1/ History does not always remember its most faithful sons. In an age like ours, where loyalty is mocked, conviction is pathologized, and sacrifice is treated as madness, those who give everything for a cause greater than themselves are often buried twice, first in flesh, and then in silence by those who inherit the world they tried to save.

John Alan Coey is one such man. He died young, an American Achilles, far from home, in a war that the modern West has consigned to oblivion—not because it lacked meaning, but because its stubborn existence near the end of the twentieth century unsettles the carefully woven mythology upheld by liberal elites, a mythology in which history is presumed to march inexorably toward equality, and in which all memory of blood, hierarchy, tradition, and resistance to civilizational disintegration must be suppressed to maintain the illusion of progress.

He fought and bled for Rhodesia, a bastion of White civilization struggling for survival in the heart of a darkening continent, holding fast against the rising tide of Marxist revolution, international condemnation, and the slow poison of betrayal.

To the liberal mind, this is incomprehensible. Why would an American college graduate, with a promising future and a peaceful life ahead, abandon it all to join a condemned regime, to kill and to die in the bushveld of southern Africa? But Coey was not a creature of comfort or calculation, and he bore no resemblance to the child-men produced by the late modern West, who confuse comfort with virtue and shrink from every demand that might require discipline, sacrifice, or pain. He belonged to another type altogether, one forged in the crucible of destiny, guided by conscience rather than convenience, and sustained by a vision that placed blood, soil, and faith above personal safety, social acceptance, or material reward.

He believed that civilization is not a gift, but an inheritance, and that inheritance demands stewardship, and at times, sacrifice. For Coey, the collapse of the West was not a metaphor, nor a distant abstraction. It was unfolding in real time: in the chaos of American universities, in the betrayal of Vietnam, in the slow surrender of Rhodesia. He saw clearly what most refused to see, that a spiritual war was being waged against his people, a war fought not only with bullets and bombs, but with perverse ideas and lies. And he chose to fight. Not in despair, but in defiance. Not as a mercenary, but as a soldier of faith, of heritage, of order.

This essay does not aim to rescue Coey from obscurity merely for the sake of remembrance. It seeks something greater, to draw from his life a lesson in courage, conviction, and the cost of truth in an age that worships lies. His was not the path of moderation, nor of political pragmatism. It was the path of the martyr, the path of the last crusader. And it begins not with his death, but with a decision, a choice that stands in opposition to everything the modern world teaches its youth. The choice to fight when others submit. The choice to believe when others mock. The choice to die, not in vain, but in fidelity to a world worth saving. 2/ To understand John Alan Coey is to understand the force that burned at the very center of his being, the flame that guided every choice he made and every enemy he chose to face. That force was not ideological alone, nor mere political conviction, but something deeper, a militant Christianity, stern and unyielding, forged in the Lutheran tradition of his forebears and tempered by the urgency of a collapsing world.

Coey did not see Christ as a pacifist sage or a modernist caricature so prevalent among contemporary churches that speak in the language of liberal platitudes. He saw Him as a king and commander, a divine authority under whom all things should be ordered, including race, nation, and state. His religion was not abstract piety, but a call to arms, a summons to defend what he called “our way of life” not only with prayer but with action and sacrifice.

He had no patience for the soft Christianity of his age, the kind that turned its back on public life and left the battlefield of history to its enemies. He feared, and rightly so, that a Christianity stripped of its will to power, its sense of divine mission, would become not a bulwark against evil, but an accomplice to it.

In Rhodesia, he watched this unfold firsthand. Missionaries who would not speak against Marxism, churches that preached universal love while their congregations were slowly surrounded, believers who whispered of salvation while refusing to fight for the civilization that once built cathedrals and empires. This was not the faith Coey lived or died for. He believed that to be Christian was to resist evil wherever it appeared, whether it took the form of Communism, liberalism, Zionism, or any other force working to undermine the divine order of the world.

He was an avid writer, and his diary returns often to the same truth: that prayer without struggle is hollow, and that belief, when left unacted, becomes its own form of betrayal. He did not wait for divine intervention to rescue what men were unwilling to defend. He believed that Christian men were called to stand, to take risks, and to bear burdens when the world descended into confusion. His writing was not an exercise in ego, but a form of resistance, a way to preserve what others chose to forget, and to leave behind a record that might speak even after the battle was lost. In this, he was a radical traditionalist in the most severe and necessary sense. He saw the collapse of the West not only in political terms, but in theological ones. What had vanished was not simply the fear of God, but the deeper understanding that man is called to bring order to the world, to align his actions with what is above him, and to suffer if necessary in that task.

In the Christian West, he believed, spirit was not opposed to ancestry, and divine purpose did not unfold in abstraction but through the lived continuity of peoples shaped by history and bound by duty. The peoples of Europe, refined through hardship, marked by genius, and sealed in sacrifice, were not accidental to the story of the West but essential to it. If God acts through the world, then the unraveling of a people is not merely a political event but a spiritual calamity. Coey saw this with clarity. And because he saw it, he could not remain at home, could not fall silent, and could not retreat into private devotion while the visible church of the West surrendered its mission from within.

1/ The modern world speaks in binaries it barely understands: Right and Left, conservative and progressive, liberty and equality, as if these were natural opposites, born equal in dignity and power, locked in an eternal debate over governance and values.

But the truth is far more ancient, and far more asymmetric. These are not equivalent visions of the world, but rival ontologies—rival answers to the basic question of what reality is, and how we are meant to live within it.

One is rooted in nature, hierarchy, and the tragic dignity of difference. The other in abstraction, revolt, and the utopian lie of sameness. The Right, properly understood, is not an ideology. It is an acknowledgment that to discern is to judge, and that judgment implies inequality. It begins with the recognition that life is unequal, that nature sorts and stratifies, and that from this order arises both beauty and greatness.

The Left, by contrast, begins with denial. It refuses to accept the givenness of the world, the limits imposed by nature, the existence of inherent difference. It sees every distinction as a wound to be healed, every hierarchy as a crime to be punished. What it cannot equalize, it seeks to destroy. And what it cannot destroy, it seeks to redefine, until nothing true remains but power dressed up as compassion.

There was a time, in the wake of the French Revolution, when these terms referred not to worldviews, but to where one sat. In the National Assembly, those who supported the Ancien Régime, the monarchy, the Church, and the old order sat to the right of the president’s chair. Those who favored revolution, equality, and the abolition of so-called “privilege” sat to the left.

The seating reflected something deeper than politics.
It revealed a division in the soul of the West, between those who saw hierarchy as the condition of civilization, and those who saw it as the root of all injustice.

Over time, these positions hardened. What began as posture became principle. What began as reform became revolt. The Right affirms that men are different, by birth, by spirit, by capacity, and that civilization exists precisely to cultivate these distinctions, not erase them. The Left recoils at this, for it cannot bear the sight of excellence unearned or failure deserved. Its moral vocabulary is built on resentment, its politics on permanent insurrection.

What the Right calls order, the Left calls oppression. And what the Left exalts as justice, the Right understands as a war against nature itself. 2/ To understand the Right, one must begin not with contemporary politics, but with metaphysics. The Right arises from an intuition older than philosophy, a recognition that inequality is not a flaw in the human condition, but rather its foundation. Long before the invention of the state, before writing or coinage or law, men ordered themselves according to visible and invisible differences. There were those who stood first in courage, first in wisdom, first in sacrifice. There were those who followed, who served, who learned. This was not a system imposed from above, but an order revealed in the very act of living. It was through this order that meaning was born, through ritual, through loyalty, through the shaping of spirit by form.

Every enduring civilization has accepted this truth, whether it spoke in the language of divine right, noble blood, natural law, or some other form meant to concretize the nature of reality. Hierarchy was not an accident but a necessity, a way of giving structure to difference and direction to destiny. What we call aristocracy did not simply mean wealth or birth. It meant the rule of the best, of those who bore the burden of example, who embodied the soul of a people in visible form. The Right today, in its highest essence, is the memory of this order. It is the will to preserve form against entropy, rank against chaos, and quality against quantity.

The Left, by contrast, begins with the denial of difference. It sees inequality not as a feature of life, but as a crime against it. It assumes that if there is variation in outcome, someone must be to blame. It replaces the ancient language of virtue and excellence with the modern language of grievance and injustice. It is ant-life.

In its purer, and thus most radical forms, it is not merely opposed to injustice. It is opposed to distinction itself. It wages its war on the visible first, on sex, on language, on family, on nation, but its target is metaphysical. It seeks to dismantle the very idea that some things are higher than others, that some lives point upward while others fall naturally into disorder. It seeks to unmake the ladder itself, so that no man may rise, and no man may fall.

The Right remembers what the Left exists to forget. That civilization is not built by making men equal, but by recognizing that they never were. That order is not an imposition, but a revelation. That the truth of things cannot be constructed, only discovered, or in our case today, rediscovered. And that to live well is not to indulge the will, but to align it with a pattern more ancient and more enduring than the age that denies it.

1/ Rome was not born of equality, and it did not rise by the will of the many. It was shaped by conquest, ordered by hierarchy, and ruled by the strongest.

Yet modern minds, softened by utopian fever dreams and poisoned by the cult of equality, look backward and see in the Roman Republic the blueprint of their own dogmas: democracy, universal rights, popular sovereignty. But this is illusion. The Roman Republic, Res Publica Romana, was never a democracy. It was a disciplined aristocratic order, a warrior republic in which law served strength and freedom belonged only to those who had earned it through service, sacrifice, and ancestral pride.

From its inception in 509 BC, the Republic was structured as a carefully calibrated system of power-sharing among unequal estates. The Senate (Senatus), composed of ex-magistrates and drawn largely from noble lineages, did not make laws, but it issued advisory decrees (senatus consulta) that in practice carried immense moral authority (auctoritas). Its members were not chosen by the masses but emerged from those who had climbed the cursus honorum, the rigorous sequence of public offices. They served not as agents of change, but as custodians of ancestral custom.

The Roman people (populus Romanus) took part in governance only through carefully structured assemblies, whose very design reflected the sacred hierarchy of the city. A single century of equites could outweigh entire ranks of lesser citizens. Even the comitia, which passed laws and elected magistrates, were overseen by men from the great families. What seemed like popular rule was, in truth, a ceremonial reaffirmation of order—an act of submission to Rome’s divine and inherited structure.

No writer captured this balance of forces better than Polybius, the Greek historian brought to Rome as a hostage during its ascent to dominance. Writing in the second century BC, he praised the Republic’s koinē politeia, a mixed constitution blending monarchy in the consuls, aristocracy in the Senate, and “democracy” in the assemblies. Yet he emphasized that stability came from the aristocratic element. The system worked, he wrote, because each part constrained the others, preventing tyranny, oligarchy, or mob rule.

Power in Rome was not an individual right. It was a burden borne by the optimates, the best men, on behalf of the city. Rule was grounded in inequality, custom, and duty. Rome did not seek equality. It sought greatness. And greatness demands order. 2/ The foundation of that order was the ordo, a sacred hierarchy of classes and functions, inherited rather than invented, divinely sanctioned rather than constructed by consent. Roman society was stratified by nature and necessity. Each rank had its place, its duty, and its dignity. To disturb this structure was not progress; it was impiety.

The patricians (patricii) traced their lineage to the gentes maiores, the great clans linked to the city’s founding. They held the auspicia, the right to interpret the will of the gods, and occupied Rome’s chief priesthoods and highest offices. They passed on the mos maiorum, ancestral custom, as a living tradition. They did not merely govern; they mediated between man and the divine.

Opposite them stood the plebians (plebeii), a varied class of citizens—farmers, artisans, traders, and veterans—excluded from religious authority and high office. Over time, beginning with the Conflict of the Orders (494–287 BC), they forced a series of concessions: the creation of tribunes with veto power, the codification of law in the Twelve Tables, and eventual eligibility for the consulship. But this struggle did not end in equality. The rising plebeian elite merged with the old patriciate to form a new governing class: the nobiles.

Political life remained a contest of ambitio (noble striving), dignitas (reputation), and auctoritas. Rome’s institutions did not serve the masses but honored those proven in virtue, discipline, and sacred duty. The comitia centuriata, the Republic’s highest assembly, was structured not by number but by worth. The leading centuries, drawn from the upper orders, voted first, often deciding the outcome before the lower classes were heard. This was not inequality in the modern sense. It was a reflection of natural rank and the burden of command.

The Republic endured not because it embraced popular rule, but because it sustained a vision of order in which excellence, not equality, governed the fate of men and nations.

1/ The victors write the histories, but the defeated preserve the truths. Though buried beneath years of distortion, censorship, and shame campaigns, the memory of the Confederacy endures. It persists not out of sentiment but because it represents something deeper than politics or war. It is a symbol of identity. In an age where White identity is systematically dissolved and forgotten, the Confederate legacy stands as a beacon of rootedness, hierarchy, and defiance against centralized tyranny.

No other chapter in American history so clearly reflects the struggle for civilizational sovereignty. The men who fought under the Southern Cross were not defending abstractions. They fought for land, kin, and a vision of liberty rooted in the Anglo-European tradition. Their banners did not wave for markets or empire, but for the right of a people to govern themselves according to their own principles. That right has not vanished. It has only become more dangerous to assert.

Today, the Confederate soldier is demonized, the flag is forbidden, and the cause is vilified. But what has replaced it? An empire that celebrates degeneracy, erases borders, manipulates guilt, and promises equality while enacting dispossession. The same regime that desecrates monuments now seeks to erase memory itself.

This is why the memory of the Confederacy must be preserved, not as a mere attachment to a long-dead past, but as a form of resistance; not as a retreat into history, but as a vision for the future. The war on the Confederacy has become a war on White identity itself, an erasure of heritage, memory, and sovereignty that reaches from the past into the ongoing struggle for self-determination. 2/ The Confederacy, and the so-called “Civil War,” did not destroy the Old Republic; it exposed the transformation that had already begun. The Southern states did not revolt against the Constitution; they upheld it. It was Washington that shattered the constitutional order by refusing to honor the voluntary nature of the compact and by declaring war not just on the South, but on the very idea of self-governing states. This was the true revolution, and it came not from Richmond but from the Potomac.

At the American founding, this truth was understood. North Carolina and Rhode Island joined the Union only after the new federal government had begun. Their late entry did not delegitimize the Constitution; it affirmed that the states were sovereign and free to choose. When the Southern states later chose to leave, they acted within the same tradition. Secession was not treason. It was continuity with 1776.

Lincoln broke that continuity. He treated the Union not as a covenant among peoples, but as an unbreakable empire. His government imprisoned dissenters, censored the press, suspended habeas corpus, and razed entire communities. In doing so, he redefined the Republic into a centralized state held together by force. What followed was not reconstruction, but redefinition. The postwar amendments, particularly the Fourteenth, did not restore the Union; they dissolved it into something hostile. The Constitution had been abandoned.

This was not inevitable. Even Jefferson recognized the legitimacy of separation. In letters written during the New England secession crisis of the early 1800s, he calmly accepted the idea that regions might part ways if it served their happiness and freedom. The South did not create the idea of peaceful separation. It had the courage to act on it.

That courage is now branded as evil. But the true crime, in the eyes of the regime, was not rebellion. It was the assertion that a distinct people had the right to exist and be remembered. That is why monuments must fall, heroes slandered, and flags banned. The goal is not reconciliation but erasure.

Yet the truth endures. The Confederacy was not perfect, but it stood for something real: the survival of a people bound by blood, place, and tradition. For that, it must be remembered.

1/ For years, the pattern has held. A White person makes a comment, sometimes crude, sometimes merely unfashionable. A video is clipped, stripped of context, and cast into the digital coliseum. The crowd demands penance. Doxing follows. Then come the sponsors, the employers, the journalists. The result is always the same: apology, groveling, ruin.

This is not justice, it never was. It is a moral spectacle, a purification ritual for the postmodern West, where the cleansing agent is White submission. The apology is not meant to be accepted, but to affirm the guilt of the group. The goal is not reconciliation, but re-education, humiliation, silence.

But this time, with the case of Shiloh Hendrix, the script cracked. Her personal details were posted online. She received death threats. Her children were targeted. And yet, she did not capitulate. She did not appear on camera with quivering voice and downcast eyes. She launched a fundraiser.

And White people responded.

Not the media, not the institutions, not the credentialed class, but ordinary White people. Tens of thousands poured in to support her. The platform, GiveSendGo—not GoFundMe, which routinely bans dissidents—reported over $250,000 raised in days. These were not donations. These are the stirrings of something new. Each dollar said, “We see what you are doing, and we are done pretending.”

This is more than a defense of one woman. It is a rejection of the moral framework that made her a target. The Hendrix affair is not the first of its kind. But it is one of the first to end differently. No apology. No resignation. No collapse. Instead: resistance. And that, more than anything else, signals a shift.

The ritual is breaking. And with it, the spell of White guilt. 2/ White guilt was never a natural sentiment; no people naturally hate themselves or push for their own demographic extinction. It did not emerge organically from conscience or history. It was manufactured, ritualized, and weaponized. It was imposed from above by alien elites who seized control of the institutions of education, media, and culture, and rewrote morality to make one group, the White population, the permanent villain in its own homeland.

From the youngest age, White children are taught to associate their identity with conquest, slavery, cruelty, and destruction. They are told to dissociate from their own heritage, to feel shame for the achievements of their ancestors, to distrust their instincts, and to question the legitimacy of their very existence. They are instructed to love all others, but never themselves.

This is not ethics. It is psychological warfare.

And like all systems built on repression, it only works if it remains unquestioned. The moment it is challenged, seriously, openly, defiantly, it begins to fall apart. The power of White guilt lies in silence, not argument. Once someone says aloud, “I do not feel guilty,” the illusion weakens for everyone else.

That is what the Hendrix fundraiser represents. Not a defense of one person, but a refusal to obey the narrative. It is one thing to quietly disagree with the orthodoxy. It is another to act on that disagreement. The act of giving money in defiance of the media’s command is a political gesture far more radical than voting. It is an act of moral rejection. And tens of thousands just performed it.

This would have been unthinkable a decade ago. Even five years ago, the weight of institutional guilt still compelled submission. But something has changed. The spell is weakening. The repetition no longer works. The words no longer bind. The system still speaks in the language of shame, but fewer and fewer are listening.

The idea that Whites must apologize for existing is no longer sacred. It is simply absurd. And once absurdity is exposed, mockery follows. Then rejection. Then reversal.

We are witnessing the early stages of that reversal.

1/ The gods do not die. They are forgotten, buried beneath layers of habit and history, but they do not die. They retreat into shadow, and wait.

Carl Jung understood this better than most. In 1936, he wrote what remains one of the most dangerous and revealing essays of the twentieth century: “Wotan.” Not a political tract, nor a condemnation or endorsement, but a psychological diagnosis. What had seized Germany in the years following the First World War, what had lifted a broken nation into frenzied unity, was not the product of economic distress or even political genius. It was something older. Something primal. The return of a god.

To modern ears, the language is foreign. We are taught that history moves forward, that the past is behind us. That gods are metaphors, and myths are fiction. Jung rejected this illusion. He believed that the human psyche is not modern. Beneath our rational minds lie older strata: ancestral, tribal, animal. These are not merely emotional residues. They are archetypes, living symbols that shape perception, action, destiny. Among these, Wotan, the storm god of the Germanic world, had long slumbered. But not peacefully.

“Wotan is a restless wanderer,” Jung wrote, “who creates unrest and stirs up strife.” He is not an idea. He is a force. And like a buried current, he surged again into the open air, possessed a man, and through him a nation. This was not a metaphor. It was not poetic license. It was, in Jung’s eyes, an eruption of the collective unconscious, a revelation of what lies beneath the mask of civilization.

The age of progress had promised liberation. But something ancient had been repressed to buy that comfort. The old gods, driven out by the Christian Church and sealed beneath layers of Enlightenment reason, had not vanished. They had only withdrawn. And what is repressed returns, often with violence.

What Jung saw in the rise of National Socialism was not a political program. It was an awakening. Not a renewal of reason, but its opposite: the storm. A mythic reassertion of the buried spirit of a people. A reckoning with the shadow they had refused to integrate. That shadow had a name. Wotan. 2/ Many in the West may have forgotten their gods, but the gods did not forget them.

To understand what happened in Germany, Jung tells us we must not look at politics, economics, or ideology. We must look inward. Deep beneath consciousness lies a submerged architecture: the collective unconscious. It is not formed by personal memory, nor shaped by media or schooling. It is inherited. It is ancestral. It remembers what man has tried to forget.

This deeper structure carries what Jung called archetypes—primordial forms that shape human behavior across generations. These are not invented. They emerge from the very fabric of our being. And when ignored, when repressed, they do not disappear. They fester. They twist. They return.

Repression does not heal. It buries. And what is buried often returns with teeth. The Christianization of Europe demanded the suppression of pagan memory, of the fierce, ecstatic, tragic spirit that animated the old gods. Wotan was not exorcised—he was internalized. Turned inward. Made unconscious. And there, in shadow, he waited.

In Jungian psychology, the shadow is not simply evil. It is the totality of the unacknowledged. Strength, passion, instinct, and rage—qualities disowned by the modern, rational man—accumulate in the dark. The longer they are denied, the more violently they demand recognition.

So it was with the Germans. Their technological ascent masked a psychic disfigurement. They had rushed into modernity without integrating what lay beneath. A veneer of Christianity, a century of Enlightenment, a cult of reason—and still, the old storm-god brooded under the surface. And then the dam broke.

It is not enough to say that Germany went mad. Madness implies aberration. But Jung’s insight was more disturbing: this was not madness. It was memory. An inherited form reasserting itself through myth, movement, and man. Wotan did not invent the warpath—he returned to it. The furor Teutonicus, long suppressed, surged back with modern machinery. And it found a vessel.

Here lies the root of Jung’s warning. When an individual represses a part of himself, that part finds other means of expression: dreams, compulsions, breakdowns. When a people represses its ancestral gods, the same principle applies. The gods return—not as symbols, but as storms. Not as fantasies, but as forces.

War is dysgenic. It kills the best and leaves the rest.

Civilizations are not upheld by institutions alone, nor by laws, nor even by victories. They are upheld by men. Not by the many, but by the few—the aristioi, as the Greeks called them—the best.

Not merely those born to privilege, but those who prove themselves worthy of command, who unite excellence of soul with courage of action, who embody the higher possibility of man.

The Romans understood this instinctively. Though they revered lineage, they did not bind greatness to birth. Their nobility, or nobilitas, referred not simply to aristocratic descent but to a recognized status earned through public distinction, by proving one’s excellence in tangible form.

It was a living tradition of excellence, open even to the novus homo—the new man—who had the fire to rise, so long as he proved himself in the crucible of war, rhetoric, and public service. The Roman Republic was not rigid. It cultivated greatness wherever it found it. But even such a system, perhaps especially such a system, cannot survive the repeated loss of its best men.

When the aristioi are sent to die generation after generation, and the men who remain are those who avoided danger or mastered the arts of peacetime flattery, decline is not just likely. It becomes inevitable.

Nowhere is this pattern more evident than in the Roman experience during the Punic Wars. The three Punic Wars, spanning from 264 to 146 BC, were not minor frontier conflicts. They were total wars for dominance over the Western Mediterranean basin, pitting Rome against Carthage, an ancient maritime empire wealthy in trade and arms. Rome, a city-state grown into a martial federation, found itself locked in a struggle that would test not just its arms, but its very essence. The First Punic War was largely naval and bloody, but it was the Second—fought between 218 and 201 BC—that broke something within the Roman body.

It was in this war that Hannibal Barca led his Carthaginian army across the Alps and inflicted defeat after defeat upon the Romans on their own soil. At Trebia and Lake Trasimene, the Romans lost entire armies. But the catastrophe of Cannae in 216 BC stands above all. There, on the hot plains of Apulia, Hannibal annihilated a Roman force of roughly 86,000 men using a brilliant double envelopment maneuver. Between 50,000 and 70,000 were killed in a single day. It was not only the bloodiest day in Roman history; it was also one of the deadliest battles in all of recorded antiquity.

Among the dead was Lucius Aemilius Paullus, one of the two consuls of the year, a noble commander of courage and discipline. His colleague, Gaius Terentius Varro, survived the battle but bore the shame of the rout. Alongside Paullus fell over eighty members of the Roman Senate, more than a quarter of its entire body.

This was not just a military disaster. It was a demographic and spiritual decapitation. The Senate at this time was not a haven for idle aristocrats. It was composed of consular veterans, ex-magistrates, and men deeply steeped in the mos maiorum, the ancestral code of duty, discipline, and restraint.

Cannae also claimed hundreds of equites, Rome’s equestrian officer class, and scores of young patricians-in-training, scions of the Fabii, the Cornelii, and the Aemilii, families that had produced Rome’s statesmen and generals for generations.

This was a blow Rome absorbed, but never truly recovered from.

The aristioi, the living seedbed of Roman order, had been cut down in their prime. In their place rose survivors, not necessarily stronger but often more cunning, men shaped less by the ancestral virtues and more by the demands of a changing world.

Tenney Frank, the American historian and classicist, would later identify this moment as a turning point. In his writings on the Roman economy and population, Frank emphasized the dysgenic consequences of Roman warfare. It was not simply the physical loss of manpower that concerned him, but the biological and civilizational cost of sacrificing the most noble, brave, and disciplined men in each generation. In his words, “The long wars of the Republic destroyed the ruling stock... The brave perished childless, the cunning remained behind.”

Frank was describing a silent catastrophe: not the death of an army, but the death of a type. With every decade of war, the Republic lost more of its vital aristocracy—not the decadent elite, but the aristioi in the truest sense: those who bore the burden of command and led from the front.

Even Publius Cornelius Scipio Africanus, the victor of Zama, would see his line marginalized in the decades following his triumph. His descendants were politically impotent by the time of the Gracchi. This decline of the nobility was not merely a genealogical fading, but a transformation of Roman political life. Without the aristioi to guide it, the Senate degenerated into factionalism and corruption. The Gracchi, tribunes who sought to restore the Roman ideal, were themselves symbols of the aristocracy’s twilight. They were idealist remnants met with violence by a Senate no longer composed of great men, but of wealthy survivors. Their deaths marked the final collapse of the old order’s moral legitimacy.

And yet, the Roman system had always embraced excellence wherever it emerged.

This openness to excellence was one of the Republic’s strengths. The rise of novi homines, new men of no noble birth, had long been a sign of vitality rather than decline. Men like Cato the Elder and Cicero rose through merit, not lineage, embodying the Republic’s ideal of earned nobility.

Even Gaius Marius, a formidable general and reformer, emerged from humble origins through sheer talent and resolve. But with Marius, something began to shift. His career marked the moment when military success no longer reinforced the old order but began to replace it. Even a meritocratic aristocracy requires an existing class of aristioi to test, train, and uphold its standards. When that class dies, and the gatekeepers vanish, what follows is not a flood of greatness, but a lowering of the gates. By the time of Marius and Sulla, the Republic had devolved into militarized factionalism. Ambitious generals now raised private armies and marched on Rome itself. The mos maiorum was dead. What remained was ambition, unchecked by nobility, and cynicism, cloaked in legality.

The pattern is not Roman alone. In the modern age, we see a dark reflection in the fate of the British upper class during the First World War. At Eton College—a finishing school for Britain’s aristocratic elite—over 20 percent of former students died in the trenches of the Western Front in World War One. This was a death rate higher than that of the average soldier, who perished at a rate of roughly 12 percent. These young men, often commissioned as officers, led from the front and died by the tens of thousands. They were not cowards nor parasites, but the final echo of a ruling class still bound by honor and sacrifice. What replaced them was not nobility, but bureaucracy. Managerial efficiency rose where character had died.

The death of the aristioi is not an accident of history. It is a signal. A society that cannot preserve its best—biologically, spiritually, institutionally—cannot preserve itself. Rome won the Punic Wars, but in doing so began the slow unraveling of its Republic. The men who embodied its highest virtues were lost. What followed was not rebirth, but erosion. First civil war, then Caesar, then empire. The form endured, but the soul had passed.

So too in our age. When the best are no longer born, or are sent to die young, or are replaced by the cunning who serve only themselves rather than the brave who serve the greater whole, the system does not survive. It persists, but only as a ghost of what once was and what might have been.

We must remember this. Not out of nostalgia, but out of duty. For if we do not learn to honor and preserve the aristioi—not in name, but in kind—we will inherit not a civilization, but its ruins. A Reply to a Good Post:

https://x.com/CCrowley100/status/1914780689481834866

1/ The modern West is not a civilization in decline. It is the afterglow of one already dead. Its towers still stand, its machines still hum, its markets still churn — but the spirit that once gave it life has fled. What remains is not a culture, but a corpse animated by momentum and memory.

We were born into this world as orphans of a forgotten order. And yet something in us still remembers. A word. A gesture. A silence that once meant more than speech. It stirs in moments of clarity, in flashes of rage, in the quiet refusal to kneel before the absurd. This memory is not personal. It is civilizational. And it is beginning to awaken. 🧵👇
2/ Civilization does not fall all at once. It decays. It forgets. It doubts. It replaces form with function, beauty with comfort, hierarchy with appetite. Then one day the people look up and realize that the temples are hollow, the leaders are cowards, the children are strangers, and the words carved in stone have become a foreign tongue.

The man who walks among these ruins today must understand: we are not living in a world without tradition. We are living in a world where tradition has been buried, denied, and mocked, but not destroyed. What collapses is not tradition itself, but the fragile architecture built in defiance of it. Beneath the broken scaffolds of the modern world lies something older than the State, deeper than the nation, stronger than ideology. Tradition does not die. It merely withdraws. It waits.

Tradition is not behind us. It is beneath us. It is the subterranean fire that once shaped mountains and now smolders under ash. The man who would reforge himself must first dig through the wreckage, not in mourning but in recollection. For ruins are not just symbols of loss. They are blueprints. They tell us what was once possible. They tell us what can be done again, but only by those who refuse to be content with managing decline.

To live among ruins and do nothing is cowardice. But to live among ruins and remember is to draw the sword still buried in the stone.

We are not here to conserve the ashes. We are here to rekindle the flame.

1/ Why did Yukio Mishima die by the sword in 1970?

Why did Imperial Japan’s young officers rise up not against the Emperor, but for him?

Why did Zen monks teach warriors how to die without fear?

Because the true Right begins where the ego ends.

Let us discuss 🧵👇 2/ After Japan’s defeat in 1945, the world saw a nation in ruins. But behind the rubble was something older than the empire, something that hadn’t surrendered: the spirit of sacrifice. This essay explores the spiritual and political vision that drove Japan’s interwar ultranationalist movements, particularly those within the military who sought not to overthrow the state, but to redeem it. Their rebellion was not revolutionary in the Western sense. It was an uprising from within, led by young officers and idealists who believed that modern Japan had betrayed its ancient soul. They called this soul the kokutai, a concept meaning national essence, referring to the metaphysical unity between people, land, Emperor, and tradition.

We begin with the phenomenon of gekokujō, a term meaning “the lower overthrows the higher.” Unlike leftist revolts, these men rose in the name of loyalty. Their insurrections, often bloody, were meant to purify the government and return Japan to its sacred origins. Many of them belonged to the Kōdōha, or Imperial Way Faction, a group within the army composed mainly of younger officers who fused traditional Japanese warrior ethics with a spiritual nationalism. Their worldview drew from Zen Buddhism, Shinto, and bushidō, the code of the samurai that emphasized loyalty, courage, and the readiness to die.

Theirs was not simply a political movement. It was a moral crusade rooted in metaphysical discipline. Through the practice of zazen, a form of seated meditation, the cultivation of mushin, or no-mind, and the ritualization of death, they sought to embody a kind of warrior-sage—men who would rather fall by the sword than live without honor. In this way, the interwar Japanese right resembled not the conservatives of our age, but something far older: a caste of priestly warriors, willing to die so that something higher might live.

This essay traces their path not as a call for imitation, but as a study in contrasts. We in the West live under a regime that hates its own origins. We have no Emperor. No divine lineage. No unbroken tradition to serve. And yet we too sense the collapse of our national spirit. In the Japanese example, we do not find a model. But we do find a challenge. What would it mean to fight not for power, but for essence? What would it mean to die upright?

1/ You can tell the health of an age by who it crowns. Today, the coward rules. The ugly is praised. The perverse is proud. That is not politics. That is metaphysics. The world has turned upside down.

Let us speak of Julius Evola—of clarity in the face of collapse.🧵👇 2/ The face of the crowd is a mirror. Not of who you are, but of what time it is. Look long enough and the truth of the age reveals itself—not in political theory, but in posture, voice, and smell. The Kali Yuga, the final age of dissolution, is not proven by books or slogans. It is proven in the obesity of children, the smirk of cowards, the visibility of the perverse, and the pride of the unworthy. A sick age does not merely tolerate its parasites, it feeds them. It builds them statues. It takes their sickness and names it “virtue.”

The modern world pretends to be rational. It claims to be governed by neutral facts and material forces. But every traditional civilization knew better. They understood the world as a vertical chain of being. What happens below reflects what has broken above. This is the “doctrine of correspondences”—that every social, physical, and even atmospheric condition reveals the state of the metaphysical order. If kings lose their virtue, there will be famine. If priests become liars, the land becomes infertile. If the hierarchy collapses, so does the world.

When the higher no longer rules the lower, the lower does not remain still. It surges upward to fill the void. And what we live in now is the result of that void. The age does not merely fall short of the ideal—it has reversed it. The noble are shamed. The herd is praised. Not by accident, but by design. Weakness is now holy. The degenerate is now sacred. The purpose is not healing. It is humiliation.

But the masses are not merely passive. They are not helpless victims of decline. They are its raw material. When the metaphysical order fractures, the crowd rushes in. The herd becomes the agent of destruction. It does not know what it serves, but it serves it anyway.

So we return to the mirror. To the stadiums, the subways, the supermarket aisles. And we see what time it is. Not by the clock, but by the faces.

1/ America was not born from principles. It was born from struggle. European peoples crossed oceans, tamed forests, built civilization, and now watch, silent, as strangers inherit what they are told is no longer theirs to claim.

Let us discuss the reality of America! 🧵👇 2/ A nation that forgets itself does not simply vanish; it becomes a vessel for others. Today, America does not suffer from a lack of identity, but from a surfeit of borrowed ones. The monuments remain, the Constitution is recited, the flag still flies. But beneath these symbols, something fundamental has shifted. The American nation, once a living ethnos, an organic people formed through conquest, colonization, and civilizational struggle, has been supplanted by an abstraction. Citizenship has become a costume. Borders are lines on paper. And national belonging is now defined by bureaucratic process, not blood.

This transformation did not occur by accident. It was imposed. And the chief mechanism of imposition was the redefinition of the American nation as a universal idea, rather than a particular people. This idea, most often described as the “proposition nation,” claims that anyone, from anywhere, can become American simply by affirming certain creeds: liberty, equality, democracy. But creeds do not build nations. Peoples do. And the men who created the United States were not abstractions. They were English Protestants, settlers and pioneers, bound by shared ancestry, language, religion, and law. They did not build a “nation of immigrants.” They built an Anglo-American Republic.

That Republic is now being dismantled, not in the name of revolution, but in the name of its own professed ideals. The irony is deliberate. The project of turning a real, historical people into a propositional fiction required severing America from its ethnic roots. The Civil Rights revolution accomplished this with remarkable efficiency. It reframed the Constitution as a universal instrument, not a compact among descendants of a common stock. It recast the Founding Fathers as mere ideologues, not nation-builders. And it introduced the heresy that the American identity is not inherited, but chosen.

In doing so, it erased the line between citizen and stranger, between legacy and newcomer. It prepared the ground for demographic replacement by defining resistance as moral failure. And most devastating of all, it taught White Americans to feel guilt for their existence, to disown their patrimony, and to surrender the institutions their ancestors forged.

But a people cannot live forever in denial of who they are.

1/ This is a review of David L. Hoggan’s “The Forced War.” It is not a tale of inevitability, but of refusal.

Refusal to negotiate, refusal to listen, and a Western policy that ensured war. Hoggan shows that 1939 was not fate. It was a decision.

Let’s discuss. 🧵👇 2/ David L. Hoggan’s “The Forced War” is not a work of academic speculation. It is the result of years of archival research, diplomatic transcripts, and firsthand testimony. What follows is a condensed account of his findings, drawn from documentary evidence and grounded in facts long buried beneath postwar mythology.

Also, to be clear, because this always needs to be stated, this is a book review and a presentation of the information gleaned from Hoggan, not my own original research.

The Second World War did not erupt like a storm from nowhere. It was not the consequence of madness or fate. It was summoned, summoned by treaties broken in silence, by games of bluff and betrayal, by men who mistook prestige for power and dogma for diplomacy. In Hoggan’s account, the war of 1939 was not inevitable. It was manufactured.

This is not a tale of blind escalation or an uncontrollable clash of ideologies. It is the record of deliberate choices. The German Reich, under Hitler’s leadership, had already recovered territories lost to Versailles without a shot fired. Austria had returned to the Reich willingly. The Sudeten Germans, abandoned by the Czechs and denied self-rule for two decades, rejoined their own people after the Munich Conference. No army had been needed. No conquest had occurred. These were not acts of aggression, but acts of national reintegration.

Poland was different. Poland, shaped by the legacy of Józef Piłsudski, clung to illusions of grandeur and a deep distrust of compromise. Instead of seeking accommodation with Germany, it looked to Britain for security and to the past for purpose. Hitler did not demand subjugation. He asked only for the peaceful return of Danzig, a city over 90 percent German, and a corridor of transit between Germany and East Prussia. The response from Warsaw was silence. The response from London was a guarantee it could not enforce.

This guarantee, issued on March 31, 1939, was not a moral stand. It was a strategic miscalculation drawn from the oldest of British habits. For centuries, Britain had sought to prevent the rise of any dominant power on the Continent. But the world of 1939 was no longer ruled by European balances. It was shaped by forces beyond London’s reach: Soviet industrial might, American wealth, Japanese expansion, and a reborn German nation. Yet Britain played its hand as if nothing had changed, dragging France along and gambling with the lives of millions for the sake of old illusions.

Hitler, despite everything, did not rush into war. He revised his demands. He delayed operations. He made new proposals. He pleaded for negotiation. But the line had already been drawn, not across maps, but across minds. And once drawn, it would not be crossed. The war to come was not declared by Berlin, but by silence, by pride, and by a refusal to listen.

They called it victory. They raised their flags and wrote their histories—the same histories we read today, and that our children are indoctrinated with.

But beneath the banners and beneath the rubble lies something else: a corpse. Not just of a nation, but of a civilization. The death of National Socialist Germany was not merely a military defeat. It was a civilizational sacrifice. A deliberate, systematic extermination of a people. A holocaust in the truest and most literal sense of the Greek word—a burnt offering. Germany had dared to defy the world order. What followed 1945 was not peace. It was purification by fire.

Thomas Goodrich’s “Hellstorm” is no ordinary retelling of a history we think we know, a history whose shadows still stretch over us. It is the unmasking of a crime so vast, so sadistic, that even its survivors could barely speak of it. It is the record of a Europe that turned on its own flesh, that drowned itself in blood not to survive, but to cleanse. It is the hidden gospel of the defeated, and the damned.

The Allied powers did not merely conquer Germany. They destroyed it. The cities were not bombed. They were incinerated. In Hamburg, in Dresden, in Cologne, the firestorms were so hot they created their own weather systems. Asphalt melted. Human fat ran in the streets. Thousands boiled alive in air raid shelters. In Dresden alone, tens of thousands of civilians—refugees, children, the wounded—were reduced to ash in a single night. Eyewitnesses described bodies fused to the pavement. Mothers with charred infants locked to their breasts. This was not collateral damage. It was a ritual act.

From the East, the Soviets descended like a biblical plague. They came not as liberators, but as predators. Stalin’s commissars handed out leaflets encouraging mass rape and slaughter. Ilya Ehrenburg’s pamphlets, sanctioned by the Soviet state, told soldiers to “kill the Germans.” Not the soldiers. Not the guilty. The entire people. And they obeyed. Women were hunted like game, taken from cellars and barns and schoolhouses. They were gang raped, mutilated, and discarded. In many towns, there were no survivors, only corpses with mutilated genitals and shattered skulls. In Nemmersdorf, girls were crucified to barn doors. In Berlin, nuns were raped in their sanctuaries. Mothers were violated in front of their sons. The average German woman in the Soviet zone was raped multiple times. Some committed suicide. Others were killed after being used. The Red Army left behind a trail not of liberation, but of obliteration.

But it was not just Russians. The Americans and British were more clinical, more bureaucratic in their extermination. Eisenhower’s death camps were not marked by gas chambers, but by starvation and exposure. Millions of surrendered German soldiers were placed in open-air enclosures, denied food, water, and medical aid. They died in the mud while the Red Cross was turned away. The official designation, “Disarmed Enemy Forces,” was a legal trick to avoid Geneva protections. In the Rhineland alone, over a million German POWs died after the war was over. This was not neglect. It was policy.

And still the horror deepened. The expulsions began. From Prussia, where my family hailed from, from Silesia, the Sudetenland, the Banat, and the Danube Valley, millions of ethnic Germans—many with no connection to the war—were dragged from their homes and forced into death marches across frozen terrain. They were stripped, beaten, raped, or simply left to die. In Czechoslovakia, the Beneš Decrees authorized open murder and the wholesale theft of German property. In Yugoslavia, German civilians were herded into extermination camps. In Hungary, Romania, and Poland, entire villages were wiped off the map. By 1950, over twelve million Germans had been expelled. More than two million were dead.

This was the true holocaust. Not a metaphor, but a physical reality. Germany was consumed in fire, sacrificed to the gods of vengeance, finance, and democracy. It was not retribution. It was a warning. No nation, no people, no race would ever again be permitted to rise outside the system. What they destroyed was not only a state, but a symbol. Not only a people, but a living idea.

And the victors called it justice.

The women who were tortured to death with iron rods. The men who died in ditches gnawing on grass. The children buried alive beneath collapsed hospitals. They were not mourned. They were forgotten. They were told they deserved it. The world that weeps for every minority, every narrative, every grievance, had no tears for Germany. To this day, none are permitted. To question the official story is to risk exile, imprisonment, erasure. But the truth remains, cold and immovable, like a mass grave sealed in concrete.

The modern world was born in 1945. It was baptized in blood. The postwar order is built on silence, built on bones, built on the lie that there are no crimes but German ones. Yet the greatest crime was not committed by the defeated, but by the victors. The firebombings. The death camps. The rapes. The famines. The expulsions. These are the pillars of the so-called free world.

And yet Germany did not vanish. Her cities rose again, rebuilt from the rubble. Her people endured, even if they were forced to wear the mask of shame. What could not be destroyed was that ancient, stubborn spark, the will that raised cathedrals, composed symphonies, mastered engineering and law, conquered chaos and made it form. That spark remains. Dimmed, slandered, nearly extinguished. But not dead.

The death of National Socialist Germany was not the end of something evil. It was the end of something sovereign. It was the killing of a living order, a people who looked inward for strength, not outward for approval. And in its place came the empire of consumption. Of rootlessness. Of spiritual exhaustion. Germany was scourged for reminding the world what Europe once was. And in punishing her, they punished themselves.

“Hellstorm” is not a cry for pity. It is a record. A testament. A mirror held to the face of Western man, showing him what he became when he traded honor for vengeance. When he burned the altar and raised a shopping mall. When he crushed the one nation that might have led him out of the nightmare now unfolding across every Western capital.

The dead do not speak. But this book speaks for them. And we must listen. Because the future depends on what we remember—and what we refuse to forgive. Your response is scattered—part moral outrage, part family memory, part rhetorical deflection. But it doesn’t actually address the argument.

Yes, history didn’t begin in 1945. That’s precisely the point. But it also didn’t begin in 1933. The claim that the horrors inflicted on Germany were simply the natural consequence of “what came before” is not history. It’s justification after the fact. You ask why angry men marched into Germany—very well, I ask why their anger took the form of mass rape, firebombing, forced starvation, and ethnic cleansing. Were infants in Dresden legitimate targets? Were the women of Silesia legitimate spoils? Was the Morgenthau Plan—designed to reduce Germany to pre-industrial misery—a moral policy?

You invoke your grandfather as a kind of moral anchor. My own family fought on both sides. I make no appeal to emotion, because emotion has no bearing on whether an atrocity occurred. “Hellstorm” is not about denying crimes. It is about telling the part of the story that has been buried beneath Allied mythmaking.

Your entire framing presumes that Allied violence was either proportionate, justified, or regrettable but necessary. But that framing dissolves under scrutiny. Eisenhower’s open-air camps, the Soviet rape campaigns encouraged by Ilya Ehrenburg’s leaflets, the firebombing of civilian cities like Hamburg and Dresden—these were not battlefield excesses. They were deliberate policy.

The question is not whether Germans suffered because of Hitler. The question is whether what was done to them—after the war was decided—can be called anything other than criminal.

If you believe that victory legitimizes atrocity, then just say so plainly. But don’t pretend that moral high ground was ever part of the Allied campaign. It wasn’t. “Hellstorm” simply reminds us of that fact. And that’s presumably why it unsettles you.

1/ A nation is not an idea. It is a memory. A lineage. A people. America was never a blank slate — it was an extension of something older, born in the blood-tide of the Anglo world and carried west by those who remembered.

Let us discuss! 🧵👇
2/ America was not born in 1776. That was not the beginning. It was the crack of a faultline, the rupture of something older, deeper, and blood-bound. The origins of the American Republic are not found in the writings of Enlightenment lawyers, but in the war cries of Germanic warbands who crossed into Britain as the Roman legions departed and the world fell back into darkness. The date is 410 A.D., and the act is one of civilizational transfer. A people with no country but many swords arrived on a fractured island and made it their own. The first Anglo-Saxon republic was not declared; it was carved, by axe and fire, into forests, into riverbanks, into the bones of those who resisted.

What followed was part of a greater upheaval known to historians as the Völkerwanderung, the “Wandering of the Peoples” — a centuries-long migration that shattered the Roman world and redrew the ethnic map of Europe. As the Western Empire collapsed under its own weight, wave after wave of Germanic tribes moved into Roman territory: Visigoths to Iberia, Ostrogoths and Lombards to Italy, Franks to Gaul, and — most decisively for our story — Angles, Saxons, and Jutes to Britain.

These were not one people but kindred tribes. The Angles hailed from what is now Schleswig-Holstein. The Saxons came from the coastal lowlands of northern Germany. The Jutes originated in the Danish peninsula. All were pagan, seafaring, tribal, and warlike. They spoke closely related dialects that would eventually evolve into Old English. The Roman Britons, weakened by internal division and abandoned by the imperial legions, invited these tribes to fight their battles. Their main threat came from the Picts and Scots who raided from the north. The arrangement was simple: fight for us, and we will give you land.

They came as mercenaries. But mercenaries become invaders the moment they realize the hand that pays them is weaker than their own.

The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle records the moment: Hengist and Horsa, chieftains of the Jutes, landed on the shores of Britain in the service of King Vortigern. But once the swords were drawn and victory assured, they sent back word across the sea: the land was good, and the Britons weak. More ships followed. Then came settlers. And then came war. Treaties were broken. Kings were betrayed. Cities were burned. The Britons were pushed into the western hills of Wales and Cornwall. Their tongue, their gods, their order — all faded. The English were born.

This, not the Boston Tea Party, is the real beginning of American identity. For the Anglo-Saxon does not merely inherit. He invades, he clears, he settles, and then he builds. He arrives at the frontier of a collapsing order and imposes his own. Britain was not saved. It was remade. A thousand years later, Virginia would be born in the same way.

The ethos of these early Anglo-Saxons was not liberty, but loyalty. Not universal rights, but rooted obligation. The folc (the people), the dryht (the warband), the kin-group, and the hearth-companions—these formed the original constitution. A man’s rights were what he could hold and defend. His worth was measured by his wergild, his blood-price. To be exiled was to be erased. The ēðel, the homeland, was not land in the abstract. It was sacred ground, the place of one's ancestors, the origin of both identity and law.

When the Anglo-Saxons crossed the North Sea, they brought no manifestos and no doctrines of equality. They brought a way of life: warrior loyalty, tribal order, ancestral faith, and the instinct to conquer and cultivate. When the English crossed the Atlantic, they brought the same. The planting of tobacco in Virginia echoed the clearing of woods in Kent. The fortified homesteads mirrored the burhs, the fortified towns of the Welsh frontier. The instinct was unchanged — to carve order from wilderness and to defend the bloodline with barricades and law.

The myth of 1776 obscures this truth. Americans are taught to worship ideas, not ancestry. But before there was a Constitution, there was a people. And before there was a people, there was a conquest. The Anglo-Saxon Republic did not begin with the pen. It began with the axe. That is the true founding. The rest is myth or forgetting.

1/ A nation forgets its founders, then calls it progress. Andrew Fraser’s “The WASP Question” is not nostalgia—it is an indictment, a diagnosis, and a challenge to a people who abandoned memory for abstraction and now wander, derelict, in the ruins of their own making. 2/ What became of the founding people of America? Not the mythic immigrant multitude, but the English stock that planted the first parishes, drafted the first colonial charters, fought the Indian wars, and declared independence in their own tongue and on their own terms. In “The WASP Question,” Andrew Fraser offers neither apology nor sentiment. He asks, with calm severity, why the Anglo-Saxon Protestant, once master of the institutions he shaped, now moves through the ruins of his own order as if he were only a guest.

This is a book about displacement—not simply social or political, but spiritual. It charts the fall of a people who abandoned their ancestral memory to create a universal republic, only to find themselves scorned by the very world they made possible. “Even in their own eyes,” Fraser writes, “WASPs now constitute little more than a demographic abstraction altogether devoid of the soul and the substance of a serious people.”

The answer, for Fraser, lies in the fateful decision to replace ethno-religious identity with constitutional idealism. The Founding Fathers, largely of Anglo-Protestant descent, built a new civic faith in place of the old blood and church. Over time, what had been a concrete, embodied culture became an abstract doctrine of rights. A people rooted in land, lineage, and liturgy became evangelists for a borderless ideal. The commonwealth gave way to the marketplace. The Protestant conscience dissolved into global moralism. The founders’ descendants became strangers to themselves.

Fraser does not call for a conventional political revival. His vision is deeper. What he rightly calls for is palingenesis—a rebirth through memory. The term, drawn from ancient Greek and used by both reactionaries and revolutionaries, refers to a national or civilizational renewal that emerges not through reform, but through collapse and return. This is not a restoration of the American Republic, but a resurrection of the Anglo-Saxon spirit that predated it: tribal, Christian, and conscious of itself.

This review will unfold in stages. We will trace Fraser’s account of WASP decline, from the imperial Reformation through the American Revolution to the therapeutic managerialism of the present. We will examine his critique of civic nationalism, his theological reflections, and his proposal for a new tribal aristocracy. And we will consider his vision not just as lament, but as a path—however narrow—toward ancestral return in an age that has forgotten who it is.

1/ A nation dies when it forgets how to name its enemies. America forgot. Carl Schmitt warned: all politics begins with that line. We erased it. Let’s talk about the Civil Rights regime and the controlled demolition of the American Republic. 🧵👇 2/ Liberalism cannot sustain a nation because it denies the essence of politics. This is the insight Carl Schmitt bequeathed to a suicidal West: that politics is not compromise, not procedure, not consensus, but decision. It is the act of drawing a line between who belongs and who threatens, between who must live and who, if necessary, must be repelled or destroyed. All else is theater.

In The Concept of the Political , Schmitt defined the political as rooted in the friend-enemy distinction. Not in sentiment or mere rivalry, but in the ultimate possibility of conflict—existential, not symbolic. The enemy is not he who offends, but he who endangers. The friend is not a business partner or ally of convenience, but the one with whom one shares fate.

“The specific political distinction to which political actions and motives can be reduced is that between friend and enemy.” (The Concept of the Political)

This is not mere rhetoric. It is anthropology. The political is a fundamental category of human existence, one which reveals itself in the moment of danger, when peace collapses and masks are removed. It is not war for its own sake, but the possibility of war that defines the political. A people unwilling or unable to name its enemies is no longer a people in Schmitt’s sense. It is a territory, a market, or an open wound.

Liberalism, born of the trauma of religious war and the Enlightenment’s intoxication with reason, seeks to abolish the political. It imagines that man is naturally good, that all conflicts can be resolved through trade, dialogue, and tolerance. It turns politics into administration, law into procedure, war into humanitarian intervention. It replaces the sovereign with the bureaucrat, the warrior with the economist.

Schmitt warned of this. He saw liberalism as a pacified ideology that “evades or suppresses” the friend-enemy distinction. In Political Theology, he framed sovereignty in the starkest terms:

“Sovereign is he who decides on the exception.” (Political Theology)

That is, the sovereign is the one who determines when law is suspended and power acts nakedly, for the sake of survival. The exception is not a breakdown of order—it is its foundation. No constitution, no law, no procedural safeguard exists that is not, ultimately, upheld by someone willing to suspend it in defense of the whole.

And therein lies the fatal contradiction of the modern West. Liberal states, built upon the denial of conflict, now find themselves unable to act in the face of existential threats. The Schmittian state requires the capacity for decision, but liberalism prefers permanent deliberation. It wants open borders and open minds but recoils at the blood-price of real community. It no longer remembers that its liberties were carved by force and preserved by violence.

Today, the West is ruled not by sovereigns but by systems. It has law but no legitimacy. It has armies but no enemies it dares name. It believes it can survive without making distinctions—but survival itself is a distinction. The only people who will endure the coming storm are those who reclaim the political. Those who decide.

1/ Among the ruins of Western civilization, we do not mourn. We remember. In remembering, we reclaim. Tradition is not behind us, but beneath us—like a buried sword waiting to be drawn. Let us discuss what it means to stand upright as the world falls. 🧵👇 2/ Remember: we are not liberals sifting ruins for pity, nor conservatives mourning a world they helped dismantle. We are heirs to something harder, older, more formidable, and more beautiful. In the twilight of an exhausted cycle, the question is not how to salvage the fragments, but how to rekindle the fire that once forged them.

Julius Evola articulated that Tradition, in its essence, is “an overall ordering force in the service of principles that have the chrism of a superior legitimacy (we may even call them ‘principles from above’).” It is not a relic of the past, but a living force that shapes and elevates. In this spirit, we do not seek renewal through inclusivity, compromise, or appeals to progress. Ours is a different axis, a vertical reawakening of hierarchy, honor, and inward sovereignty.

The world decays not from external enemies, but from the absence of men who embody these principles. And so, as Julius Evola posed the question, we ask again: do men still stand among the ruins?

1/ America was not founded as an idea. It was founded as a nation—for a people. White, Anglo-European. They came not to universalize liberty, but to preserve it for themselves and their sons. A homeland, not a marketplace. A republic, not a borderless creed.

Let's discuss! 🧵👇 2/ They tell us America is an idea. A creed. A dream dreamt into being by men who believed in nothing but words. But nations are not born from ink. They are born from soil, from blood, from fire. What came into being on this continent was not an abstraction, but a people, a particular people, with faces and names and graves now weathered by time.

This people did not imagine America. They built it. They fought for it. They buried their sons in its fields and named their towns after their gods, their kings, their homelands. They did not believe they were creating a proposition for mankind. They believed they were securing a place for their own.

Today, that memory is under siege. The regime calls it hate. The schools call it myth. The monuments fall, the borders dissolve, and the descendants of the founders are taught to be ashamed of existing at all. But shame cannot build a country. And guilt cannot hold it together.

This is not nostalgia. It is not a lament. It is a reckoning with what was, and what must be again.

Because America was not founded as a nation for everyone. It was founded as a nation for us.

1/ Charles Murray charted the heights of Western genius in "Human Accomplishment." But what made the West exceptional was not just its output. It was the people who produced it.

Let's discuss Western excellence. 🧵👇 2/ Humans are not interchangeable cogs in a global machine. They are distinct peoples, shaped over millennia by geography, climate, and survival. Culture is not an abstraction. It is the fossilized imprint of blood and time, the outward behavior of a group honed by its environment. Europeans are not a random product of Enlightenment values. They are a unique branch of humanity, forged in ice, scarcity, and the long solitude of northern climes.

For tens of thousands of years, their ancestors endured cold environments where extended kinship networks failed and survival depended on individual responsibility, monogamous bonds, and high-investment parenting. This bred psychological traits that prioritized restraint, reciprocity, and delayed gratification. What made them different was not a theory. It was evolution.

1/ The modern world fears strength. It pities failure and punishes excellence. Nietzsche saw it coming. He warned of the Last Man, the soft tyrant of safety. This essay is for those who still believe in greatness. Let’s explore what his philosophy means today.🧵👇 2/ A civilization is not judged by its average but by its apex. For Nietzsche, the measure of a people is the quality of its highest type, not its institutions, not its GDP, not its moral posturing, but the level of excellence it can produce and sustain. The Übermensch is not a myth or abstraction. He is the fulfilled man: rooted in instinct, elevated in mind, aristocratic in soul. He acts without apology, creates without permission, suffers without complaint. He is the rare outcome of a culture that honors strength, discipline, and becoming. When a civilization is pointed toward that man, it has a future. When it forgets him, it declines.

Nietzsche understood this from the inside. He knew what he was and what he wasn’t. “I am one thing,” he wrote, “my writings another.” That was not posturing. It was honesty. His own body betrayed him from the beginning. His health was a wreck. His stomach failed him. His eyes dimmed to near-blindness. His mind eventually collapsed into madness. He knew humiliation, rejection, solitude. But the spirit behind the works never bent. He carried his books, his “club foot,” from boarding house to boarding house like a wounded monk preserving fire in a dark age.

The Übermensch was not a self-image. It was a standard he could not reach but refused to lower. As Sir Oswald Mosley would later write, “We are not here for comfort. We are here for glory.” That glory, for Nietzsche, was not personal indulgence or acclaim. It was the demand of form, the burden of becoming. He offered the world an image of what man could be, not as an escape from suffering, but as its transfiguration. The vision was never meant to soothe. It was meant to burn.

This alone separates him from the modern intellectual. He did not flatter the world or accommodate its sickness. He made war on it. He saw the petty cruelty of egalitarians, the hidden malice of the meek, the quiet hatred behind compassion. He spoke to the few, not the many. He wrote for the future, not the present. And he did so without bitterness, without envy, without self-pity. There is no resentment in Nietzsche. There is only fire.

The question, then, is not whether he lived up to his vision. Few ever have. The question is whether that vision still burns in the ruins of the West. Whether a man, once again, can say: I am not enough. But I know what is.

1/ With the release of Dr. Edward Dutton’s “Shaman of the Radical Right,” I will be sharing my reflections on Jonathan Bowden, whom I knew and corresponded with, one essay at a time. I will post a new section each day. See the first humble installment below. 2/ Jonathan Bowden lived and worked in a time that now feels impossibly distant. The early 2000s were not just pre-social media; they were ideologically suffocating. To raise even a mild concern about immigration was to mark oneself as dangerous. To use the word “White” in anything but a negative context was to invite social ostracism and professional ruin. The term itself was rarely spoken in polite society, and almost never on television. It had taken on the character of a slur, especially when used to express identity in a collective sense.

Nationalist thought was taboo. Those who voiced it faced total exclusion from cultural life. There were no real platforms for dissent. There were only scattered meetings in rented rooms, underground publishing circles, and whisper networks held together by trust and defiance. This was not a world of likes, shares, or algorithmic amplification. It was a world where heterodoxy was answered with silence, contempt, and, more often than not, slow and deliberate personal destruction.

This milieu was, and remains, especially cruel to artists and intellectuals, especially those for whom free speech is lifeblood and who refused to lie to survive. The dissident artist has always struggled, but in the modern West, that struggle took on new dimensions. It was no longer merely about poverty or rejection. It became a matter of total exclusion and, ultimately, erasure from both life and memory. For Bowden, it meant living hand-to-mouth, surviving through sheer willpower, and enduring mental collapse in isolation. His life was marked by brilliance, yes, but also by suffering, by the costs exacted upon those who defy the moral idols of their age.

He was not subsidized by institutions. He had no real patronage network to sustain him. He was either ignored or attacked by the very cultural organs that reward conformity and punish truth. Even in death, the attacks have not ceased. The hackjob published in Jacobin was not written to inform or to analyze. It was written to demoralize you and to defame him. That alone is a testament to the enduring weight and power of his presence.

To those discouraged by such attempts, I would urge a more careful reading of Bowden’s actual work and of Dr. Dutton’s biography. As Dutton himself noted, those who believe “it’s over” because Bowden had flaws, as all men do, are simply incapable of nuanced thinking. Complexity is not contradiction. Flaws do not negate greatness. A man like Bowden is not undone by his imperfections. He is defined by the fire he carried in spite of them.

Yet even in this cultural vacuum, Bowden spoke with a clarity and force that left a permanent mark, one that still endures today. He called himself a “cultured thug,” a paradox he inhabited completely. A university dropout and autodidact, he mastered the canon of European thought: Nietzsche, Spengler, Evola, Mishima, Lewis. His speeches, many of which were transcribed and preserved on Counter-Currents, combined the cadence of a preacher with the intellectual force of a philosopher. And speaking of suppression, it is worth noting that Counter-Currents and its founder, Greg Johnson, are not even permitted to maintain a presence on X. Their accounts are deleted almost immediately. Bowden was not a scholastic annotator, but a firebrand. He electrified small rooms, spoke without notes for hours, and left his audiences stunned. And he did this not for money, fame, or personal advancement, but because he believed that Western civilization, in its decadence, needed to be shaken awake.

In the years since his death, Bowden has become more than a memory. He has become a symbol. For some, he represents a lost age of courage and intellect. For others, he is a saint, a dissident martyr surrounded by an aura of reverence that permits no doubt. His posthumous rise has taken on the shape of a cult of personality, with followers who do not merely admire him but rely on him. To criticize him, even with care, is to risk being accused of betrayal. To suggest that he was flawed, conflicted, or haunted is to invite the charge of heresy. But the truth is that most artists, and certainly many of the greatest in recent memory, are flawed men. Perhaps it is this very fact that makes them great.

This response speaks not to Bowden’s failure but to his power. His charisma, his intellect, and his style left such a lasting imprint that he now serves as a totemic figure, a kind of “shaman” for those who find themselves cast aside by modernity. Yet to reduce Bowden to either myth or pathology is to miss the essence of what made him remarkable. He was not a flawless man. He was a flawed genius, one who struggled deeply yet still managed to create, to speak, and to inspire. He did not sell utopias. He offered no easy hope. What he gave was something far more dangerous: the truth, as he understood it, and the courage to speak it aloud.

Today, the conditions have changed, but not entirely. Dissidents are still punished, though the boundaries of acceptable thought have merely shifted. The tools of enforcement such as demonetization, doxxing, and deplatforming are still in place, but now they are triggered not by calls for revolution, but by questioning the most protected narratives. It is no longer what you say that matters most, but whom your words might unsettle, and I think we all know who I am talking about. The lines have moved, yet the punishment for crossing them remains as unforgiving as ever.

There are now platforms, publishers, and spaces that did not exist during Bowden’s life, but the costs of truth-telling remain. It is still easier to lie. It is still safer to conform. But the path that Bowden walked, lonely and demanding, lit by an inner fire, is still open to those willing to pay the price.

This essay is not a hagiography. It is not a smear. It is an attempt to understand a man who made himself into a legend while being, in many ways, at war with himself. It is a study of his life, his work, and the ideas that gave him form. For those who knew him, Bowden was a singular force. For those who never met him, he remains a voice on a recording or a name on a spine, yet that voice continues to speak, and that name continues to resonate.

What follows is an honest tribute. A confrontation with the man and the myth. An affirmation of his role not just as a speaker or writer, but as a symbol of what it means to be a dissident in the modern West: brilliant, cursed, misunderstood, and unafraid.

To be continued tomorrow...