“ The man who is content to live alone is either a beast or a God.” -Aristotle I ask of the Muses that my work goes not unnoticed. I ask of the Muses that they smile upon me and any who read this book. Allow them to seek sainthood, martyrdom, heroism, and transcendence. I ask that the two false gods that we have put up for ourselves, of equality and capital both fall to the grounds around us. I ask that in time I will be stalking bullmoose through overgrown parking lots, and draping my wife and children in pelts. I ask that I may be upright, and good. I ask that God love me, and set me on the path to righteousness. I ask that skyscrapers of Babylon collapse, so we may remake the great lighthouses, reforge ourselves as men, and create a more heroic society. I ask that all those who read this know that I want nothing more than their success and their strength. Blessings upon you. -The Author Incipit Prologus: The idea of the ‘Western Value’ has been stolen from us, and perverted by those that would want us to hate ourselves rather than realizing our true potential. In every aspect of our lives, from work, to school, to the food we eat, there exist systems of control which are detrimental as a whole to human life and our wellbeing. These systems of control weave their way into every art and every science, corrupting us as we try in vain to master the arts that our forefathers picked up at ease. The arts have been corrupted and made inaccessible to those who would have the most benefit of them - those whose ancestors created, defined, and perfected the arts. Oversocialization and constant propaganda have assaulted our psychological well being internally, whilst a flawed way of living and an insidious food infrastructure have ruined our external bodies. The air we breathe is poisoned, and the green spaces so necessary to the continuation of the human spirit are being torn away. Contrary to what anyone might tell you, seeing this happen in front of your eyes can be incredibly harmful to you. The collective mental health and wellbeing of the society you are a part of does have bearing on you. Forced silence on these controversial topics adds insult to injury, when you cannot in good faith and conscience enlighten your fellow man to his misguided ways without being shushed and shamed by those hypocrites who do not see the systems of control. I have written this text to make you aware of what is being done to you. Perhaps you are already aware, or perhaps you are seeking a greater knowledge of the various wools which have been pulled over our collective eyes. This is not a religious text, and though I myself am religious, I exist not to convert you to any spirituality, but to inspire you towards greater and more ancient knowledge. Knowledge which has been kept from us but that we know in our bones. Take this text as neither in celebration of nor in condemnation of any set of beliefs, be they polytheistic, animalistic, pagan or otherwise. I believe instead that mysticism and ascetic belief can reignite the magic in the world, and lead one to great moments of solemnity and philosophy which are more important now than they have ever been - if only due to their scarcity. There is a great emphasis on Greco-Roman and Western philosophy in this text. There are many references to great writers and ethicists and philosophers and essayists, all of different schools and opinions. If any of these confuse you, or you do not understand the context, feel no shame. We have been, as men, pushed away from the great arts of literature and philosophy, and it is time to reclaim them. If there are any authors you read about in this text, and wish to know more about, I encourage you to seek them out. This is not a book on accelerationism. This is not a book on nationalism. This is a book about inner-conquest, and actualization of the self. If any ideology is to be ascribed to this work, the closest would be primitivism, or at least vague anti-industrialism. That being said, I abhor the modern flaw of constant classification, and find that prescribing a label or ideology on anything can retract from it’s message. As such I ask you to take this as a work without any ideology at all, for there is no single ideology that one could ascribe to the great men of the past. Take this as a work that is untainted by modern ideas about systematic or part politics. My entire goal is to help you dismantle these systems for yourself, and live in a way that is truly free. This book is more conservative than liberal, but only in the sense that I wish above all things for the conservation of the old ways. If you are a liberal who is reading this book to “get ahead of the opposition”, then I am glad, and I welcome you. I invite you to try the way of living and eating which I outline in chapter (12). I invite you to have a critical mind towards what you are being taught in your institutions; I explore this in chapter (9) at length, but the preceding chapters (7) and (8) may help you to understand why these systems of control are so threatening. I hope you take no other interpretation of my work other than the one I have outlined here. I hope that it helps for some of you who have found yourselves in times of despair. Remember that the darkness inside you can be a great and powerful force for positive change. I want nothing more than this: That you, the reader be happy. That you, the reader, be joyous. I want you to eat good food, and drink good drink. I want you to climb mountains and move them, also. I want you to take back the world which is your birthright, and do so positively, and with great strength of both body and character. I want you to make it. I know you can. Dedicatio: “A stone is heavy, and sand weighty: but the anger of a fool is heavier than them both. Anger hath no mercy, nor fury when it breaketh forth: and who can bear the violence of one provoked? Open rebuke is better than hidden love. Better are the wounds of a friend, than the deceitful kisses of an enemy. A soul that is full shall tread upon the honeycomb: and a soul that is hungry shall take even bitter for sweet. As a bird that wandereth from her nest, so is a man that leaveth his place. Ointment and perfumes rejoice the heart: and the good counsels of a friend are sweet to the soul. Thy own friend, and thy father's friend forsake not: and go not into thy brother's house in the day of thy affliction. Better is a neighbour that is near, than a brother afar off. Study wisdom, my son, and make my heart joyful, that thou mayst give an answer to him that reproacheth The prudent man seeing evil hideth himself: little ones passing on have suffered losses. Take away his garment that hath been surety for a stranger: and take from him a pledge for strangers. He that blesseth his neighbour with a loud voice, rising in the night, shall be like to him that curseth. Roofs dropping through in a cold day, and a contentious woman are alike. He that retaineth her, is as he that would hold the wind, and shall call in the oil of his right hand. Iron sharpeneth iron, so a man sharpeneth the countenance of his friend.” The Subjugation of the Golden Man Or The Invisible Panopticon A. Hercule Campus (1) There is a famous Ethicist who writes about Moral Isolationism in the context of a Samurai trying his sword for the first time by cutting down a wandering stranger. I’m not a Japanophile or “Weaboo” as people say, but having lived in the place getting drunk nightly and mingling in a haze with oriental men who wanted nothing more than to unwind after a day amongst the inhuman slavedrivers that lead so many of their young fertile men to suicide, I feel as though I can understand where the samurai were coming from. There was a desire there to live as one was meant to, without apology or exception. It wasn’t to subjugate, it wasn’t to dominate, it was just that cutting down a wayfarer was closer to reality than simulation. It would be an insult, she writes, to cut down a fellow samurai, and if the cut were not clean enough, the samurai would either be shamed, or the sword-maker would be shamed for having forged an inferior product. It wouldn’t make sense to cut down a tree, or a sprig of bamboo, or to film your 400-pound carcass butchering bottles of Faygo for the internet. Why would one practice an art in only simulated grounds? Would that not lead to insanity? Imagine you have a pencil and a note-pad in front of you. You are a master artist, and you know this, and the form of a beautifully formed person sits before you. Man or woman, it does not matter, but they have curves and ridges and wrinkles in their skin. Skintight against muscle, uneven and formed from a life of true labour. They are posed perfectly, and their physique, whatever you imagine to be perfection, is hit by the light in all the right ways - lengthening the right shadows, highlighting their cheekbones, accentuating their hair; the way it falls around their face. And in front of you sit this pencil and this paper, ready. But all you can do is sharpen the pencil. All you can do is cut the paper to size, stripping it of its rough edges. You can smooth the paper and sharpen your pencil, and pose the model, but no matter how much you want to, you can never draw. You can never allow yourself the freedom to put your hours of sharpening and smoothing and practice and mastery to work. Such would be the samurai, were he not allowed to cut down the wayfarer. Is it cruel to do so? Yes. Would the samurai be disappointed if the wayfarer took out his own sword, and deflected the blow? No, that would be all the better. But in the world of simulation and pacification, the samurai would feel torture. He would not understand why he could not do that which he was bred and built to do. To stand around, acting as a ceremonial guard, would be the worst punishment you could bestow, worsened always by the fact that he must smile through it, acting thankful for the opportunity never to use his craft. The man who lived in the cabin in the woods and sent mail-bombs to industrialists described the state of things as hopeless. He spoke about how we were so removed from the natural way of things, that our activities were merely simulation. They are surrogate activities, as he puts them. Rather than hunting for our food, we hunt for deals at a grocery store. Rather than fighting the sabertooth, or the Lion of Nemea, we fill our heads with flashbulb images from television, praising these programs and pixels for being as close to reality as possible, a reality that we will never know. The man who lived in the cabin in the woods that he built with his own hands as a child with his father was correct, but I would offer an addendum that I think, at the time of his writing, he could not have foreseen the worship which we prescribe to things simulated and surrogate. I call them instead Ceremonial Activities, as they are not only unreal, but we must thank them for being unreal. We must take joy in them, otherwise, we do not fit into the norm. In sociology and criminology, those that refuse or refute the ceremonial “normalcy” of these surrogate activities are seen as and called ‘deviant’. Not always in the sexual sense, but, linguistically, because they deviate from the norm. Deviances can be anything from the crazed man who feels compelled to spread feces on the walls of an airport bathroom, to those who live in the woods eating only trapped and hunted meat, paying no taxes, owning no ID, and doing what they will. The latter, despite being the true norm for humanity for thousands of years, is considered still to be deviant for a refusal to partake in these ceremonial activities. To this end, we come back to our artist and our samurai. For a hundred million years of human evolution, that samurai would have been able to cut down a wayfarer. For a hundred million years, the artist could sketch that perfect form, a form like a god, finally standing in front of them. They are reduced today to pencil-pushers and ceremonial guards, never drawing steel in anger, never putting pencil to paper in passion, and never living in the woods only eating hunted or trapped meat, holding no identification, and paying no taxes. Remember that if you wish for the lives that most before you could live, you are deviant to most people. Remember also that there are a hundred billion human souls who came before you to whom you would be perfectly normal, and judge yourself only by their views, not the views of those who would enslave you to the ceremonial. (2) I was speaking with a good friend one night, and he told me that he was upset at the ugliness of everything around him. He said to me that we have no temples, not really. He told me that he is sad that he’ll never look upon the hanging gardens of the ancient world, or the immeasurably tall statues of those who came before him, welcoming him home after a long journey. He said then, also, that he wouldn’t need statues made of him - just that he lived a good enough life that his life itself was the monument. We don’t need to have statues built for us, if we can live a life that is remembered, The ancient men who worked no stone, and knew only wood and iron, who slew great bears and could still see the magic of the world around us lived more fulfilling lives than anyone with a statue erected in their honour. But it is still fine to wish for those statues. It is still fine to have a lust for the brilliant marble halls of times passed, because even though those halls always fell and the cities always burned, the architects could see in the building of monuments a half a second of the glory of man. A frighteningly small glimpse into what surely has been a thousand times, and will a thousand more. The state of man is to build great and beautiful things, and those who tell you there is no such thing as objective beauty are those who would seek to subjugate you and force you into pretending to enjoy ceremonial activities which should disgust you. I need no source for this, because I feel it in my soul, and against the truths proposed by academia, there is nothing wrong about writing purely from your own instinct. Nietzsche never wrote about the writings of others, because he didn’t want to corrupt any of his ideas. I am not as strong as he was, academically, but I will still always defend that a soul uncorrupted can write a greater truth than any writer who would support their beliefs only through peer-review, and sources pulled from journals and academic publishing houses. If a writer can only be confident in an idea after someone else has said it, then he is not a good writer, and probably has very few if any original ideas. Men who hide behind other people’s writing as a defense for their own are usually the type of people who say that they have transcended the need to have fraternal relationships with other men. They’re the sort of people who will say that masculinity is “toxic” (It is, and that’s a good thing, but that’s another matter and I will touch on that later). They say these things because they are not self-aware of the fact that they were ill equipped for greatness, and gave up on it rather than pushing through the hand they were dealt. Consider the artist again; he who has inherent skill, ingrained and natural. Consider the man who could pick up a brush without an ounce of training, and paint for you a landscape so real that you could smell the pines and the fresh water flowing. Is this man a greater artist than the one who realized he had no skill, but wanted to, so he pushed and trained and learned until he had it? Even if his painting is inferior, it still shows a level of spirit and hopefulness that we need more of in the world. Both of these men are to be respected. The Greeks knew this and wrote in equal measure of the demi-gods who could complete any task and the flawed heroes who through toil and strife could achieve greatness. Just as revered as the beautiful and youthful Dionysus, born of Zeus and filled with inherent skill, was the ugly and crippled Haephestus, who after being thrown from Mt. Olympus had to toil and work every day through the pain of his afflictions. Both of them are seen as great. Both were worshipped. Dionysus for his natural beauty and youthfulness, things that came to him by birthright. Hephaestus for his hard work, and ability to live on despite his challenges. The craftsman and the beautiful noble each have their place. (3) Nature is not your enemy. Though the natural state of man is war and toil, there is also great comfort and rejuvenation in nature. Too many people see nature, rather than distance, as something to be conquered. There is great honour in conquering, but we must always live with nature. The second we stop is the second we are doomed. If we fall prey to the idea that we must expand exponentially forever towards technological growth, we may reach the stars, but every planet we touch we will destroy. If we believe that we need no strength, then we will live with a beautiful wonderful world to exist in, but with no great stories, no great battles, no great conquests, and no honour. We cannot live like men in the springtime as we could during the Golden Age, before our hubris saw us thrown out of greener pastures. The Golden Men must be what we model ourselves after, knowing we can never achieve their greatness. The Golden Men, that race of men from before history who walked with Gods and knew no pain of old age. They were free to adventure. Free to explore and conquer, without destroying the springtime for anyone else. We cannot live like the Silver Men, either, who to Ovid and Hesiod were nurtured in childhood for a hundred years before leaving grown and exploring the world for their own. They were not tainted by the wheel or fire, though they still knew how to eat the things of the world, and how to survive the seasons. No mothers, here, for man. No fathers either, other than the Godhead. The Nymphs taught them without psychological damage, nor false pretenses about the world. These men were great, and they lasted a thousand generations. The Bronze Age, that of Ovid, not that of modern “history”, was the fall that precedes every great race of people. The men grew angry. Conquest and discovery were not enough for them. They had houses made of metal extending to the sky. They had great and mighty weapons. They built too much and they were strong. While their strength is to be admired, it was a cunning and disgusting strength that sought only the subjugation of all, with no thought towards toe gods, or magic, or transcendence. They were strong, but strength could not save them, and so they sank deep into the underworld. The men of this bronze age, who likely lived hundreds of thousands of years before the bronze age of classical antiquity, are most terrifying to me. It is said that so deep was their anger, so warlike were their ways, that they left behind no spirits, and they either disappeared entirely or still live in pure malice under the oceanic floor. Perhaps they are to blame for earthquakes. Perhaps their great machines still churn and boil over into the world. Perhaps their hatred still runs through us, urging us to rip everything apart and let the world descend into chaos. These men show up in most mythologies of the ancient world. Our progenitors knew of them and the age of strife they would bring, and in our ignorance of them, we have missed the fact that the bull of dharma stands now on one leg, ready to collapse our age into the Kali Yuga. This is another thing that I will speak to later - for now, what is important is the earth and the things within it. When the druids saw spirits in the forest, they were real. The world was a better place when a wanderer at night could look up at the moon and see only a pool of cool clean water in which he would never swim. The world was better when the stars were shining holes in the fabric of the world from which angels could descend. And they did. I’m not a fan of metaphor or not speaking clearly, and I want you to know that everything I write is true to my understanding. But angels used to descend from the stars. Dwarves used to make thunder from their mountains. Spirits and Wills used to inhabit forests, some good, some bad. There are no spirits anymore. Science has driven them away in a vain attempt to understand the world. The Science that is cruel and impatient, like the souls of the Bronze Men. The Science that would suck all the magic out of the world, drilling into the brains of great men and disabling them from seeing the world in the shamanistic and magical way we are meant to. Cutting out true religious transcendence with Ceremonial drug-induced hell-visions that scare us away from any idea of peeking beyond the curtain, and if you aren’t scared away, the view you see beyond the curtain is one grown in a lab, synthesized by cruel men who are leading us again towards the great sinking, the great flood. The world is your friend. It is ours to watch over like great lighthouses. It will take care of you, too. I read once of a marine biologist, who in the 1990s was researching “The Bloop”, the sound which most scientists usually pass off as tectonic plates rubbing together. Other scientists, with more magic in their brains and more of the spirit of the Golden Men within them, believe it must be some great animal, larger than we can comprehend. These are the ones who do not need to dispel everything. One such scientist went diving, searching for an Orca Whale he knew, who was named Marv. The Biologist had made friends with this pod of whales and found them one day to be distressed and in mourning. He could not track where Marv, the oldest of the pod, had gone. If this great beast stayed under the water too long, it would die. So before it was too late, the biologist launched himself off of his vessel, and into the cold water, to search for his friend. At some point during his descent, he was stung by a jellyfish and felt great pain in the depths. He felt pulled by some current deeper and deeper into the darkness. He eventually almost settled to the floor. His suit had been ruptured, and the shock of the jellyfish had left him almost paralyzed. He didn’t have the strength to swim back up, and like Marv, the great Orca who now sat beside him, dead, he would be claimed by the ocean’s floor. The pod of Orcas could see his distress, and though they were terrified of whatever it was that had taken Marv, they came to the rescue of the young scientist. They nudged him off of the ground with their beaks and pushed him - slowly so as to not hurt him from the pressure - back to shore. They waited, holding him above the water until the poison wore off enough that he could climb back aboard. When he finally did, they sang.