doetoyevsky doing the polka! It's the “Sickle and Hammer” accordion music at the slaughter-house of the Great Judas. People laugh aloud, they are bloodied. More of the little carmagnole. It's the sarabande of the Thunder! that God. Himself is pleased, that the Devil hands him the cymbals! by Jehovah! It's the great Crazy! let the dance get out of control, let the entire world be convulsed! spin! be crushed! drinks everywhere! flowing! ...so that it's no longer something strange.
Mssrs. Kuhn and Warburg regain a strange confidence, they entertain themselves in telegrams, this is great vintage work! pure carat satisfaction! One could not do better in so few days! It's intensive, it costs a world, but by Isaac, by fuck, it's an orgiastic diamond flash! It's not things to deprive oneself of when one hoards millions! What use are they then?
It only remained to finish the job. One forgot Romanov. He had remained in the train there towards Irkutsk … with Madame and the children … They were finished off quickly ...They were saying their family prayers in the Ipatieff house … That could not last forever …They were crushed in the basement ...Nicholas, Madame and his daughters … They were turned into dead meat ...except a hand that remains still in Switzerland preserved in a strong-box. Thus goes the life of the great …
And then – in order that nobody be ignorant of who was involved in it ...It was engraved in Hebrew, in the letters of the Kabbalah, in the wall, here and there, quite close to the ground, close to the corpses, “Glory and Good Fortune to the Jewish People” …
That really commemorated the matter. I've seen the photograph of these marvellous hieroglyphs (mission of General xxx in Siberia).
Of course there are some sceptical persons … There are always some of these ...always were …
It's devilry all that! … the ones in Irkutsk! … Go see for yourself! …. One is not the tsar! … I neither, of course … that's for sure! … I am worried about the liturgical harmony! …I'm worried about the hand that is in Switzerland! .. which should indeed be pressed one day … For the sake of intellectual continuity ...for the persistence of Design … Communism is the great Dada, it's the great Jewish battle-horse.
The only way for us to get out of it: shake it from its cavorting, we should jump on it, we can indeed.
The Jewish bluffer, dirty dickhead, good for nothing, he himself will not know what to do with Communism when he has it, He'll botch, mess everything up. He can't avoid that, it's his nature. Social justice for the Jew? He, the pheasant, the pharaoh, the one who pulls the wool over your eyes, the born pimp of the universe, the hysterical scum satrap of the East, the bastard of all the mystics, the one incapable of any trade, the parasite of all times, the impostor of all trafficking, the Malagauffre turned canaille! This is the New Man? Oh, sorry! That would be funny, that would be a miracle, that would be the first time in the world that a Jew came out of slogan-making, dirty tricks, plots, to return to the common fold, to the level of whores, to regulate, correctly, and fertilise the land, in equality. But that never! That doesn't exist! That's the entire opposite of his nature!
Shat by Moses, he holds his rank as a super deluxe vintage, peer of only the other shits, in Moses, in the Eternal! He is only rotten, and corrupting. He has only one authentic thing in the depths of his substance of shit, it's his hatred for us, his contempt, his rage to have us sink ever deeper into a common grave. What does he expect of Communism? To squeeze us more tightly, to choke us still tighter into the Jewish prison.
All workers, yes, but under him! And for what purpose? His caprices, oh well, his fantasy, his apotheosis of the pseudo-negro. There's something of L'Ouverture in every Jew, I would expedite all of them over there, to Saint-Domingue, to the Caribbean, that would be a good climate for them, they would see in the islands what it is, Communism among cousins, since they do not want Palestine any more.
If there were still any marrow within the corpse of the Frenchman, it would be time to try, absolutely between ourselves, here itself, the famous Communist talisman, the universal panacea, before the Jews inflict it on us without asking for our opinion, for their triumph and our torture. That would be elementary prudence, the Jews absolutely excluded, otherwise it would be a catastrophe, it would be a collapse into the abyss, into the Cabbalist reptilarium, into the abyss of ulterior motives.
Eating the Jew is not enough, I declare, that would go round in circles, like a joke, a way of beating the drum, if one does not seize their stripes, and strangle them with them. Here's the task, here's the man. Everything else is just endless talk, it makes you sick, all the newspapers that are supposedly ferociously anti-Semitic, what do they basically want? the place of the Yids? Settle their dear selves there? It's very meagre as a programme. The one who benefits from an idea is already a blessed whore, I don't want to believe that they are like that. In any case, no contempt, the way they trumpet on, they could be out of breath playing this note for decades and centuries, it would not cause an enthusiasm to arise in the French masses or advance the question one inch. The Frenchman, first, does not give a fuck about it, he thinks of his lot, of misfortune, his lot, his personal misfortune, his little lot, nothing else, the rest he does not give a fuck about, they're just ideas, he does not want them. He is cold, he is chapped. All these preaching newspapers are optimistic in this regard. That's necessary for a newspaper, it's the army uniform, it's the traditional posture, it's the rotary whirr.. Should go out, to be sure of oneself. To see some stars in the night. What a cramp in fleeting time! … They have to mess around, dedicate themselves, they should not relax for one minute … It's a bubble, it evaporates … They should not laugh, they would get caught … It's a bubble, it rises ...the masses look at it, they look at everything, but they do not wish to rise, they are afraid of breaking their necks.
The newspapers are funny, they scratch their heads ….That does not follow! ...They are bothered … They've been trying to warm up the cold meat for months … De Gaulle would see some stiff ones if he came by! … He does not doubt that the French enthusiams is frigid! ...He would be nauseated in less than two months ...Adèle is dead, she does not move … What does Adèle want? … the fatherland? the cheap cuts? … candour? … naturalism? … the moral order? … anathemas? … names and titles? ...or tickles? ...big trials? … great poets? Ah! one does not understand the cow any more … she queues up .. she continues to grumble endlessly … It's the “claim” that she has … to the depths of the molecules of the pineal gland ...Nothing moves her so much as complaining ...and then the blackmarket … or that one has butter? potatoes? to the tobacconist's! … that the tobacconist is from Coutance, that she has seen some German soldiers - not she, but her niece - a spectacle really too horrible, who were drowned in an upright position in the sea, and arrived in that way up to the shore, on account of their boots filled with water.
I understand by Jew any man who has a Jew, a single one, among his grandparents!
That cannot be overcome. It's sad. The boulevard press demean themselves, they tear their hair, with malaise, to see themselves like that in quarantine, underestimated by the French masses. As they are sufficiently brainwashed, that does not make these water-diviner politicians think, they are not capable of that. They have a hobby-horse, they persist in it, they cavort, they don't see what happens on the pavements. So that they are going to get hit in the mouth by frightful tornados one of these days. It's not necessary to be a great astrologer to predict such things. They continue in the softness, in the emptiness, their entire career depends on it, the Jews here! the Lodges there! … But that does not interest the public! … Less and less, as one says! They then confront adversity, they rush against the current, they stir up the policy holders … “The movement assumes an ever-increasing size … makes our masses more and more impassioned … the towns, the country ... our masses become effervescent! they demand the death of the Masons! … of the Yids! of their creations! who have put France in this state! In this extremely atrocious position! … In this infamous mess! ...”
But it's not true! the tooth-pullers! the masses ask for nothing at all! they would rather shout “Long live the Jews!”, who know better how to promise the moon. It makes no difference that our apostles say that we should not remain in our errors, should not bear the spirit of one who is defeated, a newspaper is made to turn things round, it's a bulletin of hope that is sold, that does not harm anybody, let's yell for Father Christmas, he'll come! It's Coué from day to day. It would perhaps be honest to take this into account …
The people are not anti-Jewish, they are not judeophagous. They want to eat only the bourgeois, the bourgeois whom they know well, their ideal, their model, their immediate patron, who is from the same county capital, from the same hole, the same village, who speaks their patois, their successful French brother, not judeophagous at all. The Jew is not in question, anti-Semitism is boring, the vulgar invention of the bourgeois and their sidekicks to divert the very legitimate fury of the poor people onto an innocent group. But the people will not march, they know too well what to expect! they are well-informed! “The Jew is a deserving person, he is a person to be saved, he's a person persecuted by Nazi capitalism, a person whom one tries to sully with one's racist twaddle, the anti-Semite is a Cagoulard, an enemy of the proletariat, a hireling Fascist of the bosses, of the big businesses, of the trusts, of the Wendels.”
And that's it, and that's all.
One returns to the question of dough. The big question of the present time. The Jew is mysteriour, he has strange ways, he is international, he acts as if he were miserable, he has cash that is not visible, he has an accent, more or less, and thus prestige, while Arsène his foster-brother who has had a success as a tailor, “Jerseys, macramé of all types”, who was born in the Bézives Street, three houses after the post office, this one is indeed a bastard! who rides at present in a car, who has his villa by the sea, who has a servant for his two children, there's somebody that's intolerable! a true bastard who should be removed! I don't see anything inconvenient in it. You want Communism? Oh! A wild dog! Serve him hot! You will be tired before me! I'm not going to defend the bourgeois Arsène, stinking, nauseating, neo-Yid, hypocrite, a vile “can can”. Never! Eradicate this infection! His example poisons everything. That should have been done a long time ago. Neither Caliban nor Ariel, he is manure from which nothing grows. A rotten Aryan is not worth more than a Jew, perhaps a little less.
All that does not advance us much ...what to do of the popular Lion? One does not know what to do with him ...One would like to dope him a bit, give him back some alertness, appetite for big things, a taste for high sentiments … He baulks, he does not want your salads, what he wants is to eat the bourgeoisie, that's what speaks to him, incites him ….He is rendered quite melancholic that he is prevented from dining … The popular Lion does not want your trifles! your pale parsley, your airy ideas, he wants some barbecue, and hot, plump bourgeois capital, fine paupiettes, plump pork rinds … Oh! he is scum … He wants to eat even the mink, mule-skin used for crocodile skin from Madame at 1225 francs a pair. He wants all that, he wants everything, that's been promised since May 1936.
Nobody has been able to put him on board a train either for war or for peace. He is envious, he is sly, he drools, he is the worst of caged beasts, he no longer does honour to anybody, he is no longer presentable. He's an animal that has become impossible. He wants to eat his bourgeois. But give him to him, for god's sake! It's been 12 centuries that that has been simmering! It's now or never! Do you want catastrophes then? The Jew has prepared the events, so much the worse for you, so much the worse for us! His taste will perhaps pass from the bourgeoisie to the people if he can go so far … and more! He'll know what happiness is!
It's like that at the confectioners, one does not prohibit young women, the new saleswomen, from tasting their merchandise. On the contrary, one encourages them. “But take one, do take one! Put your fingers into all these fine jars! Treat yourselves ….” At the end of a week they do not want any more of them, they are cured forever. They know what sweets are.
The bourgeois, in spite of his claims, is not the entire History of the World, he is only a moment that will pass. It's worth eating him like the rest, the day that he's really ripe. He should not ask for impossible things, arbitrary prolongations, undue delays. There are fateful times like that, hours that strike on the clock-face. At twenty his daughters are married, at 1942 society munches its bourgeois. After a payment they're manure. They are already turned into preserves. It's a service that one is going to do to them. They would suffer if they insist. They are beginning to lack everything.
For the people Communism is the means, the trick of acceding to the bourgeoisie immediately, at the grab-fest. To jump into privileges calmly., a Baptist once and for all.
The City of the Future for the worker is his personal pavilion with 500 metres of land, carefully closed on four sides, canalised if possible, and that nobody comes to bother him. All that registered before the notary public. It's a housewife's dream, a dream of a decadent people, a woman's dream. When women dominate to this degree, that all men dream like them, one might say that the game is over, that greatness is dead, that this country turned into a whore, in war as in peace, can defend itself in future only in small ways, that men can only do their duty as housebreakers, and take out all these sentimentalities, abolish all this planning.
Will there be yellow folk? whites? blacks? pure people? complicated ones? Will one die at the wedding party? It's quite possible, it's even probable.
It's always the case that there will be men and boors, rulers who will not ask their grandmothers how one should dream in life, who will have the disposition of louts.
Anything more idiotic than the Frenchman? It's really impossible, isn't it? And especially the intellectual? Literally enraged as soon as it is a question of enlightening oneself about the Jewish significance. A masochistic snob. And there's no race! And there's no Jew! And me here! I know this! And can can! And so on! I know that! I'm an expert in scepticism! Ah! Gobineau! what a fool! This Montandon, what a comedian! And Michelet, what a sellout! And let me get you on board with explosions with total idiot information! mind-boggling phenomenal, complete, cannon-sounds of 100,000 cock-ups! and always against the grain, against one's own, against one's blood, and always for the glory of the Jew, his apotheosis, his genius, his undoubted preeminence. Always a little Jew there in the corner, lying low, mocking, groping around … spying on the gushing goyim ... now that he is reassured he approaches … seing his object fully on fire ...passes his hand over this pretty idiot! … encourages him, needles him, caresses him, strokes his skin, above ... below … rejoices …. Ah! the good Aryan always the same, always like himself, always ready to make the Jew happy! Ah! how frank he is! Ah! how dedicated he is! Ah how juicy he is to the end! And how he begins to act, the pretty idiot, refreshed with such hot, intimate, humanitarian understanding.
“Ah! By god! There is no race! There's no Jew either, bloody bollocks! What is a Jew? What a lie! What a crass abomination! What filth of the Fascists1 Isn't it the shame of our era to see such dinosaurs! the blood of dripping victims? all stuck together with apostolic hearts! twisting, grinding, tearing the substance itself of truth! its luminous flesh and music!”
Does the little Jew drink in his words! He feels no more violent ecstasy, he leaves alone in his soutane! to see in this way the good man speaking so well! with so much enthusiasm! so besotted! with so much fervour! let that transport him, the drunken fool! that he is sure that there are no more races! Hooked on it, inexhaustible, what a triumph of dribbling! let him go on foerver! till he loses his soul
All of that wastes us and kills us …
If our gaiety is extinguished the gods themselves will be contrite …
Alas, the heavens then will be heavier …
We wish to live without knowing … We indeed want to die laughing … as frivolously … as possible …
Does Destiny haunt us still? … rough, bitter reasons mumble …
Gaiety alone will save us, not the factory! nor a plan of this or that, nor the grumbling of oafs, nor strategems of loutish mongrel ruffians, concrete patchwork of “Tour Eiffels” with equipment, trust concerns, big Taylor calamities, pyramidal deliriums, stinking mastodons in clusters, crushing our statistical lives under Deluges of cast-iron agglomerates, paranoid delights. Death to all ovens and chimneys!
Let's indulge, celebrate our music, ours! which will allow us to sail over prettily over the horrors of the Age with a beautiful and fresh and nimble flight! at our pleasure! on our whims! pipes! clarinets! skin drum! Let's embrace one another! No mercy to big paunches! To bitter grimaces! sacrifices! that's medicine of dogs! Indeed the dance will have to be paid for! damn! musicians of our choice!
Who will pay? The rich, of course! They have come to us from the depths of the centuries, with the express purpose of entertaining us, cheering us up with their generosity! You doubt that?
Ah! let us regain our gaiety! where is it hiding? Under the pennies?
Let's share them! Ah! The universe will be surprised when it learns that the French share their money! That has never been seen before! Ah! let us regain our gaiety! Ah! let's all run to the sacrifice! Ah! no more gloomy looks! gay! Gay! let's dance the polka! all to the sharing of the spoils! … Why have the people lost their fresh laughter and verses? The money! the money! the question is decided! Harpagon is hanged!
Ah! certainly a very ardent partisan of social justice. Justice should be made to rule, and immediately, not ten years later! By god! That'll cleanse the atmosphere, purge the rancours! Justice should be made to rule, the vengeance of the oppressed, not because that pleases them but because that's the cure, the balm of the jealous, the envious, those enraged at money, of everybody in short today, of society as a whole that does not have a single idea outside money, the bourgeois that it may not disappear, the poor man that he may rob him.
It's the uniform sickness, it will be necessary to operate on it with one cut! Make a long and wide incision on the abscess, let it bleed as much as possible!
As long as one has not opened up Cash, one has done nothing serious, wicked cauterisations on rottenness, organised blackmarket, half-baked melodies, clarinets ...
It's not a question of speeches, nor of the moral order, nor of the police, nor of elections either, it's Big Bucks that one should operate on, empty his pockets, cut his purse-strings, bring that all out in public. It's hygiene without perfuming, cleaning the backside of society, afterwards it can play the coquette. As such it is an infection, a very discouraging hideousness, so that it's no longer funny, that it's no longer anything at all.
The mediating revolution?
How are you going to cope with it?
I decree a national salary of 100 francs a day maximum, and revenues similarly for the bourgeois who still remain, fractions of private incomes, so that I do not starve anybody while waiting for the New Order. Nobody can earn more than 100 francs, the dictator included, a national salary, the national pound. All surplus goes over to the state. A radical cure of the jealous, 100 francs for the bachelor, 150 for households, 200 francs with three children, 25 francs extra for any child after the third. Maximum total salary: 300 francs a day for Father Gigogne. That would be an extreme exception, the average 70-100 francs.
Of course there will be some who are outraged by it, who find that this is not just at all, those who do not earn their hundred francs ...Sorry! sorry! Everything has been foreseen! 50 francs minimum salary, 75 for a married man, 100 francs for fathers of families with at least three children. I have thought of them.
No more unemployment of course. How do you suppress that?
I nationalise the banks, the mines, the railways, the insurances, industry, the big stores … That's all? I kolkhoz any agriculture larger than so many hectares, the navigation routes, I collect the wheat, the grains, livestock husbandry, and the hens with their eggs, I find work for everybody. And those who do not want to work? I send them to prison, if they are sick, I take care of them.
In this way there will be no more complaints, everybody should be in agreement with it, I take the poets into consideration too, I will make them make amusing films, pretty animated cartoons, so that that might elevate the level of the souls,that's necessary. Once one has stepped out of the tripe, out of the obsession with the stomach, all the little hopes are permitted.
One does not need big Communism, they wouldn't understand any of it, one needs Labiche Communism, petty bourgeois Communism, with the pavilion, hereditary, and a family inheritance, absolutely unseizable, and the garden of 500 metres, and insurance against everything. Everybody a little proprietor, the obligatory property of Loucheur. Always the 100 francs maximum, the married at 125 francs, the grannies at 150. That would lead to frightful debates, caretaking for those who are hard of hearing, a paradise for housewives, people will not stop gossiping about the profiteers who have 4 to 5 children, but that will not matter any more, differences of 25 francs cannnot stir the masses to revolt.
Let's vote in a mean way, let's vote in a mediocre, we'll be sure of not deceiving ourselves.
Let's look at the patient as he is, not as the apostles imagine him to be, eager for great transformations. He is eager for little comforts.
When he is better,we'll see, one could make projects for him, great symphonies of adventure, god, we're not yet there! If one goes beyond that, he will burst, he will collapse in his pants, he will fall apart in tatters, he will run off into a jujube, he already does not hold himself up steady ...He is syphilitic with envy as the bourgeois is with avarice. It's the same microbe, the same treponema.
It's that which gives them abscesses, tortures them, makes them grimace.
To operate on both of them together, with the same scalpel, is Providence and charity, it's social resurrection.
They are too ugly to behold, as such, convulsing in their shit, one should act, it's a duty, it's the honesty of the surgeon, a quite simple, very neat incision, almost without bleeding, a hypersensitive, very ripe drainage ... a small drain ...some dressing .. and then that's all … a week or ten days …
I don't like amateurs, weak-willed people. One should not undertake an explosion or else one should finish it, should not leave if halfway, that nobody gives a fuck about your talk …
If one makes a revolution, it's not to make it in half measures, it's necessary that everybody is satisfied, with precaution, gentleness, but with an awareness of things, that one does not evade anything, that one has done all that one could.
What is the other great dream of the Frenchman? of 99 Frenchmen out of 100? It's to be and to die a functionary, with an assured pension, something modest but certain, dignity in life.
And why not please them? I don't see anything wrong in that. It's a Communist ideal, independence assured by the dependence of everybody. It's the end of “each for himself”, of “all against one”, of “one against all”. You say: They will not accomplish anything great any more. Oh! That's to be seen … We''ll talk about that again … I find that perfectly legitimate that the man wants to be peaceful for the end of his life. That's normal ...and employment security ...that's everybody's dream. I don't see anything wroing in being worried, I've been quite worried myself, I've had trouble making ends meet! I think I'm a champion in that, but I have a horror of it nevertheless. I don't see what use that is for the recovery of society, the pleasant march of Progress, to work one's arse off, to crap like so many robbers, without an end or a break, achievements gained through the anguish that it's the crematory of life.
There are always some comfortably wealthy, the gifted sons of archbishops who speak to you of the beauties of anguish, I would drive my car, my handcart, into them! with my school certificate! at the age of 12! I'll give them a taste of suffering!
The Jew wants everything that you want, is always in agreement with you, on one condition:
That it's always he who is in charge.
He is for democracy, progress, all instruction as long as it is in his direction.
Big labels and big treacheries.
The formula is a matter of indifference to him, he always manages, as long as it is he who is in charge, definitively, through intermediaries, through occult missions, through the banks, through universal suffrage, through half-Jews, through Masons, through dynastic marriages, anything you want, and the Soviets, provided that it's he that is in charge.
He plies his business in the Nordic monarchies as well as in the Kalmuk Cominterns or in the Lodges of Mexico. He is at his ease everywhere provided that it's he who is in charge. Never gives up his tricks.
He sings the song that you want, will dance to any music, wiggling with the apes, howling with the poor wolves, zigzagging with the serpents, imitating all the animals, all the races, all the passports, provided that it's he who is in charge.
He's a mime, a whore, he would have disappeared a long time ago by passing into other people, if he did not have avarice, but his avarice saves him, he has exhausted all the races, all men, all animals, the earth is now sick, made so by his fiddling, he is no longer satisfied, he always annoys the universe, the heavens, the good God, the stars, he wants everything, he wants more, he wants the moon, he wants our bones, he wants our guts to install them on the Sabbath, to show off at the Carnival. He is a madman who should be bound up fully, he's only an absurd filthy jerk, a false hysterical wimp, a menagerie impostor, an annoying wriggler, a clawed hybrid that plots. He accompanies us, that's the misfortune, he's a monster that clings, the horror in one's home, he has climbed into the boat instead of a real animal. He does not want to leave our side any longer the moment it's he who is in charge. Does one throw him overboard? ...one can no longer ...we've tried enough to intervene ...he howls too loud when one pushes him ...He has exhausted everybody … He must be in charge …
The Jew does not fear anything ...He is afraid of only one thing: of Communism without Jews.
 See Dominque Venner, Histoire de la Collaboration, Paris: Gérard Watelet/Pygmalion, 2000, pp.207-16 (trans. Guillaume Durocher,, Counter-Currents, Oct.15, 2015, http://www.counter-currents.com/2015/10/celine-literary-giant-and-racial-nationalist/).
 See below.
 See below.
 Céline's use of this term is to be found in Germinal, no.1, 28 April 1944 (cited in Jacqueline Morand, Les idées politiques de Céline, Paris, 1972).
 See below.
 Raymond Poincaré (1860-1934) was French Prime Minister three times and President from 1913 to 1920. It is significant that the professedly “pro-German” Céline chooses him, for Poincaré was noted for his anti-German stance, championed the reoccupation of the Ruhr at the Paris Peace Conference of 1919 and implemented it as Prime Minister in 1923.
 Édouard Daladier (1884-1970) was Prime Minister of France three times between 1933 and 1940. He
 Georges Clemenceau (1841-1929) was Prime Minister of France twice between 1906 and 1920.
 Georges Mandel (né George Rothschild) (1885-1944) was a Dreyfusard and close associate of Clemenceau. He served as cabinet minister in 1936 and again in 1938, but his active participation in the French Resistance led to his execution in 1944.
 Paul Reynaud (1878-1966) was a prominent anti-German politician who served briefly as Prime Minister in 1940. He was arrested by Pétain in 1940 and handed over iin 1942 to the Germans, who incarcerated him first in Germany and then in Austria until he was freed by Allied troops in 1945.
 The Maginot Line was a fortified line of defence that France constructed during the thirties on its borders with Switzerland, Germany and Luxembourg.
 Paul Ferdonnet (1901-1945) was a French journalist who authored a book entitled La guerre juive (The Jewish war). He worked for Radio Stuttgart in the thirties under the National Socialist regime and was executed for treason in 1945.
 The Royal Dutch Petroloeum Company was a Dutch company set up in 1890. The Shell Transport and Trading Company was a British company created in 1891. In 1907 the two companies were amalgamated as the Royal Dutch Shell Group.
 Tartuffe is the hypocritically pious protagonist of Molière's play Tartuffe (1664).
 Bidasse was a character in a song composed by Louis Bousquet in1914 representing a simple conscript soldier.
 Domenico Bernabei da Cortona, called Boccador (ca.1465-1549) was an Italian architect who worked in France and designed grain silos called “Poires d'Ardres” (Pears of Ardres).
 Tabarin was the pseudonym of Anthoine Girard (ca.1584-1633), a street charlatan who sold quack medicines to the public.
 Charles Fourier (1772-1837) was an early socialist thinker who stressed the importance of cooperative work and the distribution of wealth according to merit. He condemned trade as the source of all evil and insisted that Jews, the typical traders, should be forced to work on the land as farmers.
 Alfred Mascuraud (1848-1926) was a French industrialist who created a “republican committee of commerce, industry and agriculture” in 1898 that aimed at supporting petty businessmen
 Léon Blum (1872-1950) was a Jewish socialist leader who served as Prime Minister of France between 1936 and 1938.
 See above.
 Eugène de Rastignac is a character in Honoré de Balzac's series of novels La Comédie humaine who represents a successful social climber.
 SS Persic was an ocean liner that served as a warship during the first World War but was later in 1920 converted into a successful passenger ship.
 Julien Benda (1867-1956) was a Jewish novelist who in his essay La Trahison des Clercs (1927) condemned what he considered to be militant nationalism and racism in the writings of many contemporary European intellectuals..
 Pietro Aretino (1492-1556) was an Italian satirist whose writings attacked several political and religious figures of his time.
 The main auctioneer of race horses in the UK
 Bruz is a commune in Brittany.
 Conches-en-Ouche is a commune in Normandy.. Pacy-sur-Eure is another commune in Normandy.
 Creuse is a commune in the Somme department of France.
 A cake typical of the Aveyron region.
 Nouvelle Revue Française
 The name of a Phoenician king of Tyre in the Old Testament. He is said to have helped Solomon build his Temple.
 Monsieur de Pourceaugnac (1670) was a play written by Molière.
 Le Marquis de Priola (1902) was a play written by Henri Lavedan.
 A member of La Cagoule, a French Fascist and anti-Communist group that existed between 1935 and 1937.
 The De Wendels are a family of industrialists whose iron and steel enterprises dated back to the early eighteenth century. They were regarded as a symbol of French capitalism. The nationalisation of the iron and steel industry in 1978 forced them to transform themselves into an investment company.
 A French car first manufactured in 1934 by Fiat.
 An immigrant to Paris from the Auvergne region.
 The bacteria that cause syphilis.
 Hugues-Felicité de Lammenais (1782-1854) was a French secular priest who began as a supporter of the Bourbon Restoration of Louis XVIII in 1814 but gradually moved towards more socialist views which conflicted with those of the Church.
 Édouard Drumont (1844-1917) was a French journalist who founded the Anti-Semitic League of France in 1889 and was one of the major anti-Dreyfusards during the Dreyfus scandal. He published several anti-Semitic works including La France juive (1886).
 Arthur de Gobineau (1816-1882) was a French aristocrat whose Essai sur l'inégalité des races humaines (1855) was one of the first major racialist works glorifying the white race, and particularly its Aryan branch, as the highest.
 'The Song of the Volga Boatmen” is a traditional Russian folk-song.
 One of the three main penitentiaries of Paris.
 From the expression “payer à guichet ouvert”, meaning that one has enough money to pay all demands.
 Robert Macaire is a villainous financial schemer in Benjamin Antier's play, l'Auberge des Adrets (1823).
 The unsuccessful flight of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette from Paris on June 20, 1791, in the hope of initiating a counter-revolution, was curtailed at Varennes. It led to further charges of treason against the king and his execution in 1793.
 A commune in the western suburbs of Paris.
 A lively dance of the Provence region.
 A Russian peasant.
 The Fortress of Peter and Paul in St. Petersburg was established by Peter the Great in 1703 and served as a Tsarist prison in which Dostoevsky too was imprisoned. It fell to the Bolsheviks in October 1917.
 A song and dance popular among republicans during the French Revolution.
 The second and the third excerpts presented here run continuously in the original.
 Céline's neologism, perhaps a variant of 'moule à gaufre', waffle iron?
 Toussaint L'Ouverture (1743-1809) was a leader of the Haitian Revolution.
 Émile Coué de la Châtaigneraie (1857-1926) was a psychologist who invented a psychotherapeutic system bseed on optimistic auto-suggestion.
 See above.
 A Norman dish prepared of meat and vegetables.
 George Montandon (1879-1944) was a Swiss French anthropologist and explorer whose works include a treatise of scientific racism called La Race, les Races, mise au point d'ethnologie somatique (1933) and the anti-Semitic article “L'origine des types juifs” (1926).
 Jules Michelet (1798-1874) was a French historian who wrote major histories of the French Revolution and of France. Though not an anti-Semite, his work Bible de' l'Humanité (1864) includes a chapter on “Le juif- l'esclave” in which he remarks that “Tout le progrès des Juifs aboutit à la stérilité profonde” (The entire march of the Jews ends in profound sterility) and that “La grande et vraie gloire des Juifs qu’ils ont due à leurs misères, c’est que, seul entre les peuples, ils ont donné une voix, une voix pénétrante, éternelle, au soupir de l’esclave.” (The great and true glory of the Jews which they owe to their misery is that they alone, among all peoples, gave a voice, a penetrating and eternal voice, to the sighs of the slave).
 Frederick Taylor (1856-1915) was an American economist whose theory of scientific management aimed at improving labour productivity.
 Harpagon is the protagonist of Molière's play L'Avare (The Miser) (1668).
 Le Père Gigogne is a collection of tales for children by Alexandre Dumas published in 1860. In puppet theatre, Mère Gigogne represents a woman with many children.
 A collective farm of the Soviet system.
 Eugène Labiche (1815-1888) was a French playwright who retired from the stage to his estate in Sologne, where he supervised agricultural work.
 Louis Loucheur (1872-1931) was a French politician who in 1928 got a law passed promoting cheap housing.
 See above.