Thurland Press

“Thus had the Everlasting No (das ewige Nein) pealed authoritatively through all the recesses of my Being, of my ME; and then was it that my whole ME stood up, in native God-created majesty, and with emphasis recorded its Protest. Such a Protest, the most important transaction in Life, may that same Indignation and Defiance, in a psychological point of view, be fitly called. The Everlasting No had said: "Behold, thou art fatherless, outcast, and the Universe is mine (the Devil's);' to which my whole ME now made answer: 'I am not thine, but Free, and for ever hate thee!'

"it is from this hour that I incline to date my Spiritual New-birth, or Baphometic Fire-Baptism; perhaps I directly thereupon began to be a Man.”

Charles Brewer, in review of Might is Right, in his lecture 'The Gospel of To-day' writes thus in his opening preface: "The greatness in Man is savage withal graceful, and Man is not a City-Thing, but a dynamo of ancient energy, which his wooly ancestors of the bygone centuries had long nurtured into the Present Time after the slow centuries of crawling Conflict. What is he? Else who he be but that instrument of Almighty Power, that compounder of sacred goodness that is in all that Man has done and will do? He is a warrior, a knight, a doer of deeds, and in his cultivated form is never the subject of the cruelties heaped upon him by hated modernity, which wishes to enslave him and render him Mechanical; who is he, but the sum of his purpose and what he is not? Verily, Man is the contender and defeater, the master and conqueror, and he wages a tremendous war against disease and Dementia. He is the Tiger roaming the humid jungle searching for prey, and the eagle seeking his trout; the Lion in Man withal other majestic mammals are shewn in his terrible command of the entire world."

What honor was there when Little King Louis, so fearful of dying and blood, and gripped by a blinding-paroxysm of visions and pain, had breathed his last, and his worthless courtiers could only look stupidly ahead, and animalistically blink, “What a shame”? What honor and 'sacred national dignity,' is there to-day in America? Tens of millions of dollars raked in and spent, for the insolvent courtiers of a rotted leviathan, with wild and noisome parties and galas, all to elevate and show 'how beautiful and united we are, O God bless the Constiushun! and our lovely guberment and dear President!' As widows and cast-away veterans—melted down into vast financial dividends by that great terrible Steam-Engine of Technology churning forward on its inexorable way—starve and are buried beneath the tidal crest of GDP. Hundreds of millions of screaming, miserable mouths cry out for bread, for money, for stability! These poor wretches are so confined in their Great Insanity that any slippery grifting Demagogue may rally their disdain, for pennies and bones! They shout out their pain and anguish, as that great ugly voice of Populism, rising and shouting, grossly inarticulate and groaning, as the voice of Chaos over the Republic! The Angels of Lunacy blow brass trumpets over the Nation, and as these fatuous, insulated liars pontificate, 'Oh, but consider the aggregate! Yes, the aggregate, consider it! Consider the colored lines rising and elevating the Economy! it is good!' It would be good for ten-thousand baleful demons to rise up from the fiery fissure-mouth of the hoary earth, armed with burning-irons and thorn-bludgeons to crush the neck of this rotted Pluralism—O thou dread-fiend! Thou wretched Tyrant! Thou consumer of men and culture and history, the annihilator of heroism! Damn you! Let the Peace-Sleep be interrupted and let the Great Deep be split in two, so as to swallow the nation and be rid of this demonic hellscape, damn you!

What black, dreary world would the fetid minds of to-day envision would they be made to Rule for ever from their sterile garden-tombs? What ugly and monstrous Death-Sleep would enshroud their earth, and come on black wings to suffocate Health with Dementia? What winding-sheet would coil around and hang down from their blighted tree of comfort and—strangle in its course, like a sickly babe, the Spirit of Man; what dark swamp-waters would drown us? A world of Comfort and Slow-Dying, and where Mankind is thrown beneath the industrial soul-thresher of a hopeless and dismayed world! A lifeless world whereby they may lay down under the shade of that sickness-ridden tree, so to admonish dead-men and the Unborn for the Desire of wanting to Live! The world is sick of sham-Scienceisms, it is sick unto death of rag-virtues, and of debased and bloodless luxury! Mankind crieth out for Heroes! it desires Love and Victory and Danger; it lists the fallen millions to give testament for the demand for Life! Life! Life! The drum-beats of a million years echoing in the deeps; yea, they are the heart-beats of the Man striving and doing and suffering and Living, rather than lying down and dying in his pestilent Comfort! Damn the 'popular mind,' and damn the pidgeon-boned weaklings to be ground to death—may they be stricken blind and deaf and deathly by the virulent civilizational leprosy of the charnel house as institution of the Nation—may they be justly damned and enslaved and rolled over by the Steam-Engines of their ugly Progress! May they be erased from history and their descendents fed into the great pyre as dry kindling!

The 21st century is like a rubber-glove fastened on to the bald cenosity of 'The Times'; the time of the ‘Affair of Honor and momentous Destiny’ is bygone. "Culture" is a cernuously pondering thing of manufactured patchworks; where the so-delightful grubbery of Post-Modernism, ‘decentered’ of Love, Piety, or even Meaning thrives in beautiful maggot-holes, which fester and decay, but! but! they are kindly and homely to the slug-relative, and to the assiduous earth-worm, and even to the humble Cockroach, who chitters on about the Love he knows! and wherefrom the slimy sinews of Mammonism leap out at the world! The Suit of Columbia, made in days gone-by, which came from the same workshop as the accoutrements and rifles of 1812, and before that the Revolution, is the masterwork of a now defunct shop; its dilapidated carcass enclosed by the newer, cheaper factories, whose products are outsourced and proudly fabricated from contradictions and spiritual iniquities, and its bon mots and advertisements shout and leer, 'O how Democratic! It be for you, the New Man, whose trammeled Self needs a rake-off, and hastily, for whom the garments of the new age will fulfill that emptiness in your heart!'—while that old Suit, which was bright, clean, and proud, is now a ratty thing, and certes still worn by fatuous holders-on, and whose trousers and top are hole-riddled and roughly patched, and the name Columbia is faded, and that of Mammon stitching itself in with imperious glowing abandon; but these garments have a Soul, and it is beneath its covering, the Thing itself, and these garments must be resewn; they must be replaced, else that ugly prevaricator of modernism, that maggot-monger of that New Republic, that leprous demented Democracy, will in and consume whatever remains, and the final dawn will glow on that run-down shop-front, and nothing else good befall.

What mystery is there to the "prudent mind," of those modern man-children, who cannot conceive of any such Good beyond their own inanity? That there should be nothing behind the curtains of reality, whatsoever, then what? So what, that these mildewed minds cannot fathom the Noble, nor the Beauty of the mist-veiled love-of-life? why ask so stupidly the wherefore and how of their incapacity?


As they have grown into 'maturity,' those accumulated Television Dogmas and un-examined ‘ipse dixits’ withal have grown into maturity. As the Yellow Star-Thistle which chokes the life from the vast field beyond acreage and the Pampas which keeps garrisons on and chews the defenseless soil, whose stranglehold is absolute on the primitive soil, and where from the poverty of mind parachutes its vile legions of occupying seedlings, so to set its golden border-wall of mangled long-grass—repellent to creatures of the field and toxic to the virgin clime, and set against hopes of the lovely home-grasses, whose tenacious struggle could not gainsay the one-thousand rhizome encroachment!


What lunatic-hope could ascend that grassy hill, so riddled and guarded by such voracious consumers, who would lay their snares for thee to be killed and devoured? The worser still lies yet ahead, for terrible strangler-vines grow about the roots and branches of our thoughts and dreams, which have been lain under siege long before the dawn of our Nation's day, and under whose shaded crowns have we learned to grow and yearn for the Sun above.


We have been swept under the dementiatic rule of mad foaming geriatics and parasites, whose idiotic and animalistic greed have hollowed out the Nation. These yokesmen of ugliness have cultivated mushroom minds—grown in the dark, for their world is captured by only black glass and 'the Aggregate, oh the Aggregate; the colored lines and data!'—which can only offer dull apathy and slavish non-solutions of helpless anguishing and effeminate diminution.


The war of the sickly and ugly and gray against the healthy and beautiful and Good! The dark fetid funeral shroud of modern fungal "values" wants to eat away at Columbia, and the red gloaming of the Long War angrily rumbles over us, but lo! the stars in their courses penetrate the gloom and they have blazoned our triumph, like a bright fire chasing the night, into those azure companion jewels—which shine from the lofty hauberk of Heaven above! The healthy and strong will always overcome sickly and anemic people-weeds; thus the dicta of Nature: death to the weakling—death to the miserable suckling—death to the race of cowards with rot in their bones! Health must ever triumph over sickness; or else, for ever, in all places, a world of drudgery—a world of darkness—a world of fever-warm death.

Kullerwoinen, in his purple-colored stockings now prepares himself for battle; he grinds a long time his broadsword, and sharpens his trusty weapon...these the words of Kullerwoinen:
"I shall not journey through the marshes, shall not sink upon the heather, on the home-land of the raven, where the eagles scream at day-break; when I yield my life for ever, bravely will I fall in battle, and fall upon the field of glory. It is beautiful to die in armor, mid the clang and clash of armies—beautiful the strife for conquest! Thus Kullervo soon will hasten to the Kingdom of Tuoni; to realm of the departed, undeformed by wasting sickness."

A WAR SONG

Prepare, prepare, the iron helm of war,
Bring forth the lots, cast in the spacious orb;
Th' Angel of Fate turns them with mighty hands,
And casts them out upon the darken'd earth!
Prepare, prepare.

Prepare your hearts for Death's cold hand! prepare
Your souls for flight, your bodies for the earth!
Prepare your arms for glorious victory!
Prepare your eyes to meet a holy God!
Prepare, prepare.

Whose fatal scroll is that? Methinks 'tis mine!
Why sinks my heart, why faltereth my tongue?
Had I three lives, I'd die in such a cause,
And rise, with ghosts, over the well-fought field.
Prepare, prepare.

The arrows of Almighty God are drawn!
Angels of Death stand in the low'ring heavens!
Thousands of souls must seek the realms of light,
And walk together on the clouds of heaven!
Prepare, prepare.

Soldiers, prepare! Our cause is Heaven's cause;
Soldiers, prepare! Be worthy of our cause;
Prepare to meet our fathers in the sky:
Prepare, O troops, that are to fall to-day!
Prepare, prepare.

Alfred shall smile, and make his harp rejoice;
The Norman William, and the learned Clerk,
And Lion Heart, and black-brow'd Edward, with
His loyal queen shall rise, and welcome us!
Prepare, prepare.

Look on that picture, and on this...
Behold!
The Face that frown'd the heights of realms away;
The Imperial forehead, filleted with gold;
The masterful chin, the lips of frozen clay,
This is the later Caesar, whose great day
Was one long sunset in blood-ruby roll'd,
Till, on an ocean-island lone and gray,
It sank, scorned, feared, and betray'd.
Yea, this is he who swept from plain to plain,
Watering the harvest-fields with crimson rain;
This is the Eagle who on foes fed.
Turn to the wall thy Reproach.
Wherefore thou, criminal agaze,
Blink thy truth leering, so dim?

Rather a heart as strong as the great heart
Driving a hot life thro' a lion's thews;
Rather a Will that struggles anew
With that immortal ichor of our Race
Which unpolluted fill'd to the brim!
Which lash'd the world's Kings to its triumph-car
And sat like marble while the fiery wheels
Dript blood beneath it: tho' the foemen shriek'd—
Warm as Life heroic in tilt-yard;
As bright as stars do shine,
In the glitt'ring sea void—
In the white after-dawn,—from west to east
Royal it moves as the red wintry sun.

"Whence comes it that a thing like this,
Of mind no bigger than a fly's
Should attract the popular favor
Be of his country thought the Savior,
Sent to assembly and convention
With votes almost without dissention?"

"A stupified and awe-stricken nobility, lazing under the ennui of southern climes, sipping wine and listlessly inert, apathetic to the life of their Sovereign; they who could only say a dull "Tant pis pour lui," like dim rushlights, blinking uselessly in the gloom of France's peril. Presently, ten thousand wailing mouths, lamenting in the streets, verily professional lamenters, husbandmen and yokesmen all come the city of Paris, and a great groan rose like a death-rattle, of an entire country into the air and dispersed into a rolling dark fog of anguish, which covered the entire kingdom in sorrow, for the teeming thousands and for the hopeless nobility the end was upon them! Great breakers and rollers, rumbling and churning in the sky, filling the vast gray sea above to the swell of grief, threatening to break apart the barrier between the Earth and Sky—O lovely France, cry out for life and not death!"

An old Satire, from a bygone era reads:


Almighty crowd, thou shorten'st all dispute;
Pow'r is thy essence, wit thy attribute!
Nor faith nor reason make thee at a stay,
Thou leap'st o'er all eternal truths in thy pindaric way!
When Phocion and when Socrates were tried,
As righteously they did those dooms repent;
Still they were wise whatever way they went.
Crowds err not though to both extremes they run,
To kill the father and recall the son.
Some think the fools were most, as times went then;
But now the world's o'erstock'd with prudent men.
The common cry is ev'n religion's test;
The Turk's is, at Constantinople, best,
Idols in india, popery at Rome,
And our own only worship at home.
And true but for the time! 'tis hard to know
How long we please it shall continue so.
This side to-day, and that to-morrow burns;
So all are god-a'mightys in their turns.
A tempting doctrine, plausible and new:
What fools our fathers were, if this be true!

Not only does Democracy and Socialism threaten the world by federating erotic decadence against heroic virtue, disease against health and dementia against sanity; but it renders the doing of the daily work of the present time increasingly difficult. When the intelligence of the Natural Leader is hampered by the ignorance of the Mob, and the commands which should be instantly given and obeyed have to run the gauntlet of stupid debates, idiotic roll-calls, and the climax of erotic madness, the ballot-box—then, indeed, may we know that the end is at hand; for such a country is rotten ripe for the blessed plague and welcome pestilence to sweep away the slave-citizen, who wears the face of a Man as a lie, and the putrid State, the Refuge of Lies.

THE CHALLENGE OF THOR

I AM THE GOD, THOR!
I AM THE WAR GOD!
I AM THE THUNDERER!
HERE IN MY NORTHLAND,
MY FASTNESS AND FORTRESS
REIGN I FOREVER!

HERE, AMID ICEBERGS
RULE I THE NATIONS;
THIS IS MY HAMMER.
"MAULNOR, THE MIGHTY"
GIANTS AND SATANS
CANNOT WITHSTAND IT!

THESE ARE THE SILVER GLOVES
WHEREWITH I WIELD IT.
AND HURL IT AFAR OFF;
THIS IS MY WARBELT;
WHENEVER I BRACE IT
MY STRENGTH IS REDOUBLED!

THE FIRE-GLEAM THOU SEEST
STREAM THROUGH THE HEAVENS,
IN FLASHES OF CRIMSON,
THIS IS MY RED BEARD
BLOWN BY THE NIGHT-WIND,
AFFRIGHTING THE NATIONS!

JOVE IS MY BROTHER;
MINE EYES ARE THE LIGHTNING;
THE WHEELS OF MY CHARIOT
ROLL IN THE THUNDER,
THE BLOWS OF MY HAMMER
RING IN THE EARTHQUAKE!

FORCE RULES THE WORLD STILL,
HAS RULED IT—SHALL RULE IT;
MEEKNESS IS WEAKNESS,
STRENGTH IS TRIUMPHANT
OVER THE WHOLE EARTH,
STILL IT IS THOR'S DAY!

I AM THE GOD, THOR!
I AM THE WAR GOD!
I AM THE THUNDERER!
HERE IN MY NORTHLAND
MY FASTNESS AND FORTRESS
RULE I FOREVER.

"Meantime the clang of the bows and the shouts of the combatants mixed fearfully with the sound of the trumpets, and drowned the groans of those who fell, and lay rolling defenceless beneath the feet of the horses. The splendid armour of the combatants was now defaced with dust and blood, and gave way at every stroke of the sword and battle-axe. All that was beautiful in the martial array had disappeared, and what was now visible was only calculated to awaken terror."-Sir Walter Scott, Ivanhoe.