The would-be New Orleans killer is a black male (BM) named Euric Cain, if you can believe it.
Its identity was revealed just a few hours ago.
Cain was released from prison not too long ago, apparently, after it served time among its oppressed homies for stealing a car. This animal's other criminal offenses are likely numerous, but will never be known as this thing spent the majority of its "adult" years behind bars, and all the bad crime it did before the age of 18 is sealed.
Remember two important things :
1) - Cain was no doubt emboldened to kill by the BLM movement;
2) - Cain is exactly the type of individual that the vermin at the NYT constantly advocate for.
I get emotional when I watch these old Air Force training videos.
They were made in a more sane era, before women and gays were required by law to serve aboard U.S. submarines, and before 8th-century Islamic throwbacks were allowed to terrorize the West using weapons and technology provided to them by the First World.
Has anyone else noticed the uniquely african-american tendency to say the same few words over and over again, a little à la Tourette Syndrome, in certain stressful situations ?
In this case here we have the black perp - no doubt emboldened to get cocky with law enforcement by the BLM movement and Al-Husseini Obama's own spirited support for that group of race-hustling frauds - as he is being placed under arrest ("Meh I know muh Rights !"), repeatedly uttering the same words over and over and over : "Meh dat my lighta. Meh dat my lighta. Meh dat my lighta."
In the video below (starting at the 7:45" mark) the African American criminal actually says "Meh dat my lighta" a grand total of eleven times in the space of just a few seconds.
After denying the obvious for the first pitiful ninety seconds, the perp says : "I tell you duh God honest troof : I picked it up, I was about to deliver to muh home boy." (Speaking about a bag of narcotics fond in his car).
But what really intrigues in this one and all these videos, is the almost Darwinian propensity for African Americans when in an excited state, to say the same thing over and over ("I aint dindu nuffins officer" "I aint dindu nuffins officer" "I aint dindu nuffins officer").
Is it possible that when under stress, the African American brain (meh) becomes somehow incapable of formulating full sentences, and instead resorts to blurting out an almost animalistic, irrational refrain when cornered, as some kind of weird ancestral trait encoded in their DNA ?
This is about the ten thousandth time I have seen this confounding example of crazy, flight-or-fight-like African American behavior. The video posted below is a good but not the best example of this curious HBD atavism.
Here's the vid (advance to the 7:30" mark) :
(sorry unable to embed at this time) :
We just don't see this behavior EVER among members of other ethnic groups, which leads to conclude that this type of verbal tic among blacks, is something that is deep-rooted in the hardwiring of their brains, and is therefore almost uniquely genetic in origin and as a result 100% impervious to the extant public policy that tries to reign it in.
After shooting the poor kid in the gut, the black male puts the pistol to his head and fires not once but TWICE. The gun jams though, saving this heroic Jewish hopefully future MD his life.
You have to look at the callousness of the black male in the hoodie, who thinks nothing of executing a total stranger he met just ninety seconds ago just because he pissed him off a little.
The would-be black male murderer in the hoodie was likely emboldened in his murderous zeal by the BLM Movement that the vermin at the New York Times have been literally financing by providing tens of millions of dollars of free positive publicity, more than once right there on their front page.
This is one of the craziest things I have seen in a long while.
AND : It is eerily reminiscent of a similar incident that took place just a week prior : Namely : a Muslim intent on murdering a white French woman, who gives up after his AK47 jams (it was probably made in China*), thereby sparing the very confused young French woman's life ("But they told me that islam was a religion of peace in my Diversity Studies at the Sorbonne!?!") :
* the Chinese copied the AK from the Russians, who copied it from the Germans, who are behind just about every modern technological marvel the world has ever seen.
"Tape Found Over Portraits" was a relatively long article considering the total and absolute lack of newsworthiness of the subject.
Some child peels a tiny piece of black electricians tape off something in a college building (that is open to the public) and places it in mischievous boredom over a face in a frame on the wall, and suddenly the sound of machine guns being chambered can be heard coming from the offices of the New York Times.
Keep it up Sulzey & Co. : You are doing our side a Huuuuuuge (meh) favor by making it clearer and clearer to ordinary Americans how much you hate them, and have love only for minorities, especially Black USA African American minorities.
When are the Ravenous Reality Reversers at the New York Times going to understand that the joke is on them?
Answer: A few weeks after the assembly of a jury and a gallows at Nuremberg II, prolly.
The punch line comes last.
From the article :
"In a twist, the black tape used on the portraits had apparently been used in an earlier protest, which sought to have the law school change its seal. Students had put the tape on mats displaying the seal to protest the inclusion of the family crest of a slave-owning family named Royall that they say was involved in brutally putting down a slave rebellion in Antigua. The family also owned slaves in Massachusetts and one member, Isaac Royall Jr., bequeathed part of his estate to Harvard, which was crucial to establishing the law school.
“It appears that whoever did this took the tape from those mats and used the strips of tapes from those mats and placed them on the black professors’ portraits,” said Alexander J. Clayborne, a third-year student here who has been involved in a campaign to change the law school’s crest. The student-led campaign called Royall Must Fall circulated an open letter Wednesday calling for a change in its seal."
Not very nice of us to speak negatively of this unfortunate victim, we know. But the vermin at the NYT often require us to stoop to their level.
From the article :
"In a school assignment that required her to create a brand reflecting who she was, Ms. Gonzalez emphasized her Mexican-American heritage..
“I am Mexican-American and I also happen to be first generation born in the United States,” she wrote, according to Terri Carbaugh, a spokeswoman for the university.
"“I grew up in Whittier and had a very hardworking mother that raised me to be extremely independent,” Ms. Gonzalez continued, referring to a city in Los Angeles County. “If I had to describe myself in a few words I would say I am very high-spirited, clean, orderly and self-driven.”"
What's happening in France right now is something right out of a Will Smith movie :
Namely: the narrative (whites bad / non-whites good... because racism) is being turned on its head in a manner so outrageous that even the Professional Reality Reversers at the New York Times are having a difficult time sledge-hammering the round peg which is Reality into the square hole which is the Bizarro World that they have created for their dhimmified SWPL readership.
Why is it that every single time I switch to channel 29 (CNN on basic cable here in Louisiana) there are always two female anchors on screen, alongside the occasional somewhat off-white male answering Nancy Newsmaker's on-screen questions.
White countries led by Germany's childless chancellor invite millions of moslems from war zones into Europe ;
The nightmare of terrorists infiltrating the fifth columns of these (fake) moslem refugees that Marine Le Pen and other non-psychopathic rightist parties have been warning about since the beginning of the "migrant crisis" (read: continent-wide Population Replacement per Kalergi Coudenhove's zionist vision of an "integrated Europe")... the nightmare happens, and the increasingly exposed elites of the West take their traitorous, suicidal agenda a step even further.
From EU prez Junkers to Barr-Husseini Obama to that repulsive creature Angela Merkel, all Western elites insist that the solution is NOT to harden the approach to moslem refugees (invaders), but rather to soften it, meaning more moslems named Mamoud Mohamed Mohammed Mohammedi Ahmedi Mamou and his cousins Mudd Muddo Mudh and Muddd, should be fast-tracked into repopulating white countries in Europe.
Curious n'est-ce pas that the most logical destination countries for Syrian asylum seekers - i.e Syria's closest neighbours Jordan, Turkey, Lebanon, Israel (!!) and especially the Super-Rich gulf states - have not lifted a finger to help curtail this "refugee" crisis by agreeing to re-settle one single Syrian.
Nothing against gays, nothing against Asians, nothing against Asian mullatoe sorority girls, nothing against everybody for chrissakes !
But why has the face of CNN become the face of an 1980s Betty Crocker commercial ?
Would it be just a teeny weeny bit outrageous to say that maybe females - especially elderly childless females like Angela Merkel - might not be exactly the best equipped individuals to deal with 22 year old Muslim male fanatics with weapons of war developed originally by German engineers eighty years ago ? (Remember: the ak47 was developed on stolen German assault rifle technology).
***sigh***
The sorority girls who run the west might want to think twice about that old saying: be careful what you wish for.
The Latest: Witnesses hear explosions, gunfire near Paris
Created: 11/17/2015 11:22 PM
PARIS (AP) — The latest on the deadly attacks in Paris. (All times local):
7:20 a.m.
A resident of the Paris suburb of Saint-Denis describes intense gunfire and explosions during a police operation near the site of one of last week's deadly attacks.
Chinese immigrant explaining to his French anchor-baby son that "they have weapons but we have flowers." Incredibly, this lamentable clip has popped up in the anglo-sphere and even on CCN a few moments ago ;
This is the John (Leibovitz) Stuart "daily-show"-style copycat anchor of France, Yanne Barthes, a most lamentable little pussy, referring to Donald Trump (for saying something hurtful about moslems or terrorists or guns or whatever) ;
These are the two lead singers (an Africanus Angrioos on the left, and an Asianic-Dickheadius on the right). Yes, mainstream French tv wants you to know that there are only about seventeen white French people left in France : these peaceful people are the future (so shuddup and get used to it !) ;
This little Syrien girl (huh?) was the absolute first "person on the street" to be given airtime by Le Petit Journal during their Monday 16 November show - the first show to air just 72 hours after her first-, first-, first- and first-cousins, and her brothers Mohamud, Mohammed, Momo Abdul Mohammeb, Mohammedi El-Arabi Abdul, Mohammid Huseein, and Moha Mud Mud Mud Fuck M\ed murdered one hundred and thirty infidels or thereabouts.
After the Paris Diversity™ attacks, native White sons of the French soil girded their loins and steeled their hearts for the long war against the enemy. They picked up arms and held aloft their banner.
But there stirred among these newly forged White European warriors a rebel alliance with a different banner. This small by growing contingent believed that the modern ways of White self-preservation were outmoded, ineffective, dispiriting, and even self-defeating. Their banner was different; it crackled with vitality and with strength.
One of these banners is the pennant of the pussy. Those with full scrotes and clear minds will know which, and they will mass under the other banner. Those left crying and wailing in feminine solidarity under the ruling class-approved banner will fall to defeat, either on their knees or in their pooling blood.
The choice could not be starker. Will you choose the easy path, the path of the pussy? Or will you choose the path of purposeful Identity.
It’s clarifying to think of the Paris attacks as a front in the larger War of White Dispossession (aka theSwarm Wars). Muslim aggression can be therefore viewed as a consequence, rather than a cause, of the attrition of White spirit as they go down to one defeat after another in the Dispossession Wars. An acceptance that we are in the midst of a War of White Dispossession means that the prime enemy isn’t Islam. It’s our own White elite.
Don’t believe me that Whites are losing a War of White Dispossession waged by their own ruling classes? Spend the next few days, while the blood of young Parisians is still being mopped off the floors, counting how many Western European leaders and opinion-molders make full-throated calls for WALLS and DEPORTATIONS of non-European non-whites. The number will be vanishingly small. And of those few who do utter tentative concessions to the idea that White homelands are sacrosanct and deserve race-conscious stewards, count the number of days their flirtation with TRUTH and BEAUTY remains firm and unbending.
And then, when your disappointment in your traitorous leaders and cucked countrymanlets is affirmed once again, count something else…
The New York Times is responsible in large part for #parisattax, as a result of their disastrously unrealistic far-left-of-center editorial positions.
Make no mistake : pathological altruism does not work. It is deadly, in fact, when it is applied to a people whose ancestors wanted to kill the ancestors of those who practice it today.
Or per Aristotle : irrational morality is no morality at all.
The vermin at Amerika's newspaper of record want the losers of the world to win. This is the sick reality behind their psychotic credo "to comfort the afflicted, and afflict the comfortable."
What just happened in Paris is as much a result of the childless German Chancellor Angela Merkel's bid to earn feels by importing fake refugees from former British mandate Syria, as it is the NYT's own board of editors, who have been pushing with increasing intensity these past few months (/years) for a total re-tread of the anglo-centric government-based morality that has defined how the Western world works since 1945.
The Verminous Reality Contortionists at Amerika's newspaper of record have been going full-psycho for a long time now.
The nonsense that oozes from the diseased pages of that sickening newspaper every single day for the past decade has been in almost direct proportion to the rise of a worldwide conservative pushback against the Western-led NWO, as witnessed by the growing popularity and assertiveness of 3rd world muslim supremacists empowered by the social media platform given to them by white Western technology (and food aid).
I sense that the traitorous vermin at the New York Times are secretly giddy with delight that European Man has received what was coming to him on Friday the 13th of November, MMXV.
Deep down, the New York Times hates Hates HATES the West, and will not be content until it is Shut Down.
After visiting with Obama, Google, Madonna and the King of Saudia Arabia, Clock Boy has been granted political asylum in Qatar (the Islamic kingdom that has taken in exactly ZERO Syrian refugees) (though the Qataris HAVE offered to contribute two hundred million dollars to help Germany build new mosques for those Syrian refugees newly settled in Deutschland (those who have not already died as martyrs while attacking the white citizens of their European host countries, that is))....
Anyhoo Clock Boy somehow showed up today in a Kelloggs "Leggo My Eggo" commercial that had been featuring - perhaps illegally - a sinister all-white American family enjoying breakfast together with zero diversity in the room.
Clock Boy to the rescue ! :
Important Note :
Kellogg has apparently scrapped the longer, more blatantly racist version of this commercial, due to an onslaught no doubt of racist comments reminiscent of the Cheerios commercial that featured a little mixed race girl named Gracie and her coal-burning mummy entitled "Heart Healthy."
That original longer version of the Eggo ad - which I came across while searching the French news-parody site "Le Petit Journal" - featured for the first 25 seconds an all-white American family (Mum, Dad, little girl, little brother, and really little little sister) whose idyllic kitchen breakfast setting is interrupted only in the past few seconds of the film by Clock Boy-lookalike who tears in from stage-right only to witness the incompetent buffoonery of his white "father" helplessly shaking the broken toaster, before going straight to the freezer to retrieve a Leggo-brand breakfast sandwich he then pops into the microwave. When the oldest daughter of his incompetent, clueless, white "family" attempts to snatch the new microwave treat from his dark Asian hands, Clock Boy scolds her (a little too menacingly) with that uber-American pop-consumer tag line: "Leggo my Eggo... Breakfast Sandwich."
You see the white man can't get a toaster to work to feed his family, and in any case he is too stupid and too unenlightened to realize that the good anti-racist progressives at Kelloggs introduced the microwaveable Eggo Breakfast Sandwhich like, eons ago.
Naah, there's nothing anti-white going on here. Nothing at all.
Mere moments after German Chancellor Andrea Merkel's moslem Syrian fake refugee guests slaughtered hundreds of French people and white European tourists in the heart of Paris, droopy French president François Hollande went live on national television to do his best impression of a way-wee way-wee upset Officer Barbrady, to denounce the bad luck and the wandom why-lence that had absolutely nothing to do with his own policies as Germany's toothless lapdog apologist of moslem Islamic terror.
In a pitiful speech that lasted a painful three and a half minutes, Hollande expressed his heartfelt disapproval of Bad Luck and Wandom Why-lence, during which time he failed to Name The Enemy even once, and spoke instead of how unfortunate all this rotten "terrorism" is, and how unified and determined the French are to blah blah blah, step aside you filthy cuck Merkel lackey François :
That's right, Flamby the French Cuck with the droopy jowls was too scared to say the word "Islamiste".
Even.
Once.
.../...
Meanwhile, Marine Le Pen had the decency to wait a few hours after Hollande's drivel to give her own speech, during which she very clearly Named The Enemy FIVE times :
But perhaps the highest honor for the Cucks today, for the head-in-the-sand, Dhimmified numbskulls who profess to be among the Western World's media elite, came from the coverage of the Islamic State's parisien massacre by a Paris-based CNN "journalist" by the name of - perhaps significantly - "Jim Sclutto"* :
(*yeah we spelled this asshole's name wrong on purpose. Go sue us.)
That's right ! While French blood was still draining from the sidewalks into the parisien sewer system, the geniuses at CNN covering the event were busy consoling themselves with a (free) yummy desert.
.../...
FLASH FROM THE (recent) PAST BONUS !
This is the incredible YouTube response to the last time there was murderous islamic terror in Paris, the last time Marine LePen talked Realtalke after the inevitable, shortly after the January 2015 Charlie Hebdo attax :
That's right ! Even way back then the establishment wanted to sheeuuuuuuttt ieeeeitttt dooooouuwwwooooon !
You would think these moslem assholes and the white cucks who kowtow to them would have the good taste and the courtesy to maybe lay low for a couple of days while French blood is still literally wet on the sidewalks outside the venues attacked by their co-religionist brethren, nut no.
Bring it you filthy anti-white cuck scum. The mask falls a little more every day and soon you too will get what you have wrought.
What is there to say that any sane person doesn’t already know? The blessings of Diversity™ keep on giving. Diversity is our bullet-riddled bodies.
Dry humor appeals in dark times made darker by the sheer malevolent lunacy of our complicit leaders. Via:
as long as there is a single muslim who hasn’t yet committed a mass murder, you can’t blame ALL MUSLIMS for mass murder.
***
dylann roof shooting: NOW IS THE TIME TO TALK ABOUT WHITE SUPREMACY; muslim mass murder: HOW DARE YOU TRY TO COMMENT ON THIS NOW!!
Yes, shitlibs never fail to shock with their banal predictability. But even I, a hardened contextual cynic, had to do a double-take when I read the following (scroll down to 3:10AM):
U.S. Defense Secretary Ash Carter is calling the attacks in Paris “an assault on our common human dignity.”
The Pentagon chief says “the United States stands with the people of France and its vibrant, multicultural democracy.”
That is not a parody. The US Defense Secretary actually said those words moments after French blood was running into gutters. Worse, he drilled the point home by using not one limpwrist incantation — “vibrant” — but two — “multicultural”. Anyone know if this Ash Carter character has poz loads coming out of his ears?
***
The Trumpening has his next campaign ad. Advice: Get it out there now before the media turns its attention back to poop swastikas and BLM demands for segregated protest rallies.
***
One minute before Paris attacks…
Hollande: “Cool clock, Muhammed. Want to bring it to the Elysee Palace?”
***
GoodWhite: “Not all Muslims are like that. Check your Islamophobia!”
“White”: “This attack means we must install democracy in Syria.”
BadWhite: “Um, keep them out of the country.”
He said the elite, or ruling classes are only concerned with “[c]ute things like human rights, progress, peace, openness, tolerance… We are not talking about freedom, we are not talking about Christianity, we do not talk about the nation and we are not talking about the pride.
“They see migration as an opportunity. The left-wing European intelligentsia was theoretically prepared. Now we are dealing with simplicity and power politics: All evidence and experience suggest that the overwhelming majority of these migrants will choose the political left once they are naturalised. So there are future voters left imported into Europe.”
Rainbow party balloons and confetti for everyone !
Listen to the speech from the moslem welfare-benefits-seeker on the stage that starts at the 4:30" point.
"...receiving so much people from the foreigner countries."
Just listening to this guy speak in his insufferable english, it becomes painfully obvious that he is representative of the top echelons of the "educated" elite among the millions of his low-wattage moslem brethren currently illegally occupying Denmark.
IOW : there's hardly any other proficient English speakers among the tsunami of gibsmedat illegal economic immigrants pouring into North Western Europe to do the job of shaming SWPL Danes into submission. He's the best they could find.
Take note of all the blond hair in that vid. Soon that color will be a thing of the past.
.../...
There must be hundreds of millions of Euros like me who are morbidly fatigued by all these moslem invaders giving interviews in deplorable English to the press in the non-english-speaking countries of Europe. This is adding insult to injury in a colossal way.
Listening to a person who talks alot but in crappy English can be extremely taxing. Like "press one for English" on steroids.
When will Europe reach "peak illegal immigrant fatigue?
The verminous reality contortionists at Amerika's newspaper of
record appear clueless as to how increasingly ridiculous they look in their quest to "comfort the afflicted (minorities especially blacks) and afflict the comfortable (whites especially white males, unless they are gay, retarded, or 100% devoted to Pinky Sulzberger's relentless assault on All Things Normal White)".
Yesterday we had on the front page of the Times – the front page for chrissakes, the most expensive publishing real estate on the Planet – "bat wielding white youths" (terrorizing innocent blacks trying to integrate Mizzou in 1950).
"Ms. Kass said that the sculpture was relevant to any diverse setting in America, particularly cities with large populations of blacks, Latinos and Jews, groups she called the “heart and soul of this country.” But she could not help but remark upon how fine a home Brooklyn made for the piece."
If by now you can't see how the New York Times hates Hates HATES the white majority in this country, and always sides with the most vocal non-white anti-whites, then you haven't been paying attention.
Where will this end ?
Answer : we at COTT believe it's not "where" so much as "when," and since the original scheduled tipping point of official white-minority status that the skankopaths at the NYT have been feverishly advocating for decades now has been pushed forward from 2050 to 2042 to 2040, (whites this year achieved minority status in California state-wide, and white children under five years old just became minorities nation-wide in that demographic for the love of Satan!!), the SHTF moment is perhaps closer than anyone realizes.
One thousand years from now, alien historians will be puzzling over the question : "How was it possible that a previously cohesive and unified nation allowed its official so-called 'newspaper of record' to advocate so viciously for the displacement of that nation's founding stock?"
The New York Times : Spreading Some Big-Meme Hate All Over Da Hood, Since 1898.
...in an article entitled "A Real Missouri 'Concerned Student 1950' Speaks, At Age 89," in response to the story about the utter spinelessness of the white males caving to negro feetsball players and crazed blue-haired femen happening right now in the "Show Me" (white guilt) State :
"Mr. Ridgel today is a celebrated graduate of the university, with an honorary degree and a fellowship in his name. But that seemed implausible in mid-20th-century Missouri, where efforts to integrate St. Louis swimming pools were met with bat-wielding white youths and educational segregation was enshrined in law."
Wow, for a minute there it really did look like the sneering anti-white hatred at Amerika's newspaper of record was just a myth.
¡Jeb! the race-mixing freakazoid cuck who married the mexican maid half his height that who still no speekee dee englee , el ¡Jaybay! I suspect never read the Bukowski-zer :
The insanity of the French open-boarders self-hating anti-white media elite conformists is even more extreme than what we see here in the USA, practically.
It's true that here we have the free-tuition low-information affirmative-axshun low-expectations ethnic crowd who are depicted as social justice heroes and featured on the front page of this nation's "newspaper of record", but in France, meanwhile, the "PC Principal" meme often-times takes the insanity to a whole other level.
Consider the editorial line of the predictable idiots at Canal Plus's "Le Petit Journal" : this is a nightly news parody show that relies heavily on cynicism and snarky commentary. The only problem is that every iota of this cynicism is directed like a military-grade laser at anyone and everyone, so long as those targeted are white, male, and preferably heterosexual, in a nutshell.
Consider for a moment this Petit Journal episode from October 28th :
The first story in the linked video is about two French Lear-jet pilots who just escaped from the Dominican Republic by boat, while out on bail awaiting trial for what likely were bogus drug smuggling charges. They were facing 20 years in prison on Hispanolia, that paradise island where the Haitian side to the West has been contributing to humanity since 1804.
In the French Pilots story, what happened was that a Frenchman named Aymeric Chauprade, who as an elected anti-immigration member of the EU Parliament had had close ties to Marine Le Pen, allegedly helped smuggle these pilots out of DR aboard a small power boat.
Here is an image of that escape :
Sorry that play button doesn't work. Watch video by going here. PS: It's at the one minute 20 seconds mark.
The French media has been salivating over this story since it first emerged, eager as always to slander Marine Le Pen whatever way they can. (In this case via the Guilt By Association clause of every unique-think leftist idiot in France).
Marine Le Pen has a very high chance of capturing the presidency in 2017 (elections are held in April) ; her popularity is growing daily as France begins to suffer the ripple effects of childless German Chancellor Angela Merkel's camp-of-the-saints maneuver against her own people.
So, what we have here, is the French cuckoo media elites obsessing over two men on an illegal international boat trip, while within spitting distance of Paris you have literally thousands of dirty substandard Chinese and Turk-made rubber rafts arriving on the shores of Greece every single day. Spilling forth according to the honest media elites at the New York Times, a tsunami of Syrian doctors, lawyers and engineers who are so grateful to be given shelter in Germany and Sweden, that they solemnly swear to pay for you grandmother's hospice care with love and affection, when the time comes.
They will take care of your daughter, too. (But probably not in the way that it was written on the brochure).
.../...
So while Europe is being swamped by biblical hordes of angry muslim young men whose backgrounds are in failed gender-segregated societies where women are treated as commodities and children especially boys are legitimately considered sexual playthings ("US Soldiers Told To Ignore Sexual Abuse Of Boys By Afghan Allies"), a "Daily Show With John Leibovitz" - style program that airs every night in France steers clear of the mountains of garbage and abandoned orange life vests on the shores of Lesbos Greece, and focuses instead on an allegedly inappropriate-at-worst, possibly illegal re-patriation of two French Lear Jet pilots.
So: Europe is withering, the faggots at these disgustingly disingenuous shows like "Daily Show" and "Le Petit Journal," while pretending to be funny what they are really doing is assisting a very real psy-ops agenda designed to mollify white Euros into accepting their displacement by brown hordes.
.../...
Regarding Canal's long news segment on the Dominican Island prisoner evacuation :
Think about it: this would be roughly equivalent to MSNBC spending the evening of September 11th, 2001, devoting an entire live news segment to say a hit-and-run in San Antonio Texas, while zero mentioning the carnage happening at the WTC.
There is no question that the French have a strong sense of sarcastic humor. The prob is that instead of directing this sarcasm towards the disastrous (and Biblical FFS) Grand Remplacement happening continent-wide, the Parisian media elites at Canal Plus focus their viewers' attention upon a proportionately insignificant page seven news story.
But wait it gets better !
The Petit Journal has a fat little yarmulke named Moulud Achour who has a highly embarrassing obsession with American "rappeurs."
I mean this guy Achour improves on the New York Times' own coverage of rap "music" by "rap critic" Jon Caramanica, by revealing to the viewer that the French are progressive enough to willingly thrust their tongues up the rectums of disgusting, primitive, vile USA-bred "rappers," such as in this hilariously disturbing interview of some foul-mouthed American rapper named "Young Thug" :
Entartete Kunst my friends. Make no mistake about it.
If a creature like this foul-mouthed yellow-toothed 'young thug' can burrow its way through whatever devices into the mainstream conscience of European "culture," this is but further indication that the rot extends deep, Deep, DEEP below the surface.
It's 2015 People ! Suck It !
.../...
Bonus Snickers :
Wait what ? Aviation history according to the freakazoids at Google today 10Nov.MMXV : (oh my sweet Jesus it is a veterans' day tribute !).
Naaaahhhh - dude there ain't no such thing as a low-frequency war on whites (males) ;
Naaahhhh - dude that's nonsense when you talk about the Great Replacement ;
Naaahhhh - That scientific report from the National Academy Of Sciences that revealed that white American males aged 45 - 54 were the only demographic to show a consistently higher mortality rate than all other groups in a 15 year period ending in 2014, that can't be true and even more importantly : if it were true who would care ?
Answer: certainly not the New York Times. That's why the study's authors (one has a Nobel Science Prize) were stunned when they were systematically shunned by all the big science publishers.
.../...
SMH
The New York Times : Be Careful What You Wish For Pinky, ... Since 1898
If their ulterior motives weren't so sinister we could almost be amused by the disgusting crap that oozes from the decaying pages of the New York Times. But as they've been egging on blacks in the US and moslems and africans in Europe to the point that race relations are a frothy mess in both places, and the Great Replacement they've been pushing is happening even faster than the most pessimistic of us could have imagined, there ain't nothing funny about the New York Times. This stuff is deadly serious.
The front page of today's Book Review features a review of Michel Houellbecq's "Submission" by some a-hole from Norway named Karl Ove Knausgaard, dude who looks like Brad Pitt playing a Norwegian a-hole best selling author adored by people like NPR.
Anyway I want you to check this out for yourselves : side-by-side analyses of the highly politically incorrect "Submission" by two different political forces - on the right, the Magnificent Steve Sailer ; on the (extreme far) left, the faggots at the New York Times, whose stock in trade is gobbly gook, obfuscation, and cleverly disguised anti-white hatred.
I started reading this review in the Times and I swear to God this awful drowning sensation came over me, like I was suffocating. Okay it's true I can't breathe through my god damned right nostril right now and the benadryl hasn't kicked in yet (this is why I'm awake at 7am on a Sunday), but the nonsense of nothingness that oozed forth from this Knausgard's review of this bad ass book felt like quicksand for the mind, like my brain was being glued shut. This asshole drones on and on and on in absolute pointless narcissistic prose - he obviously loves the sound of his own writing - you can practically hear the Silvers and the Goulds and the Sulzbergers behind the velvet curtain snickering with approval.
Meanwhile, in reality-land, Sailer gives us a biting review published in Takimag that is so incredibly honest, informative, and memorable, that he delivers more take-home messages in the first 20 lines than Brad Pitt Knoseguard does in the entirety of his "On The Brink" (the title of his article on "Submission"). For example : regular readers of COTT and sites like Takimag will have heard of Michel Houellebecq, but probably have never heard his name pronounced. Sailer makes it easy and memorable :
"Perhaps continental Europe’s most talked-about novelist this century, Houellebecq (a complicated-looking name pronounced, simply enough, “WELL-beck”) is representative of the rise of the right as a cultural force."
Germany became about six million shades browner practically overnight thanks to the disgusting scum at the New York Times who prey on guileless SWPL, and they give us an absolutely spineless spin on a book that as Sailer suggests, could possibly be the most important book of the century.
I can't print these two articles side by side, so I'll start with the one by Brad Pittgaaard on top :
Before I begin this review, I have to make a small confession. I have never read Michel Houellebecq’s books. This is odd, I concede, since Houellebecq is considered a great contemporary author, and one cannot be said to be keeping abreast of contemporary literature without reading his work. His books have been recommended to me ever since 1998, most often “The Elementary Particles,” by one friend in particular, who says the same thing every time I see him. You have to read “The Elementary Particles,” he tells me, it’s awesome, the best book I’ve ever read. Several times I’ve been on the verge of heeding his advice, plucking “The Elementary Particles” from its place on my shelf and considering it for a while, though always returning it unread. The resistance to starting a book by Houellebecq is too great. I’m not entirely sure where it comes from, though I do have a suspicion, because the same thing goes for the films of Lars von Trier: When “Antichrist” came out I couldn’t bring myself to see it, neither in the cinema nor at home on the DVD I eventually bought, which remains in its box unwatched. They’re simply too good. What prevents me from reading Houellebecq and watching von Trier is a kind of envy — not that I begrudge them success, but by reading the books and watching the films I would be reminded of how excellent a work of art can be, and of how far beneath that level my own work is. Such a reminder, which can be crushing, is something I shield myself from by ignoring Houellebecq’s books and von Trier’s films. That may sound strange, and yet it can hardly be unusual. If you’re a carpenter, for instance, and you keep hearing about the amazing work of another carpenter, you’re not necessarily going to seek it out, because what would be the good of having it confirmed that there is a level of excellence to which you may never aspire? Better to close your eyes and carry on with your own work, pretending the master carpenter doesn’t exist.
Sign up to receive a preview of each Sunday’s Book Review, delivered to your inbox every Friday.
Houellebecq’s name is so rich with associations — it has become one of those names in the arts that are replete with meaning; everyone knows who he is and what he writes about — that you may quite easily conduct a conversation with people about Houellebecq, even members of the literati, without anyone suspecting that you have never read a word he has written. In such conversations I have, for instance, said that I have “skimmed” Houellebecq, or else I have praised him for his courage, and in that way given the impression that of course I have read his work, without actually having to lie about it.
This was one reason I agreed to review Houellebecq’s latest novel, “Submission,” since then there would be no two ways about it, I’d have to force myself to read him. Another reason was the book’s reception. As is now well known, “Submission” was first published on the same day as the attack on the French satirical magazine Charlie Hebdo, in which 12 innocent people were killed. Houellebecq himself was featured on the magazine’s front page that week, and since he had once said in an interview that Islam was the stupidest of religions, and since Islam supposedly played such a prominent role in his latest book, his name immediately became associated with the massacre. The French prime minister announced that France was not Michel Houellebecq, was not a country of intolerance and hatred. Houellebecq was held up as a symbol of everything France was not, a symbol, indeed, of everything undesirable, and this in a situation in which human beings had been killed — one of Houellebecq’s own friends among them, we later learned — so that it soon became impossible not to think of him and the killings together. He was, by virtue of having written a novel, connected with the murders, and this was affirmed by the highest level of authority. First of all I wondered how this must feel for him, to be made a symbol of baseness and evil at a time of such crisis, not only in France but all over the world, for Houellebecq is presumably just an ordinary guy who happens to spend his time writing novels as well as he can. What inhuman pressure he must be under, I thought to myself during those days. Or were his critics right in claiming that he was a cynical bastard seeking out the areas in which he knew he could cause most damage, in order to aggrandize his own name? The answer would lie in the novel, since you can’t hide in a novel. Second, I wondered what exactly had taken place in France in the years since 1968, when Sartre was arrested during the May riots and President de Gaulle pardoned him with the declaration that “you don’t arrest Voltaire.” Conceptions of the writer’s, the artist’s, the intellectual’s role in society, and of the value and function of free speech, must have altered radically during those 47 years. For surely Houellebecq’s novel could not be so full of hatred and intolerance that it deserved to be excluded from the prime minister’s vision of France as a tolerant society? Surely France could tolerate a novel?
All of these issues, from the slightly pathetic private ones to those of greater political and global dimension, seemed to converge in this book, “Submission,” that had been sent to me in the mail, and that I now picked up and opened as I leaned back in my chair under the bright light of the lamp, lit a cigarette, poured myself a coffee and began to read.
“Through all the years of my sad youth Huysmans remained a companion, a faithful friend; never once did I doubt him, never once was I tempted to drop him or take up another subject; then, one afternoon in June 2007, after waiting and putting it off as long as I could, even slightly longer than was allowed, I defended my dissertation, ‘Joris-Karl Huysmans: Out of the Tunnel,’ before the jury of the University of Paris IV-Sorbonne.”
So ran my first Houellebecq sentence, the beginning of the novel “Submission.” What kind of a sentence is it? It is not in any way spectacular, more distinctly literary, certainly not the opening of a blockbuster — and not just because it concerns a man whose youth was dismal and his relationship to what the vast majority of people would consider a highly obscure author of the 19th century, but also because the sentence in itself (at least as I read it in the Norwegian rendering, which I sense perhaps is closer in style to Houellebecq’s original than Lorin Stein’s graceful English translation) is anything but impressive, rather it is strikingly ordinary, sauntering in a way, slightly disharmonious and irregular in rhythm, untidy even, as if the author lacks full mastery of the language or is unused to writing.
What does this mean? It means that from the outset, the novel establishes a human presence, a particular individual, a rather faltering and yet sincere character about whom we already know something: His youth was unhappy and endured by the reading of novels, which became so important to him he felt compelled to study literature, in a sheltered environment in which he wished to remain for as long as possible, the environment in which literature is read and written about. Not just any literature, but Huysmans, the novels of that well-known figure of French Decadence.
Photo
CreditKeith Negley
At this point I’m afraid I have another confession to make. I haven’t read Huysmans’s novels either, although they too have kept their place on my shelf for many years, and despite the fact that one of my own lecturers back when I studied literature, Per Buvik, also happened to be an expert on Huysmans, and like Houellebecq’s protagonist had written a doctoral thesis on his oeuvre. The reason for this omission, however, was not envy but rather that I never felt reading him to be wholly necessary, knowing a bit about fin-de-siècle literature as I did, and most likely believing myself thereby to have some grasp of Huysmans too, at least enough to be able to talk about him without being caught out in the 15 or 20 seconds needed to turn the conversation toward something else instead. Huysmans, I thought to myself, and imagined a pasty young man hastening through the autumnal gloom of a Paris shrouded in fog, on the brink of suicide, the way every face he passed seemed to him coarse and vulgar, and the roars of laughter as he scuttled by a drinking establishment shuddered through his very soul.
I could probably have read “Submission” with that image in mind, and then looked up Huysmans on Wikipedia before embarking on this review, but something about Houellebecq’s use of Huysmans struck me as fundamental to the novel, it seemed almost as if the ambition, in a way, was to rewrite Huysmans, to test out his conflicts in our day and age, to create a sounding board of the kind only novels can create, and so I took Huysmans’s best-known book, “Against the Grain,” with me to my daughter’s gymnastics practice and sat on the benches, drinking coffee from a plastic cup and reading while she somersaulted about on the mats below along with perhaps a score of other 10-year-old girls, in a harsh and glaring light as one hit song after another blared out of the public address system.
It turned out that “Against the Grain” is about a nobleman who shuts himself away in a house, weary of people, weary of society, weary of the age, a man who finds everyday life insufferably banal and who, alone in contemplation, endeavors to establish a completely artificial life, through books, paintings, art and music, but also through grand, performance-like happenings in which he recreates the world outside by stimulating individual senses — smell, sight, taste, hearing — in systems as closed as they are unsettling. Moreover, he is obsessed by decay, obsessed by all that unravels, crumbles away, weakens, dies.
The depiction of Jean Des Esseintes (Huysmans’s protagonist) probably seemed just as astonishing and aberrant to the reader when the book came out in 1884 as it does today, whereas the conception it represented, of the connection between refinement and decline, which flourished in the arts toward the end of that century, would most likely no longer seem as clear-cut. Presumably, World War II put an end to it; before that, it was a view that dominated European thought, not only in Decadent literature and art but also in the novels of a writer like Thomas Mann, and not least in philosophy, by way of Oswald Spengler’s once unprecedentedly influential work “The Decline of the West,” published starting in 1918, which construed civilizations as organic entities passing through clearly defined life cycles of a thousand years, in which culture’s pinnacle, its summer, also contained the very seed of its decline, for at that point it was consummate, and then stagnated, withered, turned in on itself, questioning its ownraison d’être, a path that inexorably led to nihilism and decadence, the autumn of civilization — whereas winter marked the return of faith, when religiosity once more descended upon it.
Photo
CreditKeith Negley
Huysmans’s literary life was like Spengler’s system in miniature: He began as a naturalist, continued as a fin-de-siècle nihilist and perhaps the foremost exponent of the Decadent movement, before eventually turning religious and converting to Catholicism, an evolution he spent his final books putting into words.
All of this resonates in Houellebecq’s novel, in the simplest of ways, through the protagonist François’s absorption in Huysmans’s books, his identification with his life — Huysmans is “a faithful friend,” he writes. François finds modern life to be quite as intolerable as Des Esseintes before him, as empty and as hollow, but “Submission,” unlike “Against the Grain,” is a realistic novel, and the life it depicts is a perfectly ordinary French middle-class life. François is in his mid-40s, a professor at the Sorbonne, he lives alone, eats microwave dinners in front of the TV in the evenings, his romantic relationships are fleeting, a year at most, usually with one of his female students. As the narrative commences, in the spring of 2022, he resumes a sexually intense, albeit uncommitted relationship to a student called Myriam. Everything he does is tinged with a pessimism that escalates when Myriam leaves him and moves to Israel, and first his mother, then his father, die shortly afterward. He has no friends, no interests apart from 19th-century French literature, he browses porn on the Internet, visits a few prostitutes, at one point he says he’s nearing suicide, elsewhere he notes that suddenly, during the night, he was overwhelmed by unexpected, uncontrollable tears. Presented thus, as a detached list of facts, it seems apparent we are dealing with loneliness, lovelessness, the meaningless void. In the context of the novel itself, however, this doesn’t seem to be the case at all, for François never writes about his feelings, losing his parents is a matter hardly touched on, and his perspective is in every instance cynical and disillusioned, and since the cynical, disillusioned perspective generally is characterized by distance, it overlooks, or ignores, or does not believe in or recognize emotional intimacy. The disillusioned perspective distinguishes continually between faith and reality, between life as we want it to be and life as it actually is — for it is faith that joins us together with our undertakings and with the world, faith that accords them value. Without faith, no value. That’s why so many people find the disillusioned perspective so provoking: It lacks faith, sees only the phenomenon itself, while faith, which in a sense is always also illusion, for most people is the very point, the profoundest meaning. To the disillusioned, morals, for instance, are not so much a question of right or wrong as of fear. But try telling that to the moral individual. When François at the beginning of the novel writes that the great majority in Western societies are blinded by avarice and consumerist lust, even more so by the desire to assert themselves, inspired by their idols, athletes, actors and models, unable to see their own lives as they are, utterly devoid of meaning, what he is describing is the function of faith in modern society. The fact that he himself does not possess such faith, that he exists outside of it, within the meaningless, as it were, he explains as follows: “For various psychological reasons that I have neither the skill nor the desire to analyze, I wasn’t that way at all.”
This is the only place in the novel that opens up for the idea that the emptiness and ennui that François feels is not just universal, a kind of existential condition applicable to us all and which most people hide away behind walls of illusion, it may also have individual causes. That is somewhere he doesn’t want to go, and thus a vast and interesting field of tension is set up in the novel, since the narrator is a person who is unable to bond with others, feels no closeness to anyone, not even himself, and moreover understands solitude existentially, that is from a distance, as something general, a universal condition, or as something determined by society, typical of our age, at the same time as he tells us his parents never wanted anything to do with him, that he hardly had any contact with them, and that their deaths are little more than insignificant incidents in his life. Such an understanding, that the ennui and emptiness he feels so strongly are related to his incapacity to feel emotion or establish closeness to others, and that it is difficult, indeed impossible, not to see this as having to do with lifelong rejection, is extraneous to the novel’s universe, since nothing would be remoter to François’s worldview, an intimate model of explanation would be impossible for him to accept, a mere addition to the list of things in which he doesn’t believe: love, politics, psychology, religion.
Such a disillusioned protagonist allows, too, for a comic perspective, insofar as the comic presupposes distance, shuns identification and is nourished by the outrageous. Indeed, “Submission” is, in long stretches, a comic novel, a comedy, its protagonist François teetering always on the brink of caricature, his thoughts and dialogue often witty, as for instance in this passage, where Myriam, his young mistress, asks if he is bothered by her just having referred to him as macho: “ ‘I don’t know, I guess I must be kind of macho. I’ve never really been convinced that it was a good idea for women to get the vote, study the same things as men, go into the same professions, et cetera. I mean, we’re used to it now — but was it really a good idea?’ Her eyes narrowed in surprise. For a few seconds she actually seemed to be thinking it over, and suddenly I was, too, for a moment. Then I realized I had no answer, to this question or any other.”
The main reason François’s ennui never really seems significant, at least not compared with the status ennui is accorded in Huysmans’s “Against the Grain,” even if it is consistently present in nearly all the novel’s scenes, is, however, neither abhorrence of emotional closeness nor the remoteness with which its comic passages are infused, but rather the fact that it coincides with the massive political upheaval France is undergoing in front of his very eyes. An election is coming up, and the mood across the country is tense, there are armed street battles and riots in several towns, right-wing radicals clash with various ethnic groups, and yet the media avoid writing about it, the problem is played down, and people seem weary and resigned.
It is this theme that lends the novel its narrative thrust and which of course is the reason for all the attention it has received, for anything that has to do with immigration, the nation state, multiculturalism, ethnicity and religion is explosive stuff in Europe these days. Many of its elements are recognizable, like the newspapers omitting to mention, or mentioning only with caution, conflicts arising out of ethnic differences, or the political left’s anti-racism overriding its feminism, making it wary of criticizing patriarchal structures within immigrant communities, say, but in this novel all is brought to a head, taken to its most extreme conclusion, in a scenario of the future that realistically is less than likely, and yet entirely possible. What’s crucial for the novel is that the political events it portrays are psychologically as persuasive as they are credible, for this is what the novel is about, an entire culture’s enormous loss of meaning, its lack of, or highly depleted, faith, a culture in which the ties of community are dissolving and which, for want of resilience more than anything else, gives up on its most important values and submits to religious government.
Photo
CreditKeith Negley
In this, “Submission” is strongly satirical, and its satire is directed toward the intellectual classes, among whom no trace is found of idealism, and not a shadow of will to defend any set of values, only pragmatism pure and simple. François sums up the mood among his own as: “What has to happen will happen,” comparing this passivity with that which made it possible for Hitler to come to power in 1933, when people lulled themselves into believing that eventually he would come to his senses and conform.
During a reception given by a journal of 19th-century literature to which François regularly contributes, shots and explosions are suddenly heard in the streets outside, and when later he walks through the city he sees the Place de Clichy in flames, a wreckage of burned-out cars, the skeleton of a bus, but not a single human being, no sound other than a screaming siren. No one knows what’s going to happen, whether all-out civil war will erupt or not. And yet in François’s circles weakness prevails, and if this is meant to be satirical, a depiction of a class of people helplessly enclosed within its own bubble, without the faintest idea what’s going on outside or why, a bit like the aristocracy before the revolution, it is also realistic, because when a person has grown up in a certain culture, within a certain societal system, it is largely unthinkable that that culture, that system, might be changed so radically, since everything in life — the beliefs instilled in us as children at home and at school, the vocations we are trained in and to which we later devote our labor, the programs we watch on TV and listen to on the radio, the words we read in newspapers, magazines and books, the images we see in films and advertising — occurs within the same framework, confirming and sustaining it, and this is so completely pervasive that to all intents and purposes it is the world, it is society, it is who we are. Minor modifications and adjustments take place all the time, of a political nature, too — sometimes the right is in charge, sometimes the left, and the greens may win a percentage of ground — but total upheaval isn’t even a faint possibility, it is simply unimaginable, and therefore does not exist.
And yet society’s total upheaval is what “Submission” depicts. The election is won by a Muslim party with which the left collaborates in order to keep the National Front from power, and France as a result becomes a Muslim state. But maybe that isn’t so bad? Maybe it doesn’t matter that much? Aren’t people just people, regardless of what they believe in, and of how they choose to organize their societies? It is these questions that the novel leads up to, since this entire seamless revolution is seen through the eyes of François, a man who believes in nothing and who consequently is bound by nothing other than himself and his own needs. The novel closes with him looking forward in time, to the conversion ceremony of his own submission to Islam, a travesty of Huysmans’s conversion to Catholicism, not because François becomes a Muslim rather than a Catholic, but because his submission is pragmatic, without flame, superficial, whereas Huysmans’s was impassioned, anguished, a matter of life and death.
This lack of attachment, this indifference, is as I see it the novel’s fundamental theme and issue, much more so than the Islamization of France, which in the logic of the book is merely a consequence. What does it mean to be a human being without faith? This is in many ways the question posed by the novel. François shares Huysmans’s misanthropy and disillusionment, but fails to grasp the religious route of his deliverance. He does, however, try, traveling to Rocamadour to see the Black Virgin, perhaps the most famous religious icon of the Middle Ages, sitting before her every day for more than a month, and for increasingly longer periods of time, but while intellectually he is fully aware of what she represents, something superhuman, from a period of Christianity in which the individual was as yet undeveloped and both faith and judgment were collective in nature, and although in the hours he spends in her presence he feels his ego dissolving, he ends up departing in a state of resignation, “fully deserted by the Spirit,” as he puts it.
In this part of the novel, which is brief yet significant, there is no trace of satire. The description of the statue’s unearthliness, its dignity and severity, its almost disturbingly powerful aura, is exquisite in a novel that otherwise seems to shun beauty or not to know it at all. And the attempt to approach its mystery is genuine:
“What this severe statue expressed was not attachment to a homeland, to a country; not some celebration of the soldier’s manly courage; not even a child’s desire for his mother. It was something mysterious, priestly and royal that surpassed Péguy’s understanding, to say nothing of Huysmans’s.”
This is probably the only instance in which François rather than diminishing what he sees actually adds to it instead. What he describes here is nothing other than the Sacred.
So what is the Sacred in this novel?
What François seems to be looking for, in a sudden mood of gravity, is faith in its purest form, that which is unconcerned with human needs like safety, comfort or belonging, but which is directed beyond the human to the divine, the truly sacred. This is the only thing that cannot be impinged on by the perspective of disillusionment, because it veils nothing, conceals nothing, is nothing other than itself.
To François’s mind, Huysmans’s conversion was nothing but a cultish yearning, a transparent attempt to lend meaning to the meaningless, possible only through self-delusion, that is by allowing illusion to trump disillusion.
Faith that has no foundation but itself, this is the religion of Kierkegaard, the absurd and, in relation to human life, meaningless act, which may be conceived as the commencement of that period in Western history of which Huysmans and François are a part, where faith is not a natural element of life but something that may be attained only by particular endeavor, a leap undertaken alone.
It is from the Virgin of Rocamadour that François returns to Paris, to the comedy, eventually converting to Islam in order to continue teaching at the Sorbonne, now a Muslim seat of learning. Before doing so, however, he writes a 40-page foreword to a Pléiade edition of Huysmans, as if in a fever, having now finally understood him better than he ever understood himself, as he writes:
“Husymans’s true subject had been bourgeois happiness, a happiness painfully out of reach for a bachelor. . . . His idea of happiness was to have his artist friends over for a pot-au-feu with horseradish sauce, accompanied by an ‘honest’ wine and followed by plum brandy and tobacco, with everyone sitting by the stove while the winter winds battered the towers of Saint-Sulpice. These simple pleasures had been denied him.”
Was all this refinement, all this decadence, this misanthropy and disillusionment, were all these religious agonies and scruples merely the sublimation of a longing for the sedate pleasures of a bourgeois life? Was Huysmans’s entire body of work the result of a grandiose self-delusion?
François appears to believe so, and the idea is far from improbable, in fact I find it quite plausible. The disillusioned gaze sees through everything, sees all the lies and the pretenses we concoct to give life meaning, the only thing it doesn’t see is its own origin, its own driving force. But what does that matter as long as it creates great literature, quivering with ambivalence, full of longing for meaning, which, if none is found, it creates itself?
SUBMISSION
By Michel Houellebecq
Translated by Lorin Stein
246 pp. Farrar, Straus & Giroux. $25.
.../...
Steve Sailer's much more intelligent and honest review from Takimag :
photo credit: Shutterstock
Reactionary author Michel Houellebecq’s novel about an Islamic takeover of France, Submission, was published the day of the slaughter at Charlie Hebdo. In fact, the satirical publication’s cover that bloody morning was a cartoon of the notoriously decrepit-looking Houellebecq prophesying, “In 2015, I lose my teeth. In 2022, I observe Ramadan!”
Perhaps continental Europe’s most talked-about novelist this century, Houellebecq (a complicated-looking name pronounced, simply enough, “WELL-beck”) is representative of the rise of the right as a cultural force. The editor of the leftist Liberation newspaper complained that Submission “will mark the date in the history of ideas on which the ideas of the extreme right made their entrance in high literature.” Houellebecq has described himself in his usual half-joking style as “Nihilist, reactionary, cynic, racist, shameless misogynist: to lump me in with the rather unsavory family of ‘right-wing anarchists’ would be to give me too much credit; basically, I’m just a redneck.”
In reality, Houellebecq is an autodidact with an immense love of French literature. But he missed out on the usual educational and career path of French intellectuals, instead studying agronomy in college and going to work withcomputers, which he hated. In his 1990s novels, Whatever and The Elementary Particles, he more or less introduced to literature the now familiar character of the sexually frustrated computer programmer. Houellebecq has been a major influence on the sexual realist wing of the American blogosphere, such as Heartiste.
“Houellebecq’s ambiguity may be not just a masterly literary strategy, but also a legal one to keep him out of jail.”
And this tale of how the French elite will collaborate with their new Islamic rulers as egregiously as their predecessors collaborated with the Germans has recently been made even more timely by the vigor with which Chancellor Merkel’s Germany has decided to try to outrace France to national suicide.
Numerous English-language reviewers have registered their relief that Submission is not as “Islamophobic” as they had feared. In fact, Submission’s hero, a self-centered professor of French literature, eventually converts to Islam after he’s offered in exchange his old job back, a big boost in salary (due to Saudi Arabia buying the Sorbonne), and, best of all, arranged marriages with three nubile coeds.
Is Submission a dystopian novel or a utopian one, as Houellebecq sometimes maintains in interviews? Keep in mind that France has nothing resembling a First Amendment, so Houellebecq’s ambiguity may be not just a masterly literary strategy, but also a legal one to keep him out of jail. It’s not wholly irrelevant that the current leader in the polls for the first round of the 2017 French presidential election, Marine Le Pen of the National Front, is right now ontrial and could be sentenced to a year in prison for criticizing the Islamification of France.
Houellebecq himself was put on trial in 2002 for calling Islam “the stupidest religion.” He was acquitted, but exiled himself to Ireland for several years.
Moreover, Muslim extremists in Europe sometimes murder celebrities who dare dis them, such as Theo van Gogh, who was stabbed to death in 2004 shortly after producing a short film entitled, probably not coincidentally, Submission.
The basic plot of Houellebecq’s Submission is by now well-known: In the 2022 French presidential election, Le Pen wins the first round with 34 percent. But in a surprise, the suave, moderate Muslim candidate, Mohammed Ben Abbes, founder of the new Islamic Brotherhood party, slips into the second round with 22 percent, just ahead of Socialist warhorse Manuel Valls. (In real life, Valls denounced Submission: “France is not Michel Houellebecq, it’s not intolerance, hatred, fear.”)
Granted, nobody knows exactly what the Muslim percentage of France is, but 2022 seems too soon, as Houellebecq has admitted. On the other hand, in the wake of Ms. Merkel launching the Camp of the Saints against her own continent, it’s clear that much of Submission is intentionally understated.
When the Muslim Brotherhood declare that they aren’t interested in the traditionally crucial ministries of finance and foreign affairs, desiring only to control education, the Socialists quickly form an alliance with the Brotherhood against the hated National Front. Eventually the center-right UMP party of Nicolas Sarkozy and the centrist Catholic François Bayrou join the grand coalition against the National Front. When the apolitical protagonist inquires why, a well-informed secret policeman assures him:
What the UMP wants, and the Socialists, too, is for France to disappear—to be integrated into a European federation. Obviously, this isn’t popular with the voters, but for years the party leaders have managed to sweep it under the rug.
Territoriality is basic human nature. The European elite strategy has been to demonize this natural urge among European men while hoping that this contrived attitude rubs off on Muslim immigrants through some unexplained form of moral osmosis.
How’s that working out so far?
With the backing of all respectable French politicians, the Muslim candidate defeats Le Pen in a landslide. After all, the important thing in politics is not to defend your country, but to defeat your fellow countrymen, even if that involves selling out to outsiders.
One clever aspect of Submission is that Houellebecq has crafted it to have his repulsive, misanthropic Houellebecqian narrator portray Islam as a positive force for France and Europe. Ben Abbes is seen as the second coming of Emperor Augustus, reunifying the Mediterranean world.
Houellebecq goes to some lengths to explain how the brilliant Muslim politician rises to power. Just as George W. Bush called for much more immigration on the grounds that “family values don’t stop at the Rio Grande,” Houellebecq’s narrator explains of Ben Abbes:
He appealed to the Third World types simply by being who he was, but he also knew how to win over conservative voters…. When he campaigned on family values, traditional morality, and, by extension, patriarchy, an avenue opened up to him that neither the conservatives nor the National Front could take without being called reactionaries or even fascists by the last of the soixante-huitards, those progressive mummified corpses—extinct in the wider world—who managed to hang on in the citadels of the media, still cursing the evil of the times and the toxic atmosphere of the country. Only Ben Abbes was spared. The left, paralyzed by his multicultural background, had never been able to fight him, or so much as mention his name.
When Ben Abbes takes power in Paris, he quickly expands the E.U. southward to include Turkey and Morocco, with Algeria and Egypt waiting in the wings. Granted, when Submission was published in January, the inclusion of Turkey in the E.U. seemed absurd, a bad American idea that had been defeated by the French a decade before. But since then, Europe has inflicted its own massive goal upon itself. October saw the humiliation of Chancellor Merkel flying to Turkey to offer President Erdogan inclusion of 75 million Muslim Turks in Europe’s free-migrationSchengen zone if only he were to help her shut off the flow of Syrians and pseudo-Syrians she had loosed.
Ironically, since the original publication of Submission, Houellebecq’s Darwinian interpretation of Islam as more demographically vital has largely been adopted by Ms. Merkel’s center-right defenders, who see her opening of the floodgates as an economic masterstroke that will do what’s most important: keep German workers’ wages down.
By the end of the book, the E.U. secretariat is being relocated from Brussels to the more central Rome, and Ben Abbes appears on his way to being elected president (or perhaps emperor) of Europe by one man, one vote. (As for the feminists of Europe, well, they probably should have thought about the implications of multiculturalism while there was still time.)
One of Houellebecq’s more daring, but now seemingly accurate, conceptions in the wake of Christian Democrat Angela Merkel’s blunder is that Christendom will be betrayed less by its traditional enemies on the left than by conservatives.
Strikingly, Submission expends little effort upon satirizing the left. In the near future envisioned by the novel, the 68ers have run so far out of intellectual gas that Houellebecq’s hero, a Parisian professor, seems to know only a single leftist, Steve, another professor of literature, but also a buffoon who obviously plagiarized his dissertation on Rimbaud.
François does little, but intelligent people seem to enjoy confiding in him. His insightful interlocutors range from a centrist secret policeman impressed by the deftness of the anti–National Front alliance’s maneuvers to a magnetic young literature professor, Godefroy Lempereur, who may be secretly the leader of a far-right death squad trying to provoke a civil war with the Salafists. (My guess is that Lempereur is modeled on the delusional Norwegian terrorist Anders Breivik’s inflated self-image.)
Houellebecq has sometimes implied that converting to Islam is a genuine possibility for him. Depressed by the death of his parents and dog, he had decided to become a Catholic like the 19th-century Decadent novelist J.K. Huysmans, whom his protagonist researches. But Catholicism didn’t take.
Submission presents Islam as a more streamlined religion for modern misogynists than French Catholicism, which is centered upon the Virgin Mary. Indeed, a look at the list of converts suggests that Islam mostly appeals to men of the right, such as black jocks, eccentric military men, and mystics.
They can’t put the author on trial again for saying that, right? Significantly, as Houellebecq has pointed out in interviews, there is no mention whatsoever of immigration in Submission, presumably because that would call to mind Jean Raspail’s now very prophetic 1973 novel, The Camp of the Saints.
Of course, having Houellebecq’s horrible hero endorse the Islamification of France isn’t exactly the best PR that diversity can get…
An alternative interpretation of Submission is that Houellebecq is a French patriot—the book is replete with references to French writers like Huysmans and Bloy whose international stars have faded in the Anglophone 21st Century—trolling the conventional wisdom by presenting his horrifying scenario as something that would appeal, of course, to a character like him.
"Tape Found Over Portraits" was a relatively long article considering the total and absolute lack of newsworthiness of the subject.
Anyway I want you to check this out for yourselves : side-by-side analyses of the highly politically incorrect "Submission" by two different political forces - on the right, the Magnificent Steve Sailer ; on the (extreme far) left, the faggots at the New York Times, whose stock in trade is gobbly gook, obfuscation, and cleverly disguised anti-white hatred. 
