Previously published on TRUTHSEEKER under another title
“In the world ye shall have tribulation: but be of good cheer.
I have overcome the world.” — John, 16:33
It has only dawned on me recently, after a traumatic personal event in my own life to which I am unable to draw attention, that the world around me is full of dead-eyed people living lives of quiet desperation.
I never saw these people before. My eyes were shuttered. My mind, its dark roots buried in the survival instinct, or perhaps in narcissistic egotism, had screened these Unpeople out for me. Made them invisible.
These are the multitudinous Invisibles, thronging the streets all round us, whom we have managed to mortify into non-existence: the halt and the lame, the pain-wracked, the blind old man with his stick, the sad-eyed old woman in her wheelchair.
And what of the others?—the miserati hidden away behind high walls, in asylums for the criminally insane, in solitary confinement in prisons, in secret subterranean dungeons, in torture chambers far from the light of day, in crepuscular wards for the terminally ill?
Are there places where people scream by the hour like mad banshees and nobody hears them? or somebody hears them but does not care? Yes, there are such places. God spare you a visit there, or a longer habitation in these halls of hell. May you never enter those portals of pain.
And so I stood in front of my bathroom mirror one day, looking into the eyes of the Stranger staring back at me, and these words from King Lear formed on my lips, the famous quote from Shakespeare that has haunted me ever since childhood: “The wheel has come full circle. I am here.”
— § —
Pitiful. Truly pitiful. To have been knocked off my perch in the blue heaven in a single moment, and sent flying into a Black Hole at the end of the universe, where nothing can be seen but darkness, and nothing heard but the ululations and cachinnations of the damned.
This is reality. This, the only truth. And its name is Pain.
Where was God then? Where was the Comforter? Where was the Angel of Mercy? Where was the kiss of kindness? — Nowhere.
Only godlessness. And that all-consuming darkness. And then the cry from the heart — I can no more! Mine, O thou Lord of Life, send my roots rain!
— § —
And so what has this pathetic nonentity known as ‘Lasha Darkmoon’ learnt from life? Precisely nothing. She has neither knowledge nor wisdom and has spent her entire life chasing shadows. She is a myth of her own making.
I have dipped into many books on happiness, advising people how to be happy, thereby implying that unhappiness is the natural and universal human condition. For example, Bertrand Russell’s The Conquest of Happiness. This book didn’t help me in the least to come one inch closer to happiness than I had been before. How could it, since the man who wrote it, though a towering genius, didn’t have a clue how to make himself happy, and was, in the last analysis, just an intellectual chatterbox?
For a start, he didn’t believe in God. So he was a happiness counsellor only for the godless. If you don’t believe in God, or care for God, maybe Russell will make you happy—though he never knew true happiness himself and made a lot of people around him unhappy, like the maidservants he seduced in his own household.
And then there was his protégé Wittgenstein, another transcendent genius, whose Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus you may be acquainted with. Here was another tortured genius, hardly the type of man to go to for wisdom or tips on happiness, given that he spent a lot of his time in sadomasochistic activities with leather-jacketed young men he met in parks and other places where the lonesome go to pick up their soulmates.
The one thing that impressed me about Wittgenstein though was the final sentence of his great book: “Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent.” But it has been said before. Many times.
Ah, for the wisdom of Solomon! Much advice on wisdom and how to be happy from the legendary Judaic sage Solomon, in the Book of Proverbs and the Book of Ecclesiastes in the Old Testament; and more in the Apocrypha in Ecclesiasticus and the Book of Wisdom, assuming Solomon was the author of all these books which he is reputed to be. Whether he wrote them or not is irrelevant. Whoever did was a consummate sage, as wise as any Vedic seer in the high Himalayas or by the holy river Ganges. And if Solomon was Jewish, then full marks to the Jews for producing such a man.
Indeed, that the Jews can produce such a man is an argument against antisemitism in its most virulent forms.
And if Jesus was a Jew too—and he must remain a Jew until proven otherwise by the antisemites—there is something to be said for a radical revision in our attitude to the Jews. The old antisemitism will no longer suffice. The more I have sat at the table of the antisemites, listening to their rantings and ravings as one of their number, sharing their crumbs of wisdom in the camaraderie of hate, the more I have come to realise that the goyim are not one whit superior in virtue, and certainly no wiser, than the Jews they vilify and love to hate.
If I am ever sent off to some gulag for “enhanced interrogation”, for unspeakable crimes I have yet to commit, and forced to choose between a Jewish torturer or a non-Jewish one, I am not at all sure that I would get off more lightly by choosing the non-Jewish torturer.
Would you opt to have your bones broken and your fingernails ripped out by an evil Jewish torturer in Tel Aviv? Or would you prefer to be boiled alive in a vat by a nice Muslim torturer in Uzbekistan?
The choice is yours.
— § —
The antisemitic trope that all Jews are intrinsically evil by virtue of a “Jewish gene”, or a Jewish mindset that is the polar opposite of the mindset of the rest of mankind, and that Jews should therefore be treated like vermin and exterminated en masse, how did this extreme pathology ever take hold? In the words of T.S. Eliot: “The rats are underneath the piles. The Jew is underneath the lot.” Are Jews then to be seen as sewer rats, best hunted down and killed in the interests of social hygiene, lest they infect the rest of the world with a moral bubonic plague?
Surely these extreme sentiments can only take root in disordered minds, given the existence of good Jews like Jesus and Mary, John the Baptist and the inspired author of the Book of Revelation who wrote: “And the Spirit and the bride say, Come. And let him that heareth say, Come. And let him that is athirst come. And whosoever will, let him take the water of life freely.”
Would you crucify St Paul again, the “evil Jew” who allegedly corrupted Christianity, for saying: “I am crucified with Christ: nevertheless I live; yet not I, but Christ liveth in me”? Would you put Spinoza to death for his philosophy? or Niels Bohr to death for his contributions to quantum physics? or Einstein to death for saying “God does not play dice”?
Having said all this in defence of the Jews, it nevertheless needs pointing out that a very large number of Jews are infected with the notion that evil is good if they can get away with it, and if it is conducive to their survival as a race and to their ultimate supremacy. This statement will incense the Jews, but it is the truth. These Jews need to stop saying the Kol Nidre prayer and muttering under their breath like Milton’s Satan, “Evil, be thou my good.”
“The Satanic character of traditional Judaism,” Michael Hoffman tells us, “is not particularly difficult to discern if one adheres to the facts. The principal sacred text of the Kabbalah is the openly Satanic Zohar, which states the following: “Israel must make sacrifices to Satan so that he will leave Israel unmolested” (Zohar 2:33a). Also this: “The evil impulse is good, and without the evil impulse Israel cannot prevail in the world” (Zohar 1:61a). These are appalling statements.”
Who can doubt they are appalling statements?
There is hope for the Jews, the Talmudic Jews and the Zionist predators of Palestine, if they can only come to their senses and be persuaded to mend their ways.
I will say no more about the moonstruck masses, mute in their misery as they toss on the sunless Sea of Dreams like flotsam and jetsam, here where the Prince of Darkness rules over his colony of hell in a remote corner of the Milky Way. I am sick to death of words.
Words never yet brought anyone to paradise.