We make French Black Metal. Namely, a fair middle-ground between Nordic Black Metal laid out in gallows rope by rigid, pale and frozen salmon, and the scorched and polluted Thrash played by the Darkies of the Third World. I am Germania, Indria the Third World. I am the Plague, he is the Black. Loyal to the definition of the French race as laid out in ‘Journey to the End of the Night’ [Céline]: ‘What you call a race is nothing but a collection of riffraff like me, bleary-eyed, flea-bitten, chilled to the bone. They came from the four corners of the earth, driven by hunger, plague, tumours, and the cold, and stopped here. They couldn’t go any further because of the ocean. That’s France, that’s the French people.’ Let us never forget, my Gallic brothers, that we are the camel jockeys of Scandinavia…He who leaves Norway to return to France understands the extent to which the French are repulsive: noisy, quarrelsome, ugly, and yet despite that proud.They are distinguishable from the Gypsy by the mere fact that they do not live in a caravan. That is why National-Satanism, the promotion of both Filth and Fatherland, an absolute paradox to those that live above the Rhine, is a crystal clear logic in France.
Famine, Diary of PN, in the magazine La mesnie Herlequin #1, forthcoming.
Translation : Martin, Monica and L’Atrabilaire.