Message from Nemets in Literature Club #tir
*And when you can “see” this, it’s an amazing feeling that I don’t know how to convey with words. In an instant, to see people, hardly removed from the stone age, with burlap clothes, farming in a way not dissimilar from how farming was done by our prehistoric ancestors, with modest changes in their clothing-and to see that every piece of “technology” in this world is understandable within perhaps 10 minutes of explanation. To see a world in which all of the existing technology could, in perhaps a week or so, be understood by a single person.
To see the “elite” of 1250 being like “chavs” or “trailer trash” or “traq soot” slavs that you know today, and the lower classes being so casually crude, so casually violent in a way that you at first think isn’t real, like they’re joking. To see a mob take out sticks and improvised metal weapons and, with enjoyment, butcher a man to death. Not just the odd sociopath, but half the males in the village, with the females egging on the brutalization. To see them go about their daily lives, and then when they catch a criminal, mutilate him, or, just for the fun of it, burn a bunch of cats alive (3. common practice in Western Europe until a few hundred years ago), and then go back to weeding their wheat fields.
Then in 1500, to see those chavs and “trailer trash,” once the elite, now just the average person, and the elite like the average white guys of today, with what we think of as normal levels of aggression and abstract thinking. Then in 1750, to see white people who are like today, with the*
*elite being of similar demeanor and intellectual leanings of doctors and corporate managers of today.
And to see all of this represented as what is able to be produced: to see that iron forged by hand into new shapes and molds, and then into the parts of a primitive steam engine, and then hand-building a steam engine with a better design, the blacksmith changing in character over the centuries from someone unrecognizably brutish and prone to fights to someone like you and me as the complexity of what he makes increases. And then the smithy turns into an iron workshop, and then that building gets bigger and the blast furnaces grow larger, requiring steam engines and five-man crews to move them.
It’s like I can feel this material creation, as if crafting and screwing and gluing the wood and iron and cloth together myself, and in some weird way, this wood, iron and cloth and straw and burlap are themselves, somehow, an extension of those peoples’ own biology, like a bee hive.
And I know the people in each phase of genetic development. I can hear an old hag cursing in some indecipherable precursor to modern English; a dashing young blond-haired man who doesn’t look like the criminal sort at all, who then robs you, and later rapes a woman. To see someone who looks like the blond Aryan warrior Link from The Legend of Zelda, but then acts like an African. Women who smile courteously at you, but then stuff their bags full of produce and sneak out; who mock the boys who can’t fight and are attracted to only the most physical and dominating men. People who are European in appearance, but then behave like... well... do I need to say it? As if an alien race entered their bodies. But no, that’s them! That’s who the Romans called Barbarians. The modern world as we know it came from this genetic change in Western Europe. The change was most concentrated in England, which is where the “first world” started to come into existence.*
*This is why First Worldism means not mere “white nationalism,” but the whole mentality and state of being of the European who evolved, and evolved in, in this setting. Objectively-speaking, free speech, private property, and consistent law free from clannish sentimentalism does not exist where modern Europeans are not the deciding majority of an area’s demographic makeup.
If anyone should have racial pride, it is Europeans, the more northern and western the more so. And all of the old fables-the world of forms wherein empty heads murmur about oppression and hierarchy and domination, or jackasses imagine that their Northwest-European ideas of individualism and free markets are some universal truth-are revealed for what they really are: petulant nothingness. Just as those idiots who say Detroit is crap because of Democrats, when the obvious difference between Copenhagen and Detroit is the same as the difference between Copenhagen and Haiti, or Copenhagen and Eastside Los Angeles.
These people-libertarians, liberals, “cuckservatives”--burn so hot and so fiercely over the mere superstructure of our civilization, and not only deny the genetic base, but treat the people who understand the clear primacy of the genetic base as somehow sick or wrong-headed. And when you understand what this thing is we call “modern civilization,” the totally new and revolutionary conception of property, of law, and of life itself that preceded it, the hidebound, primitive economies it replaced, and the genetic changes in Europe from which it came-then you have a visceral understanding, in an instant, of how this, our genetic inheritance, is absolutely it.
This is the one thing that needs preserving above anything else.*
**FIRST WORLDISM BY RYAN FAULK**
*At ten o’clock in the morning a large band of Indians rode up to the fort, stopping in front of its main gate. Estimates of the number of warriors vary from one hundred to six hundred, but the smaller number is probably more accurate. There were women, too, mounted like the men. The riders carried a white flag, which might have reassured more naive settlers. The Parkers were too new to the western frontier to know exactly who this painted-for-war group was-seventeen-year-old Rachel Parker Plummet guessed incorrectly, and perhaps wishfully, that they were “Tawakonis, Caddoes, Keechis, Wacos,” and other sedentary bands of central Texas - but they had encountered Indians before and knew immediately that they had made a disastrous error in leaving themselves so exposed. Had they fully understood whom they were confronting - mostly Comanches, but also some Kiowas, their frequent running mates - they might have anticipated the horrors that were about to descend on them. As it was, there was nothing to do but play along with the idea of a parlay, so forty-eight-year-old Benjamin Parker, one of the six men in the fort, walked out to meet the warriors.
What happened next is one of the most famous events in the history of the American frontier, in part because it came to be regarded by historians as the start of the longest and most brutal of all the wars between Americans and a single Indian tribe. Most of the wars against Native Americans in the East, South, and Midwest had lasted only a few years. Hostile tribes made trouble for a while but were soon tracked to their Villages where their lodgings and crops were burned, the inhabitants exterminated or forced to surrender. Lengthy “wars” against the Shawnees, for example, were really just a series of Indian defeats strung out over many years (and complicated by British-French alliances). Wars against the northern Plains Indians such as the Sioux started much later, and did not last nearly as long.*
*When Benjamin Parker reached the assembled Indians, alone, on foot and unarmed, they told him they wanted a cow to slaughter and also directions to a water hole. He told them they could not have the cow, but offered other food. He returned to the fort through the open gate, told his thirty-two-year-old brother, Silas, what the Indians had said, remarked on the absurdity of their request for directions to water when their horses were still dripping wet, then gathered up a few staples and bravely went back out, even though Silas warned him not to. Meanwhile, seventy-eight-year-old family patriarch John Parker, his elderly wife, Sallie, and Rachel Plummer’s sister Sarah Parker Nixon were Heeing out the back exit, a low doorway - too low for a horse to pass through - that led to the spring. Another Parker in-law, G. E. Dwight, did the same with his family, prompting Silas to say, scornfully “Good Lord, Dwight, you are not going to run? Stand and fight like a man, and if we have to die we will sell our lives as dearly as we can.” This was bad advice. Dwight ignored it. In spite of his bravado, Silas had left his shot pouch back in his cabin. He then made another mistake, failing to tell his niece Rachel to join the others and run away with her fourteen-month-old son, James Pratt Plummet. “Do you stand here,” he said to her instead, “and watch the Indians’ motions while until I run into the house for my shot pouch.”*
*But events were moving much faster than Silas Parker had expected. As Rachel watched in horror, the Indians surrounded her uncle Benjamin and impaled him on their lances. He was clubbed, shot with arrows at extremely close range, and then, probably still alive, scalped. This all happened very quickly. Leaving Benjamin, the Indians turned and charged the fort. Rachel was already running with her son in her arms toward the back door. She was quickly caught. In her own detailed account “a large sulky Indian picked up a hoe and knocked me down.”1! She fainted, and when she came to was being dragged by her long red hair, bleeding profusely from her head wound. “I made several unsuccessful attempts to raise my feet before I could do it,” she wrote. She was taken to the main body of Indians, where she saw her uncle’s mutilated face and body up close. She saw her son in the arms of an Indian on horseback. Two Comanche women began to beat her with a Whip. “I supposed,” Rachel recalled, “that it was to make me quit crying.”*
*Meanwhile the Indians attacked the men who had remained in the fort, killing Silas and his relatives Samuel and Robert Frost. All three were scalped. Next, the warriors turned to a task especially suited to mounted, raiding Plains Indians: running down fleeing, screaming victims. Elder John Parker, his Wife, Sallie, and her daughter Elizabeth Kellogg, a young widow, had managed to travel three-quarters of a mile when the Indians overtook them. All three were surrounded and stripped of all of their clothing. One can only imagine their horror as they cowered stark naked before their tormentors on the open plain. The Indians then went to work on them, attacking the old man with tomahawks, and forcing Granny Parker, who kept trying to look away, to watch what they did to him. They scalped him, cut off his genitals, and killed him, in what order no one will ever know. Then they turned their attentions to Granny, pinning her to the ground with their lances, raping her, driving a knife deep into one of her breasts, and leaving her for dead. They threw Elizabeth Kellogg on a horse and took her away.
In all the confusion, Silas Parker’s wife, Lucy, and her four children had also run out the back gate of the fort in the direction of the cornfields . The Indians caught them, too, forced Lucy to surrender two of her children, then dragged her, the two remaining children, and one of the men (L. D. Nixon) back to the fort, where they were somehow rescued by three men from the cornfields who had arrived with rifles. The two children who remained in captivity were soon to become household names on the western frontier: Silas and Lucy Parker’s blue-eyed, nine-year-old daughter, Cynthia Ann, and her seven-year-old brother, John Richard.*
*Thus ended the main battle. It had taken barely half an hour and had left five men dead: Benjamin Parker, Silas Parker, Samuel and Robert Frost, and Elder John Parker. Two women were wounded, Cynthia Ann’s mother, Lucy, and Granny Parker, who had miraculously survived. The raiders had taken two women and three children captive: Rachel Parker Plummet and her toddler son (the first child born at Parker’s Fort), Elizabeth Kellogg, and the two young Parker children. Before they left, the Indians killed a number of cattle, looted the place, and set fire to some of the houses. They broke bottles, slashed open the thick mattresses, threw the feathers in the air, and carried out “a great number of my father’s books and medicines,” in Rachel’s description. She described what happened to some of the looters:
Among [my father’s medicines] was a bottle of pulverized arsenic, which the Indians mistook for a kind of white paint, with which they painted their faces and bodies all over, dissolving it in their saliva. The bottle was brought to me to tell them what it was. I told them I did not know though I knew because the bottle was labeled.
Four of the Indians painted their faces with the arsenic. According to Rachel, all of them died, presumably in horrible agony.*
**Empire Of The Summer Moon by S C Gwynne**
Tis the season where normies will bash Whites for conquering the savage. Make sure to remind them that these people were literal barbarians with the good ol tale of the Fort Parker massacre.
The world, as it presents itself to us, is empty and cold.
Its communities have been dissolved; what remains are individuals rushing madly to and fro in the service of the
It may not be surprising, therefore, that many of us escape into another, much more pleasant world — that of computer and video games.
There one finds that which no longer exists in the real world — a community to belong to, solidarity, great heroic deeds, authentic chivalry, and true love.
In fact, video games are, for many of us, the last possibility to somehow perform heroic deeds, experience epic battles,
achieve victory in combat, and overcome defeat.
This is why many of us choose this path, and some even forget their real lives in favour of it. They don’t want to go back into the cold, senseless world that you've created, into which you’ve forced them.
You’ve nothing but disdain for their behaviour, and want to force them back into your reality. But they are fleeing from you.*
*We, however, understand our brothers and sisters.
We know why they run, why they don’t want to have anything more to do with this world, with your world.
So we say to you:
Come to us, brothers and sisters! In this life there are still battles to fight and struggles to win. We need your desire for action and your passion in order to defeat our parents.
Let’s end their reign of terror together. Let’s join each other in entering into a new era. Let’s build a new world
together. A world in which no one needs to run anymore.
A world in which there will be genuine values and true friendship. A world of community and solidarity. Come to
us, brothers and sisters. Join us in the struggle against the ’68ers. Defend yourself with all your strength. Join us
to reclaim our inheritance, our country, and our identity.
Come back, brothers and sisters! For we all belong together.
We are all generation identity.*
**Chapter 30 - Generation Identity by Markus Willinger**
Better than Chaplin's speech in the "Great Dictator" by many orders of magnitude.
I’ve thought of this as well. Nice to see these thoughts in print
What book is this?
Pretty sure it's from Rules for Radicals.
No. Definitely not. Don't think it's Taylor (White Identity, the next book). Maybe u just haven't gotten to this part...
- C.S. Lewis, *Mere Christianity*
Only a real progressive is willing to acknowledge when it’s time to turn around and retrace our steps
@Nemets What made you pick up this book in particular? I'm trying to dig into European history on the whole but it's hard to know what's worth reading and what's not.
if it's 600+ pages and the 1 star reviews on amazon aren't about formatting errors or freudianism it's usually at least half decent @Mick