Perhaps it is best to round off another year with something of a sobering contemplation, not a black pill, but the transposition of a theoretical framework and an experiential realization. For a long time, possibly since I began this journey in 2014, I had never held the level of confidence in schemes that some others had. It didn’t matter whether it was proposals to infiltrate and take command of the current state apparatus, or relief expressed at the emergence of so-called ‘white identity politics’ in the era of Donald Trump, I was never convinced these things would solve our problems because the Spenglerian pessimist inside me was tugging at my sleeve, saying: “the deckboards beneath us are creaking and splitting, even as we perform the most spectacular symphony for the sinking ship.”
Imagine being locked inside a cell, within a prison thats structure was ready to collapse from age and neglect. You could throw yourself against the wall and perhaps bring it down faster, or maybe there exists some part of the cell in which you would stand less chance of being crushed by debris, but in the end you have only the knowledge of yourself and the four walls within which you reside. You have not a clue what is above the room, and no instincts whatsoever for the infinite geometry of the bulding’s implosion. Sooner or later, come hell or high water, no amount of planning will prepare you. Science, reason, argumentation, analysis… at the point of collapse it breaks down and becomes unintelligable. You step into an abyss, trust yourself to it or fear it, the abyss does not care. Then the moment passes, and you are either alive or dead with no idea how you came to be in such a state, you wake up in another world much different from the four walls you knew.
All of that might seem pretentious or overly poetic, but I’m driving at a very real point here. We are all in the grip of something larger than ourselves yet in terminal decline, a behemoth the likes of which is absent from all known history. It is the sheer size of this behemoth which advised NeoReaction’s passivist strategy, accepting that most forms of activism as we know them would only ever be tolerated by the Cathedral if they were of mere illusory significance. Does the unexpected campaign of Donald Trump debunk this? Not really, since as I have said on more than one occasion, the Donald is no savior, but instead a useful political actor. We remain unimpressed by demotism, and Nick Land was correct to say the following:
“Even if explicit anti-politics remains a minority posture, the long-dominant demotic calculus of political possibility is consistently subverted — coring out the demographic constituencies from which ‘mobilization’ might be expected. There is no remotely coherent reactionary class, race, or creed — it painstakingly explains — from which a tide-reversing mass politics could be constructed. In this respect, even the mildest versions of neoreactionary analysis are profoundly politically disillusioning.”
Land paints the rather amusing image of the Reactionary as the whispering voice into the ear of the Modernist; “despair” it whispers, informing the Liberal that his utopia will never happen, that he is already a failure. Despair is most certainly assured for the Liberal on the level of his theoretical apprehensions. His ‘ideas’ if they can be called that are at odds with the omnipotent power of the living God, of the laws written upon His creation in permanent ink. But beyond utopian theory, there is a less guarded aspect of the Liberal which is his deep-seated hatred of Tradition, of rootedness, of anything not bound up in his humanistic and ultimately nihilistic vision of the world in which he is the author of value. His misguided constructive impulse is more than matched by his almost perfectly guided destructive impulse.
So in light of this, what would the Reactionary whisper concerning the hell which the designs of the Liberal will unleash upon humanity within our lifetimes most certainly? He would say “Because of what you have done, our peoples may perish and what remains of our beautiful history consigned to the flames… but at the same time this all may not come to pass… and you have no control over the outcome.”
As one steps into the abyss, his shackles dissolve and he finds himself unbound in an instant. In that moment, passivism will cease to hold. We will be left with the measure of ourselves as our judge and jury. Success and indeed survival will depend upon the inner domination of but a few, the great men of history, around which legends are weaved. These great men are not among us in plain sight, they are not men of letters and contemplation, but men of action, a different caste altogether. Perhaps they have read these works from the very beginning, but perhaps they will only read them a week before the weathered walls of our people’s prison cave in.
Don’t you see? The bourgeois cosmopolitan masses, the scoundrels and traitors, the indifferent and the comfortable; through the eye of the nadir none of them will matter! Many will run as far as their legs and wallets can carry them at the first sign of real trouble, others will curl up and rot like useless appendages, while still more will beg and plead for even the most meager shelter, abandoning all preconceptions in a desperate bid for their selfish genes. The sniveling refuse of Babbitt…
In an abyssal chaos, that which Modernity will consign us all to, history is made by valorous deeds, by warrior saints, by those who truly know themselves. The human element once again triumphs over the mechanical element, the organic over the artificial. Does this promise us victory? No. Our liberation could come at the same moment as our erasure, via many mechanisms. Being plunged into water can be a baptism or a drowning. We can all do our part (given our innate talents), to make the former more likely, but recognize that there will be a moment of uncertainty, obscurity, and dare I say faith.
Even those who have accepted this in theory, including myself, shrink from it in our guts. We see some glimmer of hope, some illusory glare from a rock face and think that there is an exit from the cave behind us; we can claw our way back, it isn’t too late! There is no going back. History is passed. The future lies beyond, and you must trust yourself to part of the passage where not a single point of light touches you.
Oh, if only our problems were all political, but they are not. Their root lies in the very essence of the Modern World. Whether it is apathy or malice that grips the soul of the man who says “my country belongs to any man on earth as much as it does to me”, this matters not. Both are just flavors of decay. Metternich knew in his day that once man had accepted the anti-hierarchical principle, he would not be made to part with it by articulate scholars. He would need to have it torn from his hands. We will not experience the pleasantries of a quiet old age, this I guarantee.
My suspicion is that part of this journey is accepting decline for the inevitability that it is, not simply a theory of what might be. It’s a solemn conclusion for sure, that Modern man will not get it until he is made to get it, and I fear that wake-up call rings for all of us. Where to find encouragement for the road to the next zenith? That cliché rhetorical question: if God is with us, who will stand against us? ‘The World‘, you may respond. Fine. Then the world will be drowned in the primordial sea from whence it arose, but with a prayer on our lips we must demand of ourselves that when the tides recede, our people will come reeling to the shore.
The many men, so beautiful!
And they all dead did lie:
And a thousand thousand slimy things
Lived on; and so did I.