Tag Archives: Spengler

Embracing the Inner Slav

In the interest of improving my Russian, I spent the last few weeks “embracing the inner Slav.” I have always taken the “method acting” approach to learning languages. I don’t just study grammar and vocabulary. I read history, listen to music, and generally immerse myself in the culture of the language I am learning.

This time I was a little too successful. After a couple days I stopped studying Russian, but continued to act like a Russian. After three weeks, I had written nothing, barely gone to work, screwed up my sleep-schedule and experimented with new means of intoxication.

At my low-point, I found myself sprawled across my bed, in the middle of the day, enjoying a casual beer. I felt pretty Russian. But then it occurred to me–I can never be a Slav. A Slav would enjoy this. If he felt like lying around in the middle of the day (as he so often does), he would do it, and he would feel good about it. I, on the other hand, was not enjoying my sloth. I felt like shit. While my outward behavior was Slavic, something was wrong.

This all got me thinking on the Slavic Question. What is the essence of Slavicness? Why do they try to drink or incinerate everything they see? What’s with the tracksuits? No other group of whites acts like them. What is going on?

The Spirit of Inclination

Spengler attributed the characteristics of peoples to differences in their national spirit. A people’s innate sense of time, space and direction would determine the sort of culture they would go on to create. The ancient Greeks, for instance, fixated on static form. Modern Westerners (Faustians), on the other hand, are obsessed with motion. So while Faustian sculptors try to imitate classical style, they never capture the aesthetic faithfully, because the products of their creativity belie their strong sense of driving movement. Cultural differences in directional sense also explain the typical Chinese’s ineptitude at driving.

What defines the Slavic soul? How does the Slav differ from the striving, willful Faustian? The Slav acts only in accordance with his whim. He has not will, but inclination. Take Tolstoy. How could a will-less man write thousand-page literary masterpieces around characters who are so well developed that they strike many readers as more familiar than their own relatives and friends? Because Tolstoy felt like it. An inclination for writing is certainly rarer than an inclination for food, alcohol, sex and petty entertainments (abysses into which the Slav has poured most of his energies), but when a Slav is inclined toward writing, you get War and Peace.

In the same vein, a Faustian, having will, cannot write a novel of such proportions. For the Westerner, action is the result of Will, which is only moral if it runs opposite to his inclinations. Following his whim would violate Kant’s Categorical Imperative–that man only acts morally when he acts contrary to his desire. Thus the Western soul contains a paradox: Faustian Will cannot triumph over its moral qualms, because acting counter to his inclinations is, for the Faustian, the most absolutely moral deed.

So even if a Westerner were inclined toward writing, he could never produce War and Peace. After writing a few hundred pages, he would be hampered by a creeping feeling of unproductiveness. The sub-mental process would run roughly: “I am acting according to a whim, this is immoral.” Thus his Will would subvert his whim, and he would direct his efforts to new endeavors.

All great Faustian men have been “renaissance” men. Goethe, the outstanding figure of German literature, was also a botanist, a geologist and a sometime sinologist. Mozart played pool and enjoyed dancing. Hitler was a painter.  No Faustian has ever given himself totally to one endeavor. Such devotion would be impossible.

It is thus the Westerner who is lazier, in terms of measurable outcome, than the Slav. For Russian Culture to succeed in any endeavor, the Slavic race must only produce one man who is inclined toward its undertaking.

The Slav Abroad

A few months ago a random encounter got me thinking about The Slav.  I was in Rome, sitting at an outdoor cafe table. I noticed the fellow next to me was having a phone convo on his phone. Bored, I struck up a conversation, knowing it would lead to hours upon hours of drinks and proclamations of eternal brotherhood.

His idea of vacation was utterly alien to that of a Westerner. He did not care for sites, for museums, for anything. His only desire was to saunter to a new cafe every few hours and have some different scenery to compliment his drinking. Sure, Italy was beautiful. The food was great, and the Culture!

He was innocently perplexed that the Italians had such a wonderful country, but drove faggy fiats and vespas. “Why? If I had money, I would buy a awesome car with lots of power! These Italian men are such gays with their little motorcycles.” I patiently explained that when Italians went to Russia, they wondered why the food is so bad. It’s not like the Russians are poor, but their idea of spaghetti is ketchup on EZ-mac. He feigned gastronomic sense and summoned a polite “I guess.”

The Slav shares the typical American tourist’s thorough-goingly superficial appreciation of Culture. The only difference is, while the Westerner goes to Rome to see the Coliseum, to visit the Forum, to throw a coin in Trevi Fountain, the Slav regards the cultural artifacts as mere background noise.  He wants only to drink in the midst of these wonders.

The Slavic Ubermensch

The late Spengler believed man was on the cusp of entering a new, post-historical phase of his existence. Spengler thought that Western civilization, due to it’s ever expansive, Faustian nature, could break the life-and-death cycle of human cultures. The revolution would be akin to what man experienced when he emerged from prehistoric savagery into cultural life.

He was wrong. Faustian man was destined to fail. He already has. Nineteen forty-five marked our final, best attempt to follow our inclination–our drive–toward ever greater acts of expansion. We tried to create a 1,000-year galactic super-state, but our striving was subverted by the need to defy inclination. Fucking Kant. Conquering the stars would have been too easy. Suicide-by-demographics would be hard.

Therefore, the Hitlerian Triumph of the Will is impossible, because the Faustian can only be a reluctant hero. The Aryan born-hero would have to become something else–a Canadian comedian, perhaps. On the other hand, Slavonic apathy will result in millions of drunks, one of whom will turn out to be the true Ubermensch. It’s only a matter of time.

In my three weeks of going full Slavic-nigger, I have learned a lot about myself. I am not inclined to read or write, to learn languages, to be productive in any way. If I were a Russian, I would be a bum. I can only act when I embrace my Faustian nature–that is, when I act contrariwise to my inclination, but in accordance with my Will.

Man will colonize the galaxy. But such is not a possible fate for the Faustian. The Slavic race will lead the way. As soon as they stop larping as Europeans and surrender totally to their whims. They will eventually generate an Ubermensch, who will whip his bored, drunken comrades into shape.

Here’s to our limitless, will-less future. “Feels good, man.”

Becoming The Eternal Anglo

The Urheimat

Every tribe of American whites has its Urheimat. The Urheimat or “proto-homeland” was, for decades, a key concept in Indo-European linguistics. It was always assumed that any group of related peoples had a common ancestral language, and a common, ancient homeland. Pinpointing these homelands absorbed a lot of time, effort and careers. Where was the Aryan Urheimat? Once the Aryans broke up, where did each of the linguistic sub-families evolve?

In recent decades, the Urheimat concept has taken a lot of flak. Scholars pointed out that the idea assumed that languages and peoples must have moved into their current lands–that they did not develop in situ. Spengler was one such sceptic. But here I must break with my Master. The Urheimat is a reasonable assumption. Plenty of examples exist on record. American Blacks have an Urheimat, so do Whites. Even the Amerindians, despite the SWPL bleating, are not autochthonous.

American Whites are the most interesting case, as usual. Because of our rich, intraracial diversity, white subgroups can be traced back to specific regions of Europe. This phenomenon is well documented for Anglos–apparently scholars can discern folkways that mark The Eternal Wessexer distinct from The Eternal Northumbrian, even 400 years after their migration to North America. But the phenomenon goes beyond them.

American Origins

Europe is a patchwork of white Urheimats. Scandinavia is the proto-homeland of Upper Midwesterners. Germany is the Urheimat of Ohioans and Chicagoans. It is intuitive, then, that one would find proto-New Jersites in Sicily. The folkways are all there–the anger, the pugnacity, the sun-burned sweatiness. Riding a bus to Mt. Etna, I kept bursting out laughing. The driver was a typical guido–he kept shouting at passengers–at first I could not figure out why, because his dialect was as preposterous as that of his American cousins–but once I attuned my ear to it, I realized he stayed in this excitable mode no matter the circumstances. The British girl sitting next to me didn’t get it. I gave up trying to explain. I’m here to save the White Race from being inundated by refugees, not to rescue the British character from its aboriginal defect.

The Angless was in an even more humorless mood than her kind are known for–it was Brexit Day. “I’m not European anymore,” “All educated people voted ‘remain,’” “Nigel Farage is a coont.” I don’t really care about Brexit, it is a symbolic victory for us at best. But that did not stop me from gloating. I noted the classless nature of her accent. I showed her Nigel Farage memes. I wondered how I spoke more Italian than her–I’d been in country a week, she since November. I was scandalized that she did not know what ancient Mesopotamia was. I said all this aloud. Good thing I’m not “educated.”

I admit, I have always had an inferiority complex toward them. I admire their hauteur. I always felt the allure of their educational routine–the philology, the bloodsport, the hazing-by-persnicketry. Over the years I managed to acquire a grounding in each, but without ever developing anglophilia like the common cuck. The Germans are still way cooler.


The British wouldn’t be so much of a problem if they just stayed in their Urheimat. Their Spirit is an especially dangerous one, as it combines the Faustian will-to-infinity and their own brand of cosmopolitan rootlessness. But the British have an even more effective means of spreading their spiritual corruption–The English language. Learning English is the single worst thing that can happen to a people. It strips a people’s meme-complexes, leaving their minds utterly exposed to internationalist corruption. The commoner the knowledge of English, the more susceptible a people is to the POZ. The Nords have it the worst. The English and Germans are close behind. The Italians are, in large part, unaffected. The Anglo is not so much Eternal as he is expansive.

English is about as different as a language can be from Proto-Indo-European. The latter was “synthetic,” mutating the endings of words to express grammatical relationships. English claims, in what is obviously a move to seize the terminological high-ground, to be “analytic.” Where else have I seen that term used as the exclusive purview of the Eternal Anglo? But whatever. Synthetic languages are superior, and the British admit it. That is why they subjected generations of school boys to beatings for, say, using an ancient Greek verb in the perfect rather than the aorist.

Speaking English really gets me down. Every thought I have in this earthless medium drills into me, reminding me that I am torn from my Urheimat. And worse, like most Americans, I have more than one proto-homeland. My blood feels at home in Germany and Calabria (that backwater since the death of Pythagoras). I should speak Indo-European, or, failing that, Greek and Old High German. I have tried to remedy this by learning foreign languages. The problem is, due to my Faustian will-to-infinity, I want to learn all of them; and, due to my lack of a true Urheimat, I cannot prioritize one over the others. Maybe I am an Anglo after all.

Embracing the Apollonian

Leaving Rome was another clusterfuck. I knew it would be, so I went to “Termini” central station three days ahead of time to put everything in order. Despite my efforts, the genius of Italy saw to it that there would be a last-minute fiasco.

At first, everything seemed to be working. I arrived 50 minutes early, found my train on the big board, and saw the platform number. Ah, time for a coffee. Fortunately the line was too long or did not exist, so I decided to skip the espresso and board. I went to the gate to enter the platform and showed my EURail pass to the guy, along with my reservation; of course I had my passport handy too. He scanned my papers and said calmly, “No, no no no, you need a stampa, to validate.” Are you serious? I had already traveled 5 times on this document in anal-retentive Scandinavia without anyone saying anything about a validation stamp.

The officer-guy directed me “al centro, i alla sinestra.” He meant I had to go to the biglietteria–the ticket gallery, which I had tried to use the other day. The biglietteria is a mini-DMV, except the employees aren’t black, just inefficient and insouciant. I took a number. There were at least 10 Americans in front of me and probably some Germans, and my train was leaving in 35 minutes. The women at the counter were taking their sweet time answering every moronic inquiry in Italianglish and typing. And there might be a cigarette break any moment now. I knew it was hopeless.

As I learned my first day in Rome, act like it’s a crisis and people will help you. But I could not simply push to the counter and demand a stamp before my number was called. That would cause an incident–operating in Italy takes more subtlety. So I stopped thinking like a Nord and embraced my inner I-tie. Processes here are not linear, but fluid. I dropped my pack and sprawl-prawled onto the station floor, amidst a crowd of panicked and frustrated non-Italians, pulled out my papers, and wrote my own goddamn validation. I antedated it 26.05.16 and signed my father’s initials. If some guy asked “eeeyy! La stampa! Dove e?” I would just say I got it validated in a shit-tier country like Greece. They would understand.

This time I decided to play it right. I strode up to the usher and passed him my papers hurriedly. He didn’t even ask about the stamp this time. Okayed, I gave everyone around me an earful of my unmelodic, manly American accent, “Haha, so goddamn American!”

A Lost World

Rome was just the beginning. As my train went south, I descended into the husk of the Classical world. Oswald Spengler–my God and prophet–theorized that European cultures were of two types: Apollonian and Faustian. The ancient Greeks and Romans were Apollonians–their imaginations were obsessed with static form, rootedness to the earth, the present moment and the noonday sun. Thus they were the complete antithesis of our, post-Roman, Faustian Culture, with its emphasis on thrusting motion, boundless space, and and a strong sense of time–all symbolized by the dawn. All very mystical and unprovable, but astute.

Rome is the frontier of the Faustian world. built atop the ruins of an Apollonian metropolis. On the other hand, Naples, Salerno, Sapri. with their white, yellow, pinkish-beige houses inset into hillsides might as well be Ancient Greece. My train-ride was, spiritually speaking, time-travel, now that I knew what to look for. The train (a Faustian imposition) raced by derelict houses and crumbling public buildings, often with exposed brown and grey blocks, including the well-preserved ruins of a medieval town-wall. Everywhere, the locals had built under, around and atop these as if they were part of the landscape. Even the highway bridges, despite their great height, were more notable for their connection to the earth at their bases than the air under their tresses.

Classical civilization grew and bloomed, then shriveled. Many of its former lands were subsumed by the new Faustian, Germanic Culture. But not all. According to Spengler, the Apollonian spirit clung on in some of its country backwaters, places like Southern Italy, Greece and Sicily. Fittingly, the fossils of Greece and Rome are now Europe’s bulwark against the black and brown menace. Since the last surge of hostilities during the early centuries of Islam, the front has remained virtually unchanged. It runs from Lesbos through Greece, across to Calabria, Sicily and on to Gibraltar.

As the train descended, the seats were thinned of Faustian, cosmopolitan Romans and filled with people who resembled my Calabrian grandfather. Not a one of them was speaking English. This was, after all, a people who had only recently (in the last 4 centuries) made the change-over from Greek to Romance dialects. In a few towns, in fact, there are still people who speak Greek, remnants of ancient and Byzantine colonization.

At Paola, I rendezvoused with two relatives who had been sent to retrieve me. They did not speak English either, which made conversation awkward grammatically. As we drove up into the hills, I felt a mixture of ease and a sensation like terror. Despite the language barrier, we managed to communicate–socially this was all very normal. But spiritually I knew myself to be intensely out of place. The permanence of it all shocked me–the stone farm-houses, the olive trees with their gnarled trunks, the all-absorbing landscape.


Spengler’s Last Prophecy

Grimey, gaunt-eyed throngs are groping their way across the world. Europe–the object of their longing–offers all. The black and brown masses, hearing her Siren-call, know that they will be welcomed. Europe’s ancient populations are tired. They see no reason to resist.

Such is the premise of Camp of the Saints, the 1973 novel of Jean Raspail. It has rightly received a lot of attention lately, as swarms of Syrians and Somalis, Nigerians and Sudanese, Eritreans and Iraqis begin to infest the Old Continent’s cities. But Raspail was not the first to imagine an ignominious and anticlimactic end to Western Civilization in its homeland. Forty years earlier, another had imagined the same scenario.

Not only imagined, but predicted. In 1933 Oswald Spengler, Germany’s most celebrated philosopher of history, published his last major work The Hour of Decision. Spengler is known primarily for Decline of the West, his two-volume, thousand-page meditation on the meaning of history. But perhaps he should be better known for Hour of Decision, because in it, he prophesies many aspects of the current crisis.

The Hour of Decision, at 230 pages in English, is much shorter than Spengler’s magnum opus. Decline of the West explains why and how the West has reached its spiritual and cultural peak, and will remain largely stagnant for the next few centuries, before it collapses totally. Hour of Decision is more specific. It describes what exactly will happen as a result of this inner decay. Continue reading Spengler’s Last Prophecy

AI Presents: RED DAWN


Our new signature podcast.

Featuring: Greg and Vince larping with AI bros. AND: commie music, headlines, sound effects, humor. A real professional production.


Topics: What is the future of the West? Can SWPLs take the red pill? Will (godforbid) our Lord and Savior, Donald Trump, be assassinated?

Themes: Hitler as Hannibal, Russian knowledge of European culture, the Japs, autocracy vs democracy, Eskimo infiltration of the Anglo guard, coups d’etat, the Gracchi brothers, A Category 5 Happening.