Europe, you’re old and weary…Your sickness? The intellectual. Where are your berserkers and artists? I see only slouched ‘Doctors’, who specialise in all subjects save their own symptoms and sickness: themselves. Oh when will we see again those happier days, full of more exciting games than ‘Deal or No Deal’ or ‘Survivor’, I mean real ludi like launching lady belletrists and male magistrates from catapults? At the Coliseum! the irksome guttural utterers, the phrase-touts from the ultra-left recycled into MEPs, or into PC monomentality teachers in the French educaZion system, those spineless bespectacled and emasculated stale scholars with backs bent double by the New Statesman, whose sole fulfilment is found in trumpeting rhetoric into our lugholes worthy of Cheryl Cole. To the privies!…people of the Privy Council. (…) Stay like the White Sharks of yore: Hells Angels, Vikings, conquistadors or Greasers, hard-rockers from the 80s who re-established feudalism in their playgrounds; today largely overshadowed by their hefty competitor, the North-African chav – a genuine street-fighter, spewing out sperm and spit (literally) onto the teachers of La République, into the vacuous white humanitarian ditzes, and all over the white Parisian, left-wing bourgeois protestors (the worst sort of person that God ever created). Punishing (in our stead) with an unparalleled footballing style, the Tecktonik-dancing metrosexual, and the angry high school student: these new breed of faggots that drive our women to swinglifestyle.com to find wilder spooks and stovelids. Fuck, stay white without becoming bloodless. For Medieval France, the pagans of the dark North were also known as Saracens! We are the tribe of the Pesto-Nègriens, and like the Alans [ed.; Sarmatian/Scythian tribe] for whom old-age was a #Fail, we’ll only find peace at the heart of perilous wars. We become sore… Blast beats that strike and fuck and melt, we rush headlong into the horror… We don’t push the envelope; we shove it up your hole! Oh Mr Judge, Dr Psychiatrist, come cut off our Mohawks or swinging pieces; quick, shut me up, I’m barking too much, heading straight towards you to smack you right in your viz with a log, you shut your gob! My only ‘Master’ is Master Kanter [ed.; Master Kanter brews the Kanterbräu beer brand].
They say we are beasts, those people of the Book, of the One God and the Law; they label us stupefied brutes, men cast from Hesiodic Bronze, dimwitted soldiers as foreign to transcendence as to Great Culture…Fuck we are not brutes, we are small, scrawny and drugged; and if we attack it’s always from behind! The ‘cultured milieu’ says that subtlety is not our strong point. Of course it is, because if we are cruel – aesthetes of Evil – we cultivate all the more assiduously writing, arts (well… martial ones), and the Memory of a Dark Past – Hey Nero, big up Tepes, Rais, Sade and the others! How’s it going bros? The other Age and outrage…
The Ancient Age and the rage, the barbarian heritage angered by what they call ‘progress’, ‘intelligence’, ‘humanity’…a step back, OUR return, BLACK METAL is: the marriage of culture, the blood of our bloodthirsty ancestors, Tradition and racial patrimony, with fanaticism and the insensate recklessness of a youth now lost. ‘Fascists’ us? We are Nationalists of Hell. More chthonic than an earthworm, I’m a son of the earth: of my scorched earth, The France of Oïl; better yet I’m under the ground, a cadaver that dances with demons.
Famine, Diary of PN, in the magazine La mesnie Herlequin #1, forthcoming.
Translation : Martin, Monica and L’Atrabilaire.