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The opportunity presents itself. You must well remember, that for a Jew…every non-Jew is nothing but an animal


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the opportunity presents itself. You must well remember, that for a Jew…every non-Jew is nothing but an animal! At best he might be amusing, useful, dangerous, or picturesque… Never anything more…
“The chosen people haven’t yet proceeded to carry out mass executions in our precincts, only the occasional murder. But these matters will not be left to wait much longer. In anticipation of the great spectacle, one works the beast lightly… Or rather by fits and starts, and by changes in direction, according to panics planned in advance… One day they reign him in, the next day they grease his joints, so long as the animal becomes confused, goes berserk and exhausts itself when it gets to the arena…puking, spitting out all of its blood little by little…into the sawdust or in the Stock Exchange… The Jews are licking their lips, they’re enjoying themselves. Once the animal is on its knees it will be put to death, with no resistance possible…
“How much have our Jews gained through the coup of the Popular Front? …through the three…the four devaluations?… It’s incalculable! Find me a single Minister who has lost even a little money?… Never has a sovereign people shown itself to be so generous, so grandiosely prodigious towards its emancipators!… Where have all of their billions gone? Don’t go looking!… They’re with the other Yids in Switzerland, Geneva, New York, London…in very beautiful real estate…refined tastes on display, in distilleries…in armament works…
“The Jews aren’t speculating all by themselves! they aren’t gambling without somebody else in the world!… They aren’t the only racketeers… It’s a popular tune. Wealthy Christians are also apparently doing all right for themselves, to a somewhat enormous extent! They are pouncing with the utmost alacrity upon all of the profits of disaster! Of course! Of course!… They’re as big a bunch of jackals as anyone! Only there’s a “catch”… The “native” capitalists’ days are numbered! They are an encumbrance! They are nothing more than animals! They must never forget that! The Jews have not forgotten them… On the eve of the feast they will kill the white men like pigs for a wedding banquet… The white men are burdened with false illusions! They will not attain happiness! They are only hostages! The Jew closes all the gates behind himself as he moves along… No one will escape Destiny. The Jew keeps all of its keys… He tosses some bones around in order to attract, and to rally the most voracious… He will make of them his traitors of the Great Night, his Judas Goats, such as are preserved at La Villette, some painstakingly maintained beasts, always the same, used to entrain the others, the herd, to the knife, the torrent of meat to be killed, bleating, and confusedly juddering with stupidities.”

The Jew is the scourge of Humanity, the enemy of every nation.”

—Fourier
I never reply to letters. That has eventually come to be known. I receive fewer and fewer of them. They are not a genre which I have taken up. No… No… It’s simply that I do not like letters once and for all, and that I even have a horror of them. I find it indiscreet to be written to. I myself, I write to no one. “References” are my great phobia. Those I decline categorically, out of principle. As for the others, the ordinary letters, my concierge tears them up, she only keeps the stamps for her grandsons… You ask me: “What about your pay?” You can rest well at ease concerning that, it doesn’t come upstairs all alone. I have to go down to look for it. It does not arrive by mail. The remainder is perforce nothing but verbiage. I no longer receive The Argus, Denoël83 notwithstanding. It

costs too much… And when it comes to the articles, I have to swear that those who comment upon your oh-so-beautiful works remain so far removed from the question, truly estranged, that it’s hard not to laugh at them. It’s truly a waste of time, a useless effort.


The critics, above all in France, are much too vain ever to speak of anything other than their own magnificent selves. They never stay on subject. First of all they are much too stupid. Even they don’t know what it is that they’re trying to do. Seeing them provides a spectacle of great cowardice, as those rotters set themselves into wick-whacky motion, giving themselves a grip deleterious to one’s good health, profiting off of your hapless work, in order to make themselves shine, and strutting before the auditorium, camouflaged, those so-called “critics”! Those sinister shits! It’s a sin! They take pleasure only in puking, and pouncing like foxes all over your pages. I know of some who are writers and even millionaires, who knock off their columns straight away in order to regain their composure, each time that I publish one of my works. That’s the great consolation of their lives…for the profound humiliations, for their “inferiority complex,” as it’s called in psychobabble.
On the matter of letters, I’ve made one sole exception in favor of Palestine.84 Ever since Mea Culpa,85 I have received so many deliveries of letters from Palestine, that my concierge is in revolt. She has asked me what she should do. The Jews have been writing me en masse, from Tel Aviv and elsewhere. And then concerning the tone! in the fury of those rabid rants! enough to set the envelopes afire! They obsess upon Red-White issues,86 those ecstatics! Ah! those little Passionists!87… (And there you have it!) Ah! how they love the Soviets! That I can vouch for you! If Christians loved their Pope with the same frightful fervor, the Pope would explode, he wouldn’t be able to contain himself… From that enormous crash of insults, that thundering muddle, that unbridled cursing, from those delirious anathemas, something stood out despite all, above that extreme cacophony, of overcharged hatreds, a certain tonic refrain, …an air of the conqueror’s trumpet, well-known, quite Jewish…the call that brings them all together, that makes them all march forward together in file, that gathers them body and soul into the great Universal struggle, and which air they call the “Sozial”… Their great alibi, their great hallali.88 All of these “heroes” of Judea, all more-or-less anonymous, vomit upon me in German. After several pages of intensive diatribe, they nearly all wind up with some formulaic expression of this sort: “Du! Dümenkopf! wirst du nimmer doch Sozial denken?”! (You! Dummy! don’t you ever think in a “social” context?)… “Sozial denken!” To think “socially”! Here you have that ferocious hobbyhorse, the great charger of the entire Hymie race! in all of the Hymie invasions and devastations. To think “sozial”! which in practice would be better said, in blunt terms: “To think Jewish! for the Jews! by the Jews, under the Jews!” Nothing else! All of that immense surplus of words, that humming scientifico-humanistico-socialistic verbiage, all of that cosmic wild-goose-chasing89 of the Jewish despotic imperative90 is nothing but wheezy confused gibberish, an illusory cloak, an oriental sauce for those ass-reamed Aryans, a rotten terminological fricassee for the adulation of the “effeminized white men,” crawling drunks, and untouchables, who’ll stick their dicks into what-have-you, in order to mystify themselves, and to stuff themselves unto starvation.
*…*…*…*…*
Sozial denken,” this will be explained in a more explicit way once the revolution has been made, thoroughly made, successful, with the natives well-bloodied, immobilized, rounded-up, put into boots, and with the arrival atop our heads of a new influx of at least a million bureaucrats, replete with kids, concubines, beggars, henchmen, dervishes, and their

lepers, their curved knives, their hashish peddlers, and all of that poxy caravansary of the Asiatic hordes.


Upon the first triumphal hurrahs heralding the “emancipation of the masses,” no sooner will they hear them, but that they’ll jump up, begin moving about, and then pour down upon France like a waterspout, everywhere, given the very least rumors. Upon the signal that “The Beast is dead!”… They’ll let Tel-Aviv fall… They’ll take flight from Kamchatka… They’ll stream out of Silesia…out of the depths of Bessarabia…from the borders of China, from the Ukrainian mucks, from the Indian Isles, from all of the sewers of America… They’ll pullulate along every route like rats. They’ll rush forth by the tens of thousands… They’ll be pouring in…they’ll be overflowing… Charles Martel never saw the like!… These are the exact same kinds of people that are currently looting us and bloodying us up, let alone the ones who are just thinking of coming over. There’ll be such a rush, such a ferocious stampede for all of the goodies, that there will be some “collapsing-in of the earth” along the frontiers where they pass through. They will charge forth so thickly, with such density, between Dunkirk and the Riviera, that one will be unable actually to see either road or highway.
I will predict to you, that it is as it is written, the mother of the Apostles is not dead. The world is still full of martyrs, down there in their dugout cells, who are just dying with the desire to liberate us, and then to be “entitled” through the power of that same dawn to functions none-too-fatiguing, in one Ministry or another, with a retirement. Never have such Apostles ever been seen, as we have in our day, with retirements. In this respect the Common Front is only one little installment, one little advance into the Jewish future…
The Jewish future will concern itself with everything. It already concerns itself with everything… With the popular arts among other things, and that with a great deal of solicitude… The popular arts take an eminent place in the well-noted “Sozial”…
One evening, overtaken by restlessness, I decided to go down into one of those “Cultural” bars, in order to take an accounting of things, to see what was going on! To see what our cultural renovators, once they had “liberated” us, were going to do in the popular arts…
Things were not to transpire in a jocular vein, I was assured from the beginning, given a quick look at the faces, and at their “impassioned” gestures… I had thus gone down into that cave,91 a little “Sorbonne for Martyrs,” on the rue de Navarin, one a little more Jewish than the others. I have a penchant towards oracularity, for bullshitting to my great pleasure, concerning “visions,” rather than for meeting Semites per se, which grew with each step that I took, but by my faith of a wanker! I swear! that I’d never seen so many Jews in such a small place, than in that Cultural bar, confined, smoking, and that I’d never seen so many bureaucrats, high bureaucrats, understudy bureaucrats, and so many Legion of Honor recipients, so many Apostles crammed together in a basement, shouting into the curling smoke, to the extent that I believe that I was the only Aryan at that reunion of fanatics. I had trepidation.
And how messianic they were! Fuzzy-Wuzzy! four-eyed! anathematizing! And how frenetic about redemption! shit! They had modern art up the wazoo…you should have seen how they fidgeted, how they jerked around in those unfortunate chairs! And then they became hectic, trampling, enough to bring down the ceiling itself, like rats jammed together down in the hold, during the course of a fumigation, that’s how they appeared. The way that they were arguing amongst themselves in that den reminded me of Harlem, and “Father Divine”…
A wee little black man, of the village parson type, I remember him very well, encamped upon the stage, dominating the bacchanal, shouting above the din of the disputants, and I can still see his placards of himself, immense, larger than his real visage, he was something of a Charlie Chaplin character,92 but a sinister, salvationistic and railing Charlie Chaplin character.
It was a matter of painting, such was the subject of the controversy…the “sozial” future of painting… And then it took on a vindictive and even tragic dimension, I kid you not! It wasn’t a laughing matter… He was in the process of bringing the “Licorice” to a boil…tearing apart a victim for “crucifixion” paralyzed with fear, in order to convince them, in contending with them. “You ain’t no vanguard mural painter!” he roared… “You ain’t no vanguard mural painter! You don’ know nothin’! ’bout de derection ob Rebolushuns! You ain’t no vanguard mural painter! You ain’t no vanguard mural painter! Comrades!” He was drawing special attention to somebody named Wirbelbaum…some Wirbelbaum lost in the depths of the smoke, in a cloud, in a terrible whirlwind of gesticulations…
“You, Wirbelbaum, I’s gonna tell you sumpin’…do you know what you is, Wirbelbaum?…”
“Lay it out! nom de dieu! lay it out!…”
“You…you…is a painter what need’ a ‘eezel’!…”
Where was that Wirbelbaum?
“Ah! Ah! Ah!…” he was choked with anger upon hearing that…he was having an apoplectic fit…the words no longer came to him… He had become mad…to have heard insults of the like!… Wirbelbaum was nearsighted, enough to make his eyeballs pop from their sockets as he sough out his nemesis… He couldn’t make out the direction of the stage. He replied towards the back end of the other side of the hall… Father Divine continued working the Licorice, even bringing it to incandescence… He was in holy trance…
“Wirbelbaum! You ain’t no vanguard mural painter! …you’s backwards! Wirbelbaum! you ain’t got de ‘sozial’ instinc’ ob de Rebolushun ob de masses! …you ain’t never goin’ t’ unnerstan’! never unnerstan’ nothin’! I’s gonna tell you Wirbelbaum dat you, you is a painter! ob de genner ob Fragoonard!93 Fragoonard! dat need’ a eesel! a painter wif’ a eesel! Wirbelbaum! Pictoral propaganda! Real ideolozhical propaganda! you don’ unnerstan’ nuttin’ ’bout it! you don’ unnerstan’ nuttin’ ’bout it!…” The Jewish Cultural dignitaries, such as Cassou the grand Poet-Inspector-Poorest-of-the-Poor (one hundred thousand francs per year), nonetheless dish-out the payola behind the Office…
Wirbelbaum, his friends having pivoted him around to face the stage, was hopping mad, in a meltdown, so that it was necessary to hold him back, to box him in by getting their hands on him, applying force… Wirbelbaum was no longer recognizable…he wanted to leap onto the platform…to tear down the other “vanguard” work…
“Fragoonard! Fragoonard!” he railed into the haze… “Ah! the liar!… Ah! the shit pile!…” He thought up some more insults… They came to him more naturally than did the enunciations…the foamings…the asides…
[80]
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