The Sun as a God

THE SUN (1909)

By 

Edvard Much

 The Sun is perhaps the greatest achievement of modern mural painting. Symmetrically structured, it occupied the enormous front space of Oslo University's assembly hall, dominating through size, unmitigated frontality, and power of imagery.

Munch extended the sun image in this mural from a partial to an embracing role, having first proposed a Nietzschean Mountain of Man that rose toward a sun-covered sky. Upon further reflection, and in compliance with advice from friends, he abandoned the problematical symbol to retain the sun image in pure, intense, and masculine dominance.

The barbs and shafts of light have affinities with German Expressionism of a different kind than Der Brucker; the more abstract and universal language of Wassily Kandinsky in the Munich Der Blaue Reiter. Hodler's Alpine visions are also evoked by the symmetry and centrality. Like Kandinsky, Munch is here both romantic and avant-garde, and the sun, indeed, is God.

Illuminated by the sunrays are the water of the ocean, the bare rocks of a Northern landscape, and a slim strip of verdant green that separated land and sea. A clean, straight horizon line divides the waters from sky. The great sun is all-pervasive, shinning from the heavens upon land and sea, its rays reaching out to all eternity. Inhuman itself, it is the source of all life.

Taken from:

www.edvardmunch.org

The Story of NEO-GERMANIA

 

Democracy and The Portraits of Ezra Pound

 

“Democracy is now currently defined in Europe as a ‘country run by Jews,’”

The Portraits : 

Ezra Pound at the home of William Carlos Williams, Rutherford, New Jersey, June 30, 1958

Photos by Richard Avedon

Russia, Wagner and a Lesson from History

 

Coming to the Russia-Wagner conflict that happened today. As it seems someone has no gave the proper attention to philosophy/history hour in school. Cause if he had, now he would know this:

“Mercenaries and auxiliaries are at once useless and dangerous, and he who holds his State by means of mercenary troops can never be solidly or securely seated. For such troops are disunited, ambitious, insubordinate, treacherous … And this because they have no tie or motive to keep them in the field beyond their paltry pay, in return for which it would be too much to expect them to give their lives.”

Niccolo Machiavelli - The Prince

P.S. This implies for Political Parties as well

Riders of Destruction and Darkness

 

ABSURD will soon return with a new mini-album, “Das Heer aus dem Dunkel”, to be released on 10″ MLP as well as CD. Four songs about exile, resurrection, revenge, and annihilation that tell a cohesive story. The cover artwork was done by Ainul Iblis. We will preview music, and set a release date for the MLP, in due time.

Tracklist:

1. Entfesselung (Intro)

2. Begraben für die Ewigkeit

3. Apokalyptische Auferstehung

4. Das Heer aus dem Dunkel

5. Im Rausch der Zerstörung

Ich komme nicht allein, denn mir folgen die Legionen

aller Feinde eurer Welt, von Teufeln und Dämonen!

Beschworen im Wahnsinn und zum Gemetzel bereit,

gegen die Götter kämpft das Heer aus (der) Dunkelheit!

In addition, ABSURD is working on a new EP titled “Prana Atma,” dedicated to the memory of Baron Roman von Ungern-Sternberg. JFN has been deeply engaged with this historical figure for quite some time, describing him as an “archetype of black metal.” In 2018, he authored an extensive lecture about the Baron, which can be read here:

https://weltenfeind.info/2023/02/02/the-white-god-of-war-baron-roman-von-ungern-sternberg-1886-1921/

The cover artwork was done by Vhan Artworks & Printing. We will preview music, and set a release date for the EP, in due time.

TAKEN FROM:

www.hordeabsurd.com

In Memoriam - The Man From The Forest

 

Editor’s Note: Countere does not condone or condemn the man known as Theodore John Kaczynski. The opinions expressed in this obituary are those of a single anon. 

He had an astounding intellect. While in high school, he played the trombone, belonged to the German, biology, math, and coin clubs, and spent hours of his free time immersing himself in the world of mathematics. Due to having skipped the sixth and eleventh grades, his older classmates bullied him.

He was accepted into Harvard when he was 16 and managed to make great breakthroughs in the field of boundary functions, where he has been cited in some papers. While in academia, he suffered greatly as a test subject of MK-Ultra, being humiliated deeply among other psychological damages. 

As he would later write, academic life couldn’t fulfill the natural desire of acquiring power that man has sometimes felt, and so he retreated back to the mountains, back to the wilderness. Montana to be exact. He built a cabin and lived there for decades, bicycling to town for the things he couldn’t grow, forage or hunt, and to read books.

In the summer of 1983, after a two day’s hike to his favorite spot in the woods—a place he lovingly described as rolling country, with ravines and “even a waterfall”—he found a new road paved right in the middle of it. He decided then that there was no escape from the colossal machines and their nightmarish sounds; that it was no longer time to learn survival skills, but to break out against an unforgiving system.

Thus began FC, “Freedom Club,” the initials of the author who sent mail bombs to universities and airports, among other places, begetting his nickname: the Unabomber. His demands were simple—the attacks would continue until his manifesto, formally named Industrial Society and its Future, was published by a major newspaper.

He could have moved to a Latin American country and had a simple life as a güero with a wife and kids in the countryside, but it couldn’t be the case if he wanted to live by his words; the techno-industrial complex would reach him, eventually. The same complex that makes war, pollutes the land, kills the bees and is currently filling your body with microplastics (you, dear reader).

YOU CAN READ THE REST OF THE ARTICLE HERE

Modern World as a SHIP OF FOOLS

To the Memory 

of  

Theodore John Kaczynski 

(May 22, 1942 – June 10, 2023)

Once upon a time, the captain and the mates of a ship grew so vain of their seamanship, so full of hubris and so impressed with themselves, that they went mad. They turned the ship north and sailed until they met with icebergs and dangerous floes, and they kept sailing north into more and more perilous waters, solely in order to give themselves opportunities to perform ever-more-brilliant feats of seamanship.

As the ship reached higher and higher latitudes, the passengers and crew became increasingly uncomfortable. They began quarreling among themselves and complaining of the conditions under which they lived.

“Shiver me timbers,” said an able seaman, “if this ain’t the worst voyage I’ve ever been on. The deck is slick with ice; when I’m on lookout the wind cuts through me jacket like a knife; every time I reef the foresail I blamed-near freeze me fingers; and all I get for it is a miserable five shillings a month!”

“You think you have it bad!” said a lady passenger. “I can’t sleep at night for the cold. Ladies on this ship don’t get as many blankets as the men. It isn’t fair!”

A Mexican sailor chimed in: “¡Chingado! I’m only getting half the wages of the Anglo seamen. We need plenty of food to keep us warm in this climate, and I’m not getting my share; the Anglos get more. And the worst of it is that the mates always give me orders in English instead of Spanish.”

“I have more reason to complain than anybody,” said an American Indian sailor. “If the palefaces hadn’t robbed me of my ancestral lands, I wouldn’t even be on this ship, here among the icebergs and arctic winds. I would just be paddling a canoe on a nice, placid lake. I deserve compensation. At the very least, the captain should let me run a crap game so that I can make some money.”

The bosun spoke up: “Yesterday the first mate called me a ‘fruit’ just because I suck cocks. I have a right to suck cocks without being called names for it!”

It’s not only humans who are mistreated on this ship,” interjected an animal-lover among the passengers, her voice quivering with indignation. “Why, last week I saw the second mate kick the ship’s dog twice!”

One of the passengers was a college professor. Wringing his hands he exclaimed,

“All this is just awful! It’s immoral! It’s racism, sexism, speciesism, homophobia, and exploitation of the working class! It’s discrimination! We must have social justice: Equal wages for the Mexican sailor, higher wages for all sailors, compensation for the Indian, equal blankets for the ladies, a guaranteed right to suck cocks, and no more kicking the dog!”

“Yes, yes!” shouted the passengers. “Aye-aye!” shouted the crew. “It’s discrimination! We have to demand our rights!”

The cabin boy cleared his throat.

“Ahem. You all have good reasons to complain. But it seems to me that what we really have to do is get this ship turned around and headed back south, because if we keep going north we’re sure to be wrecked sooner or later, and then your wages, your blankets, and your right to suck cocks won’t do you any good, because we’ll all drown.”

But no one paid any attention to him, because he was only the cabin boy.

The captain and the mates, from their station on the poop deck, had been watching and listening. Now they smiled and winked at one another, and at a gesture from the captain the third mate came down from the poop deck, sauntered over to where the passengers and crew were gathered, and shouldered his way in amongst them. He put a very serious expression on his face and spoke thusly:

“We officers have to admit that some really inexcusable things have been happening on this ship. We hadn’t realized how bad the situation was until we heard your complaints. We are men of good will and want to do right by you. But – well – the captain is rather conservative and set in his ways, and may have to be prodded a bit before he’ll make any substantial changes. My personal opinion is that if you protest vigorously – but always peacefully and without violating any of the ship’s rules – you would shake the captain out of his inertia and force him to address the problems of which you so justly complain.”

Having said this, the third mate headed back toward the poop deck. As he went, the passengers and crew called after him, “Moderate! Reformer! Goody-liberal! Captain’s stooge!” But they nevertheless did as he said. They gathered in a body before the poop deck, shouted insults at the officers, and demanded their rights: “I want higher wages and better working conditions,” cried the able seaman. “Equal blankets for women,” cried the lady passenger. “I want to receive my orders in Spanish,” cried the Mexican sailor. “I want the right to run a crap game,” cried the Indian sailor. “I don’t want to be called a fruit,” cried the bosun. “No more kicking the dog,” cried the animal lover. “Revolution now,” cried the professor.

The captain and the mates huddled together and conferred for several minutes, winking, nodding, and smiling at one another all the while. Then the captain stepped to the front of the poop deck and, with a great show of benevolence, announced that the able seaman’s wages would be raised to six shillings a month; the Mexican sailor’s wages would be raised to two-thirds the wages of an Anglo seaman, and the order to reef the foresail would be given in Spanish; lady passengers would receive one more blanket; the Indian sailor would be allowed to run a crap game on Saturday nights; the bosun wouldn’t be called a fruit as long as he kept his cocksucking strictly private; and the dog wouldn’t be kicked unless he did something really naughty, such as stealing food from the galley.

The passengers and crew celebrated these concessions as a great victory, but the next morning, they were again feeling dissatisfied.

“Six shillings a month is a pittance, and I still freeze me fingers when I reef the foresail,” grumbled the able seaman. “I’m still not getting the same wages as the Anglos, or enough food for this climate,” said the Mexican sailor. “We women still don’t have enough blankets to keep us warm,” said the lady passenger. The other crewmen and passengers voiced similar complaints, and the professor egged them on.

When they were done, the cabin boy spoke up – louder this time so that the others could not easily ignore him:

“It’s really terrible that the dog gets kicked for stealing a bit of bread from the galley, and that women don’t have equal blankets, and that the able seaman gets his fingers frozen; and I don’t see why the bosun shouldn’t suck cocks if he wants to. But look how thick the icebergs are now, and how the wind blows harder and harder! We’ve got to turn this ship back toward the south, because if we keep going north we’ll be wrecked and drowned.”

“Oh yes,” said the bosun, “It’s just so awful that we keep heading north. But why should I have to keep cocksucking in the closet? Why should I be called a fruit? Ain’t I as good as everyone else?”

“Sailing north is terrible,” said the lady passenger. “But don’t you see? That’s exactly why women need more blankets to keep them warm. I demand equal blankets for women now!”

“It’s quite true,” said the professor, “that sailing to the north imposes great hardships on all of us. But changing course toward the south would be unrealistic. You can’t turn back the clock. We must find a mature way of dealing with the situation.”

“Look,” said the cabin boy, “If we let those four madmen up on the poop deck have their way, we’ll all be drowned. If we ever get the ship out of danger, then we can worry about working conditions, blankets for women, and the right to suck cocks. But first we’ve got to get this vessel turned around. If a few of us get together, make a plan, and show some courage, we can save ourselves. It wouldn’t take many of us – six or eight would do. We could charge the poop, chuck those lunatics overboard, and turn the ship to the south.”

The professor elevated his nose and said sternly, “I don’t believe in violence. It’s immoral.”

“It’s unethical ever to use violence,” said the bosun.

“I’m terrified of violence,” said the lady passenger.

The captain and the mates had been watching and listening all the while. At a signal from the captain, the third mate stepped down to the main deck. He went about among the passengers and crew, telling them that there were still many problems on the ship.

“We have made much progress,” he said, “But much remains to be done. Working conditions for the able seaman are still hard, the Mexican still isn’t getting the same wages as the Anglos, the women still don’t have quite as many blankets as the men, the Indian’s Saturday-night crap game is a paltry compensation for his lost lands, it’s unfair to the bosun that he has to keep his cocksucking in the closet, and the dog still gets kicked at times.

“I think the captain needs to be prodded again. It would help if you all would put on another protest – as long as it remains nonviolent.”

As the third mate walked back toward the stern, the passengers and the crew shouted insults after him, but they nevertheless did what he said and gathered in front of the poop deck for another protest. They ranted and raved and brandished their fists, and they even threw a rotten egg at the captain (which he skillfully dodged).

After hearing their complaints, the captain and the mates huddled for a conference, during which they winked and grinned broadly at one another. Then the captain stepped to the front of the poop deck and announced that the able seaman would be given gloves to keep his fingers warm, the Mexican sailor would receive wages equal to three-fourths the wages of an Anglo seaman, the women would receive yet another blanket, the Indian sailor could run a crap game on Saturday and Sunday nights, the bosun would be allowed to suck cocks publicly after dark, and no one could kick the dog without special permission from the captain.

The passengers and crew were ecstatic over this great revolutionary victory, but by the next morning they were again feeling dissatisfied and began grumbling about the same old hardships.

The cabin boy this time was getting angry.

“You damn fools!” he shouted. “Don’t you see what the captain and the mates are doing? They’re keeping you occupied with your trivial grievances about blankets and wages and the dog being kicked so that you won’t think about what is really wrong with this ship –– that it’s getting farther and farther to the north and we’re all going to be drowned. If just a few of you would come to your senses, get together, and charge the poop deck, we could turn this ship around and save ourselves. But all you do is whine about petty little issues like working conditions and crap games and the right to suck cocks.”

The passengers and the crew were incensed.

“Petty!!” cried the Mexican, “Do you think it’s reasonable that I get only three-fourths the wages of an Anglo sailor? Is that petty?

“How can you call my grievance trivial? shouted the bosun. “Don’t you know how humiliating it is to be called a fruit?”

“Kicking the dog is not a ‘petty little issue!’” screamed the animal-lover. “It’s heartless, cruel, and brutal!”

“Alright then,” answered the cabin boy. “These issues are not petty and trivial. Kicking the dog is cruel and brutal and it is humiliating to be called a fruit. But in comparison to our real problem – in comparison to the fact that the ship is still heading north – your grievances are petty and trivial, because if we don’t get this ship turned around soon, we’re all going to drown.

“Fascist!” said the professor.

“Counterrevolutionary!” said the lady passenger. And all of the passengers and crew chimed in one after another, calling the cabin boy a fascist and a counterrevolutionary. They pushed him away and went back to grumbling about wages, and about blankets for women, and about the right to suck cocks, and about how the dog was treated. The ship kept sailing north, and after a while it was crushed between two icebergs and everyone drowned.

From OFF! Magazine, a zine produced by students at SUNY Binghamton and edited by Tim La Pietra.

SEE ALSO:

The Life and Action of the Man known as THE UNABOMBER

On The Accuracy of Manhunt Series - The Unambomber Speaks

D-DAY - The Background of the Invasion in Europe

 

BLOG'S COMMENT:

On the 6th of June,  the allied forces of Judeo-capitalism invaded Europe, which up to this day, its still under occupation by the same powers and with the now well-known catastrophic results. But back in the June of 1994, which was the bacground of the invasion and whom profited from it? Dr Joseph Goebbels explained it in a article that was appeared in newspaper DAS REICH in 18th of June 1994.

The Background of the Invasion

By

Joseph Goebbels

The invasion of the European coast by the Western powers is the central military event of the summer. It deserves our first attention in considering the overall war situation. It would be a mistake to attempt at this point an evaluation of the enemy’s goals and the political and military prospects resulting from them. It is too early for that yet. Things are still in motion. Neither side has a clear advantage, nor is that to be expected in the present situation. It was clear from the start that the Western Powers would make a stronger attack on the Atlantic Wall than they did at Dieppe. This time, both attackers and defenders know that it is all or nothing. London and Washington did not leave a back door open this time. It took some violence to the facts, but the enemy could say of Dieppe that it was no more than an attempt at carrying out a raid along the Channel coast. That is not possible this time.

We and our opponents are committed. The clash of weapons on the French Atlantic Coast is also a clash of spirit and outlook. The fact that it took the English and Americans so long to begin the adventure is a sign that they know as well as we do what it means. And not only we and they: it is clear to all of Europe, indeed to the whole world. It has been made sufficiently clear that Churchill and Roosevelt undertook the invasion only after ceaseless pressure from the Kremlin, pressure that bordered on extortion. Stalin, as we have often said, has a long arm. The piles of human corpses that the enemy has heaped up on the Channel coast serve only Bolshevism. The best the English and Americans can hope for is to weaken the German army to the degree that it will not be able to maintain its struggle against the Soviet Union. But if they succeed, they will have bled to such an extent that they will not be able to defend Europe against the arrival of Bolshevism. This is the political background against which the military drama of the invasion is occurring.

Things are exactly the opposite of the way British-American plutocracy wanted them to be. They had hoped to see the German army and the Red army bleed themselves dry while they looked on. The Anglo-American attack in the West has transformed the situation. No one denies the fact that English and American casualties in the battles on the French coast have been intolerably high. Even on the first day of the invasion, they were so dreadfully high that the London and New York war correspondents who were there sent back cries of horror. The English press tried to play down or conceal the facts, apparently at the behest of the government. The American public, however, protested the sugar-coated coverage that stood in glaring contrast to the true situation. The world agrees that England and the USA are suffering casualties that they cannot long tolerate without endangering their position in the world.

Stalin has every reason to watch the goings on with satisfaction. It has long been no secret that the foolish and shortsighted policies of its prime minister have made England dependent on the favor of Bolshevism. It previously had at least some military reserves that could be used to defend its vital interests, but these are slowly but surely being devoured by the hellish battle along the Atlantic. Not much will remain. One has to ask if England can survive this undertaking, even if it technically is victorious, something that is not at all sure. Does that which it may gain bear any reasonable relation to the costs? The answer is a clear no.

It is impossible to give the public a clear and accurate picture of the military situation in the West at present. The political balance of power, on the other hand, is clear. Even at the beginning of the invasion, the London Times asked if there was any way to justify the sacrifices that England and the USA were making, particularly in view of their grand war aims. The question remains unanswered. The British people seem to be discussing it more intensively than the British press. The great public excitement England and the USA hoped the invasion would cause, in any event, has not come to pass. The bells did not ring for an hour, nor were there confetti parades in New York. The English see long hospital trains rolling into the interior. They speak more eloquently than the empty headlines in the papers that the Jews responsible for this bloodbath are using to excuse themselves.

While mounds of dead British and American soldiers are piling up along the west coast of Europe, the English press reports that profits are piling upon the London stock exchange. Wildly gesticulating speculators and profiteers are jumping about in their excitement. They have every reason, since the hour of Big Business has come with the great battles along the Atlantic Wall. Stock prices leapt up, and profits of a billion marks were made in a single day. The prize question: Since nothing comes from nothing, who won this billion and who lost it? We presume the poor English soldier fighting for his life in the awful bloodbath in the west did not suddenly make his fortune on the stock exchange. He will return from the war just as poor, if not much poorer, as he went into it. The only ones richer will be the men behind the scenes at the Jewish hate newspapers, those who guide the program of hatred and annihilation directed against the German people, the profiteers and patrons, draft-dodgers and speculators, who make good business out of patriotism and build their capitalist towers atop mounds of soldiers’ corpses. Their supreme patron and profiteer is Winston Churchill. He is the guilty one. He embodies plutocratic reaction. He has the full responsibility for the vast misfortune that this war has brought upon the world, and now is heading toward his own people with giant steps.

The victims of world plutocracy are marching on. They come from distant Canada, a nation that could easily support thirty or even fifty million additional people if its leaders served their nation rather than world plutocracy. They are the sons of the vast American continent almost bursting with wealth and riches, but in which normally a third of the population goes hungry because plutocracy wants it that way and because it puts business above the good of the working masses. They come from England, whose corrupt ruling class rules over a world empire in which millions of people starve despite adequate resources because the Lords and Money Jews speak of civilization in newspapers and churches, but otherwise serve only the god of money. They cannot allow a nation on an awakening continent to build a society based on new, more noble and moral principles. Thus the farmers’ sons from the USA and Canada and the miners’ sons from Wales die in front of German machine guns while the Jews on the London stock exchange foam at the mouth to get those rising stocks.

Meanwhile, as Mr. Roosevelt recently told the nation, he retired to his bedroom to write a prayer to read over the radio. What does one say? One has to ask oneself if one even belongs in a world in which such grotesque and awful things happen. They pray hypocritical, self-satisfied prayers for victory to a god of business whom they have created in their own image, and expect that he will help them enslave a part of the world that is attempting to live modestly from its own resources. This they cannot tolerate, out of greed and envy. Blood must flow in streams, English, American, and also German mothers and children must weep, the earth must open up to receive the innocent victims of this terrible tragedy. Where is their an escape from the confusion of feelings and facts, and where is the solution to this riddle within a riddle?

We are the only ones who have the answer. We saw it all coming. We know that it cannot be otherwise, that we must plow through this inferno until the light of day is suddenly visible at its end. It would be a fatal error for the German people to believe that this gigantic battle in the west of our continent was an easy and safe undertaking that could or would change the balance of the war through a quick miracle. We are facing two world powers. Neither has failed to make the preparations it hopes will overcome us and bring success. Our soldiers too are making great sacrifices. They are displaying bravery and heroism in these days and weeks that may not surpass all that has gone before in this war, but certainly equal it. We are at the gravest and most serious point of the war. Ignoring the threat to our nation’s life would be more than cynical. We need not be afraid, but neither may we be overconfident. The war is not over yet, nor is there any sign that it will be over today or tomorrow. We must grit our teeth and work through its thorns and thickets. That is the only way we will bring it to an end.

The critical arenas of this war are not found in any single direction. They will shift from here to there, without changing the fundamental nature of the war. We are fighting for our lives both to the east and to the west. Our soldiers above all must know that. They will not waver, nor lose their nerve even for a moment in the midst of this modern technical war. They have a duty to the homeland that has endured the terrible suffering of the air war for month after month. The homeland never thought of doing anything that would weaken our soldiers. The war reaches from the front to the homeland and back again, and no one who lives in peace today can be sure that he will not tomorrow face a hail of bombs and shells. Everyone is fighting for the whole cause. Solders must realize that the nation is watching as they do their duty. It is never easy to risk one’s life, but a nation that lacks enough men, and if necessary women and children, who are prepared to do that is near the end of its history.

Who can believe that of the German people? Our soldiers in the west are fighting as well as their fathers did in 1917 and 1918. They will not flinch or fail. In contrast to those days, they know that today they have a homeland that is worthy of their bravery. The homeland raises its suffering hand as a blessing for its sons who defend it with their bodies. The path to the Reich is over their dead bodies. The nation looks calmly to coming events. It knows that its fate and its life are in good hands.