The Plight of the Irish and Other Whites

As an Irishman, I am cognizant of the shortcomings of our race; a race into which has been sown anarchy, discord and a distaste for logic; a race that was not always vacillatory, unreasoning and susceptible to the sometime paralysis that is the result of greed and trained insatiety; and finally, a race enticed by the promise of impossible material fulfillment.

The entrenched and counter-cultural self-conceit of our race may be overridden, but it requires that one abandon the partisanship reserved for parties and the political disunity that is a result; it requires that one’s aims are narrowed, that the divisions rife in our race may mend through solidarity; it requires that our race impede social unrest and general psychological ferment by stunning and subduing the unchecked flow of divisive theories into its midst.

If our race is to retreat broadly from the brink of dissolution, it must retrieve its distinctive character from the transvaluing maw of the social engineer; it must wrest from the social engineer’s stranglehold the will to personal initiative; the white man must not be used against himself as an instrument of disintegration. If our race is to achieve lasting unity, it must reject what has been referred to as “the good” — those good, alien, motivating ideals which have been planted in order to stealthily subjugate reason by an inverted appeal to itself: e.g. democracy — a “good” ideal that is anathema to the natural inclinations of a healthy and willful man; a man ever-sensitive to the fact that much that may be genuinely construed as truth contrasts starkly with that which has lately been deemed reasonable, but which, unlike false truths, yields results that are at once plain, understandable, and amenable to racial cohesion.

Too broad-minded, too cosmopolitan, too tolerant, too yielding to the ideal of liberty, and too accepting of unreality has become the white man; no longer is the white man thoughtful, observant, with his feet planted firmly on the bedrock of belief, which affords him surety of purpose. Instead, belief has been substituted with speculation. And the base motive to which speculation maneuvers the tolerant white man is profits. In his relentless pursuit of profits, he has been reduced to one of two perpetually antagonistic roles: reactionary or radical. But in each role, reactionary or radical, capital or labor, he can depend only upon one outcome: bewilderment. That whites should be divided against themselves in an objective that does not reward with sanguinity and wisdom is counterintuitive.

The Gods of White Man have been subsumed by commerce, and his faith supplanted with an abiding loyalty to those earthly priests that would promise what I have heretofore referred to as material fulfillment, and the cost of the subsumption of faith is the wholesale adoption of newfangled, flabby ideals, of which agnosticism and atheism are two. The objective of the social engineer is clear: no longer do whites have something rejuvenating, galvanizing and higher than the State to which they may collectively adhere themselves. Welcome to the Church of Want, wherein the only thing in which one must have faith is the unknown.

While my race sleeps, into its ears are whispered the ingredients of dissension and unrest, that when it wakes, it remains easy in its unease — unlanded, subordinate, indebted — a perfect tenant, a mere hewer, a hick, with nothing any longer heritable.

The soul of my race has been mortgaged:

In order to overcome its spiritual and intellectual debts, it is incumbent upon my race to enter the labyrinth, to court hunger, to follow the narrow, weed-choked byways to their ends…on their knees, feeling with shaking hands for clues, markers, fighting programmed lassitude, unwilling to be out-maneuvered, learning swiftly the minds of the labyrinth’s architects by its byzantine designs, read in the dark as by Braille, in order to make plain the methods whereby which is instigated a radical temper in a genetically mild people indisposed to indiscriminate change.

✖ From the Novel, Orchard Park and Other Works

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