The Gridding Sword and the Wandering Wood

“Go, Michael, of celestial armies prince
. . . lead forth to battle these my sons
Invincible . . .
Equal in number to that godless crew
Rebellious; them with fire and hostile arms
Fearless assault, and, to the brow of Heaven
Pursuing, drive them out . . .

John Milton, Paradise Lost, book vi

If the Orthosphere has a patron saint, it is surely the archangel Michael, for his image has always graced our banner and his sword has always inspired our words.  It was by Saint Michael’s “gridding sword” that “Satan first knew pain,” and although our adversaries have been the merest flunkies of Hell, we hope our words have made them likewise smart. Continue reading

The Ctrl-Alt-Del-Right

What is popularly called the Right these days is of course mostly just Right Liberalism; which is to say, Right Leftism. I.e., not Right at all. This had been known in the discourse of reaction since about 2002, when Lawrence Auster, Zippy, James Kalb, Moldbug, et alii, first began writing online.

The Right, period full stop, is not in fact Right. It is rather the “Right.” So have we seen in the last few years the rise of several other sorts of Right, that distinguish themselves from the “Right” with the same urgent animosity that true Communists display in distinguishing themselves from mere liberals and panty-waist Socialists and Social Democrats.

These sorts fall into four categories: the Alt-Right, the Ctrl-Right, the Del-Right, and the Ctrl-Alt-Del-Right. These sorts are all more truly of the Right. But only one of them is right, or therefore Right; so that it integrates, and indeed consolidates, all other sorts of Rightness.

Much has been written of the Alt-Right. The Alt-Right takes the deliverances of the Normal Narrative and turns them upside down. Viz., sexual realism, racial realism, national realism, cultural realism, and so forth, as against the Mass Indiscretion, blindness, and Failure to Notice that is so characteristic of those poor pathetic souls not yet liberated from the Normal Narrative.

Then there is the Del-Right: all the ilk of the anarcho-capitalists, the techno-futurists, the thoughtful realistic libertarians, and especially those souls who find their guts arrayed in horror and disgust against the Swamp, against the Deep State, against the Cathedral, against the Cabal, and so forth – against, that is to say, the Cult of Moloch and his babelarchy – who insist that the first and essential step to restoring social equilibrium and cultural health is to delete the political, cultural and especially bureaucratic accrustations of the last few centuries, at least.

Then again there is the Ctrl-Right, who would restore outwardly, and consecrate, the ancient royal and sacerdotal hierarchy that always anyway, somehow or other – nowadays mostly hidden, a corrupt oligarchy that dare not speak its name – administers social coordination.

Then at last there is the Ctrl-Alt-Del-Right. That’s us: reboot; all of the other sorts of more truly Right, integrated and so kicked up a notch or three.

NB that because the orthospherean Ctrl-Alt-Del-Right [man, that’s hard to type!] includes and subsumes the other sorts, it administers in the process some necessary corrections and adjustments of each, so that they all fit together coordinately and harmoniously.

Great Mother: All Talk

Great Mother

The Neolithic GREAT MOTHER

This is an extended comment on JMSmith’s previous post. I once taught a senior seminar in “advanced literary criticism.” I asked the students to read Rene Guenon, T. S. Eliot, Jose Ortega , and Roger Scruton. At the end of the semester an obviously “offended” female student asked me, “Where is the voice of women?” I retorted, “Where is it not?” And, “You ask the wrong question — where is the voice of TRUTH?” Followed by hostile silence. Truth was not familiar to to complainer. She only knew how to talk, talk, and talk.

Notice that the Neolithic image has no face and is therefore not an individual, but only a type. Notice that it is enveloped in the grossness of its own corporeality. Obesity seems to be one of the criteria for admission to my campus. The Prez of my campus has recently said in a radio interview that he or she has directed the administration to lower admissions-standards so as to recruit a nucleus of “students with drive.” The enrollment of my classes includes many undergraduates with “drive,” whatever that is, who refuse to read. A large number of students seem to have the “drive” to over-eat. As far as I can discern, weight-reduction-programs, although health-positive, have no place in the diversity-agenda.

“Drive.” Even in Freudian psychology, as crude as it is, The “drives” are relegated to baseness. The “drives” are what provoke the “discontented” to anti-civilizational rage when civilization, as it must, thwarts them. A recruitment-program that seeks to enlarge the nucleus of the discontented is an anti-civilizational agenda.

A conspicuously placed poster in the main corridor of the Campus Center appends numerous autographs around the crudely written slogan, “The Future Belongs to Women.” Not if they omit to liaise with men.  And if I were twenty, with many I would not, under any circumstances, liaise. One liaises with women who exhibit spiritual acuity, moderation, and compliance with the structure of reality. I would not liaise, for example, with Occasional-Cortex. Or her peers. Or the obese Great Mother pictured above. So much for the human race. There were sexy girls in my youth, who could converse, or play the piano, or speak French, as opposed to talk, talk, and talk. Of course, one could speak French with them. And one could converse with them, rather than talk, talk and talk.

In 1974, Liz and I went to see an Italian-language film — it was Fellini’s  Amarcord — in downtown San Diego, and afterwards, in a restaurant in Torry Pines, we exchanged intelligent conversation about what we had recently viewed. Liz, who could play Bach on the piano, was culturally acute and politically unbiased. We never spoke of politics. The film that we mutually appreciated would be banned under the contemporary regulations of witch-hunting political correctness. In it, men ad women behaved like men and women.

All Talk

I once had a colleague who fancied himself a shrewd politician.  As he was neither powerful nor popular, he had plenty of time to evolve theories and tell them to me, a man even less shrewd, powerful and popular than himself.  There was something ludicrous about this Machiavelli manqué sententiously yarning in the dim office of his even dimmer junior colleague, but it seems to me he that he did have a certain theoretical understanding of campus intrigue and machination.  He was simply a failure when it came to practical intrigue and machination. Continue reading

Check Your “Scornful Jests”

I will not attend the big geography shindig this year, but if I did, they say I would be sheltered from abuse by a new “Non-Discrimination and Harassment Policy.”  That such a policy was written might lead you to suppose that uncouth louts routinely run amok at these conferences, and that learned debate often breaks down in a tumult of scurrilous shouts, snarled invectives, and intimidating jabs with a sharp map pointer. Continue reading

Outward is Upward: The Anthropology of the Martian Romance (Part II)

Jegga Amazing Cover

Amazing Stories November 1943

I continue my “Anthropology of the Martian Romance.”  The previous installment dealt with the seminal Martian Romance, A Princess of Mars by Edgar Rice Burroughs and its background in the studies of East Asian shamanic practices and later of the planet Mars undertaken in the early years of the Twentieth Century by Percival Lowell.  In this second part of “Outward is Upward” I discuss a little-known but impressive addition to the Martian Romance, David Reed’s Empire of Jegga, and a late addition, Leigh Brackett’s Queen of the Martian Catacombs, later republished as The Black Amazon of Mars.  While I confine myself to a sub-sub genre of science fiction, I believe that my interpretations are applicable to mid-Twentieth Century genre across the board. I take genre seriously. Genre offers, as I put it in Part I, “a colorful promise of redemption.”

II. Epistemological Displacement in Reed’s Empire of Jegga. Burroughs’ example, no less than his success, provoked many writers to imitate him. Knock-offs of A Princess quickly became legion. Burroughs even imitated himself, launching new series of books whose action takes place on the planet Venus, on the moon, in a vast cavern at the center of the Earth, or on an extra-solar planet away across the galaxy.  In his Venus series, Burroughs might have been imitating one of his imitators, Otis Adelbert Kline (1891 – 1946), whose “Planet of Peril” trilogy, set on the next planet inward from Earth, saw serial publication in Argosy All-Story Weekly between 1929 and 1931.  The first of Burroughs’ Venusian tales, Pirates of Venus, only appeared in 1932.  Kline wrote his own Martian novels in the early 1930s.  If Kline’s romances had come back into print after many decades, as they have, it would be a case of their riding on Burroughsian coat-tails.  Kline’s prose is certainly entertaining, but it lacks the symbolic richness of Burroughs’ prose.  Now imitation is not only flattery; it is also the index of a market.  In its turn, a market is the index of a desire or need.  The desire or need arises from the subject’s proprioception of alienation or maladjustment.  In the case of maladjustment, however, the subject senses the condition not so much as his own but rather as a deforming affliction in the external social world.  That deformation is modernity, which in rejecting Tradition drastically diminishes the opportunity of proper self-placement that the archaic rites of passage facilitate.  The world of getting and spending obviously exerts on John Carter no attraction whatsoever, but Carter nevertheless seems incapable of bitterness.  Stalwartness belongs to Carter’s Percival-like character.  Nick Brewster, the protagonist of David V. Reed’s Empire of Jegga (Amazing Stories November 1943), presents himself at first, in contrast to Carter, as a materialist, even a hedonist, and womanizer.  Not only in its protagonist, but in the fullness of its details, Reed (1924 – 1989) appears to have conceived Empire initially as an anti-Princess of Mars, but his story is nevertheless a version, or perhaps an inversion, of Burroughs’ saga about John Carter.

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Outward is Upward: The Anthropology of the Martian Romance (Part I)

Planet Stories Triple

Planet Stories: The Stubborn Home of the Martian Romance

Introduction. This essay takes for granted a number of premises: For example, that Twentieth-Century genre literature, even when it is a purely commercial endeavor with the author being remunerated according to word-count, often resurrects types of thinking, not least the mythic and sacred modes of thought, that the doctrines of modernity reject and that the organs of modernity attempt to suppress.  A related premise is that these modes of thought, or states of mind, through the symbols associated with them, articulate an image of full humanity, especially of full masculine humanity, unavailable elsewhere in which many people wish to participate, even if it were only vicariously.  In the liberal-modern, rationalistic view, such vicarious participation in archaic processes and dramas belongs to an escapist and antisocial attitude, the participants in which the representatives of the prevailing order admonish and chastise with the aim of shaming them into re-assimilating themselves to a prescriptive, but highly unnatural, set of norms.  While it is true that stock formulas govern the unfolding action of genre narrative, those formulas stand, perhaps startlingly so, emphatically outside the horizon of any Post-Enlightenment order.  They are in many ways both dissentient from and critical of that order.  Not least, the generic formulas derive from the paradigms of archaic heroism, known from the Homeric epics and especially from the medieval Germanic and Celtic sagas, which in turn carry with them the patterns of ritual processes in general and of ritual initiation in particular.  This initiatic pattern invariably entails the confrontation of the subject or initiand with a transcendent mystery, where-through the protagonist acquires manly status, wisdom, and on occasion a help-meet, and either earns acknowledgment from a community that has previously ignored him or reconciles himself to a status as permanent outsider by virtue of his proper and self-validating achievements.

Who was he?  In the first half of the Twentieth Century, the historical period that this exposition addresses, he was an office worker, a bank teller, a low-level civic bureaucrat, a technician in a factory, or a high school physics teacher in his mid- to late-twenties, a bachelor but interested in marriage, whose five-day-a-week, eight- or ten-hours-a-day routine while it bought him a living, replenished him spiritually not at all.  Aware of his confinement in stultifying routine and chafing at it; living in a city, likely in an efficiency apartment, with few opportunities of escape; and possessing an educated imagination, on which the demands of his employment never drew, he sought compensation.  He might look for it in the movie house, but film appealed largely to a female audience, which merely dragged the male along and required him to buy the popcorn and soft drinks.  He might take night classes in the city college or subscribe to a correspondence course.  He might join the Elks or the Rotarians.  He might affiliate himself with the Technocracy movement or join a rifle-club.  His plight was not, however, the Marxist alienation of the worker, but a condition much more profound than that, lying entirely outside the horizon of economics.  A colorful promise of redemption existed in his day, however, of which he no doubt frequently caught sight: The corner news stand, with its rack on rack of garish periodicals.  Those racks sometimes loomed providentially, rising up like a sign to the initiand, who did not yet know himself as the initiand, rather in the way that the Holy Grail appears in Arthur’s castle, lighting up the hall “seven times greater than before.”[i]

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’Tis the Season to be Cynical

You may have seen that the Archbishop of Canterbury has enjoined Anglican’s to give up cynicism for Lent.  With all due respect to His Grace, I submit that he understands neither the word cynicism nor the season of Lent.  Lent is, above all else, a season to let our cynicism off its leash.  For what is cynicism but the proposition that the world is filled with tinsel and dross, and what is Lent but forty days of meditation on the fact that “the wisdom of this world is foolishness in God’s sight” (1 Corinthians 3:19). Continue reading

The Most Monstrous Empire of All

International Woman’s Day, 2019

“And therefor I say . . . that this monstrous empire of women, which amongst all enormities that this day do abound upon the face of the whole earth, is most detestable and damnable.” 

John Knox, The First Blast of the Trumpet Against the Monstruous Regiment of Women (1558)

John Knox wrote this stirring line to protest the first queen regnant of England, Mary Tudor, whom the Reformer especially hated for her energetic persecution of his fellow Protestants.  But the ink was hardly dry when Knox was embarrassed by the death of “Bloody Mary,” and the ascension to England’s throne of Elizabeth, who was a Protestant, but a woman all the same. Continue reading

Those Who Go to the John

There once was a land where everyone was equal but the people were divided into three rigid and antagonistic classes.  At the top were the Patricians, or Pats; next in line were the Plebeians, or Plebs; and at the bottom were the Morlocks about whom it was universally agreed, the less that was said, the better.  The Pats called the Plebs Upper Morlocks, the Plebs called themselves Lower Pats, and the Morlocks called them both by a name I cannot print here. Continue reading