1/ Let’s talk about collapse. Fires rage in Los Angeles, and no one can put them out—a clear symbol of a civilization unable to solve even its most basic problems. Joseph A. Tainter's "The Collapse of Complex Societies" provides a framework to understand why this happens.
2/ Civilizational collapse is no relic of the past or mere curiosity for court historians, whose interests often veer into the irrelevant and removed from the pressing realities of today. Collapse is a recurring phenomenon, an inevitable stage in the life cycle of societies. As the West faces internal fractures and accelerating decline, it is imperative to understand the forces that have undone great civilizations before us.
In "The Collapse of Complex Societies," Joseph A. Tainter provides a framework for analyzing this decline. As an anthropologist, his approach stands apart from the abstractions of historians. Tainter reveals that complexity—vital for societal advancement, particularly in an increasingly globalized and technologized world—carries within it the seeds of its own destruction. Societies that grow increasingly complex invest more in solving problems through administrative, technological, and bureaucratic means, yet these solutions yield diminishing returns. Over time, the cost of maintaining the system outweighs its benefits, creating a tipping point where collapse becomes not just possible but the rational culmination of a managed decline.
The West today is approaching this threshold. Institutions designed to safeguard stability and progress have become engines of inefficiency, consuming resources to sustain themselves while delivering little value. More troubling, however, is the ideological rot at their core.
3/ Tainter’s analysis exposes how societies fail when they lose the ability to reconcile complexity with functionality, but the West’s decline is accelerated by its fixation on utopian ideals divorced from reality. Chief among these is the obsession with absolute equality, which manifests in policies that undermine competence, cohesion, and trust.
Modern institutions prioritize demographic representation over merit, subordinating excellence to ideological conformity. Programs like affirmative action and quotas enforce a belief that all outcomes must be leveled, regardless of skill or capability. The result is a system that sacrifices institutional effectiveness on the altar of symbolic progress. Fields demanding expertise—medicine, engineering, national defense—are increasingly populated by individuals chosen for reasons other than their merit. This erosion of standards not only weakens critical sectors but also breeds resentment, as citizens see fairness and competence replaced by ideological orthodoxy.
Such policies are not about solving problems but about enforcing control. Utopian ideals of absolute equality have become tools of an increasingly dysfunctional elite, wielded to maintain their own power while deflecting attention from systemic failures. These initiatives serve as a façade, masking the inability—or refusal—to confront the real issues undermining society’s foundations.
4/ Demographic transformation further accelerates collapse, creating divisions that a complex society cannot sustain. Unlike historical collapses where population shifts were often imposed largely by external forces, the West’s demographic replacement is deliberate—an ideological project rooted in utopian fantasies of global equity.
Mass immigration, lauded as an economic and moral imperative beyond reproach, serves as a tool to obscure systemic failures and pacify growing discontent. Rather than addressing the festering rot in infrastructure, education, or governance, elites import new populations under the guise of "growth." This transformation fractures the cultural and ethnic unity that once underpinned Western nations, replacing shared identity with competing allegiances. Instead of cohesive societies, we witness the rise of competing enclaves, driven by BIPOC identity politics, fracturing unity as they battle for resources and power.
This demographic shift is not incidental—it is weaponized. By replacing founding populations, elites create a population easier to control, one less connected to the traditions, history, and identity of the nations they inhabit. This strategy ensures that the institutions of power remain insulated from dissent, as the newly imported underclass relies on those same elites for survival. It is a cynical manipulation that trades long-term stability for short-term dominance.
5/ Tainter’s insight that collapse unfolds as a slow unraveling, rather than a sudden event, is painfully relevant. The West’s decline is marked by missed opportunities for reform and an unwillingness to address the structural contradictions tearing it apart. Leaders blind themselves with ideological dogmas, pouring resources into symbolic gestures while neglecting the decay of physical infrastructure, economic stability, and social trust.
Crumbling roads, failing schools, and soaring debt are treated as secondary concerns to the pursuit of utopian ideals. Instead of confronting these failures, Western elites double down on globalist ambitions—remaking the world in their image through international economic policies, climate agendas, and mass migration. These distractions allow them to avoid responsibility for internal decay while perpetuating the illusion of progress.
Yet this house of cards cannot hold. As systems grow more unwieldy and populations more divided, the West’s ability to withstand external shocks or internal crises diminishes. Tainter’s warning is clear: societies that refuse to adapt to reality are doomed to collapse under the weight of their own contradictions.
6/ History offers no guarantees, only lessons. The West’s trajectory mirrors the failures of past civilizations, but its ideological rigidity and demographic engineering make its decline uniquely self-inflicted. Tainter’s work is not merely a study of the past but a mirror for our present condition—a reminder that complexity, unchecked by reality, leads inevitably to destruction.
Survival demands rejecting the utopian fantasies of universal equality and globalism that have hollowed out the West’s foundations. It requires a return to the enduring truths of identity, merit, and the natural order—principles that once defined the strength of Western civilization. Without this course correction, the West is destined to join the annals of civilizations that fell, not to external enemies, but to our own hubristic desire to ignore reality.
7/ An Addendum (As I often provide for clarification)
This essay was a brief exploration of Joseph Tainter's "The Collapse of Complex Societies," alongside my analysis of the reigning liberal-humanist ideology in the West, its role in demographic transformation, and how these dynamics contribute to systemic fragility. It is not intended to be exhaustive or conclusive.
On X, I often discuss books and ideas that I don’t fully agree with, drawing my own conclusions, as any critical reader should. While I don’t align with every aspect of Tainter’s work, his overriding thesis rings true: complex societies collapse when the costs of maintaining their complexity outpace their ability to solve problems. Given that our world is the most interconnected and technologized in human history, his insights remain strikingly relevant.
It’s worth noting that Tainter wrote this book in 1988, and much of what he foresaw has now become our reality.
In the replies and reposts, most responses fall into one of two camps, either agreeing with the larger point or critiquing it.
For the latter, two recurring misconceptions dominate:
1. The Pilot and the First Tweet
Some are fixated on the helicopter footage, insisting the pilot isn’t to blame. But this entirely misses the point. The video wasn’t about the pilot; it was a visual shorthand, necessary on a platform like X, to draw attention. It represents systemic failure decades in the making—failure rooted in decayed leadership, crumbling infrastructure, and misplaced priorities.
Whether the pilot was doing his best within a broken system or is the product of DEI-driven hiring is ultimately irrelevant. The clip serves as a visceral reminder of what happens when a society’s capacity to maintain basic functionality erodes. It’s not about one individual’s actions but the larger decay that leaves a helicopter missing its mark as an emblem of collapse.
Naturally, the forces of Mother Nature play a role—as they always have and always will. Factors like erratic wind patterns, thermal turbulence, the inherent difficulty of aerial firefighting, etc., all complicate such efforts. Yet the question remains: is a society equipped to adapt and overcome these challenges, or does it succumb to its own self-inflicted fragility, leaving technical obstacles as insurmountable failures rather than manageable hurdles?
2. Policy Mismanagement
The other camp focuses on "policy mismanagement," claiming it as the root cause. This is a classic example of missing the forest for the trees. Tainter’s work isn’t a catalog of policy blunders; it’s a meta-analysis of civilizational collapse, spanning 18 vastly different societies across history. His purpose is to uncover the deeper patterns that arise when societies become too complex to sustain themselves.
Policy mismanagement is not the cause—it’s a symptom. As Tainter demonstrates, collapse occurs when the diminishing returns on complexity lead systems designed to solve problems to become the problems themselves. A society consumed by inefficiency, symbolic gestures, and ideological pretense is incapable of adapting to the practical demands of survival.
Focusing on isolated issues like brush management or fire zone construction obscures the broader reality: a system so unwieldy and preoccupied with maintaining appearances that it can no longer deliver meaningful solutions. The priorities are misplaced, the vision myopic, and the result predictable.
Tainter’s central message is that civilizations do not collapse due to isolated missteps—such as flawed policies, which ultimately reflect the values and priorities of a society and its elites—but because they become trapped by their own complexity, unable to address the fundamental realities needed for their survival.
Our current crises—whether in infrastructure, governance, or demography—are not isolated aberrations or events, they are the symptoms of a system that has prioritized ideological conformity and bureaucratic bloat over competence and survival.
The lesson is clear: without a return to practical, grounded solutions and the political will to confront uncomfortable truths, we risk joining the ranks of civilizations that collapsed under the weight of their own pretenses.
1/ “Man in his highest and noblest capacities is Nature, and bears in himself her awful character. His dreadfulness is the fertile soil from which alone all greatness has grown.” —Nietzsche
Let us consider the ancient Greeks and the excellence of their biopolitical order.
2/ The world of the ancient Hellenes, the Greeks, did not emerge ex nihilo from a vacuum. It was a continuation of what had come before, developing from older Indo-European traditions and merging with the early peoples of Europe, among whom kinship and ritual shaped the first structure of life. The Greeks then gave this inheritance a conscious form, turning what had been custom into reflection and creating a world in which descent and law became the foundations of order.
Alfred North Whitehead wrote that Western philosophy is a series of footnotes to Plato, and in a wider sense Western civilization, “civilization” being the key term here, begins with the Greeks. It was among them that the European mind first sought to bring life into accord with nature and to discern within existence the principles that govern man and the world.
Their political life, like that of all pre-modern peoples, was never abstract. It was the organized expression of necessity, shaped by the demands of survival and the discipline of inheritance. Power was understood as the means to preserve life, and life itself was secured through the unbroken continuity of descent.
The polis, the city-state, was born from the family, as the family was born from the necessity of reproduction and protection. Aristotle records that the household arose from the union of man and woman and expanded through the relation of parent to child and master to servant until it became the village and finally the city. The political community was therefore the natural enlargement of the household, an extension of biological and moral kinship.
The city carried forward what the family had begun, ensuring the passage of life and estate, the keeping of ancestral law, and the remembrance of those from whom its order had descended. The citizen was not a faceless entry in a meaningless voter register but a living participant in the common life of the polis. The Greek word idiotes, from which “idiot” derives, referred to one who lived only for himself and took no part in the affairs of the city. The true citizen was his opposite, bearing the blood of the founders and sharing in the duties that sustained their order. The civic life of Greece rested on this continuity of ancestry, without which there could be neither culture nor state.
Numa Denis Fustel de Coulanges later made explicit what the ancients themselves took for granted. In “The Ancient City,” he explained that the earliest political institutions were born from the religion of the household. The hearth, the ancestral tomb, and the domestic cult were the first sources of authority. When many households gathered beneath a common altar, the city arose as a sacred extension of family life. Aristotle described the process by which the polis grows naturally out of the household, and Fustel showed that this natural process was also a religious one, for it united the living with their forebears in an unbroken order of memory and obligation.
3/ The principle of descent defined citizenship at every level, and it was the ancient Greeks who, like in so many other things, first codified what we now take for granted in the Western conception of the citizen. Herodotus, in his “Histories,” described the Hellenes as men “of the same blood and speech, who share the same temples and sacrifices, and the same customs.” In this understanding, ancestry and worship, language and custom formed a single unity. To be a citizen was to belong to a people bound by descent and by rite. The polis was not an artificial creation imposed upon men but an organic expression of inherited being.
Athens and Sparta embodied dual sides of this Greek Welthanschauung in distinct form.
During the Athenian Golden Age, the great statesman Pericles expanded participation in public life while restricting citizenship to those born of two Athenian parents. Equality was confined to those who already belonged by birth. The freedom of the city depended upon cohesion, and cohesion required the preservation of ancestral descent.
Civic order rested on ancestral patrimony rather than residence or belief. This law reflected the Athenian understanding that their democracy, unlike the modern system of mass enfranchisement, could exist only within the bounds of a shared people. At its height, less than a tenth of the male population held the honor of citizenship. Generosity within the polis required a clear sense of who that people were, and correspondingly, who they were not. Foreign skill and commerce were welcomed, though always with caution, yet the political life of the city remained an inheritance guarded by those of Athenian blood. In this balance between openness and exclusivity, the Athenians preserved both the integrity of their laws and the continuity of their kind.
Sparta gave this principle a harder outline. The laws attributed to the Dorian lawgiver Lycurgus forged a people shaped by martial discipline and selective breeding. The Spartiates were citizens by birth and warriors by vocation, their lives ordered toward service to the state. They were forbidden from commerce, manual labor, and the pursuit of luxury, for such pursuits were thought to corrupt character and weaken resolve.
Their existence was one of perpetual preparation, devoted to strength and the defense of the common good. Education began in infancy, when the weak were set aside, and continued through a regimen that bound each man to the polis through the discipline of the agoge. The women were trained for strength and composure, for the bearing of healthy offspring was regarded as a sacred duty. Every institution, from the household to the army, for the army was the body of citizens, served the same end: the preservation of vigor and constancy of spirit. Through this unity of purpose, a small and austere people maintained their independence against powers greater in number and wealth.
Religion gave visible form to the same foundation. Each city revered its ancestral gods, whose worship was bound to the life of the people. The civic altars rose from the hearths of the household, and the festivals that gathered the citizens were acts of remembrance joining the living with the dead. The Olympic Games expressed this same spirit on a broader scale, uniting the Hellenes in celebration of shared descent while excluding the foreigner. To compete in any of the four great Panhellenic games was to be recognized as Greek by blood. The exclusion was not an act of hostility but of reverence and delineation, for the festival renewed the sacred kinship of those who shared a common origin and destiny.
This same bond of origin guided the Greek resistance to Persia. When the invasion came, the consciousness of shared blood and faith gave the Hellenes a unity stronger than empire. The stand of the Spartan king Leonidas at Thermopylae and the Athenian-led victories at Salamis and Plataea preserved more than territory or power. They defended a way of life founded upon descent and courage. Herodotus saw in these deeds the triumph of men who knew themselves as a distinct people and refused to vanish into the anonymity of empire.
1/ America was conceived and carried out as an ethnonational project.
It was a Republic built by Europeans for their posterity, the continuation of their people and their civilization on new soil.
Not an idea, but a people made sovereign.
Let us discuss.
2/ The absurd notion that “America is an idea” is one that we hear often. It is peddled by the self-hating and the resentful alike, repeated by those too narrow of mind or too governed by ethnic interest to confront the plain historical record.
It has become a creed for the deracinated within and the alien now among them, a false consolation for those who refuse to see that nations are born of blood and soil, and of the will of a people conscious of who they are and of their destiny.
The line of attack usually proceeds along familiar lines.
It is said that America is a political and moral project founded on abstract principles such as liberty, equality, individual rights, and self-government. From this premise, it is concluded that anyone who professes belief in these ideas may become fully “American,” irrespective of ancestral identity.
This argument, of course, is not historical but philosophical in character. It is what may be called Creedal Universalism, the most pervasive of the myths that sustain the “idea” interpretation.
Creedal Universalism presents America as a proposition, an abstraction, divorced from the people who created it. It asserts that the Republic should be defined by principle rather than lineage, that allegiance to an ideal replaces the bonds of kinship and heritage.
It is an a priori doctrine, that is, derived from theory rather than experience, born from the Enlightenment’s rational philosophy rather than from the lived reality of a people.
In this view, America’s founders become apostles of a universal creed, and their nation only the first vessel of a global moral enterprise.
It is a moral argument, not a historical one, for it speaks of what America should mean rather than what it was, and still is.
Its purpose is plain: to detach American identity, born European and forged White (ethnogenesis), from its ancestry, and to make belonging a matter of sentiment rather than birthright.
3/ The second and nearly as common claim may be called the Immigrant Nation Mythology: “we are a nation of immigrants.”
It is not philosophical but narrative, appealing to emotion rather than reason, and built upon a shallow reading of history; a confusion of the immigrant with the settler, of arrival with creation.
Here the story is told that America has always been a “nation of immigrants,” that its true purpose was to transcend the limits of race and origin, and to serve as a universal refuge for all mankind.
The Founders are recast as imperfect apostles of diversity, men whose racial prejudice is acknowledged only to magnify the supposed nobility of their universal vision. Thus the narrative preserves its own contradiction: the Founders are denounced as racists, yet credited with conceiving a nation meant for everyone.
Settlement and conquest are presented not as the work of a people creating a continuation of European civilization upon new soil, but as moral failings to be redeemed through inclusion, a sin to be eternally atoned for. The Republic’s European foundation is treated as a temporary stage in a broader human drama, a prelude to the arrival of all peoples.
What began as a historical reality, the transplantation of Europe itself across the Atlantic, is retold as a myth of perpetual arrival in which immigration becomes a sacred rite of renewal.
This view gained strength after 1965, when the old demographic order was dismantled and diversity was enthroned as the new civic faith.
The absolute degeneracy of the modern West captured in a single scene.
An Afghan invader, scheduled for deportation months ago, sexually assaults a young Irish girl while living in luxury at public expense.
The so-called “refugee center” where he is housed is in truth a commandeered hotel in the heart of Dublin, packed with over two thousand foreign men of fighting age, fed, clothed, and sheltered by the very people they are displacing.
The state imports these men, parades their “diversity” as virtue, and compels the native population to fund its own subjugation through colonization and slow demographic extinction.
The parasite contributes nothing, produces nothing, yet is held up as a symbol of progress while the native Irish are told that resistance is not only hateful but illegal.
Outside, the people finally rise, and the police, funded by those they oppress, form a cordon around the invader’s quarters, defending not Ireland but the treachery committed against it.
1/ America lives under two rival and irreconcilable constitutions: the original, and the one imposed by force through the Civil Rights Act of 1964.
The postwar order rested upon an illusion of continuity, a dream of permanence concealing the slow decay of the Republic beneath it. Beneath the surface of prosperity and the rhetoric of liberty, the foundations of the old order had already begun to crumble.
What Christopher Caldwell accomplishes in The Age of Entitlement: America Since the Sixties is not merely to trace this decline but to reveal the mechanism by which it occurred. Written with the restraint of a man long accustomed to respectable discourse, the book nonetheless advances one of the most subversive theses to appear from the American Right in half a century: that the Civil Rights Act of 1964 created a second constitution, a rival order of law and morality, and that this new constitution has displaced the old in practice, leaving behind only the symbols and ceremonies of the former Republic.
Caldwell is no pamphleteer. A veteran of The Weekly Standard and a contributor to The New York Times, he occupies that peculiar place in American letters reserved for men who think carefully yet are punished for seeing too clearly. It was inevitable, therefore, that his book would be met with hysteria. The New York Times called it “an overwrought and strangely airless book” that “leads nowhere.” The Washington Examiner dismissed it as “Trumpism for highbrows.” Yet such reactions reveal less about Caldwell than about the clerisy he exposes. The fury of his reviewers testifies to the truth of his insight; he has touched the sacred nerve of the modern order, the moral absolutism of civil rights, which polite society forbids anyone to question.
2/ In its surface structure, The Age of Entitlement is a history of America from the assassination of John F. Kennedy to the rise of Donald Trump. But beneath its chronology lies a moral and constitutional argument of far greater consequence. Caldwell shows how the civil rights movement, ostensibly a campaign for racial equality, became the model for an entirely new form of governance in which law is subordinate to moral feeling and the state exists to enforce a vision of universal redemption. What began as an appeal to conscience was institutionalized as a bureaucracy of coercion. Out of the ruins of segregation arose a new elite of administrators, judges, and corporate patrons who discovered that the rhetoric of justice could serve as the instrument of power.
Caldwell’s claim that the Civil Rights Act became a Second Constitution was not metaphorical. The law was drafted as a limited measure; its framers promised it would not create quotas or destroy private association. Yet once enacted, it expanded without limit, its implications treated by the courts with the same reverence once reserved for the Bill of Rights. Through the Civil Rights Act, federal authority extended into every sphere of private life, reaching from employment and education to housing, speech, and even thought, until it became impossible to act freely without transgressing the new moral code. What was once the liberty of the citizen became the privilege of the compliant. The old constitution, with its balance of powers and jealous regard for local autonomy, was hollowed out from within by a rival order of legislation, precedent, and bureaucratic fiat.
This development, Caldwell observes, was not the product of a sudden coup but of moral transformation. The Civil Rights Act fused law and religion, replacing the Constitution’s procedural neutrality with a creed of emotional righteousness. To oppose its expansion was to sin. In this sense, the regime it founded was theological rather than legal; its authority derived not from consent but from sanctity. The language of rights replaced the language of reason, and the courts came to interpret feeling as fact. The civil rights order became a form of political mysticism, an instrument of redemption that demands endless confession and sacrifice.
3/ Yet Caldwell’s history does not confine itself to race. He sees in the civil rights movement the template for every subsequent revolution of the modern Left: feminism, gay liberation, immigration, and the cult of diversity. Each borrowed the moral prestige of the original movement while expanding its reach. Once every grievance could be recast as a claim of civil rights, politics itself was transformed into litigation. The result is a system that perpetuates conflict rather than resolving it, for the machinery of reform depends upon perpetual transgression. In this sense, the United States after 1964 became an empire of moral administrators, feeding upon its own guilt, forever declaring new forms of injustice to justify its own existence.
The transformation was not confined to government. Caldwell shows how finance, commerce, and popular culture absorbed and reproduced the new morality. Corporations discovered that public professions of virtue could protect them from criticism and serve as profitable spectacle. Universities institutionalized the language of grievance and exported it through generations of bureaucrats and consultants. The entertainment industry converted rebellion into product, turning moral revolt into fashion. By the 1990s, the vocabulary of civil rights had merged entirely with the logic of consumption. Diversity was no longer the cry of the oppressed but the brand of the ruling class.
In this synthesis of moralism and capitalism, Caldwell identifies the true engine of the post-1960s order. The financialization of the economy, the rise of debt-driven consumption, and the global outsourcing of industry all advanced under the same moral canopy that forbade criticism of the new social dispensation. Reagan, whom conservatives remember as their champion, appears in Caldwell’s account as the paradoxical executor of this revolution. By expanding credit and removing fiscal restraint, Reagan enabled America to finance its new moral order with borrowed money. Civil rights became not only a spiritual imperative but an economic one; the cost of maintaining equality was deferred indefinitely into debt. The conservative counterrevolution was thus neutralized from the start, for it had accepted the premises of the regime it imagined to oppose.
1/ On April 24, 1916, while the Great War consumed the continent and the empires of Europe strained beneath the weight of modern industrial slaughter, a handful of Irish rebels seized the heart of Dublin and proclaimed the birth of a Republic.
They occupied the General Post Office, raised their flag above Sackville Street, and read aloud a proclamation in the name of God and the dead generations. To outside observers it appeared a futile gesture: scarcely a thousand men, armed with little more than rifles and shotguns, defying the garrison of the British Empire. Yet in that week of fire and ruin the Irish question ceased to be a matter of parliamentary negotiation and became instead a struggle of destiny.
Patrick Pearse, the poet and schoolmaster who stood at the head of the Volunteers, did not expect victory in arms. He sought to enact a myth, to consecrate the Republic in blood. His conviction resembled what Georges Sorel was then formulating in France: that nations are not held together by rational programs or parliamentary bargains, but by myths that grip the soul and sanctify sacrifice.
For Pearse, that myth was Ireland redeemed through martyrdom, a fusion of Christian passion with the pagan heroic temper of Cú Chulainn. He knew that he and his comrades would be crushed, and that many of their own people would revile them for the devastation of Dublin. Yet he believed their deaths would awaken the nation, and that from their graves a people would rise, determined never again to live as subjects.
2/ The Rising lasted six days. The Volunteers and members of the Irish Citizen Army held public buildings across Dublin, but artillery and gunfire soon reduced them to ruins. Civilian casualties mounted into the hundreds, and public opinion turned against the insurgents. On April 29 Pearse surrendered. He and the other leaders were court-martialed and executed in early May, among them James Connolly, already so badly wounded that he had to be tied to a chair before the firing squad. At first the people of Dublin spat upon the defeated Volunteers. Yet as the executions followed one after another, and as British guns shelled the city as though it were an enemy capital, sympathy shifted. The men once denounced as criminals became martyrs, and their deaths gave life to a Republic that had not yet existed in fact.
This was Pearse’s design. He had long believed that Ireland could be reborn only through sacrifice, that the blood of patriots would cleanse and sanctify the nation. His imagination was nourished by the sagas of the Gaels, above all the figure of Cú Chulainn, who stood alone against overwhelming odds and died young in battle. Pearse fused that heroic image with the Christian symbolism of martyrdom, seeing in both the same redemptive power: the death of a few to redeem the many. The Rising was less a military plan than a ritual act, a mythic proclamation through suffering.
The conviction that sacrifice could regenerate a people was not confined to Ireland. Across Europe, men such as Charles Péguy and the Futurists spoke of death in battle as the price of renewal, a cleansing fire against the decadence of liberal society. Pearse stood in this same current, though his expression was Irish, a union of legend and Passion, Cú Chulainn bound to his pillar and Christ upon the cross, each a figure of death that gives life to the nation. His words at his court-martial made the point plain: “We seem to have lost. We have not lost. To refuse to fight would have been to lose. We have kept faith with the past, and handed down a tradition to the future.”
3/ Yet Pearse’s martyrdom, for all its power, could not in itself sustain a Republic. From that tradition arose the Irish War of Independence. The executions of 1916 radicalized public opinion, especially as British repression deepened. In 1917 and 1918 Sinn Féin, once a fringe party, gained overwhelming support. Éamon de Valera, spared execution because of his American birth, became its leader. In December 1918 Sinn Féin swept the general election, and instead of taking their seats at Westminster, the victorious members assembled in Dublin as Dáil Éireann, once more proclaiming the independence of Ireland.
It was then that Michael Collins emerged. Born in 1890 in County Cork, he was not a poet but a soldier, not a schoolmaster but an organizer, a man of action whose temperament was as direct as Pearse’s was visionary. He understood that myth alone could not preserve the Republic, that only discipline could give sacrifice the strength to endure. Appointed Minister for Finance in the Dáil, he raised funds to sustain the cause. More crucially, as Director of Intelligence, he built a network that reached into the very heart of Dublin Castle. He reshaped the Irish Republican Army into flying columns, small mobile units that struck swiftly, then dissolved into the countryside, denying the British the advantage of conventional strength.
Collins’s methods were severe yet effective. He created “The Squad,” later known as the Twelve Apostles, to eliminate informers and British agents. On November 21, 1920, his men struck the Cairo Gang, killing fourteen intelligence officers in Dublin. That afternoon British forces retaliated by firing into the crowd at a Gaelic football match in Croke Park, killing fourteen civilians. The cycle of reprisal and counter-reprisal intensified, but with each act the British grasp slackened, and the Republic’s claim to legitimacy took firmer root.
1/ The greatest question before the West today is not one of markets or diplomacy but of life itself. Our peoples are dying, not metaphorically but literally, in the most direct biological sense.
Fertility has fallen below the level of replacement, while foreign populations continue to increase. Two processes converge: the inflow of millions of migrants from alien lands and the refusal of Westerners to reproduce themselves. Territory is finite. Employment is finite.
Housing, schools, hospitals, and public revenues are finite. When these resources are consumed by strangers, they are denied to our own descendants. Migrants arrive from poor and overpopulated countries and encounter our labor markets and welfare systems as a sudden wealth. They raise more children here than they could have supported in their homelands.
Across the West, their fertility is consistently higher than ours. Even if borders were sealed tomorrow, the replacement of the native population would continue through differential birthrates. Restriction is not enough. Repatriation is a necessity.
2/ Yet immigration, though decisive, is not the whole cause of our crisis. We must face the harder truth that much of our demographic decline arises from within. Fertility among Western peoples fell before mass migration became overwhelming. The sickness is internal. To understand it, we must return to the origins of our social order.
When our ancestors entered the forests and plains of Europe more than forty millennia ago, they faced winters of hunger, scarcity, and cold. Intelligence, foresight, and restraint were forged by this climate. Yet no less important was the dependence of women upon male provision. Unlike in tropical Africa, where women could cultivate the soil with simple hand tools and feed themselves, the West demanded the plough, a labor requiring the full strength of the male body.
Men labored in the fields, women tended the home. Out of this necessity came monogamy, the durable bond between husband and wife, and the elevation of the provider as the true mark of manhood. Across thirteen hundred generations, women developed a preference for capable providers, and men found dignity in fulfilling that role. This was no social convention but an adaptation fixed by time and selection. It cannot be wished away.
Here lies one of the fatal illusions of the modern world. Men believe women should love them “for richer or poorer.” Women believe they desire equality. Yet biology has its own commands. Women will seek provision as instinctively as men seek youth and beauty. To deny this is to deny reality. Feminism, by granting women economic independence, severed this ancient bond.
For the small number of women indifferent to marriage and family, independence may have proved advantageous. For the vast majority, it has been disastrous. Women’s entry into the workforce has depressed male wages and simultaneously raised women’s expectations of what a worthy provider must earn. The result is double pressure upon men: diminished capacity to provide and heightened standards to meet. This is the paradox of modern prosperity: never have material resources been greater, yet never have women been more dissatisfied with men.
3/ The origins of the problem lie not in feminism alone but in the logic of industrial capitalism. Before the industrial age, work and home were one. The farm united livelihood and household. With the rise of factories, the two were torn apart. A new question arose: who should leave the home to labor for wages? The capitalists answered: all. Men, women, and even children should work, swelling the labor supply, depressing wages, and enriching owners. This was the first phase of industrialism, and it was brutal. Whole families were conscripted into mills and mines. Children were worked to exhaustion, women were placed in dangerous trades, and fathers could no longer sustain households on their earnings alone.
Against this disorder another principle slowly asserted itself, not through the goodwill of employers but through the resistance of organized labor and the pressure of law and custom. It was unions above all that demanded a man’s wage sufficient to support his household, often at great cost and after long strikes. The capitalist preferred a limitless pool of workers, for the wider the supply of labor the cheaper its price. But men who wished to found households, unions that defended them, churches that sanctified their role, and legislators who feared the collapse of the family began to push back. Out of their efforts arose the doctrine of the family wage: that the father alone should labor for wages, while wife and children remained at home, and his earnings must suffice to sustain them.
This settlement was not born all at once but through decades of conflict and reform. Laws restricted child labor, sparing boys and girls from the mines and mills. Women were removed from the most dangerous occupations, on the understanding that their bodies were bound to motherhood and their safety too vital to risk. Professions and trades were divided into men’s jobs and women’s jobs. Men’s jobs paid more, on the presumption that men bore the burden of provision. In many places, marriage bars removed women from employment once they became wives, since their vocation had shifted to the raising of children. The result was a truce between market and home. Employers were compelled to pay higher wages to men, and in return men were expected to bear the full responsibility of supporting their households.
The family wage was not perfect. It could not scale precisely to family size, and a few bachelors might enjoy salaries designed for breadwinners. Yet it succeeded in its essential task. It upheld provision as the essence of manhood, secured women in the vocation of motherhood, and sustained fertility above replacement.