We have many good reactionary theories of politics, but we need to start thinking about art in a slightly more sophisticated way than “old equals good”. It is true, old does equal good and you will find many eternal truths of staggering beauty in ancient works of art. However it is equally true that while beauty may be objective and timeless, the particular spirit that resulted in ancient works of art and literature is particular to a specific time, place, and stage of cultural development. Beowulf and the Iliad are two very different epic poems. Beowulf is a Christian tale about the struggle against esoteric evil and entropy, wherein a civilization rises and falls in the course of the hero’s lifetime. It is a tale about the necessity of spiritual salvation to escape the cyclical and mechanical nature of pagan fatalism. The Iliad is about male honor, the barbaric versus the civilized, the cruel whims of the gods and the social structures implemented by man to combat reckless emotion. (The funeral games of Patroklos are some of, if not the most, important chapters)
Homer could not have produced Beowulf and its own anonymous author could not have produced the Iliad. In just the same manner, we, today, cannot replicate ancient art. I could write a poem imitating Milton, but I will never achieve the equal of Paradise Lost by copying Milton. Whereas Eliot’s The Waste Land is at least an equal accomplishment to Paradise Lost, and a natural successor to it in the Western literary canon, though in a style and form proper to post-WWI Europe and not to Milton’s milieu.
Milton was living in a morally and religiously pure world that had begun to slip into evil and rebellion, and thus he portrays the fall of Man, original sin, and the war between the republic of Hell and the kingdom of Heaven. Eliot was living in a wholly evil and fallen world, and thus his epic poem portrays the internal search for spiritual truth and redemption.
Oswald Spengler, who you should just go fucking read already, proposes that the entirety of a Culture and all of its technological, philosophical, political, and artistic output centers around a single symbol that defines the relation between Man and the World, and between Man and Truth. He has convinced me on that front and offers a staggering quantity and quality of evidence so I will not guide you through his arguments for him. You should never swallow him hook line and sinker, but this central thesis of his is rock-solid. To Spengler, the central premise of the West is infinity, with two components: infinite space and directional energy. So in Milton, we have a sin that lasts for eternity, of infinite depth and breadth that extends itself eternally into time, until it is countered by an opposing act of infinite salvation. In Milton we see a Culture which still has perfect confidence in its central idea. In Eliot we see a Culture that is beginning to die, that has lost its certitude and directional energy. The “narrative” of The Waste Land both is and describes the spiritual poverty of his time. No longer do we have a single truth that extends eternally; rather the narrator wanders from piece to piece of lost culture, attempting to stitch together atomized fragments into a singular whole, for Eliot feels the deep necessity of a singular truth.
It was this inversion, described, decried, and in part perpetrated by modernism, from external infinity to internal infinity that marks a turning point in the cultural life-cycle of the West. Victorian Romanticism was September nostalgia, senescent reminiscence. Modernism is Alzheimers, and a brutal deathbed attempt at repentance and self-honesty. Postmodernism really does not exist as a separate movement per se. It is simply Modernism without the learning, intellectual and philosophical fantasy without an honest attempt at truth.
So the West is dying, but it is dying of old age rather than murder, or illness, or parasitism. Of course, sicknesses and injuries that the body would have healed easily when healthy and young now take a grievous toll and hasten its demise. And there are plenty of parasites waiting to feast on its corpse. The role of an Augustus, in the darkest and most black-pilled assessment, is merely to fight off some of the sicknesses that afflict an aged body, to prolong life in old age through a comfortable senescence empty of accomplishment.
The white pill behind the black, of course, is that new cultures succeed the old, even using the same racial stock and in the same locale. We may, we must, have a new West, as different from and yet similar to the old as the Holy Roman Empire was from the actual Roman Empire.
It is not for us to try and force the new Culture into being, or decide its nature and central symbology; there is no act, no pretense more emblematic of “dying civilization” than the attempt to mechanically and intellectually force a new Culture, a new Art, a new Weltanschauung, into existence. It would be the height of Gnosticism, the deadliest and most horrible sin of our race, to attempt to do so. The attempt to force a new world-historical feeling into being has been tried before by our people. Socialism, Communism, Fascism, Revolution; demonic bloodbaths all, titanic orgies of senseless horror over which Satan laughs and strokes his erect cock.
And yet we cannot turn the clock back. We can only go forward. Forward does not mean progress. It means inevitable death and most likely perdition. I am friends with no necromancers, who can resurrect Aryan charioteer-conquerors, or the beautiful and fragile Greek polis, the Saxon war-band, the Viking berserk, raging against the dying of paganism, the Crusader-kings, the great Baroque of the imperial-absolutist palace cultures. The good of these things cannot be excised with scissors; a little of this, some of that, graft them together, wait for lightning to strike and bring your undead monstrosity to life. Cultures are not assembled like robots. They are born, and grow, like children. Read old books. Apprehend the eternal truths of your forefathers and let them sit pregnantly in your mind, let them inspire your soul, their failings and evils too. Maybe you, even you, will birth a new Culture. The Son of the West.
Only a fool seeks for the fountain of youth when he should be having children. Perhaps the next culture has already been born, or it sits somewhere embryonic, obscure, ignored, colossus-potential within it. If it does, we should seek it out. But beware. To you, my over-civilized reader, it will seem frightfully crass and barbaric. A Mongol to the Han, a Pict to the Roman. Born in mud and blood it will grow, in time, into high art and supreme accomplishments. It will colonize Mars and extend its rule beyond the reach of our sun’s gravity. It will have its own central symbol, its own mortal sin that will eventually fester within it and bring it down. You are not a part of this Culture, not yet and maybe not ever.
I am asking you to pledge your allegiance to something that has not been born. Something your children may see only the faintest stirrings of, which in a hundred years may not have yet come into its full might and glory.
And a fledgling culture can often be smothered in the cradle by its dying parent. The West in its old age has become exceedingly cruel and malicious. The Cathedral, Harvard, Leftism, call it what you will. From here on out I will simply call it the Enemy, delenda est. Call me an accelerationist if you will. I am not. I do not want to floor the throttle on collapse until our parachute is strapped on and double checked. Once it is, put a brick on the gas and bail.
But this is beside the point. I am here to talk about art. Western art has played itself out. It can only imitate the past, and a healthy and vital culture does not imitate the past, even when it thinks it is doing so. The Renaissance thought it was imitating the past, but it was not. Romanticism thought it was imitating the past, but it was not. Otherwise, “contemporary” or “postmodern” literature is all pure garbage. In fragmented, atomized, stream-of-consciousness style it accurately portrays our contemporary world, but not a word of it is great art because it is founded on the Enemy and thus founded on lies.
Postmodern literature could be truly great art, but it gets pwned by the Enemy when it assumes that culture and reality have become more nuanced and complicated over time. In fact the complexity of the modern world is all incidental rather than material, and in fact our culture has become a great deal simpler than it used to be. Below all the noise and showmanship, the Enemy is a two-horned demon: Power and Appetite, concealed beneath the cleanest and most appealing humanitarian Gnosticism possible.
Our art has only one great task before it: denuding the Beast. You think you’ve seen nihilism? You think we’re the embodiment of nihilism, dear naive reader? When this is accomplished, and the Western Canon is truly closed shut, and European Man loses faith in even the lie, even Gnosticism…
Then we will enter the Kali Yuga in truth. And I’m kind of excited for it, tbh fam, but then again lust and wrath are my two great sins and enduring temptations. The horrors that will be perpetrated when the Right wins the culture war (yes, there are many Christian believers among the right but even those who think they are trying to convert heretics are in actuality and effect trying to make them disbelieve the Enemy. This is not a bad thing, it is world-history taking its course. Sincere belief will come later) will not be the horrors of trying to manufacture a better world, oh no. They will be the blind death throes of the West, the greatest and most powerful human civilization in history raging against the dying of the light. I will leave the political actions to be taken against this fact to another post.
Back to art. How to denude the Enemy? It is garbed in lies, so you use the Truth. Its cloak of lies is well-adapted to deflect the eternal and spiritual truths. But it is not equipped to bear scrutiny on its own nature. It will not be destroyed with hymns to Christ but with weapons of ugly, brutal honesty that reveal its own ugliness and brutality. Delicious Tacos is of the Enemy, but he is honest. He wounds the tiger he rides. The novels he writes contribute to the closing of the Western Canon; an ugly honest art for an ugly lying time. For those spiritually and artistically inclined, Tacos can do what a thousand vicious Twitter trolls, each effective in their own way and on different types of men, fail at: making those who are the body of the Enemy stop believing.
In related news, I have a based and redpilled friend who will soon be throwing his hat into the ring and publishing. Keep an eye out.