Trifles for a Massacre

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LOUIS FERDINAND CELINE

TRIFLES FOR A MASSACRE

SOLUS

DENOËL EDITIONS 19, AMELIE STREET, 19

PARIS

All rights reserved for all countries. Copyright by Louis-Ferdinand Celine 1937.

The "massacre", in the author's mind, is obviously the one he foresees, in 1937, as what would happen if a second world war broke out. Contrary to rumor, pamphlets are not prohibited by laws, regulations or courts. They were not republished by well-established publishing houses because the author, back in France, wanted to be able to sell the books he was writing at the time to earn a living. This measure of expediency is no longer necessary after the death of the author in 1961. No one has the right to remove from the legitimate curiosity of subsequent generations what has been the incandescent core of French literature. around the middle of the twentieth century.

The text reproduced here is that of a probably pirated edition. Holders of a truly authentic edition will kindly inform us of any differences.

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TO EUGENE DABIT TO MY FRIENDS OF THE "CANVAS THEATER"

He's naughty, he won't go to heaven, the one who dies without having settled all his accounts

Almanac of the Good Children

[1] (pages 1-10)

The world is full of people who call themselves refined and then who are not, I affirm, refined for a penny. I, your servant, I believe that I am refined! As is ! Authentically refined. Until recently I found it hard to admit...I resisted...And then one day I gave in...Too bad!...I'm still a little embarrassed by my refinement. .. What are we going to say? Pretend ?... Insinuate?...

A valid refined, refined by right, custom, official, habit must write at least like M. Gide, M. Vanderem, M. Benda, M. Duhamel, Ms. Colette, Ms. Fémina, Ms. Valéry, the "French Theaters "... swoon over the nuance... Mallarmé, Bergson, Alain... troufignoliser the adjective... goncourtiser... shit! sodomize the moumouche, freneticize Insignificance, babble tenuously in the pomp, plastronize, cocoricize in the microphones... Reveal my "favorite records"... my conference projects...

I could, I could very well become myself, a real stylist, a "relevant" academic. It's a matter of work, an application of months... maybe years... We can achieve anything... as the Spanish proverb says: "A lot of Vaseline, even more patience, Elephant encugule ant ." But I'm still too old, too advanced, too slutty on the cursed road of spontaneous refinement... after a hard career of "tough among the tough" to turn back now! and then come and introduce myself to the lace aggregation!... Impossible! The drama is there. How I was seized strangled with emotion... by my own refinement? Here are the facts, the circumstances... I recently opened up to a little friend of mine, a good little doctor like me, only better, Léo Gutman, with this increasingly lively, pronounced, virulent, what am I saying, absolutely despotic taste that came to me for the dancers... I asked her opinion... What was to become of me? I, responsible for a family! I confessed to him all my devastating passion...

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.. at the source of everything... of all the waves... The reason of the world is there... Not elsewhere... To perish by the dancer!... I am old, I will die soon... I want to crumble, to collapse, to dissipate, to vaporize myself, tender cloud... in arabesques... in nothingness... in the fountains of the mirage... I am going to perish by the most beautiful... I want her to blow on my heart... It will stop beating... I promise you! Make sure Gutman that I get closer to the dancers!... I really want to calanque, you know, like everyone else... but not in a vase of night... by a wave... by a beautiful wave. .. the most dancing... the most emotional..." to collapse, to dissipate, to vaporize, tender cloud... in arabesques... in nothingness... in the fountains of mirage... I am going to perish by the most beautiful... I want it to blow on my heart... It will stop beating... I promise you! Make sure Gutman that I get closer to the dancers!... I really want to calanque, you know, like everyone else... but not in a vase of night... by a wave... by a beautiful wave. .. the most dancing... the most emotional..." to collapse, to dissipate, to vaporize, tender cloud... in arabesques... in nothingness... in the fountains of mirage... I am going to perish by the most beautiful... I want it to blow on my heart... It will stop beating... I promise you! Make sure Gutman that I get closer to the dancers!... I really want to calanque, you know, like everyone else... but not in a vase of night... by a wave... by a beautiful wave. .. the most dancing... the most emotional..."

I knew who I was talking to, Léo Gutman could understand me... Colleague of high parage, Gutman!... crowded as very few... what connections!... spawning in all the upper Paris... subtle , rider, optimist, insinuating, learned, fine as amber, knowing more metritis, pox, baronesses by the menu, bismuthees, acidosics, very worldly murders, faked agonies, false breasts , doubtful ulcers, unheard-of glands, only twenty notaries, five Lacassagnes, eighteen commissioners of police, fifteen confessors. Moreover and by itself, ass like thirty-six cops, which does not spoil anything and greatly facilitates the whole understanding of things.

"Ah! Let him reply to me, Ferdinand, here you are a new vice! Do you want to play the stars? At your age! It's the fatal slope!... You don't have a lot of money... Like you would be rather repulsive... considering your looks... I don't see you getting off to a good start... As you are not distinguished... As your books, so coarse, so dirty, will surely do you a lot of harm, the best would be not to show them, even less than your face... To begin with, I'll introduce you anonymously... Does that bother you?"

– Ah! I shouted, but Gutman, I'm partisan! I care a lot about it! Of course I want to... And I even prefer to remain on the lookout... To catch a glimpse of these adorable ones, sheltered by some heavy curtain... I don't at all want to show myself personally... I would only like to observe secretly these cuties "at the helm"... in their exercises as one admires the objects of worship in church... from afar... Not everyone takes communion!...

– That's it... That's it! don't show yourself! You always look like a satyr. The dancers are very frightening... very easily. They are birds... – Do you believe?... Do you believe?...

- Everybody knows it.

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Gutman it's dripping with ideas. Here is the brilliant intermediary... He thought...

– You're not a poet sometimes, say? by chance?... that he asks me pointblank – You take me without green... (I had never asked myself the question.) Poet? What am I saying... Poet?... Poet like M. Mallarmé? Tristan Derème, Valéry, the Exhibition? Victor Hugo? Guernsey? Waterloo? The Gorges du Gard? Saint Malo ? Mr. Lifar?... Like all the Frente Popular? Like Mr. Bloch? Maurice Rostand? Poet finally?...

- Yes ! Poet finally! – Hum... Hum... It's very difficult to answer... But in all honesty, I don't think... It would be obvious... The critics would have told me...

“Didn’t the critic say that?” – Ah! Not at all!... She said as a treasure of shit that you couldn't find much better... in both hemispheres, around... than the big books in Ferdinand... That it was really real puppies... "Fantastic, stiff, tense, which they all wrote, in a very voluntary obstinacy to create verbal scandal... Monsieur Céline disgusts us, tires us, without surprising us... A sub- Zola without growth... A poor imbecile obsessed with gratuitous vulgarity... a flat and funereal coarseness... M. Céline is a plagiarist of the graffiti of aedicules... nothing is more artificial, more vain than his perpetual search for the ignoble... even a madman would have gotten tired of it... M. Céline is not even mad... This hysteric is a smart one... He speculates on all the stupidity, the stupidity of aesthetes... dummy, twisted as possible his style is a scouring, a perversion, a distressing and gloomy excess. No light in this sewer!... not the slightest lull... the slightest poetic flower... You have to be an "all in bronze" snob to resist two pages of this frenzied reading... You have to complain about everything heart, the unfortunate courierists obliged (the professional duty!) to browse, with what difficulty! such expanses of garbage!... Readers! Readers!... Be careful not to buy a single book by this pig! You have been warned! You would have everything to regret! Your money ! Your time!..., and then an extraordinary disgust, definitive perhaps for all literature!... Buying a book by M. Céline at a time when so many of our authors, great, nervous and loyal talents, honor of our language (the most beautiful of all) fully in possession of their finest mastery, superabundantly gifted, languishing, suffering from the cruel slump! (they know something about it). It would be to commit a very ugly action, to encourage the most dull, the most degrading of "snobbery", "Celinomania", the cult of flat garbage... It would be to stab at a moment so serious for all our Arts, our Belles- French letters! (the most beautiful of all!)" It would be a stab at such a serious moment for all our Arts, our French Belles-Lettres! (the most beautiful of all!)" It would be a stab at such a serious moment for all our Arts, our French Belles-Lettres! (the most beautiful of all!)"

– Did the critics say all that? I hadn't read everything, I don't get the Argus. – Ah! But let's just say they are enjoying themselves! Aren't they Jews? Who are your critics?

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– But the fine flower of criticism!... All the great French critics!... Those who award themselves the Grand Prix!... "Monsieur, you are a great critic"... "A young critic of great talent!..."

- They're jerks! All dirty jerks, Jews! All failures! hickeys! skins! they each killed under them, at least fifteen books.. They take revenge... They die... They annoy... Pustulent!... – Ah! If I were the king's peddler... a ventriloquist... a Stalinist... a rabid Célineman... how lovable they would find me... always inevitably fools... their element is Error... They have never done anything else in the course of historical times: fool themselves... Bullshit? Out of jealousy?... The only two trays of these judges. Criticism is a famous condé of the Jews... The great revenge of the impotent, megalomaniacs, of all ages of decadence... They cadaver... Tyranny without risk, without pain... They are the most rancid failures who decree the taste of the day!... Who does not know how to give a shit, magnifies all his companies still has a wonderful recourse: Critique!... Unheard of find of modern times, never again to account. Critique only comes from his own nerve, from his filthy little guardians of the most filthy sewers... All in shadows, drool, toxins, filth, quarries...

– Only one discovers you a little bit of interest...

- Yes ? – Marsan.

- He died of it. - Fernández...

- He's a friend. - And then Sabord.

"I tremble for his life!" my godfather !... - And then Strowsky...

- He won't do it again. "And Daudet?" - He spits at you! – Could he be a Jew?

- Everything is going wrong !

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What Gutman was teaching me, all of a sudden, without preparation, upset me from top to bottom...

- Gutman! Gutman! I offended you my poor! I bet, with all these "Jews"... and these "Jews"... – Nothing offends me on your part... Nothing hurts me, Ferdinand! Rather answer my question... are you a poet yes or shit?

– Ah! Leo, Leo, my little djibouk, to go to the dancers... I will become a poet!... It is sworn!... to go to the divine deduction, I will make this earth, this corpse background of the clouds, a star of the first magnitude! I don't back down from any miracle...

- Then go ! do not speak anymore ! on the sly! seize your pen... Torch me a pretty ballet, something neat and dashing... I will go and wear it myself... at the Opera... M. Rouché is my friend!... . Myself !... – Ah! Ah! I remain dumbfounded... True? TRUE ?...

– Official!... He does everything I ask of him... – Ah! Leo... (I threw myself on his knees) Gutman! Gutman! my old foreskin! You exalt me! I see the sky! Dancing is heaven!...

– Yes, but be careful... A poem!... The dancers are difficult... touchy... delicate... “Jewish bluff!… Imposters! I cry out!... Publicity!... The servants have become the masters?... In what era are we falling? It's a pity! Gold dirties everything! Golden calves! The Jews are at the Opera!... Théophile Gautier! shudder! filthy shaggy. You'd be fired with Gisèle!... He wasn't Jewish... I joked. - You say too much...

- I swear ! I will say no more! for my ballet to pass! “You boast like a Jew, Ferdinand! But beware! no garbage! All excuses will be valid to eliminate you! Your press is detestable... you are venal... perfidious, false, stinking, twisted, vulgar, deaf and slanderous!... Now anti-Semitic it's complete! It's the height! .. Opera! Hall of Music! Tradition!... Precautions!... A lot of delicacy! flight of course! but no violence!... of this repugnant rubbish... Mr. Rouché, the Director, is a man of perfect taste... Concern for maintaining the sublimity of the melodies in the Temple... He would never forgive me to have recommended some prank to him... to have drawn his venerable attention to the nonsense of a boor... Ferdinand! Meaning and measure!. . Charm... tenderness... tradition... melody...

The fever came to me... I gave in to it... Here it is:

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THE BIRTH OF A FAIRY Ballet in several acts

Period: Louis XV. Location: Wherever you want.

Scenery: A clearing in the woods, rocks, a river in the background.

very sparkling girl. She just sees the last of the little elves... who run away at the approach... frightened by the humans...

The elves disappear into the woods... Evelyne signals to her friends to join her quickly, in the clearing... Quick! Quick!... She makes a sign that she has seen the goblins dancing in the clearing... The others laugh... incredulous... There are many of them, young and beautiful... boys and girls... They are dancing their turn in the clearing... Games... Colin-maillard... Sulks... Annoyances... One of the boys is particularly insistent... He makes an ardent court to Evelyne... C he is the Poet... He is dressed as a "poet"... Reseda coat, tight swimsuit... Blonde and curly hair... Rolls of poems under his arm... He is Evelyne's fiancé. .. Dances again... Always happy dances!..

2nd Table: In front of the village inn... The day of the Fair... Agitated, busy... colorful groups... Jugglers, peasants, animals, etc. Beneath the large porch of the inn, old Karalik crouched, telling fortunes to the peasants and merchants. etc Mother Karalik is a nasty old gypsy... envious witch... She knows how to read the future in the lines of your hand... The villagers approach. To the right... to the left... the jugglers do tricks... Organs... musicians... animal trainers... etc. Evelyne and the poet, followed by the whole gang of joyful young people, are now coming out onto the market esplanade... Their laughter... their romping is scaring away the customers of old Karalik... Her stand has been overturned... old Karalik curses their farandole. She swears... she curses... she threatens... the young people retaliate and laugh at her... And then we reconcile a little... The young girls get closer... The Poet too. .. The old woman doesn't want to read their hands anymore... She's angry...

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annoyed... Arguing again... The old woman then grabs Evelyne's hand... All the others make fun of the old woman... make faces at her... The old woman casts a spell on Evelyne... at the Poet... At this moment the storm is brewing... the rain is falling... The crowd disperses... the round scatters... Young people and villagers flee... return home... . the old woman lives alone on the main market square... she is alone in the storm... she sneers... she dances the "witchcraft"... She makes fun of the young people... she mimes their little manners... their coquetry... Their amorous rides... She dances limping the dance of the "witches"... Wicked old age... all around the stage... crossed by lightning and din lightning...

3rd Table: The same place, again in front of the inn... Another fair day... Crowd... Jugglers, etc. Large decorative panels are arranged on the walls of the inn... other soothsayers tell stories to the peasants... boast to them and sell them medicines... sales pitches.

In the eddy of this crowd... A large sedan (8 horsepower) wants to make its way... Heavily loaded... The crowd wants to prevent the sedan from passing... from moving forward... Clusters of kids hang from the doors... after the luggage... The big sedan then tilts and collapses on one side... An axle has just broken... The happy crowd is amused by the accident. .. (This accident occurs just in front of the inn.) The driver of the sedan quickly tumbles out of his seat... Mephisto... (Warning! in reality, it's the Devil himself, in disguise!) He will immediately find the fat hotelier, appearing on the threshold of his door, attracted by the great noise... Very big reciprocal greetings... At the doors of the berlin... appear twenty charming heads, mischievous laughing faces. .. locked up... twenty young girls on a trip... Animated figures... sparkling, mischievous... They want to get off at any cost... The little coachman does not want to... defends them well... Misunderstanding ... The crowd takes up the cause... "Get out!... Get out!..." The crowd hurries... gets agitated... The sedan is opened... "Get out!" Graciously jump on the ground the twenty young ladies (capelines, each a small piece of luggage, small parasol... etc...) Barely on the ground, they giggle... stealthily escape... mischievous... The little coachman Mephisto is overwhelmed... He swears... He struggles...

"Let's hurry, ladies!... let's hurry!"... Having finally assembled, assembled with great difficulty, this mad escort, he lectures these young ladies!... He also explains to the fat hotelier that he, himself, is in charge! ... That he is the master! That we must obey him!... The "Master of the King's Ballets!" He must lead his rebellious troupe to the neighboring castle for the Prince's wedding celebrations!... The Corps de Ballet! The little ones still play a thousand pranks... Very happy about the incident... Great hustle and bustle... a pig... a calf... crosses the stage... The Ballet Master "Méphistococher" ... finally regroups its dancers; makes them all enter together under the porch of the inn... with his whip... He closes behind him this heavy door... "Enough! enough!

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drags his poet... The young girls are obliged to shoot their suitors a little... who are now sighing after the dancers interviewed... Besides, the men don't go away for long... Barely a few seconds... They come back on stage one after the other... (men only) try to surprise what is happening inside from the inn... They knock on the door... No one answers... They try to open the door... They stick their eyes to the shutter... They all came back there... The poet, the fat magistrate, the notary, the doctor, the college professor, The grocer, the farrier, the policeman, the general, all the notables, the workers, even the undertaker... We hear music from dance... which comes from inside the inn... They see through holes the curious... They mime in rhythm in "small steps" what they see...The ladies of the Ballet are rehearsing a figure inside the Inn...

4th Table: Darkness first... while the notables evacuate the scene... The previous wall of the inn is lifted... so we now see the great hall of the inn inside... converted for the circumstance in the dance studio... The little ballet master doesn't want lazy girls. He urges his students. He pushes the chairs back along the wall... the tables... He orders them all to put on their ballet clothes... They undress... all of them... slowly... Here they are ready for the lesson... He takes his little violin out of his pocket... Barre... Positions... Entrechats... Ensembles... Badines!... Variations... He castigates, he leads the dance... .

We see during this time by a cutaway on the right that the big notables have come back afraid to spy... from the outside... They rinse their eyes... They get excited... Scandal of the wives who try to tear them from the shutters. The notables jiggle comically, wiggle their hips... They crash into the windows... But one of them, the fat magistrate first, opens one. hidden door... He slips into the interior of the inn. Here he is in the room, all delighted... all amazed!... The little ones are startled... The devil reassures them... "Come in... Come in..." he invites the magistrate ... He installs him in an armchair quite conveniently near the wall... that he doesn't miss a detail of the beautiful lesson. Through the same door the doctor slips in... Same welcome... the postman, the notary, the general... All soon infiltrate one by one... They are installed... under the spell of the dance and the dancers... All the "representatives" of the big and small trades... and the notables hypnotized by the lesson... They mime the gestures, the positions, the arabesques... the variations... The devil is delighted... The poet finally arrives last... He is soon the most exalted of all ! He forgets his Evelyne... He makes a burning declaration to the first dancer... He no longer wants to leave her... He immediately dedicates a magnificent poem to her... the positions, the arabesques... the variations... The devil is delighted... The poet finally arrives last... He is soon the most exalted of all! He forgets his Evelyne... He makes a burning declaration to the first dancer... He no longer wants to leave her... He immediately dedicates a magnificent poem to her... the positions, the arabesques... the variations... The devil is delighted... The poet finally arrives last... He is soon the most exalted of all! He forgets his Evelyne... He makes a burning declaration to the first dancer... He no longer wants to leave her... He immediately dedicates a magnificent poem to her...

[2] (pp. 11-20)

5th Table: Again in front of the inn... The carriage is now repaired... It is brought to the door... Everything is ready for departure... The fat hotelier salutes the devil-coachman-balletmaster. This one precedes his fresh chirping troop... The luggage is brought... The crowd forms again around the heavy sedan. We come to see this departure!... The dancers in

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car!... But the notables... judge, poet, doctor, etc... cannot bring themselves to leave the dancers... They are all bewitched... neither more nor less!... Their wives however make a big racket... They also storm the car... The scandal is at its height! We have never seen anything like it! All the spouses, at once! forget all their homework!... Shame!... They try to hold back their husbands... But in vain... They cling after the luggage! at the doors! straps!... anywhere!... The spouses climb onto the roof of the sedan... climb... the heavy car... We drive off... The Poet tears himself away from the arms of Evelyne... He runs after the car... after the "Star"...

The car already far away.... great anger, great spite of the wives... Hate!... revenge!... clenched fists... anathemas!... Karalik the old witch leads, stirs up the fury... And then all the wives evacuate the stage... Evelyne remains alone on stage in the half-light... She in turn goes away very sad... She is overwhelmed... chagrin. She's not cursing anyone... she's going to kill herself... she can't take it anymore!

6th Table: In the clearing as in the first scene... Evelyne enters alone, more and more painful and desperate... She crosses gently... towards the river. She thinks of Death... Enter the Angels of Death... in black veils... Dance of Death... the angels surround... rock Evelyne... She tries to dance... She does not can't anymore... She faints... Slow movements of regret and abandonment... at the edge of the water...

Death also enters...itself dances...it fascinates Evelyne, forces her to dance... At this moment, a man, a hunter crosses the whole scene... He searches... he searches the thickets... The Angels of Death flee at his approach... Evelyne remains alone on a rock, overwhelmed ... The hunter passes again... several hunters... Then a doe crosses quickly... The friendly doe... companion of the little spirits of the forest... She is pursued by the hunters... She passes again ... she is hit... an arrow in her side... blood... she collapses right at Evelyne's feet... Evelyne bends over the doe... takes her away... hiding behind the rock, on a bed of moss The hunter retraces his steps... asks Evelyne if she didn't see anything?... a wounded doe?... No!... She didn't see anything... The hunters move away. .. Evelyne dips her veil in the cool water... bandages the doe's wound...

The little spirits of the forest emerge from the wood... celebrate, kiss Evelyne who has just saved their girlfriend the deer... Recognition... But Evelyne is not rejoicing at all... She expresses her despair... The abandonment of the Poet... She can no longer live... she no longer wants to live... The fatal resolution!... jump into the river... The little spirits protest ... cry out... rebel... She? To die?... Ah no!... She must stay with her little friends... Why so much grief?... She explains... that the poet has followed the marvelous dancer... seduced... henceforth ... defenseless... Evelyne couldn't hold him back How to compete? It's too much!... "Never mind! Dancing?... laugh the little spirits... Dancing?... But we will teach you! We!... And you will dance better than any other dancer on earth!... Here!... Do you want us to show you?... Do you want to learn the Great Secrets of Dance?... "The little king of spirits calls, invokes, commands the spirits of the

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Dance... First the "Leaf in the Wind"... Dance of the Leaf in the Wind... Each time Evelyne dances with the summoned spirit... better and better... The "Whirlwind of the Leaves" ... "Autumn"... the "Wisp"... "Zephir" itself... the "Waving Mists"... the "Morning Breeze"... the "Light of the Underworld"... wood"...etc. Evelyne dances better and better!...

Finally, one of the spirits presents Evelyne with a "Golden Reed" which he picks up on the bank; the magic reed!... Evelyne attaches the pretty golden reed to her bodice... She is now dancing divinely... That's right... All the little spirits of the forest come running to admire her... Oh! she can return to life!... She no longer has to fear a rival... Grateful farewells, great emotion, touching outpourings... Evelyne leaves her boyfriends to join her flighty fiancé... She leaves the clearing on the "points"... Boyfriends from afar send him a thousand kisses and all their wishes of happiness!...

7th Table: Once again in front of the hostel...

Evelyne is still a little helpless with her "golden reed"... How to find her fiancé?... She doesn't know the way... Where can he be?... She questions... she's looking... No one knows... Since it's a diabolical affair, she'll find out from Karalik the old witch, so venomous, so wicked... She must know!.. Confident, Evelyne explains to her... what happened to her... But that she is now dancing wonderfully... "Really?... really?... let me see!..." Evelyne dance a few steps... That's right!... Karalik is astonished... She immediately stirs up all the gypsies of her tribe... The women and the peasants too... they surround Evelyne... that she dance ! let us admire her!... Evelyne dances... The charm is infinitely powerful... Irresistible ! Immediate!... The men are all immediately seduced... The gypsies especially... One of them stands out from the group... He comes to dance with Evelyne... Brushes her... He is bewitched ... The old Karalik, in the crowd meanwhile, stirs up the jealousy of the women... "You see!... You see!... She has the "charm" now... The Great secret of the dance!... She's going to take your man!... Defend yourself, gypsy!..." She forces a dagger into the hand of one of the wives, the wife of the gypsy who is dancing with Evelyne at this moment.. Evelyne is not careful... She is stabbed in the back... Evelyne collapses... the crowd disperses... Horrible! Evelyne's body remains on stage... Dead! A brush of light on the corpse... The completely black scene... A little chimney sweep flows away like this...

The little King of the elves is still more desperate than all the other little "spirits"... He is talking to the big owl... he is the wise man of the tribe... She is indeed dead Evelyne... She is the for lack of the "golden reed"... She danced too well for a living... too well... possessing such a charm makes you hate the living too much!... Arousing too much jealousy will most certainly kill you !... How to do?... The big owl has an idea...

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In the Legend it is written... (in the legend of the Forest) that if you spread three drops of Clair de Lune on the forehead of a virgin who died in love, she can be resurrected in the state of a fairy. ...

Moondrops are nocturnal dewdrops found on the edge of certain nettles..., and which have undergone the radiation of certain phases of the Moon... Owl knows a certain "crusade" spider in the forest which collects in his canvas some drops of this extremely rare Moon vintage.... He goes in search of the spider... Dance of hope of the little spirits of the forest around the corpse... Owl returns with the spider which presses in the folds of its belly a tiny vial full of "Goutttes de Moon"... She pours three drops on Evelyne's forehead, who slowly regains consciousness Joy of little minds...

"Where am I?... Who am I?" asks Evelyn. "You are our little fairy Evelyne!..."

"But am I alive?..." "No... you can no longer return among the living... You stay with us from now on... You have become a Fairy..."

"Oh! How light I am!... Light as a breath... How I dance now! Even better!..." Dance with the little spirits... and the Spider too... But sadness grips Evelyne in spite of everything... She has not quite forgotten her poet... the infidel...

Her little friends are very sorry... seeing her still a little sad... She would like to see her poet again... Deliver him from the remorse that must now overwhelm him... Save him from the grip of these demons and of the Devil... finally give him this last proof of affection... "So be it!... Good!... We will all go to see your poet together... You will realize for yourself... " answer him the little spirits... "Let's take the wicked Karalik too... She knows all the paths of vice... all the routes of the devil... She can be useful to us."

They set off in single file... A host of little spirits, Evelyne and Karalik, through the copses, plains and bushes... in search of the devil's castle... They pass in front of the big curtain... dancing in single file... Fear, mischief... dread... etc...

8th Table: Inside the Devil's Castle... A lot of gold... flames... very bright colors... the little devil-coachman-balletmaster is then there, at home, dressed "naturally" as a real demon... He presides over a table fabulously served... Huge strawberries... formidable pears... chickens like oxen... All the notables of the village are seated... The judge, the notary, the general, the

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doctor... The grocer too, the professor. Between each of these damned a dancer... That is to say now a real demon... The orgy is in full swing!... At the very top of the steps an enormous Lucifer, himself all in gold ... eats alone, raw souls... at his table, with an allgold cutlery... The souls have the form of criers... He tears them with full teeth... He swallows jewels too ... He sweetens hearts with powdered diamonds... He drinks tears... etc... The Poet is chained to a small table... He also has lunch... but he is chained... The "first dancer" demoness... dances before him... for him... bewitches him. But he can never touch her...reach her. He's trying... He's in despair... Lucifer, upstairs, is enjoying the whole infamous spectacle... He always wants more... Let's have fun... He commands the little ballet master to make all these damned people dance... with a whip. Everyone then dances as best they can... each in his own way... The Judge with his condemned... The very ruddy Judge, the very thin condemned, with their cannonballs and their chains... their wives who carry ransoms. .. The old Miser dances with the bailiffs, with the ruined borrowers... The General with the soldiers who died in the war, emaciated, with the skeletons and the mutilated of the war, all bloody... The Professor with his snotty pupils , his rascals with their fingers in their noses... donkey ears... The fat Pimp with his whores and his vicious ones and the little girls... The Grocer with his stolen customers... his fake weights... .his false scales... The Notary with the ruined widows... . his defrauded clients... The priest with the fickle nuns and the little homosexual clerks...etc.

At this moment, Karalik half-opens the door... she enters... behind her, Evelyne and the little spirits of the forest... Surprise of the demons... Lucifer is not happy... He scolds. .. He thunders... Lightning... He demands that these intruders explain themselves... Evelyne pretends to want to free the chained poet... "No! No! No!... defend Lucifer... 'Evelyne is dancing!..." The demons are jealous... Karalik shows Lucifer that Evelyne has the Dances spell... The golden reed!... A demon is going to snatch it from her...

Then Evelyne makes a gesture... just one... Magic sign!... and the whole castle collapses!... and all this devilry is dispersed... by a formidable hurricane... Deep night... . We find ourselves in the clearing as at the beginning... Evelyne has freed the Poet... his chains are broken... they are at Evelyne's feet... He begs her forgiveness... Evelyne forgives. He begs her never to leave him again... that she never go away again... But she can't stay with him anymore... She's a fairy now... She belongs to her little friends from the forest... She is no longer human... He kisses her... He wants to move her... But she remains insensitive... cold to carnal approaches... She is no more than a dream ... spirit... desire... She has become a fairy... The Poet is disappointed... but still in love... Forever in love... more... always more... with his Evelyne who has become fairy... Evelyne slowly moves away, dragged away by her little friends... She disappears... dissipates... mousselines... thicker and thicker towards the back of the stage... becomes more and more unreal... spiritual... diaphanous... She disappears... taken by the blur of the decor... muslin... The Poet is alone now... Old Karalik turned into a toad! jump, fidget, will always accompany the graceful swarm of mocking spirits of the forest...

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The Poet on his rock... at the edge of the water... desolate... unrolls his great manuscript... He will sing... he will always sing his ideal, poetic... impossible loves... Always ... always... Curtain.

***

We can always say whatever we want about everything we present to you... There is no criticism in itself... Criticism in itself is a farce. There is a benevolent criticism and then the other, poisonous. Any shit or any nougat. Question of bias. For me, I find this comical-tragic fairy entertainment very welcome. It satisfies me and I taste better. me alone, that all the pantachiote and culacagneuse criticism united, I therefore decided, anticipating all comments, that my ballet was worth much better, surpassed by far all the old themes... all the dadas of the repertoire... the cavalry d'Opéra... Gisèle... Trifles... Petits Riens... the Lakes... Sylvia... No frills! no mimicry!... Examine a little more the arrangement of all these marvels...

First the critic of myself, from today, is me. And that's enough. Magnificently... I must organize my defense without stopping... I must get ahead of the Jews!... all the Jews! racist, sneaky, stubborn, frantic, evil... Just them... everything for them!... Always and everywhere! I warned Gutman right away... Watch out Leo!... Shut up... No comments! Go wear! He was dazzled by it! "Never! I would never have believed Ferdinand..." He remained dreamy, confounded! He read the poem aloud twice! He discovered the poet at last!... A poet like M. Galeries! poet like M. Barbès!... and Tino Rossi!... Like M. Dupanloup!... the slot machines!... Like the little birds!... the western railway... I was a poet in his eyes!... We kissed... He rushed through the process... I went to bed. I'm expecting him like that one day... then two... three... ten... I was already sulking a bit... On the twelfth day he comes back to me... embarrassed. "M. Rouché thought it was quite your business, but he asks for the music... at the same time... He doesn't want to hear about a ballet, like that, without music!... A well-rounded musician..."

That complicated things... Well in court? Well in court? I jump... But... – But it is the Jews who are well in court!... Express yourself clearly... - You have to go see them yourself...

I don't really like to pull the strings, I made a lot of space, in many places in Paris, to place all kinds of articles... Ah! I don't have much spirit anymore... Finally fuck! Too bad ! I will still do the steps! I would have myself pounded, for God's sake!... to get closer to the dancers... I'm ready for anything!... For the dance! I will suffer two or three deaths in a row... I could already see myself, I must admit, in an admirably placed position...

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fairy...in a way! imaginary!... I was anticipating!... I was anticipating!... Ah! it was only a deceptive dream... What an abyss from the cup to the lips! Foutre d'azur! Courage! Courage ! Gutman blew his trumpet... he sniffles, when he gets animated...

So I went to visit, one after the other, all the great Jewish musicians... since they held all the avenues... They were all very fraternal... completely cordial... flattering as possible... only in the moment... busy... overworked... by this and then by that... basically quite discouraging... evasive. They paid me a thousand compliments... My poem could certainly be defended... But nevertheless a little long!... too short perhaps? too soft?... too hard?... too classic? In short, everything we stammer to get rid of a peel... of a damned annoying... I was starting to get dry... On my way home, I looked very curiously at Léo Gutman. ... He was waiting for me on the landing.

"You wouldn't Judaize me, you say, by any chance? You scoundrel?" like that quite finicky... You don't cross me with yites?... – Ah! Ferdinand, it would be very bad to recognize... – Nothing to do at the Opera...

– Listen, I have an idea for something else... (he was never short...)

– For the Exhibition?... the 37?... They are going to give ballets?

- Truth ? - Official !...

“Ballets de Paris?” I start to breathe again when I hear these words...

– Ah! It falls pretty flat, say-so, my Léon... I was born in Courbevoie!... And then grew up under glass... in the Passage Choiseul... (it didn't make me better. ..) So you realize a little! if I know the capital?... It's not the Paris of my twenties... It's definitely the Paris of my six weeks, without forcing myself... I didn't come from Cantal to stun in the Ferris Wheel!... I had smelled all the gaviots of the most populated districts of the center (they all came to spit in the Passage) when the great "writers of Paris" were still running behind their geese with straw in their ass.. To be from Paris... I'm fine with it!... I can highlight all that... My father is Flemish, my mother is from Brittany... Her name is Guillou, he Destouches... - Hide it all! hide all that!... Don't go telling these horrors... You would do us enormous harm... I'm going to tell you everything Ferdinand. The Exhibition of "Arts and Techniques" is the 1937 Jewish exhibition... The great youstricave 37. Everyone exhibited is Jewish... well, all that matters... who commands... Not the staffers, the gardeners, the movers, the navvies, the blacksmiths, the mutilated, the guards at the gates... No! the cigarette butt collectors... the latrine guards finally... the sham... the biscotos... No! But everything that orders... that slices... that feels... architects, my

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mate, great engineers, contractors, directors, all youtres... perfectly, half, quarter, of youtres... to the worst Freemasons!... The whole of France must come and admire the genius youtre... bow down ... saucissonne... Jew!... toast Jew! pay Jew!... This will be the most expensive Exhibition that we will have ever seen... France must train itself to burst everything for, by the Jews... and then with enthusiasm! with full heart... with full pot!... He said all that for fun Gutman, a question of taunting me... to make fun of me a little... He imitated me... Shepherd and Shepherdess...

– It's okay... it's okay!... don't force yourself... just tell me what you want... It's the last chance I'm giving you... before the falling out... hatred in blood... – You're going to Ferdinand, he tells me, then give me a real job, a little ballet... absolutely appropriate for the splendor of the Exhibition...

– Leg!... I say, Gutman, I take you at your word, for your word... I'm not letting you go out! I shit you! my poem... entire! on the marble!... You can deliver immediately... (We were in a café)

- Boy ! pass the ink and the pen!... I wasn't going to curdle myself yet... like I had done for the other fairyland... and then it would end in a sausage... I botched it there in three jerks... my little project... I I had the subject all simmered... I hand him the manuscript, all warm... and I tell him:

- Gutman! Jumped up ! But I warn you... fake dyke face! Be careful ! Don't come back to me empty-handed again!... You would annoy me horribly...

THOUGHTFUL PAUL, BRAVE VIRGINIA

Ballet-Mime Little Prologue.

The curtain represents on all the height "Paul and Virginia", romantic painting. Paul and Virginie gambol happily along a path lined with high tropical foliage... sheltering under a large banana leaf. Music... At this moment, on one side of the stage, appears a very pleasant and fresh and cute gossip in a tutu, frail wand in hand... She advances to the middle of the stage on pointe... everything gently accompanied by muted music... She very kindly warns the spectators... "Certainly! there have been many rumors about Paul and Virginie... The truth? Oh! told... Neither of them perished... were drowned only a little... during the terrible shipwreck... They were picked up on the shore... You will just see how and why... Saved in short by a miracle... It's a fact! always intertwined... always in love it seems... but they will have to wake up... As we late to know..."

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On these words... and still in music and on the tips, the gossip goes backstage... So the curtain rises...

1st Table: A shore... sand... grass... In the distance, palm trees, orange trees. A thousand dazzling flowers. Tropical landscape... A tribe of savages is celebrating a party... tam-tam... music... furious dances... lascivious... then jerky... exasperated... A witch of the tribe, in a corner, holds a kind of counter: charms, vials, amulets, powders, near the tom-tom... She goes through the ranks... in the saraband... women, children, men ... all ages mixed... She goes to drink to the dancers... forces them to drink a few drops of her potion... each time they seem a little languid... exhausted... she quickly perks up with her beverage... she moves about... frolics through the rows with her vial and her charms... which she shakes... she overexcites the tom-tom. While the scenes become entangled... we see in the distance a small

[3] (pp. 31-40) sail looming on the horizon... which grows... we hear the storm roar... The wind... The saraband of negroes redoubles... bacchanal... in time with the gusts... The ship is getting closer... He is going to tear himself open on the reefs... Great excitement among the savages... They are going to get their javelins... the axes... ready to pillage... The whole tribe rushes towards the place of the shipwreck... They soon return with the loot: barrels... chests... various packages... and then two intertwined bodies... which they place on the sand... near the fire... Two inanimate bodies... Paul and Virginie... still intertwined... These savages are good savages... they try to revive Paul and Virginie... They don't come back to life... The witch pushes the crowd aside... She knows a potion... She pours them her potion. .. between the lips. Paul and Virginie regain consciousness...little by little. Paul has soon completely regained his senses... Virginie is slower to recover... Paul's excitement... anxiety... Paul still asks for a little more of this drink... He is greedy... The witch herself warns him: "This beverage is extremely hot..." It leads to the senses... to delirium! Paul gets up... He takes a few steps on the beach... He already feels much better. His eyes are amazed... He no longer looks at Virginie... no longer so in love, it seems... But Virginie sits up too... hugs him... She is better... They dance together. .. The circle of good savages surrounds them... very happy to have saved these lovers! Paul still wants to drink this beverage... but Virginie is wary... this beverage scares her... The way Paul now plays with the little savages only half pleases him... Paul finds himself annoyed by this reserve... this prudishness. Virginie sulks... Paul makes a sign to her that she is bothering him... while dancing, frantically!... Virginie goes to sulk a little aside... First falling out! more and more frenzied leads a distraught, general farandole of all the savages and behaves like a hoodlum... He drinks the ardent philtre at the regalade. Again!... and again!... Virginie no longer recognizes him... Paul still wants to drink this beverage... but Virginie is wary... this beverage scares her... The way Paul now plays with the little savages only half pleases him... Paul finds himself annoyed by this reserve... this prudishness. Virginie sulks... Paul makes a sign to her that she is bothering him... while dancing, frantically!... Virginie goes to sulk a little aside... First falling out! more and more frenzied leads a distraught, general farandole of all the savages and behaves like a hoodlum... He drinks the ardent philtre at the regalade. Again!... and again!... Virginie no longer recognizes him... Paul still wants to drink this beverage... but Virginie is wary... this beverage scares her... The way Paul now plays with the little savages only half pleases him... Paul finds himself annoyed by this reserve... this prudishness. Virginie sulks... Paul makes a sign to her that she is bothering him... while dancing, frantically!... Virginie goes to sulk a little aside... First falling out! more and more frenzied leads a distraught, general farandole of all the savages and behaves like a hoodlum... He drinks the ardent philtre at the regalade. Again!... and again!... Virginie no longer recognizes him... Paul finds himself annoyed by this reserve... this prudishness. Virginie sulks... Paul makes a sign to her that she is bothering him... while dancing, frantically!... Virginie goes to sulk a little aside... First falling out! more and more frenzied leads a distraught, general farandole of all the savages and behaves like a hoodlum... He drinks the ardent philtre at the regalade. Again!... and again!... Virginie no longer recognizes him... Paul finds himself annoyed by this reserve... this prudishness. Virginie

sulks... Paul makes a sign to her that she is bothering him... while dancing, frantically!... Virginie goes to sulk a little aside... First falling out! more and more frenzied leads a distraught, general farandole of all the savages and behaves like a

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2nd Prologue(same curtain).

At Aunt Odile's! in Le Havre!... June 1830! You are about to hear yet another great piece of news... I leave you to guess... Through Aunt Odile's window you can see the Semaphore... Look closely!... If a blue flag appears... It's a ship! I tell you!... The ship!... Between us! Hush!... Hush!...

And the gossip disappears on the spikes...

2nd Table(The curtain rises). You can see a living room from the period... very opulent... very bourgeois... padded... sofas... a piano... two, three large windows... bay windows... on the cliff... the Semaphore... the sea in the distance... very far... At the beginning of the act, everyone comes and goes in the living room. A large youth... joyful... full of spirit... dances... duets... quadrilles... etc... party favors... whatever you want from the time. .. (transposed into ballet).

Cousin Mirella (star) with Oscar, her fiancé... a thousand teasings... other couples form... spring up around them... upset the living room a bit... We jump through the window... We come back, etc. we frolic but all this however... in the right tone!... Elegance... concern for finesse... At the piano... two old maids, quite caricatural... They play four hands... (with two pianos, or piano and spinet if you like...) Small ballets follow one another... but a door opens... The dancers interrupt their antics... An elderly lady enters ... very graceful... but reserved... a little timid... self-effacing... She responds very kindly... to the bows of the dancers... Mirella and Oscar kiss her... others too ... We surround her... we cuddle her... Mirella wants to make Aunt Odile dance, a little trick with Oscar!... Aunt Odile gently resists... slips away... Aunt Odile prefers her armchair near your window... Let her pass... Under her arm, she carries her tapestry work... and then a big book... her dog follows her... The good Piram, whom Virginie loved so much... We accompany Aunt Odile to her armchair... in front of her favorite window... The young couples get back together... the party goes on... Mirella feels, however, at this moment, a sort of uneasiness... dizziness... A confusion... she prefers to wait a bit. .. to rest... before the other dance... Oscar offers her his arm... They both approach Aunt Odile, at the window... Aunt Odile is still immersed in reading the beautiful novel ...Mirella...on her knees...asks him to read the book aloud... Oscar all

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close... charming group... The dancers gradually become languid... barely dance anymore... they are also getting closer to Aunt Odile... A circle of tunes is forming, young men and young girls ... the music becomes more and more soft, melancholy, touching... It's Aunt Odile's story... like a song... the light of day is fading... a little... It's is twilight... The dream seizes this graceful audience... All the dancers on the carpet... on the floor... attentive, mixed in harmonious groups... listen to Aunt Odile... (the sweet music...) But, at this moment, someone knocks... and the door is slammed brutally... Start. A little messenger, a urchin from the port... appears dancing... frolics... pretends to announce great news... all across the living room... In an instant... everyone is on their feet. .. He carries a message to Aunt Odile... Great upheaval immediately... Enthusiasm!... Everyone's joy!... We look out of the window into the distance... The blue flag of the Semaphore appears, mounted, hoisted ... Everyone is dancing together with joy!... Including the aunt in the circle!... The little messenger... all the youth... and Mirella and her fiancé... Farandole!... All at port ! Scramble. We get dressed quickly... Coats!... wide-brimmed hats!... beanies!... frills!... We rush!... Piram also towards the door... jumps up, yelps!

Flight of all through the doors and windows towards the port... Arrive as soon as possible! Piram leaps in all directions... (All in farandole.)

3rd Prologue:

The curtain, which closes the scene on the third tableau, represents a kind of formidable vehicle, a stagecoach-bus-tramway-locomotive-type machine... A huge colored plan of this apocalyptic machine, a machine with colossal wheels... A fantastic stagecoach... enormous hubs... A boiler like a distillery pot... A tall, immense chimney... at the front... terrible copper pistons... all kinds of pendulums... .valves...unheard of utensils...and then, however, a few coquetries...Canopies, garlands,...credences, a mixture of machinery and romantic frills...In a banner an inscription: "THE FULMICOACH Transport Lt." . (This extraordinary cart will later come out of the wings...roll onto the very stage...to a great accompaniment of frightening music...at the proper moment of the plot...fulminant thunders.) The same charming gossip. .. same music... slips gently on the points towards the middle of the stage... she carries a bouquet in her hand... of welcome... "Phew!.... she pretends to have ran... I can't stand it any longer!... Ah! What a surprise!... Did you see this emotion?... How happy we are to see each other again!... After so many gloomy years. .. passed in tears... I want to be the very first to kiss them... What joy!... What joy!..." At this moment, from the other side of the stage... enter two... three... four characters... engineers of the time... heavy... sharp... discussants... frock coats... their assistants carry various instruments... surveying... squares... trestles... One of the engineers makes signs, calculations on the ground... The gossip goes towards him ...

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“Sir!...Sir!...What is that?...This enormous horror...tell me?...What terror!...We are waiting for Paul, Sir, do you know nothing ,?... Virginia?..." The engineer does not answer... He is immersed in his calculations... his assistants measure the scene... measure it again... gauge... estimate... the distances...

The gossip is busy... is frightened... Not really that!... doesn't understand anything anymore... Finally the calculations are finished... "She will pass" declares the engineer firmly... is his conclusion... The others answer in chorus: "She will pass!"... Terror of the gossip... She still looks at the curtain, the abominable monstrous mechanism... the wand falls from her hands... She flees... the others, the workers, engineers, mockingly follow her... the scene is clear...

The curtain rises...

3rd Table: The scene represents the quays of a port... 1830... very lively... At the back of the taverns... slums... shops... "ship chandlers"... bastringues... doors that s are opening... closing... a brothel... At the corner of a street... a sign: an arrow points to the road: PARIS... Children... scruffy thugs... drunken sailors... a few bourgeois... customs officers...

All these groups dance... confusion... crowd... Small ensembles... trios... marine infantry... then merge back into the mass... Successively also other groups hold the main interest of the ballet... The crowd seems to be organized around them... and then the groups dissolve again... Gallant girls... soldiers... Prostitutes in blouses come out of the bobbinard scared... Stevedores...soldiers...pursuers...sailors...fry vendors...drinks...etc. But here is a more homogeneous group of dancers... Longshoremen carrying heavy bags (forts des Halles genre). They advance in single file... towards the bridge... (to the left climb the side of a large ship)... They advance very painfully... but still dancing, pitching, however... heavy as bears... They lean on heavy canes. Bursts, at this very moment, at the back of the bistro, the garish farandole of the mechanical pianos... The farandole of the longshoremen... Fantasy... (an ensemble dance...) They finally climb to the catwalk... They succeed after a thousand efforts and disappear in the holds... The crowd returns to its disorder... The crowd is crossed by passengers who disembark preceded by large suitcases... trunks, chests etc... all countries... each with his typical vehicle... A rich Englishman with his servant... A lord in mail -coach... he asks for the road to Paris... We show it to him... He's happy! Gigue... He takes the direction of the sign: Paris... The whole crowd dances for a little while with him... The gendarmes try to restore a little calm... The customs officers are overwhelmed, cursing and threatening. .. Here is a Spanish family landing on the other side of the ship... Solemn mother... daughters... Senoras... a large char-à-bancs, mules... The road to Paris!. .. he asks for the road to Paris... They show it to him... He's happy! Gigue... He takes the direction of the sign: Paris... The whole crowd dances for a little while with him... The gendarmes try to restore a little calm... The customs officers are overwhelmed, cursing and threatening. .. Here is a Spanish family landing on the other side of the ship... Solemn mother... daughters... Senoras... a large char-à-bancs, mules... The road to Paris!. .. he asks for the road to Paris... They show it to him... He's happy! Gigue... He takes the direction of the sign: Paris... The whole crowd dances for a little while with him... The gendarmes try to restore a little calm... The customs officers are overwhelmed, cursing and threatening. .. Here is a Spanish family landing on the other side of the ship... Solemn mother... daughters... Senoras... a large char-à-bancs, mules... The road to Paris!. ..

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But here are other stevedores... these rolling huge barrels. Dance around the barrels... around... between... on the barrels... Farandole... Here are the "Birds of the Islands"... Bird merchant... with cages, and fantastic birds ... arms full... perched on the head. and birds (human size). Dances... The port girls want to tear out their feathers... put them everywhere... The police must intervene again... Great battle with the longshoremen who protect the girls Feathers from the birds... Clouds of feathers... The commissioner of the port... He's everywhere at once... He's rumbling... storm and the customs officers always everywhere, ferreting. Here are the Russians landing with their sledges and their bears... Dance of the bear and the crowd... The drunkards of the port... dance with the bear. At this moment, the whale arrives... a huge one... They throw fish at it... She dances... She returns Jonas and the Eskimos... She also goes to Paris... Great fun ... Here is the German who arrives with his whole family... he also asks for Paris... he rides a tandem with his fat wife... Very primitive tandem and a small basket behind for his many children, five or six ... Here is the Arab and his harem on a dromedary... (dance...) Here is the maharajah with the sacred elephant... Dance of the elephant... The crowd is having fun... L he elephant refuses to go to Paris... They push him. He resists... It's the fight... Great hubbub... The mad melee... Finally the elephant makes up his mind... He takes to the road...

But here is the great clique of haulers... from the port... whose cluster braced on the rope is preceded by an enormous congested "port captain"... apoplectic... He lavishes... thunders his commands his insults... the pace to shoot better... Ho! Hiss!... They shoot. the tow-haulers... they gradually enter the scene with jerky efforts, welded together and glued to the cable... Immense efforts... They are dressed in rags... terrible shrews... and drinkers. .. They pass the "red" while pulling and staggering to the "regalade"... All this in "boatman" music... But the enormous boat resists... The whole group of boatwomen is momentarily, suddenly, snatched away from the stage... towards the wings... So the other people come to help... Soon everyone is put in... Longshoremen... hoodlums... soldiers... sailors... whores... It's the great mutual aid. Always in ebb and flow... Victories and defeats... The boat, however, is the strongest... finally... It drags everyone backstage... the stage empties!... all this crowd is pumped backwards by the ship!... by a sudden withdrawal of the cable. A few characters are gradually coming back... foams... a few longshoremen... one or two girls and soldiers... But here comes the merry troop of Mirella's friends... with aunt Odile and Piram... They arrive at the port all out of breath... They meet passengers who have just disembarked... and very sick... These nauseated passengers capsize , rolling and pitching again... coming and going on the quay... They are greenish and undone... They are coming out of seasickness... Mirella questions them: "Have they seen Paul? and Virginie?" They don't know anything at all!... They want to go to Paris... continue their journey... They are shown the sign... they go staggering there with their mandolin...

But the "port captain" sees Aunt Odile... His respects... his duties... He shakes his spyglass loudly... Then examines the horizon... He announces... That's it! Here is the ship!... The crowd gathers near the quay... invades... encumbers the whole space...

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Joy!... Joy!... all of Mirella's friends carry welcome bouquets in their hands), moving minute as possible! And here are climbing, leaping four by four the steps of the landing stage: Virginie!... Paul!... We kiss each other... we embrace each other!... Triumph!... We celebrate... We pamper each other... Presents... Everything they bring back from the wild countries: carpets... strange animals... canaries... all this carried by niggers and negroes of the tribe who accompanied them ... And then the witch who has not left them... We laugh... we rejoice... All this... very lively... dance and music... Paul is going to make his niggers dance ... for the welcome... Jumbled, jerky, barbaric dances, all new to Aunt Odile and the others... Tam-tam. The whole crowd looks at this unusual scene, a little worried... We have never seen such dances!... Aunt Odile is terrified!... The maidens huddle against their riders... The wild dance unfolds passionate... sadistic... cruel (with sabers and javelins). Paul is jubilant!... Virginie, cuddled up against her aunt, doesn't seem very pleased with this demonstration... She explains to her aunt that she can't do anything about it... that she is helpless against the extravagances of his Paul. The witch of the tribe passes with the accursed flask... Paul seizes his flask of fiery liquor... He drinks... he is quite revived... The most suspicious, the most rogue elements of the crowd, the cliffs... the drunken sailors, come to dance with the negroes... exhilarated by this spectacle, mingle with the tribe... in immodest dances. Aunt Odile no longer hides her indignation... She no longer understands... Young people... young girls... You need lust!... frenzy! Be it!... You will see! what me! I can do ! when I abandon myself to the fire!..." She goes abruptly towards the witch, she seizes her large bottle... the whole potion... She brings it to her lips... One sip, two sips. .. she drinks it all... The whole crowd is turned towards Virginie the modest one... now sly and defiant... The witch wants to prevent her... Nothing to do! Virginie empties the whole bottle... The delirium then seizes her... rises inside her... she tears off her clothes and she dances with even more flame, more ardor, more provocation, more lubricity, than Mirella just now... It's a fury... a dancing fury... Paul had never seen her like this before... And that pleases him, captivates him... He already leaves Mirella and gets closer to

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Virginie... He's going to dance with her... But Mirella, taunted... revolts... Anger rises in her... prevails... she can't hold herself any longer... laughs... Then Mirella leaps towards a sailor, snatches his boarding pistol from his belt, aims and kills Virginie... Virginie collapses... General terror... We form a circle around poor Virginie ... Paul is desperate... Silence... Very soft... the painful music...

But here is an enormous din!...fantastic!...from the right side of the wings...A noise of a locomotive...of pistons...of steam...of bells...of trumpets...of chains... of scrap... all that horribly mixed up... The engineers from earlier push back the crowd... make their way... A kid precedes them... with a red flag and a bell that he shakes... Let's step aside... let's step aside! Place!... The terrible machine... roaring, blowing, humming... appears little by little on the scene... It is the "Fulmicoach", the phenomenal ancestor of all motor vehicles... The he ancestor of the locomotive, of the car, of the tram, of all the fulminating mechanics... Enormous, fantastic, frightening machine... It has its music, jazz genre in it... The crowd turns to the monster ...

Only Paul is on his knees next to her... crying... Poor Aunt Odile can't bear so many emotions at once... she's going mad... she rushes from the quay into the water... She drowns...

The infernal machine is still advancing little by little... A man on the front of the chassis, up there, is playing the trumpet (kind of mailcoach), the emotion in the crowd is at its height... Enthusiasm too ... Bicycles surround the monster... cyclists fire guns, a farandole around the monster... Make some noise!... We can now see all this huge utensil moving forward, thunderous and majestic... We celebrate the humming monster... we get excited... At the very top of the chimney the American flag... The machine comes from America... American tourists to Paris... The "Fulmicoach" will disappear... The crowd can't help following the "Fulmicoach"... fascinated... the extraordinary vehicle... the crowd rushes backstage... behind the "Fulmicoach"...Only Paul remains, with Virginie... not for long... Young girls, all exhilarated, frantic, bounding, retrace their steps... berate, lead Paul away, make him understand that he is wasting his time!... . that life is short!... that you have to go have fun further... always further... that you have to climb in the "Fulmicoach"... that you have to drink and forget. .. They pick him up, force him to get up... to drink again from the cursed bottle... forgetful Paul!...that you have to climb into the "Fulmicoach"... that you have to drink and forget... They pick him up, force him to get up... to drink again from the cursed bottle... forgetful Paul!.. .that you have to climb into the "Fulmicoach"... that you have to drink and forget... They pick him up, force him to get up... to drink again from the cursed bottle... forgetful Paul!.. .

He is on his feet now... He staggers... He no longer knows... He follows the frenzied crowd... He turns away a little more... The farandole carries him away... He disappears...

All that's left on the scene is Virginie, dead... in a spot of light... and then Piram, the good dog, now also alone... the only friend left... He gets closer to Virginie. .. He goes to bed, right next to her... That's all. Curtain.

24

Gutman came back from the Exposition, four days later... with his head horribly down, brat, grimace at his heels He had only won failures “It's even more Jewish, Ferdinand, than I had imagined!

He confessed to me, in tears, that he had met everywhere Jews of a frightening racism all bubbling with Judaism ten per office thirty per corridor

– Is that all you find to teach me? so say grainy? Nothing for the French then? Nothing for the children of the soil? Just puppy guards? locker rooms? I would have disarticulated him, I would have returned his eyes (bulging, Jewish).

- Will I ever have dancers then? I will never have one! you admit it. That's all for youtres! So howl! traitor!

– All the cuties, Ferdinand, all want to fuck your yurts. For them, the Jews are all the future He was bobbing his head like that, like a motherless calf. He was shaking his huge ears. He delighted in making me suffer! He was sadistic, of course... “Do you want to know what effect you have on me? you want to know ? say. vampire?

He didn't want me to explain. He knew anyway - I'll tell you, well, I know a man, me, a man who is the most educated in philosophy! It's something ! You don't know how he's having fun? how is he having fun? With dogs? No, he didn't know.

– He goes like that in the evening, along the walls in the fortifications He calls a dog from afar, a big one he [4] (pp. 41-50)

reassures, he caresses him first, he puts him in good confidence... and then he feels his balls... like that... very gently... the glans... and then he polishes it ... The dog is very happy, he surrenders, he gives himself... he sticks out his tongue... just when he is about to shine... he is tense on the wrist... So , do you know what he's doing to her?... He snatches the package all of a sudden, like that, wrack!... with a big jerk!... Well you! take ! I say, ravage! you do exactly the same to me with your charades... You bring back my enjoyment... tell new bitches! Ah! thin peel of false turd! Ah! you will see anti-Semitism! Ah! you'll see if I tolerate people coming and feeling me for nothing! Ah! you will see the revolt!... the awakening of the natives!... The Irish, for a hundred years, they got up every night to strangle a hundred English who

25

didn't do a quarter of what we put up with, us yikes! Official ! Chinese! Official ! *****

It's not today, after all, that I know them, me, the Semites. When I was in the docks in London, I saw a lot of yippees. We crunched the rats all together, they weren't yite jewellers, they were terrible bad guys... They were flat as dabs. They had just come out of their ghettos, Latvian, Croatian, Wallachian, Roumelic funds, Bessarabian droppings... Immediately they got into the gringue, they had it in the bell... to charm the donkeys... . to the policemen on duty... They began the seduction, to sneak into their post... I'm talking about the "Dundee" docks for those who know... where the raw materials are landed, especially tow and then also marmalade... The "Schmout" they cracked a smile... Always closer to the policeman... that was the motto... And then that I flatter you... that I cajole him... And that I tell him how strong... intelligent!... how admirable, the brute! It's fat like all the Aryans... it bulges... Very keenly he is bonnard, the puppet, he wets himself with a sausage for the youtres... pity... he invites them.. . a blow to the stove!... a cup of tea... The Jews, they go into the guitoune, they are no longer outside... In the truanderie they are the ones who place themselves first... All that happens under a spear! strings like cocks! at the edge of the yellow fleet of the docks... to melt all the ships of the world... in a setting for ghosts... in the wind that cuts your ass... that turns your ribs...

The Jew is already hidden away, the whites are moaning under the waterspouts... They are all yelling at each other like dogs... They are outside, they are howling in the wind... They have understood nothing... Here is how it happens passes the landing stages... The boat announces itself... it approaches the quay... it docks... The "second" goes up to the gangway... just as the ropes come to the terminals. The tub stalls in the "fagots"... All the frimands are packed together, a horde below... which creaks it I guarantee you... They are waiting for the "number"... the grelotte!... There are some need fifty! that he announces...

So, it's a fierce tobacco... the first to arrive, oh hiss! up there! of the broadside, are the good ones... those who can rush, climb the ladder... All the others, all those who fall, they can die... They won't get the sausage... the "shilling" and the pint.

There was no pity, I assure you... It's with a penknife that it's settled... in the end, for the last... A blow in the fias... Fztt! you let go of the bridle... the cluster collapses in the gap... between the edge and the wall... in the fleet it still strangles... They end up in the propellers... In the back of the hangar, the agent of the powerful company, the "Submissioner", waits for it to be ready, for it to finish the tobacco, while waiting he breaks the crust, calmly, on an overturned crate...

26

I can still see it, ham... peas... the one we had... on a big pewter plate... peas the size of plums... He doesn't leave his bell, his fur coat, his big towel with the "manifestos"... He waits for everything to settle down... for the fight to stop... he didn't flinch... He never rushed things. He had fun until the end... – Ready. Mr Jones? that he called out to at the end... when calm was restored...

The Second replied: – Ready Mr. Forms!... The youtres, they always managed after the battle to get back into the holds all the same... to infiltrate the holds with the "papers", with the service bump... They took care of themselves a bit around the winches, hold the brake... It creaks... it howls... and then it rolls... And England continues!... The hoists rise and gravitate. And the stupidest ones they fell back between the wall and the freighter with a small blade in their ass...

*****

Let's talk about something else... Towards the end of this summer, I was still in Saint-Malo... I was getting my breath back after a hard winter... I went dreaming, meditating along the shores. I came back that day, pensive from the "GrandBé". I was walking slowly in the shadow of the rampart, when a voice... my name shouted... made me start... a lady was hailing me... from very far away... her legs around her neck... she rushes... she arrives... a newspaper floating in her hand.

– Ah! say so!... come and have a look!... Look at my newspaper!... how they treat you!... Ah! you haven't read it yet?... She pointed out to me the passage of her finger... Ah! how they suit you! She was jubilant about it... happy as possible...

– Is it really you, Celine?...

– But yes... but yes... It's my show name... my battle name!... Whose diary is it?... What diary?... that you have ?... - Read ! what they write first!... but it's the Journal de Paris! the journal "Journal"... "Renegat!..." which they call you... Ah! it is well written black on white... Renegade!... like an André Gide, whom they added... like M. Fontenoy and so many others...

Crazy! my blood is only making a turn! I jump! I'm jumping!... I've been called a thousand things... but not yet a renegade!... – Renegade me?... Renegade who?... Renegade what?... Renegade nothing!... But I have never denied anyone... The outrage is enormous!... What is this face of manure? who is

27

allow me to agonize about communism?... Someone called Helsey!... But I don't know him!... where did he get such insults from?... Where does he come from, this twisted bastard? Is this breed cheeky?... It was well written in full page and bold type... there was no mistaking it at all... she was right, the lady... "The opinion of the renegades has, of course, no importance, the Gides, the Célines, the Fontenoys... etc. They burn what they adored..." It is blown, shit, this cellar! ... By what right does he allow himself, this calf, to smear like this?... But I have never denied anything at all! But I never adored anything!...Where did he see that written?...I never went up on the platform to yell...to all the echoes, urbi et orbi: "Me, I I'm in!... I take a bite out of it!... I swallow it wholeheartedly!... I'd kill myself!..." No! No ! No ! I have never micronized, macronized in the meetings!... I adore you my Stalin! my beloved Litvinoff! my Comintern!... I devour you madly! I have never voted in my life! My card must still be there at the Town Hall of the "second"... I have always known and understood that the idiots are the majority, that it is therefore forced that they win!... Why would I bother since then? Everything is understood in advance...I have never signed a manifesto...for the martyrs of this...the tortured over there...You can rest easy...it's always one Jew that it is... a yaw committee or a mason... If it were me, the "tortured" poor simple idiot of a French native... no one would cry over my fate... He would circulate no manifesto to save my bones... from one end of the planet to the other... Everyone, on the contrary, would be happy... my racial brothers, the very first... and then the Jews all in chorus... "Ah! that they would exclaim, say so! They were nicely right to do it to the legs of Ferdinand... He was just a vicious dirty hoodlum, a filthy hysterical pain in the neck... He should never get out of the box again... that vociferous damn. And then let it die as soon as possible!..." That's what it looks like for my apple... the kind of grief experienced... I am well informed... so I never adhere to anything... . neither to the radiscots... nor to the colonels... nor to the doriotants... nor to the "Science Christians", nor to the freemasons these boy-scouts of the shade... nor to the children of Garches, nor to the son of Pantin, nothing!... I adhere to myself, as long as I can... It's already very inconvenient these days. When you get together with the Jews, it's them who claim all the advantage, all the pity, all the profit; it's their race, they take everything, they give nothing back.

But since we're talking about this trip again, since the Journal is provoking me, I have to explain myself a little... provide a few details. I didn't go to Russia myself at the expense of the princess!... That is to say minister, envoy, pilgrim, mutt, art critic, I paid for everything with my nails... with my little well-earned money, all of it: hotel, taxis, travel, interpreter, meals, food... Everything!... I spent a fortune in rubles... to see everything at my ease... I didn't hesitate in front of the expense... And then it's the Soviets who still owe me money... Let it be said!... If anyone is interested. I don't owe them a fifrelin!... not a pardon! not a cafécrème!... I washed everything, completely, everything much more expensive than any "intourist"... I didn't accept anything.

28

noon until midnight, everywhere I was accompanied by an interpreter (from the police). I paid her full price... She was also very nice, her name was Nathalie, a very pretty blonde by my faith, ardent, all vibrant with Communism, proselytic to kill you, in case of emergency ... Completely serious by the way... don't go thinking things!... and watched! For God Sake!...

I was sleeping at the Hotel de l'Europe, second order, cockroaches, centipedes on all floors... I'm not saying that to make a drama out of it... of course I've seen worse... but all the same it was not "nickel"... and it cost nothing but the room, in equivalence: two hundred and fifty francs a day! I went to the Soviets, mandated by no newspaper, no firm, no party, no publisher, no police, totally on my nails, just for curiosity... Let us repeat it!... frank as gold !... Nathalie, she left me around midnight like that... So I was free... Often I fired broadsides, after her departure, haphazardly... I followed many people. .. in curious corners of the city... I entered the home of many people at random from the floors... all perfectly unknown. Colombiasuffered small bursts of machine gun fire while passing in front of Kronstadt, one fine evening last summer)...

The Russian misery that I saw clearly, it is unimaginable, Asian, Dostoewskian, a moldy hell, herrings, cucumbers and denunciation... The Russian is a born jailer, a failed Chinese, a torturer, the Jew the fits perfectly. Scrap from Asia, scrap from Africa... They are made to marry... It's the most beautiful coupling that will come out of hell... I didn't hesitate to say it, after a week of walks I had my opinion well formed... Nathalie, she tried, it was her duty, to make me go back on my words, to indoctrinate me gently... and then she got angry... when she saw the resistance... It didn't change anything at all... I repeated it to everyone, in Leningrad, around me, to all the Russians who spoke to me about it,

We understand my indignation, it is natural, as soon as I am called a renegade!... I don't like that... This Helsey man, he earns his beef by dirtying good people... I told the person who had made me read this echo... What else is he capable of doing this feathery?... He is kidding today like that on Communism... Tomorrow he will drool on Customs... another day on the Stratosphere. As long as he unlocks... he doesn't care... It's a bell!... as long as it sells!... It's all his technique... Anyway, it was the holidays. .. then I had hobbies... I say to myself: "Hey, I'm going to piss them off!" I grab my sparkling pen and write one of these notes! to the director of the Journal... what was the rectification... I guarantee it...

29

bottle... It's the rottenness of the Press... They're smearing you... it's free... I could have sent the bailiff to avenge my honor!... He would have told me it's so much per word... I was still done... How much is "Renegade" worth at the price of Honor?... If I killed the Helsey, with a pistol, it's still me who I would go to the checkout... And then maybe the Helsey doesn't exist!... Finally... in any case they didn't tell the truth in the "Journal", the Paris newspaper... I'm in on the matter , it's a fact... They owe me a big apology... It's not so nice apologies from people like that.

*****

“The Lord sits down among the nations filled with carcasses, he crushes the

heads in the lands all around. " (Bible, Psalm 110)

In all candor, it seems to me that all those who come back from Russia talk above all to say nothing... They come home full of harmless objective details, but avoid the essential, they never talk about the Jew. The Jew is taboo in all the books presented to us. Gide, Citrine, Dorgeles Serge, etc. don't say a word about it... So they babble... They seem to break the violin, to upset the crockery, they don't chip anything at all. They sketch, they cheat, they skew in front of the essential: the Jew. They go to the very edge of truth only: the Jew. It's fine sleight of hand, it's courage on the rubber, there's a net, you can fall, you don't break yourself. We may be sprained... We go out to applause... Drum roll!... We will forgive you,

The only serious thing at present, for a great man, learned writer, filmmaker, financier, industrialist, politician (but then the very serious thing) is to get in trouble with the Jews. – The Jews are our masters – here, in Russia, in England, in America, everywhere!... Play the clown, the insurgent, the fearless, the anti-bourgeois, the rabid vindicator.. .the Jew doesn't care! Entertainment... Babbling! But don't touch the Jewish question, or else he'll burn you... Stiff as a bullet, you'll be bullied one way or another... The Jew is the king of gold in the Bank and Justice... By straw man or outright. He owns everything... Press... Theatre... Radio... Chamber... Senate... Police... here or there... The great discoverers of Bolshevik tyranny utter a thousand cries of orfries... you can hear it. They beat their chests with blood, and yet never, never detect the proliferation of yites, never go back to the world conspiracy... Strange blindness... (in the same way potashing Hollywood, its secrets, its intentions, its masters, its cosmic hype, its fantastic bazaar of international bewilderment, Hériat does not detect anywhere the essential work, capital of Jewish Imperialism). Stalin is however only an executioner, of enormous stature certainly, all dripping with conjured guts, a bluebeard for marshals, a formidable scarecrow, essential to Russian folklore... But after all nothing but an idiot executioner, a human dionosaur for Russian masses who only crawl at this price. But Stalin is only an executant, very docile, like Roosevelt, or Lebrun, exactly, in cruelty. The revolution

30

Bolshevik is another story! infinitely complex! all in abysses, behind the scenes. And behind the scenes it is the Jews who command, absolute masters. Stalin is just a sham, like Lebrun, like Roosevelt, like Clemenceau. The triumph of the Bolshevik revolution can only be conceived in the very long range with the Jews, for the Jews and by the Jews... Kerensky admirably prepares Trotzky who prepares the current Comintern (Jews), Jews as a sect , race, racist Jews (they all are) circumcised claimants armed with Jewish passion, Jewish revenge, Jewish despotism. The Jews lead the damned of the earth, the idiots of the soil and the tower, to the assault of the Romanoff citadel... as they launched the slaves to the assault of all that hinders them, here, there- down, everywhere, the armature is burning, collapses and the idiots of the glebe, the sickle and the hammer, drunk for a moment with boasting, quickly fall back under other bosses, other functionaries, into other increasingly Jewish slavery. What characterizes the "progress" of societies over the centuries is the rise of the Jew to power, to all powers... All the revolutions give him an increasingly important place... The Jew was less than nothing in the time of Nero, he is on the way to becoming everything... In Russia, this miracle is accomplished... In France. almost... How is a Soviet recruited and formed in the USSR? With workers, manual workers (in the second generation at least) very bewildered, very Stakhanovists, and then intellectuals, Jewish bureaucrats, strictly Jews... More intellectuals

[5] (pp. 51-60)

white! no more possible white critics!... Here is the major order implicit in any Communist Revolution. Power can remain with the Jews only on the condition that all the intellectuals of the party are, or at least furiously, Jewish... married to Jewish women, crossbred, half, quarter Jews... (these always more rabid than the others...). For the form, a few Aryan extras are tolerated for the foreign parade... (like Tolstoi) held in perfect submission by favor and petoche. All the non-Jewish intellectuals, that is to say those who might not be communists, Jews and communists are synonymous for me, have all been hunted down to death... They go to see Baikal, Sakhalin if the strawberries are ripe... There are obviously some wicked Jews among the number,

In the USSR there is no longer even a need for these "liberal" political puppets. Stalin is enough... Frankly youtre, it would perhaps have become the easy target of the anticommunists or of the whole world, of the rebels with the Jewish imperialism. With Stalin at their head, the Jews are ready... What is killing all of Russia?... Who is massacring?... Who is decimating?... Who is this despicable assassin? this superborgian executioner? Who is this

31

who plunders?... But Name of God! But it's Stalin!... He's the goat for all of Russia!... For all the Jews! Do not be embarrassed as a tourist, we can tell all we want provided that we do not speak of the Jews... Blight the communist system... curse! thunder... The Jews don't give a damn about it! Their conviction is made! and damn done! Russia, however disgustingly disgusting you can find it, is all the same a very important start for the world revolution, the prelude to the great all-Jewish evening! of the great triumph of Israel! You can salt as much as you can, tons and tons of paper on Soviet horrors, you can emit, burst, blast your pages, so your pen sinks and plows with indignation, it'll make them laugh... They'll find you more and more blind and stupid... When you go around proclaiming that the USSR is hell... it's still noise for nothing... But it will make them less happy when you go on to claim that it is the Jews who are the devils of the new hell! and that all goymes are damned. But everything is catching up however, be certain of it by the colossal propaganda... (and the mines of the Urals are not yet tired)... It's a little more complicated when you sell the fuse, the Jewish fuse. Finally, it is a little more expensive... That's all... But it will make them less happy when you go on to claim that it is the Jews who are the devils of the new hell! and that all goymes are damned. But everything is catching up however, be certain of it by the colossal propaganda... (and the mines of the Urals are not yet tired)... It's a little more complicated when you sell the fuse, the Jewish fuse. Finally, it is a little more expensive... That's all... But it will make them less happy when you go on to claim that it is the Jews who are the devils of the new hell! and that all goymes are damned. But everything is catching up however, be certain of it by the colossal propaganda... (and the mines of the Urals are not yet tired)... It's a little more complicated when you sell the fuse, the Jewish fuse. Finally, it is a little more expensive... That's all...

*****

"Peoples, take heed, for the indignation of the Lord will come upon all nations. His wrath upon all armies. They will die a bloody death, and those who have been slain will be thrown there, a horrible stench will rise from their bodies, and the

mountains will drip with blood. " ISAIAH

They know them, in the corners, the secrets of public opinion, the yanks who run the Universe, they have all the strings in their hands. Propaganda, gold, advertising, radio, press, "small envelopes", cinema. From Hollywood the Jewess to Moscow the yoke, same shop, same telephone, same agencies, same yokes listening, at the cash register, in business, and then, downstairs, crawling on the ground, the same mass, plastic, imbecile, l the Aryan expanse of narrow-minded brutes, divided credulous people, in front, behind, around, everywhere... The immensity of drunken meats, the rattling and swarming universal carpet for Jewish feet. Why bother?... How to stun, to hold in chains all this dismal meat?... in addition to speeches and alcohol? By the radio, the cinema! New gods are being made for them! And at the same time, if necessary, more new idols per month! more and more silly and more hollow! Mr. Fairbank, Mr. Powell, will you give the immense joy to the multitudes who adore you, to condescend to appear for a moment in person? in all your earth-shattering glory? fulfilling? a few eternal seconds? on a throne of solid gold? that fifty nations of the world can finally contemplate in the flesh of God!... It is no longer to the incredible artists, to the sublime geniuses that our timid prayers are addressed... our burning fervor... it is to the gods , to the gods of calves... to deign to appear in person for a moment? in all your earth-shattering glory? fulfilling? a few eternal seconds? on a throne of solid gold? that fifty nations of the world can finally contemplate in the flesh of God!... It is no longer to the incredible artists, to the sublime geniuses that our timid prayers are addressed... our burning fervor... it is to the gods , to the gods of calves... to deign to appear in person for a moment? in all your earth-shattering glory? fulfilling? a few eternal seconds? on a throne of solid gold? that fifty nations of the world can finally contemplate in the flesh of God!... It is no longer to the incredible artists, to the sublime geniuses that our timid prayers are addressed... our burning fervor... it is to the gods , to the gods of calves...

32

most powerful, the most real of all the gods... How are made, I ask you, the idols with which all the dreams of today's generations are peopled? How can the tiniest moron, the most repulsive duck, the most desperate wench, turn into gods?... goddesses?... collect more souls in one day than Jesus Christ in two thousand years? ... Advertisement ! What does all the modern crowd ask for? She asks to kneel in front of gold and in front of shit!... She has a taste for the false, the phony, the stuffed bullshit, like no crowd ever had in all the worst antiquities... Suddenly, we force-feed her, she's dying... And the more useless, the more insignificant is the idol chosen at the start, the more chances she has of triumphing in the hearts of the crowds... the better advertising clings to its nothingness , penetrates, entails all idolatry... The smoothest surfaces take paint best. We make a Joseph Stalin like a Jean Crawford, same process, same cheek, same swindle, same cheeky Jews on the ropes. Between Hollywood, Paris, New York and Moscow a continuous stuffing circuit. Charlie Chaplin also works, magnificently, for the cause, he is a great pioneer of Jewish Imperialism. It is a big secret. Long live the good Jewish whining! Long live the complaint that succeeds! Long live the immense lament! It softens all good hearts, it brings down with gold all the walls that present themselves. It makes all those stupid gummies even more crumbly, noodles, malleable, empapaoutables, anti-pregnant this, anti-pregnant that, "humanitarian" that's saying it all, international... in the meantime I know them well! let them be spun in boots! to the Jew! arranged with small shells! In the sentimental meltdown the Jew carves, cuts, gnaws, crumbles, poisons, prospers. The misfortunes of the poor exploited, the calico from Bader, the convict from Citroën, Chaplin as he can give a damn, he, full of billions... Long live the excellent whining! Long live modern times! Long live the good Soviets, yids! Nothing resists propaganda, the whole thing is to put enough gold in it... and the Jews have all the gold in the world... from the Ural Mountains to Alaska! from California to Persia! from the Klondike to the City! " Cited " ! "Lyonnais"! counters where these sugary Aryan losers hang on, moaning! the wicket of Lamentations! The army of supercharged rumps! The gold rush of soft loans! Crying feeds! Crying melts! To cry is the triumph of the Jews! Succeeds admirably! The world to us in tears! Twenty million well-trained martyrs is a force! The persecuted arise, haggard, pale, from the mists of time, centuries of torture... Here are the ghosts... remorse... hanging from our sides... Léon Blum,... Hayes,. .. Zuckor.... Litvinoff,... Levitan,... Brunschwig... Bernstein,... Bader.... Kerensky,... a hundred thousand Levy,... Chaplin the crucified... The Marx Brothers tragic... We have made too many martyrs... How to redeem all our crimes... We made them suffer too much... Quick, they have to take all our jobs, all our little pèze... Our ultimate little fifrelins. They must bleed us again... thoroughly... two... three... ten very atrocious wars. We have to cut down all the borders with our meat from Aryan cows... Too just now, the pogroms... for us, Name of God! Everything for us!... Too just that they organize. It is a blessing from Heaven! I would tattoo Golgotha, me, to be forgiven.

*****

33

Jehovah Created the Nations to Be Slain as Victims human beings in atonement for the sins of Israel.

I'm going up there, I'm going to see Popaul, my friend. I hadn't seen him for a while. He lives at the top of Montmartre. Popaul is an old Montmartrois, he didn't come from his Corrèze to discover the maquis. It was preconceived in the gardens of La Galette, one evening of July 14, it is the Montmartre "of its less than nine months". So it's a "pure de pure". I know he likes Bourgueil, so I bring him a little bottle, just to put him in a good mood. I want him to talk to me! He is a painter, that's all you need to know, at the corner of the impasse Girardon. He smears when it's not raining too much, when it's raining too much, it gets too dark in his studio. When the weather is fine, for example, it's much better outside, on the bench on Avenue Junot, watching the little birds, the little trees how they grow, how they hurry not to die, fuel oil. We take the sun like old piafs. Popol, he struggled to find the right condition, favorable for his face, between too much shade and too much sun. Popol is a cripple, a great cripple of the great war, he gave a whole leg for the defense of the Fatherland.

I tell him straight away that I have become an anti-Semite, and not just for fun, but fiercely to the core! phalanxes, in dense cohorts, in battalions to make them charge against Hitler, to retake the Saar, all by themselves!...

- Shit ! what he does to me... You'll have some cotton!... The Jews, they're all in power... They can't be absent like that!... You don't even think about it!. ..That would be anarchy!... The paddle!... They are indispensable people! Your crusade is not looking good!... You'll have a hard time getting them out... Youtres are like bedbugs... are ten thousand upstairs! A million in the whole crib... It's not worth insisting... You're going to have yourself laid down, unhappy man! You don't know where you put your fingers! Do you know "bad coffee"? You have a strong mind! the fender! you will wake up on a marble... One of these evenings you're going to get a strange peach tile when you come back from your dispensary... when it's raining along the houses... You can buy yourself a zinc bell, a bourguignotte... You're stupid to get agitated, old twisted!... It's the return of age that bothers you... It's the bicycle that is worth nothing to you! You're not made for speed... it makes you delirious... I told you to be careful... You're older, in truth... at forty-three... (he's jealous he can't ride a bike anymore because of his leg)... unless you want to do like Hitler... But you're not the Tyrolean type... You can't do troula-itou.. You will be whistled stiff as bullet! Do you want to do your little Barrès? your bolivar? your Joan of Arc? Annunzio? The Jews are mariole, my friend, you will be destroyed calamitous bloodworm Ferdinand! before you say phew!... They'll make you iron... not themselves!... but by your own racial brothers... I predict it! They have all the tricks up their sleeves!... They are one hundred percent fakirs... They have the whole Orient in their search... They pass... they promise... they chatter... they swallow everything... They never give anything back!... They go further, they leave with your dawn and your soul... You don't find yourself anymore!... It's the wandering Jews my friend, citizens of the world! Crooks of everything! master key ! They empty your excavations and your head, they strip you, they suck your blood... And you're going to redeem yourself in shreds! you rinse them, the same ones, again! . not themselves!... but by your own brothers of race... I predict it to you! They have all the tricks up their sleeves!... They are one hundred percent fakirs... They have the whole Orient in their search... They pass... they promise... they chatter... they swallow everything... They never give anything back!... They go further, they leave with your dawn and your soul... You don't find yourself anymore!... It's the wandering Jews my friend, citizens of the world! Crooks of everything! master key ! They empty your excavations and your head, they strip you, they suck your blood... And you're going to redeem yourself in shreds! you rinse them, the same ones, again! . not themselves!... but by your own brothers of race... I predict it to you! They have all the tricks up their sleeves!... They are one hundred percent fakirs... They have the whole Orient in their search... They pass... they promise... they chatter... they swallow everything... They never give anything back!... They go further, they leave with your dawn and your soul... You don't find yourself anymore!... It's the wandering Jews my friend, citizens of the world! Crooks of everything! master key ! They empty your excavations and your head, they strip you, they suck your blood... And you're going to redeem yourself in shreds! you rinse them, the same ones, again! They pass... they promise... they chatter... they swallow everything... They never return anything!... They go further, they leave with your dawn and your soul... You find more!... It's the wandering Jews my friend, citizens of the world! Crooks of everything! master key ! They empty your excavations and your head, they strip you, they suck your blood... And you're going to redeem yourself in shreds! you rinse them, the same ones, again! They pass... they promise... they chatter... they swallow everything... They never return anything!... They go further, they leave with your dawn and your soul... You find more!... It's the wandering Jews my friend, citizens of the world! Crooks of everything! master key ! They empty your excavations and your head, they strip you, they suck your blood... And you're going to redeem yourself in shreds! you rinse them, the same ones, again!

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In the Fine Arts, they have taken everything! all the primitives! folklore! jewish sauce! The critics, all Jews, Freemasons, sing in chorus, scream genius! It's normal, it's very regular in a sense: of all the Schools they are masters, tyrants, absolute owners, of all the Fine Arts in the world, especially in France. All the teachers, all the juries, the galleries, the exhibitions are now fully yours There's no need to react... If I had your big mouth, I'd play ball with them... In your place . I would become a Freemason... It's baptism for an Aryan! it would wash you a little bit... It would make you a little bit black... It would make you sin less... Whitewashing is needed more in France... it's "blackening" that is needed... The future belongs to the niggers!

– Ah! I jump, Popol! you piss me off! you terrify me! I thought I had found a friend! A true soldier for my cause! And you advise me to pass out... It was getting too serious to talk in the open air... Let's go home, what am I doing...

I continued my reasoning deep in his studio. After all, I didn't care to have the whole world against me in the anti-Semitic crusade. But I would have liked Popol! a war brother still counts... I still urge him a little... – How, you Popol,... are you deflating?... A real military medalist decorated on the battlefields... do you find that very regular?... Only for each Frenchman on the ground, punctured by enemy bullets from Flanders to Verdun, we are now being inundated by ten thousand youtres, all good cuckoos, racists to death, insatiable?... We should perhaps disguise ourselves, be tolerated as rugs ? to the sound of the Internationale?... in a vase of night... in a gramophone for silence?... – What about the proletarian? let him answer me...

– He will be a flower, as always. He is an alcoholic and a cuckold. Communism is just a word for meetings, a gigantic stavisquerie! Have you seen the red choirs now, they're giving us the "Chant du Départ" with an international twist... Does that mean anything to you? Tomorrow, all the mass graves in the world will sell "kosher" meat on all the favorite hymns... I can already hear "in the quarry" Blaoum offering Aryan, minced "à la carmagnole"! Any revolution turns as soon as it is started, in fantastic Topazerie. The great ancestors of 93 were all greedy who better than better... Crazy delirious to fill themselves well... They all rushed into the fund, "stuffarès" the heritage. And as long as it can, neither more nor less than Gens de Cour... Ideas, the most posh apostrophes, dashing doctrines, only serve, it has been proven, never, in the end, to tear away the slaves, dumbfounded in front of the barracks, chilled at having to choose among the violent distractions, open mouths... Who rides the most beautiful trick in the fair of the world, will take the most crowd in his boards. Everyone will enter... Everybody, may the trepe darken, rush! You don't all know, figures, how unhappy you are out there! The hinges pivot, the chains fall back. the turn is played... Hello naughty zoizeaux!... Here we go again for three,... four centuries,... ten, twenty... according to the strength of the partitions. One master as crap as another, all equally liars, cheats, hysterics and cowards... More or less sadistic.

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without stopping... The "bankers" of the Jewish Commune are on point... They beat the platform with great clamor... Prolos! my martyred brothers, proles of the hundred countries of the world... I am ready to free you! I feel it to the fullest! to give you all your comfort... I'm taking control a little, to better defend you, my children...! The security of your old age!... Come and have a look inside!... A good move!... Don't be afraid!... You hear someone slitting their throats behind the partition? It is an illusion of your senses! It's a sad fascist gossip! Come on ! Come on ! Let's hurry! Let's all hurry! If I have a big padlock in my hand, a formidable key... It's a gift I want to give you... It's the better to cherish you!... so that you come back to life... Come on! Lets go ! cinema!... we will give you some every day...

The international Jew, he will make us miss Schneider, Thiers, Wendel and GengisKhan... The Jew will be the worst of masters, more informed, more vexatious, more meticulous, I guarantee you, completely sterile, "monrovian" for the construction , unable to build anything except prisons (see Russia). Where he has no equal is to stun the Aryan, make him swallow the frogs, make him bounce as he wants from galley to slaughterhouse, no serious resistance, the western primate, stubborn, drunkard, jerk and cuckold. He is a slave born for Jews, all cooked up, bewildered from primary school by phrases and then by alcohol, later he is emasculated by compulsory education... To be sure that he won't get over it, that he'll never have music again, that he will never again sing his little non-Jewish personal tune, they are gouging out his soul, as one gouges out the eyes of pigeons, so that they won't run away. We finish it off with vinasse. What can he become at best?... Schupo, mobile guard, manoeuvre... Hound more or less. That is to say dog of Jews. No Aryan satrap lasts, can last. They brandish each other, to exalt their herds of buffaloes, only mediocre mystics, regional, narrow, defensive... You will see Hitler! The measure of the present world is the mystics of the world which it makes use of or disappears... Napoleon had understood this. The great secret of the jungle, of all jungles, the only truth of men, beasts and things. "To be conqueror or conquered", only dilemma, ultimate truth. All the rest is only imposture, falsifications, trickery, electioneering. Napoleon did everything possible, miracles, so that the whites would not cede Europe to the Negroes and the Asians. The Jews defeated him. Since Waterloo the die has been cast. Now, the blow is no longer the same, they are not with us, the Jews. We are the ones with them. Since the advent of the Rothschild Bank, the Jews everywhere have taken up the strong idea... They also piss on the words. To be everywhere, to sell everything, to hold everything, to destroy everything, and the white man first! will pass gold, precise orders will suffice for the mass of slaves. The Jews do not show their leaders... They weave their plot in the shadows... They show off only their puppets... their entertainers, their "stars"... Jewish passion, so unanimous, so boring, is the passion of an termite mound. In the progression of the vermin, all the obstacles are dilapidated, diluted, gradually stuck, down to the fibres... the final collapse, to the Jewish void.

*****

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[6] (pp. 61-70)

One can wonder why the newspapers of the right, of the left, of the center, never tell anything about the Jews? As Jews, I mean actively Jewish, attentively Jewish, specifically Jewish and racist?... When they decide to speak to us about the Jews, when they find themselves forced to do so, by chance, it is with infinite mittens, an unprecedented luxury of precautions, dazzling preambles, ten thousand flattery assholes: " This very great Jewish artist was kind enough to receive us... a beautiful Semitic ancestry... the great, brilliant and financial philanthropist of the noble race of the Rothschilds... the desperate idealism, the overwhelming flame, this black fire that one surprises in the eyes, on edge, in this young poet whom the messianic ardor consumes... "

All the circumlocutions, these canine servilities mean in direct terms: "Attention! my little journalist, my fragile little gossip columnist! Attention! these individuals that you see there in front of you, are so many Jews! So be careful! terribly... They belong to the most powerful race in the universe... of which you are by birth only one of the servants... They can for a word of mischief make you fired from your job... hunger without appeal..." "At what moment, Mr. Jew, would you like me to take off my pants? Will you be so kind as to put me on?..." Such is the meaning of these slicked-back preambles, the deep meaning of poignant vulgarities.

During the whole Stavisky affair, a watchword passed through all the newsrooms in the world which was to cost dear a day, a formal instruction... They called him Turkish, this little paranoid Jew, perfidious foreigner, metic, Oriental spy, Polish adventurer, hairdresser, heimatlos, dentist, paratrooper. mackerel. tabetic, terreneuvas... anything... to mislead, entertain... but never the proper word JEW... Yet it was only that... He had only been able to pull off all his tricks by the strength of Jewry... Like Loewenstein, like Barmat, like Mrs. Simpson, like Bigore, like all finance and the rest... Notice a little... on all similar occasions: the same brass band... Rodomontades from the right, confused bawling from the left, fair in the center, deflating everywhere... Pass nutmeg! It's admirably well done... If you risked a word against the great youtre invasion, the colonization of your buttocks, all of you, as much as you are newspapers!. Rotten brats! putinized ink included, up to the last characters, you would be strangled so cleanly that they would forget in eight days the very name that you arborâtes!... Up to the color of your pages... No more an advertisement! More a theatre! in five seconds it would be sliced, transmitted, washed... No more credit, no more permits, no papers, and then soon no more news, no more phone calls, emptiness!... The Jew can shy away from any business, bank, industry, theater or newspaper... Ford, who abhors them, had to shut his mouth, despite being very powerful. He was going to jump within a week!... The Jew waters or does not water!... with gold!... It grows or it doesn't grow

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more. If it no longer grows, the man dies. As brave, as stoic as one can imagine. O feigned campaigns! O furious compromise! O needy tartuferies! O grumbles of old minions!... Swear! Anathemize! Sacrate! Slay the Moon! Burst the communist bubbles! Vituperate in the trombones!... What does it matter? None ! All the absolute masters of the world are all absolutely yikes! From New York, Hollywood, Milan, Prague, Berlin, Moscow... it's the same... despite all appearances, the same friends, the same cosmic farce... So what is it? Can they fuck it that the barbarians in the gates are agitated, wiggling, shaking their chains and their shackles, like this, like that, for bullshit? It is necessary to go up the cannonballs of a few notches and then it is fed up... from time to time. Revolutions are for that... only for that... soak a little better the prison scrap metal, the pretty armored, melted bracelets; bullshit"...

But ! that they call themselves the youtres, a constitution? another one ? It's the same for us yanks who hold the big handle! The communism ? But he is perfectly in search! We will all become &laqno; commissioners" the day the Stock Exchanges will close... The Stock Exchanges, first of all it's fatigue... there are cracks... there are goymes who still use their freedoms... who sneak a little in pensions... This must definitely stop. We are going to eliminate these abuses!... All that will return to order, in the perfect herd... That is to say that the rentiers will eat with the other dogs the garbage... Gold, c it's us Jews! The Golden Jew! And then it's fed up!... The world is ours!... it's not for fries... To us youtres, the most ruminant paranoids in the universe! that we are voracious a thousand to one... The new thing is already ready... the "terrifying slot machine"!... Absolutely, entirely Jewish for the political-financial transition, with Mongol guards... All the edits are on point. It will suffice that we promulgate them... They are already circulating in the Lodges, we greatly admire them: "1° All the gold of the true democracies, of the true governments of the People, will henceforth be reserved for international exchanges; 2° Values in signs, in notes, will no longer be current abroad, these stamps will be reserved for the 'use of internal exchanges.'

This is what the Edicts of the Future say... and that means in plain French:

"From today, only Jews will be able to travel..." Alone or with their family, or even more kindly with their little natives, very sucking, very idolatrous, little intimate hostages of the bed, mischievous colonial. Gold becomes by this sleight of hand the entire property of Jews, politicians, Jewish commissars, Jewish executives, Jewish artists... You get it? The natives of this moment no longer receive for their labor anything but entirely fictitious wages... small salaries in "monkey money", "good points", absolutely dependent on the arbitration of the Jewish masters, this is the currency from the interior, the pale currency, called national, for the purchase of a kilo of bread, a coffin, a few marbles... The Jewish lords, always anxious, persecuted, will be in perpetual journey from one end of the planet to the other, their planet... They will stop more... From New York to Yokohama,

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from cousins to little Jewish brothers, from Trebizond to Kamtchatka, from instability to anguish, they went to sign agreements and markets...prepare for deportations, shipments of new slaves, reinforcements from Stakhanovites. Here is the "freedom" of which Dorgelès always speaks to us... 80,000 leagues under the Jews. The bullied natives, crushed by hunger, cold, war, madness, trained to the blood, to the marrow, to the root of the cucumber, will of course no longer have any right to the slightest passport! Of what?... of what?... They will march inside the borders, in their formidable kennels, each pack enclosed in its gates, they will march under the banners, in music, in groaning choirs, carrying the magic signs , effigies of their choristers, enormous sentences, Jewish slogans... I don't kill my imagination to predict events... I don't need to invent... Just go and see in Russia... how the beauty works Adventure... Our future is there, entirely, it shows itself to our eyes, it is not hidden at all... The Aryans are not curious... They stay at home, play belote, get brown on the dunes, drink, unite under the groves. While the Jews are on the move, they all go there to the Soviets, to get some seed... 98% of the tourists who come to the USSR each year, from all the countries in the world, are Jews... authors, bitches, art critics, comedians, all Jews... It is enough to go to realize in Russia... how it functions the beautiful Adventure... Our future is there, entirely, it shows itself with our glances, it does not hide at all... The Aryans are not curious... They stay at home, play belote, get brown on the dunes, drink, unite under the groves. While the Jews are on the move, they all go there to the Soviets, to get some seed... 98% of the tourists who come to the USSR each year, from all the countries in the world, are Jews... authors, bitches, art critics, comedians, all Jews... It is enough to go to realize in Russia... how it functions the beautiful Adventure... Our future is there, entirely, it shows itself with our glances, it does not hide at all... The Aryans are not curious... They stay at home, play belote, get brown on the dunes, drink, unite under the groves. While the Jews are on the move, they all go there to the Soviets, to get some seed... 98% of the tourists who come to the USSR each year, from all the countries in the world, are Jews... authors, bitches, art critics, comedians, all Jews... play belote, get brown on the dunes, drink, unite under the groves. While the Jews are on the move, they all go there to the Soviets, to get some seed... 98% of the tourists who come to the USSR each year, from all the countries in the world, are Jews... authors, bitches, art critics, comedians, all Jews... play belote, get brown on the dunes, drink, unite under the groves. While the Jews are on the move, they all go there to the Soviets, to get some seed... 98% of the tourists who come to the USSR each year, from all the countries in the world, are Jews... authors, bitches, art critics, comedians, all Jews...

They will sniff the Asian wind... smell the admirable revenge. Those who are not youtres, of the trip, are at least Freemasons, great democrats, great demagogues, our most zealous traitors to tell the truth, unbridled propagandists, fervent unifiers for Peace! all eyes closed, crooked, sold, they absorb everything, everything they are told... spineless, gluttonous, greedy, screwed like clacs...

As for the refractory little clan, the always complaining toads, they just croak what is necessary... They need it! If they didn't exist, these putrids, we would have to bring them in at some expense... They provoke, they justify certain measures, certain rigors... the death penalty "... Here is a very fitting edict. And I bet that before long, we'll see just the same stuck on our walls... I'm doing what is necessary. *****

I must say that with the Popol we all the same came to an agreement, we concluded: They are vampires! Phenomenal crap, have to send them back to Hitler! in Palestine! Poland ! They are doing us immense harm! We can no longer keep them here!... Especially since Popol, in parentheses, he had just suffered a severe failure, his masterpiece refused outright by the City, a magnificent landscape, for the Exhibition, all the Jews had flourishes, he alone remaining on the sand...

But to constitute my crusade, Popol, so brave, so valiant, that couldn't be enough all the same... I still had to recruit... So I warn him: - Wait for me ! I'll be right back... I'm just jumping to Bezon, I'm going to wake up my cousin, Gustin Sabayote... I'm going to rouse him from his torpor... I have to

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let him follow us... He is also single... He is therefore free in principle... He lives on the left of the town hall... One moment!...

When I surprised him, he was in his kitchen, Gustin, trying to open the peas... Gustin, he only has a little vice, he smokes a pipe all the time... I don't bother to preambles... I free him in five seconds... I break the piece... He replies:

– Ferdinand, you've become quite fanatical, anyway, always talk, but I'm warning you, I'm warning you, the Jews are very intelligent... it's only them in France who read books, who document themselves, who talk to each other, they are armed with knowledge, now occupy all the places, all the counts are in their hands, they know how to make themselves popular, they do good to the surplus, to the little people, the 40 hours, it's their blot, .. and then the holidays... You're going to get put in prison... You're probably going to get ripped off...

“Intelligent, what?... I protest. They are racist, they have all the gold, they have seized all the levers, they cling to all the controls... Is that their intelligence?... There's nothing to shine about!... They follow the train admirably, they eliminate, disgust, chase, track... everything that can compete, give them the slightest umbrage... It's their crusade against us, the crusade to the death... That's it their intelligence!... All the interesting jobs, they put them in excavations... monopolize, they expel dry or in a small fire everything that is not properly Jewish... filthy Jewish... jewish... . proyoupin... motherfucker of a Jew... It's the great technique of the cuckoo clock... To speak of the maximum, to illustrate things well, if Einstein were not Jewish, if Bergson weren't cut, if Proust were only Breton, if Freud didn't have the mark, we wouldn't talk about it much either one or the other... it wouldn't be at all those geniuses who raise the sunshine!... I can damn sure guarantee it... The slightest little fart from a Jew is called a boom! nowadays an admirable revelation, my friend, instantly! by the automatic effect of the Jewish armature of the world... millions of bells that shake... This poor puffball is mounted like a miracle! and at a gallop!... Whether it's a painting by Cézanne, Modi, Picasso and all the others... films by Monsieur Benhur, music by Tartinowsky, it immediately becomes an event... The enormous favorable, worldwide prejudice, precedes, preludes any Jewish intention... Jews, all the critics of the universe, all the circles... . all the information!... All the Jewish agencies in the world begin at the slightest whisper, at the slightest thrill of yurt production to spit the wrath of the Thunder... and Jewish racist spoken advertising echoes admirably... All the trumpets emerge from one end of the continents to the other, salute, intone, smash, buzz with the marvelous Hosanna! to the sublime sent from heaven! Another incomparable Jew of the palette! of the screen ! bow! politics ! infinitely more awesome! more renovator without question than all the geniuses of the past (obviously all Aryans). Epilepsy immediately takes hold of the grotesque goymes, they exult in chorus these cuckolds, rush violently into the chorus, with all the force of their bullshit, they would be killed all around!...

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the authentic... They enjoy it more than fake... They take bleach for spring water... and they find it much preferable! infinitely superior. They are punctuated with imposture. Obviously, as a result, woe, damn it! to the native who could be noticed by some original gift, by a little music of his own... a little breath of attempt! he will immediately become suspect, detested, completely despised by his brothers in race. It is the law of conquered countries that nothing should ever shake the torpor of the slave horde... Everything must fall back as soon as possible... into the ruminations of drunkards... They are the brothers of race, who are most strictly responsible for methodical obstruction, denigration, and suffocation. As soon as a native reveals himself...

Breed brothers are well trained... For the habitual alcoholic, spring water becomes poison. He hates her with all his soul... He doesn't want to see her on the table anymore... he wants bottled manure... in films, in books, in tirades, in love songs, in pissats ... He no longer understands anything except the Jew... everything that comes out of the Jewish sewer... He delights in it, he swoons over it... And nothing else! The Aryans, especially the French, no longer exist, no longer live, no longer breathe, except under the sign of envy, of mutual and total hatred, of absolute, fanatical, maximum slander, of frenzied gossip, more petty, of delirious gossip, of denigrating alienation, of low judgment lower still, boozer, more relentlessly vile and cowardly... Perfect slaves, enthusiastic agents provocateurs, sheep, fake tokens, janus of hotlines and bistros, admirably set up by the Jewish police, the committees of the great Jewish power... No longer any racial sense of mutual aid. No more common mysticism. The Jews swim adorably in these purine waters... This enormous permanent boorishness, this mutual betrayal of all against all, enchants and fills them... Colonization becomes butter. On this petty, absolute venality, of the French peasant background the Jews feast, exploit, agitate to delight... They fall in the middle of this preposterous carrion like the hyena on the advanced tripe... This rotten is their party , their providential element. They only triumph in full gangrene... No more racial sense of mutual aid. No more common mysticism. The Jews swim adorably in these purine waters... This enormous permanent boorishness, this mutual betrayal of all against all, enchants and fills them... Colonization becomes butter. On this petty, absolute venality, of the French peasant background the Jews feast, exploit, agitate to delight... They fall in the middle of this preposterous carrion like the hyena on the advanced tripe... This rotten is their party , their providential element. They only triumph in full gangrene... No more racial sense of mutual aid. No more common mysticism. The Jews swim adorably in these purine waters... This enormous permanent boorishness, this mutual betrayal of all against all, enchants and fills them... Colonization becomes butter. On this petty, absolute venality, of the French peasant background the Jews feast, exploit, agitate to delight... They fall in the middle of this preposterous carrion like the hyena on the advanced tripe... This rotten is their party , their providential element. They only triumph in full gangrene... On this petty, absolute venality, of the French peasant background the Jews feast, exploit, agitate to delight... They fall in the middle of this preposterous carrion like the hyena on the advanced tripe... This rotten is their party , their providential element. They only triumph in full gangrene... On this petty, absolute venality, of the French peasant background the Jews feast, exploit, agitate to delight... They fall in the middle of this preposterous carrion like the hyena on the advanced tripe... This rotten is their party , their providential element. They only triumph in full gangrene...

Diligent, undulating, obsequious, informed, oriental, viscous, secretive, always ready to spin, to force towards a greater rot... even more spongy, more intimate... They have it beautiful! They have it magnificent!... To corrupt widely... more intimately... They have never met on the roads of their triumph more servile minion hordes, better puffed up with reciprocal hatreds, bewildered by centuries of alcohol and middle polemics. Cutting, rummaging through this French peat, extracting all the juice, all the gold, the profit, the power, is a prince's game for the Jew!... The slave comes to him staggering, crushed, in irons ... Just place them under his feet. The white man, especially the Frenchman, hates everything that reminds him of his race... He doesn't want it at any price... Anything that doesn't have the Jewish stamp, that doesn't stink of the Jew, no longer has any taste, reality, flavor for the Aryan today. He needs, he demands his Jewish bluff, the Jewish ointment, the Jewish tinsel, the Jewish swindle, the Jewish imposture, the Jewish leveling, by all that he calls progress, Jewish progress... Everything that is simple, direct, like his own western nature, leads him to suspicion, hatred immediately... view... those ghosts that annoy him. The truth, the simplicity insult it... A total inversion of the aesthetic instincts... We managed by propaganda and publicity to make him now deny his own rhythm... no longer has any taste, reality or flavor for the Aryan today. He needs, he demands his Jewish bluff, the Jewish ointment, the Jewish tinsel, the Jewish swindle, the Jewish imposture, the Jewish leveling, by all that he calls progress, Jewish progress... Everything that is simple, direct, like his own western nature, leads him to suspicion, hatred immediately... view... those ghosts that annoy him. The truth, the simplicity insult it... A total inversion of the aesthetic instincts... We managed by propaganda and publicity to make him now deny his own rhythm... no longer has any taste, reality or flavor for the Aryan today. He needs, he demands his Jewish bluff, the Jewish ointment, the Jewish tinsel, the Jewish swindle, the Jewish imposture, the Jewish leveling, by all that he calls progress, Jewish progress... Everything that is simple, direct, like his own western nature, leads him to suspicion, hatred immediately... view... those ghosts that annoy him. The truth, the simplicity insult it... A total inversion of the aesthetic instincts... We managed by propaganda and publicity to make him now deny his own rhythm... Jewish ointment, Jewish tinsel, Jewish swindling, Jewish imposture, Jewish leveling, by all that he calls progress, Jewish progress... Anything simple, direct, like his own western nature , brings him to suspicion, hatred immediately... He rebels, he curls up, he does not stop until these evocations have been made to disappear from his sight... these ghosts that annoy him . The truth, the simplicity insult it... A total inversion of the aesthetic instincts... We managed by propaganda and publicity to make him now deny his own rhythm... Jewish ointment, Jewish tinsel, Jewish swindling,

Jewish imposture, Jewish leveling, by all that he calls progress, Jewish progress... Anything simple, direct, like his own western nature , brings him to suspicion, hatred immediately... He rebels, he curls up, he does not stop until these evoca

41

What he is now looking for the most in cinema, in books, music, painting, is the grimace, the artful, the convoluted, the Afro-Asian contortion. We must go even further down the capitular path... Suppose that I, little goyme, happen to me, on a certain day, to publish, God forbid! some small novel... to paint some slender portraits... to modulate some cantatas... to write a thin memoir, let's say on the "Bilboquet", its rules, or some in-depth study on the origin of warts... if I am only a simple native... not even a third-order Freemason... who will come to read me?... to listen to me?... Certainly not my brothers of race... They venerate too much their ignorance, their laziness, their pretentious stupidity... But certainly all the Jews who walk around... If my little or big turnip contains any genuine substance, emotive, lyrical, it will be promptly dissected, devoured by them... The Jews are rather badly gifted in the arts, biologically, from the very bottom of their nature. They try to make art, in Europe at least they succeed badly and sideways... They have to supply, they cheat, they loot constantly, they suck the neighbors the natives to support themselves... The Jews are disastrously lacking in direct, spontaneous emotion... They speak instead of feeling... They reason before feeling... Strictly speaking, they feel nothing... They boast... Like all Afro-Asians their nervous system, atavistically, is zinc and remains so, boorish, vulgar, and very common, to tell the truth, despite so many efforts, and enormous pretensions... Precocious and crude, but without echoes. They are condemned if they frolic in our climates, to expend themselves in grimaces, in tom-toms, in imitations, like the negroes and like all the monkeys... They feel nothing directly, and assimilate only a little of thing in depth... from where these infinite buggerings of flies, this multi-searching all in bluff, these didactic madnesses, these frantic analyses, all this pompous doctrinaire masturbation, instead of direct humanity, of true inspiration. They would be to be pitied, if they weren't so boring. They are more logs than fiddles, despite all this frenetic, universal dismantling, still trying to bluff us again, to show us just the opposite.

Like all great insensitive people, they rarely think of things, spontaneously, except blunders.

Let's get back to our topic, when the Jews have passed, I said, through my little works, that they will have taken, extracted everything that can benefit them, I will be completely unmarked, made up, resold, popularized under their feathers, all jewish in spite of myself under their names, the label, of a thousand other little international Jews. even more looters if possible, more and more cheeky, all more devious, more talented, more brilliant than each other... My account will be good for me personally, I will be completely forgotten, outrageous humiliation, suffocation, minimization by all available means, erasure, negation, extraction if possible... The complete Jewish bulipophagic process... Besides, it must be admitted... my brothers of race, on occasion, will show themselves, it is certain, a hundred thousand times more abject than any yurts ... They do not have, I believe, their equals, in the whole world, to puke in full gall on honest work. The Frenchman in particular stands out clearly from the Aryan ensemble, by his irremissible, inexpiable hatred for everything that, even from afar, reminds him of some lyricism. Then there is no more dark fury! the blood comes to his eyes... What bankruptcy... What stupidity! since the

42

caves... What a rout! What ignoble involution in inertia and in shit... If only they saw us the Cromagnons, those sublime engravers! what a shame ! Nothing is more odious nowadays, humanly more odious, more humiliating than to watch a modern Frenchman said to be literate, mockingly skin a text, a work... any beast next to it has a noble, pathetic and profoundly touching. But look at this bravado bell, so indecent in its smugness, obscene in its boastful boorishness, in its stubborn presumption, how overpowering it is... What else can you explain to him? answer him?... He knows everything!... He is incurable! If he got his bachelor's degree then he's not even approachable anymore. The peacock is no longer his cousin. Anything that even vaguely resembles some poetic intention, becomes a personal insult to him. Ah! but ! Oh but! who cares about him?... From this unhappy bachot he emerges a thousand times more savage, more irremediable than a kaffir... tradition of pirouettes, its pungent frivolity, all its cute contortions of stuffed ass only at the moment of flattering the Jew, his sly master. So he surrenders, he gives himself, he surpasses himself. All the honey that simmers at the bottom of its trouillotière carcass springs from its pen, all of a sudden... I came across the other day, in the course of an art magazine, on the words of a of these filth. It was painting, I quote more or less, from memory: .. From this unhappy bachot he emerges a thousand times wilder, more irremediable than a Kaffir... He does not find all his spirit, all his quips, his polishing brushes, his figaroism, all his tradition of pirouettes, his piquant frivolity , all her cute contortions of a clogged ass only when it comes to flattering the Jew, her finicky master. So he surrenders, he gives himself, he surpasses himself. All the honey that simmers at the bottom of its trouillotière carcass springs from its pen, all of a sudden... I came across the other day, in the course of an art magazine, on the words of a of these filth. It was painting, I quote more or less, from memory: .. From this unhappy bachot he emerges a thousand times wilder, more irremediable than a Kaffir... He does not find all his spirit, all his quips, his polishing brushes, his figaroism, all his tradition of pirouettes, his piquant frivolity , all her cute contortions of a clogged ass only when it comes to flattering the Jew, her finicky master. So he surrenders, he gives himself, he surpasses himself. All the honey that simmers at the bottom of its trouillotière carcass springs from its pen, all of a sudden... I came across the other day, in the course of an art magazine, on the words of a of these filth. It was painting, I quote more or less, from memory: his polishing brushes, his figaroism, all his tradition of pirouettes, his piquant frivolity, all his cute contortions of overstuffed ass only at the moment of flattering the Jew, his finicky master. So he surrenders, he gives himself, he surpasses himself. All the honey that simmers at the bottom of its trouillotière carcass springs from its pen, all of a sudden... I came across the other day, in the course of an art magazine, on the words of a of these filth. It was painting, I quote more or less, from memory: his polishing brushes, his figaroism, all his tradition of pirouettes, his piquant frivolity, all his cute

contortions of overstuffed ass only at the moment of flattering the Jew, his finicky master. So he surrenders, he gives himself, he surpasses himself. All the honey that simmers at the bottom of its trouillotière carcass springs from its pen, a

"Ah! how this lazy cried, a long time ago already, that in France at least, our most eminent critics no longer make any distinction in their assessments between artists [7] (pp. 71-80)

French people born on our soil, and our dear artists of foreign origin! (read the Jews) Paris owes them so much! The radiation of Paris! (Jewish). Since they adopted us, well we adopt them! They are also becoming French! (you speak! not in Verdun!) in the same way as the others! Artistic fraternity first! beyond all borders!.,. In the Fine Arts no more fatherland! One unanimous heart for all! No more racial prejudice! Cultural brotherhood! Who would think..., etc., etc. "

Of course ! Of course ! Durandin! When your Jewish masters, the next time, give you the order to pass them a proud tongue-tough in the hollow of the loaves... to chew the fondant well, not to hurt your stomach, surely you will still find other, more fiery outbursts if possible to communicate your intoxication... I can hear you from here... "But Jewish shit, my dear brothers, for a very French palate, but it's a taste like no other! A unheard-of nectar! real! an ascent to heaven! Ah! the sad sire! Ah! pity the poor cockroach! The one who sulks away! The one who holds back! The one who does not rush in! Devour the adorable turd! ... the exquisite, brilliant Jewish poop! But he's mentally retarded!... adopted! The one that we must always preciously, devoutly prefer to any other delight, to any celestial stay! "

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All the peoples of the Earth will be chained to the throne of Israel, following a war terrible world where three quarters of the population will be decimated. It will take three hundred donkeys to carry the keys to the Treasury

The Talmud.

But you are anti-Semitic my cow! It's naughty! It is a prejudice!

– I have nothing special against the Jews as Jews, I simply mean hoodlums like everyone else, bipeds in search of their soup... They don't bother me at all. A Jew may be worth a Breton, on the job, equally, an Auvergnat, a Franccanaque, a "child of Mary"... It's possible... But it's against Jewish racism that I stand revolt, how wicked I am, how boiling I am, that to the depths of my benouze!... I vociferate! I thunder! They are yelling at racists! They never stop! to the abominable pogroms! to secular persecutions! It's their gigantic alibi! It's the big pie! their cream! They will not withdraw me from the trunk that they had to look for the persecutions strangely! fuck cock! If I believe my own tiles! If they had done less zouaves all over the planet, if they had pissed people off less, they might not have gotten out of their way!... Those who hanged them a little, they must have reasons... We must have warned these yikes! To wear out, wear out a lot of patience... a pogrom doesn't come by itself!... It's a great success in its kind, a pogrom, an outbreak of something... It's not very humanly believable that the others they are all just motherfuckers... That would be so pretty...

It must be observed that in France no one has ever harmed them... They have prospered so much and better, they hold the upper hand... they stand!... A bunch of vociferous rats, intractable, implacable enemies... It's a phenomenal bogus this great martyr of the Jewish race... who are waved above the Christians... always jerks and gossips, enthusiastic cuckolds... two million martyrs in France alone, that's considerable strength! It's invincible, to tell the truth... Once we have climbed our bones well, once our good hearts have softened, once they are sure that they possess us down to the last leucoblasts, then they turn into despots, the worst arrogant cheeky things we've ever seen in history...

Napoleon always said: "Neutrality for me is the disarmament of others". The principle is excellent. The Jews can say all the same: "Communism for us is the enslavement of all the others"... In terms of victims, look at the Jews a little through the ages... through so many wars (such a small population) they did not come off too badly, the proof, they never suffered too much, they never had it so bad as those Aryan marbles. Crying saves you!... They don't fly much in battles. They rather follow that in the Stock Exchanges! Hecatombs? Hecatombs? Reports... Reports... Transfers... In Russia, the youtres, as soon as they ordered, they didn't put on many mittens to decimate the Aryans... It's by the millions for seventeen years that they have made the impure die... The Jews don't like to see bloodshed? Nails ! Not theirs of course!... But that of others, they show themselves to be most generous... as soon as

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the opportunity arises. For a Jew, remember...every non-Jew is just an animal! At most it can be amusing, useful, dangerous or picturesque... Never more...

The chosen race in our regions has not yet carried out mass executions, only a few small sporadic murders. But it won't be long. While waiting for the big show, we gently work the animal... Or else by jerks, by swings, according to well-prepared panics... animal panics, gets exhausted and stumbles in the arena... pukes, spits all its blood little by little... in the sawdust and in the Stock Exchange... The Jews lick each other, feast. When the animal is on its knees then the killing will come, and without possible resistance... How much did our Jews gain in the Popular Front coup?...out of the three...four devaluations?...It's incalculable! Find me a single minister who has lost a little money?... Never before has a sovereign people shown itself to be so generous, so grandiosely prodigal towards its emancipators!... Where have all these billions gone? Don't look!... Among the other youtres in Switzerland, Geneva, New York, London... in very pretty buildings... delicious values on sight, in distilleries... armaments...

Jews don't speculate on their own! don't fiddling all alone in the world!... They are not the only racketeers... This good music. Of course, rich Christians also take great care of themselves! They rush at top speed on all the disaster bonuses! Of course ! Of course!...Jackals like no other! Only there is a "hiccup"... The "indigenous" capitalists, their days are numbered! They clutter! They too are just animals! They shouldn't forget! The Jews never forget... On the eve of the feast, the white exploiters will die like pigs for the wedding... They fool themselves with vain illusions! They will not go to happiness! They are only hostages! The Jew as he advances closes all the gates behind him... No one will escape Fate. He keeps all the keys... He throws around a few bones to locate and rally the most voracious... He will make them his bosses, the traitors of the Grand Soir, as one preserves at La Villette a few animals, carefully trained, always the same, to lead the others, the horde, with the knife, the torrent of meat to butt, bleating, paddlers grazing bullshit.

The Jew is the plague of Humanity, the enemy of all nations.

Fourier.

I never answer letters. It ended up being known. I get less and less. It's not a genre that I took. No... No... It's just that I don't like letters once and for all and that I even hate them. I find it indiscreet that people write to me. I write to no one. The "recommended" is my phobia. I refuse them all en bloc, on principle. The others, the simple sendings, it is my concierge who tears them up, she only collects the stamps for her little boys... You will say to me: "Le pèze?" This one don't worry, it doesn't go up by itself. I have to go down and get him. It does not arrive by post. The rest is of course words. I don't get the "Argus" either, nor does Denoël. He

45

I think it's too expensive... And then the articles, you have to admit, those dealing with your fine works always remain so far from the question, so unusual, that it's not worth reading them, it's really wasted time, useless suffering.

The critics, especially in France, they are far too conceited to ever speak of anything but their magnificent selves. They never talk about the subject. First of all, they are way too dumb. They don't even know what it is. It is a spectacle of great cowardice to see them, these disgusting creatures, set in motion, offer themselves a very sly grip on your good health, take advantage of your poor work, to make themselves shine, to paon for the audience, camouflaged, socalled "critical"! The scumbags! It's a vice! They can enjoy only by puking, only by coming to the fox on your pages. I know some who are writers and then millionaires, they come out of their sections on purpose to spin a stale, every time I publish a book. It is the consolation of their lives... For the question of the missives, only once I made an exception in favor of Palestine. Following "Mea Culpa" so many letters arrived from Palestine in a few letters that my concierge was moved. She asked me what she should do. The Jews wrote to me en masse, from Tel Aviv and elsewhere. And then in a tone! in the furies of one of these rages! to consume the envelopes! They pushed each other to red-white, the fanatics! Ah! the little Passionists!... (There you go!) Ah! he loves them, the Soviets! That I can tell you! If the Christians loved their Pope with this frightening fervor, the Pope would explode, he could never resist... From this enormous crash of insults, thundering confusions, unbridled curses, from these anathema deliriums, there emerged in spite of everything, from this extreme cacophony, in rushed hatreds, a certain tonic refrain... a triumphant air of trumpet, very Jewish, well known... the call which unites them all, which makes them all drop together, which makes them rush body and soul to the quarry of the Universe, the air of "Sozial" as they call it... Their great alibi, their great hallali. All these "brave people" from Judea, all more or less anonymous, they vomit at me in German. Almost all of them ended, after a few pages of intensive aggressiveness, with some formula of this kind: "Du! Dümenkopf! wirst du nimmer doch Sozial denken?" ! (You idiot will you never think "sozial?")... "Sozial denken"! Think "sozial!" Here is the pharamineous dada, the great steed of the whole youtre race! of all the invasions, the yur devastations. Think "sozial!" this means in practice, in very crude terms: "To think Jewish! for the Jews! by the Jews, under the Jews!" Nothing else ! All the immense surplus of words, the humming socialistico-humanitarian-scientific verbiage, all the cosmic jumble of the Jewish despotic imperative is only the mirageous coating, the winded gibberish, the oriental sauce for these Aryan motherfuckers, the rotten terminological fricassee for the adulation of the "white faded", crawling, untouchable drunks, who don't give a damn about what you want, mystify themselves, guzzle themselves to death. Think "sozial!" this means in practice, in very crude terms: "To think Jewish! for the Jews! by the Jews, under the Jews!" Nothing else ! All the immense surplus of words, the humming socialistico-humanitarian-scientific verbiage, all the cosmic jumble of the Jewish despotic imperative is only the mirageous coating, the winded gibberish, the oriental sauce for these Aryan motherfuckers, the rotten terminological fricassee for the adulation of the "white faded", crawling, untouchable drunks, who don't give a damn about what you want, mystify themselves, guzzle themselves to death. Think "sozial!" this means in practice, in very crude terms: "To think Jewish! for the Jews! by the Jews, under the Jews!" Nothing else ! All the immense surplus of words, the humming socialistico-humanitarian-scientific verbiage, all the cosmic jumble of the Jewish despotic imperative is only the mirageous coating, the winded gibberish, the oriental sauce for these Aryan motherfuckers, the rotten terminological fricassee for the adulation of the "white faded", crawling, untouchable drunks, who don't give a damn about what you want, mystify themselves, guzzle themselves to death.

***** "Sozial denken" means, to be completely explicit, once the Revolution is done, well done, successful, the natives bled well, frozen, penned up, put in boots, an arrival on our bones, a new rush from the Orient of at least a million functionaries with the offspring, the houris, the beggars, the henchmen, the dervishes, their

46

leprosy, their trenches, the hashish sellers, the whole pockmarked caravanserai of the Asiatic hordes.

At the first triumphal clamours hailing "the emancipation of the masses", here they too startle, shake and rush into France, from everywhere, at the slightest rumour. At the signal that the "Beast is dead!"... They drop TelAviv... They fly away from Kamtchatka... They spring from Silesia... from the Bessarabian depths... from the borders of China, mud from the Ukraine, from the Insulins, from all the sewers of America... They swarm all the roads for rats. They rush in myriads... They descend...they fill up...Charles Martel hadn't seen anything! are watching us. It'll be such a scramble, a rush so fierce towards all the nougats that it will be "earth crushing" in the borders where they will pass. They will load so densely, so thickly, between Dunkirk and the Côte d'Azur that we will no longer see any paths or roads. I tell you, it is written, the mother of the Apostles is not dead. The world is still full of martyrs who are dying in the depths of the ergastulas of the desire to liberate us, and then to be "established" by the same godsend in functions that are not tiring, of one ministry or another, with a retirement . Never have we seen so many Apostles, as in our days, retired. The common front in this regard is that a little rehearsal, a little advance on the Jewish future... The Jewish future will take care of everything. He already takes care of everything... Popular arts among others, with a lot of solicitude... They are eminently part of the famous "Sozial" popular arts...

One evening, seized by anxiety, I decided to go down, to realize a little bit, in the cellar of the "Culture", to see that! What they were going to do with the popular arts, our social renovators, when they have "liberated" us... It won't be joking, I can already guarantee it, just look at their faces, their "passionate" ways... So I went down to this cellar, a little "Sorbonne for martyrs" again a little more Jewish than the other, rue de Navarin. I seem to vaticinate, to mess around with great pleasure, on "visions", to recognize more than Semites, every time I walk around, but faith of a wanker! I assure you ! that I had never seen so many Jews in such a small space, as in this cellar of Culture, confined, smoking, never seen so many civil servants, titular civil servants, student civil servants, so many Legions of Honor, so many Apostles piled up in a basement, vociferating in the volutes, I believe I was the only fanatical Aryan in that meeting. I was not leading off. And how messianic they were! Kinky! myopic! anathema! And frenzied with redemption! shit ! They had modern art up their ass... you should have seen how they fidgeted, how they jerked the poor chairs! And then in a hurry, treading water, to make the entire vault collapse, rats stuck in the bottom of the hold. being fumigated, that's what they represented. They were struggling in this den, they reminded me of Harlem and the "Divine Father"

47

A little black boy, like a priest, I remember him well, he was camped on the platform, he dominated the bacchanal, he shouted his hoarse above the opponents, I can still see his bananas, huge, larger than his head, his panards which passed the edge, he had everything of the Charlot, but then a sinister, life-saving and grumbling Charlot...

It was about painting, it was the subject of the controversy... "sozial" future of painting... And then on the tragic and even vengeful level, I swear it to you! It wasn't a matter of pranks... He was skimming the "Licorice"... struggling, tearing himself apart, to convince. a tetanic "crucified". "You're not mural!" he was screaming... "You're not mural! You don't understand anything at all! in the sense of the Revolutions! You're not mural! You're not mural! Comrades!". He was especially after someone named Wirbelbaum... the Wirbelbaum in a cloud, lost in the background of the smoke, a terrible whirlwind of gestures...

– You, Wirbelbaum, I'm going to tell you something... do you know what you are, Wirbelbaum?...

- Do it! For God Sake ! do it!... – You... you... are a painter of “chefalet!”...

Where was this Wirbelbaum? – Ah! Ah! Ah!... he was choking on hearing that... he was dying in the fit... He was moaning about it at Wirbelbaum, the words didn't come to him anymore... He was going mad... to hear such insults!. .. He was myopic Wirbelbaum, to make his eye sockets squirt so much he was looking for the opponent... He couldn't find the sense of the stage. He replied backwards on the other side... The Liquorice he continued, he set it on fire even more... He was in a hell of a trance...

"Wirbelbaum!" you are not mural!... you are backward! Wirbelbaum! you don't have the "sozial" instinct of the Revolution of the masses!... you won't really understand! never mind anything! Take ! che tell you Wirbelbaum you're a painter, tol! in the oak of Fragoûnard! Fragoûnard! for the boss! a chefalet painter! Pictorial propaganda! The Iteolochic Propagating Spawn! Wirbelbaum! you understand nothing! You don't understand her!... The Jewish cultural dignitaries, including Cassou the great Poet-Inspector-Damned-of-theEarth (100,000 francs per year) they still broke the plum behind the Office...

The Wirbelbaum, in fusion, he jerked in fury, his friends had swung him in the direction of the stage, but now they had to oppose each other, surround him in grips, in force... He knew himself more Wirbelbaum... he wanted to bounce off the boards... reduce the other "mural"... - Fragoûnard! Fragoûnard! he grumbled about it in the vapours. Ah! the liar!... Ah! the bastard!... He couldn't find his insults anymore... More than just bubbles came to him... foam... snippets...

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Considered as a nation, the Jews are par excellence the exploiters of the labor of other men.

Bakunin

But I tell him to this swollen, but me! I am not a reactionary! not for a hair! not a minute! not fascist! not conditional! They all take you for what we are not! Talmudists! complicated ones! triple bottoms like themselves! But not at all ! but I want to share! But I never asked for better! There ! my four sous on the table! Immediately again! and well earned! I tell you... in the forty-third year of his age!... Not at all extorted from the people. Never touched a penny that he won 120 times! All his studies while working, Ferdinand, from one boss to another... you know what that means... on the sly before the war... Not born into the bourgeoisie... never took an hour in high school... from the municipal to the hustler!... I know you well, little man!... And yay there, proud toddler!... He's been living since the age of twelve!... 22 bosses Sir, 22... They all kicked him out! ... He still has two or three!... and even four, to put it better... They fumble to throw him away... They look at him troubledly... Ferdinand is used to it. He was sold to the bosses body and soul before he was born, like all the poor... He always stole, ladies and gentlemen! redeemed! his life from day to day!...as he goes...pretends to be with the others...at the galley bench...Worked for the monkeys with one hand, with the other for his personal head... and very concerned that no one knows about it!... He hid in the puppies, he looked like he was going to fight, He's been working since the age of twelve!... 22 bosses Sir, 22... They all kicked him out!... He still has two or three!... and even four for better say... They fumble to swing him... They look at him uncertainly... Ferdinand is used to it. He was sold to the bosses body and soul before he was born, like all the poor... He always stole, ladies and gentlemen! redeemed! his life from day to day!...as he goes...pretends to be with the others...at the galley bench...Worked for the monkeys with one hand, with the other for his personal head... and very concerned that no one knows about it!... He hid in the puppies, he looked like he was going to fight, He's been working since the age of twelve!... 22 bosses Sir, 22... They all kicked him out!... He still has two or three!... and even four for better say... They fumble to swing him... They look at him uncertainly... Ferdinand is used to it. He was sold to the bosses body and soul before he was born, like all the poor... He always stole, ladies and gentlemen! redeemed! his life from day to day!...as he goes...pretends to be with the others...at the galley bench...Worked for the monkeys with one hand, with the other for his personal head... and very concerned that no one knows about it!... He hid in the puppies, he looked like he was going to fight, He still has two or three!... and even four, to put it better... They feel their way to balance him... They look at him troubledly... Ferdinand is used to it. He was sold to the bosses body and soul before he was born, like all the poor... He always stole, ladies and gentlemen! redeemed! his life from day to day!...as he goes...pretends to be with the others...at the galley bench...Worked for the monkeys with one hand, with the other for his personal head... and very concerned that no one knows about it!... He hid in the puppies, he looked like he was going to fight, He still has two or three!... and even four, to put it better...

They feel their way to balance him... They look at him troubledly... Ferdinand is used to it. He was sold to the bosses body and soul before he was born, like all the poor... He always stole, ladies and gentlemen! redeemed! his life from day to

[8] (pp. 81-90) to prepare for exams... I'm telling you as it is... Class brothers are mean as soon as you try to free yourself, they are worse than all the bosses, like jealousy, gall and cowardice... So the schoolbags... the medicine... and then the "Voyage" in addition, if you don't mind... not by paths, please, which passed through the Ministries. He always ransomed, snatched his life, Ferdinand, from one little respite to another... from one day to another... by a hundred thousand tricks... and miracles... He had to steal my life... and yet never free... Every morning they came to take it away from me... what's left of it... it's regular... When I hear sparrows settling in, talking about their incredible ordeals, of their frightful adventures!... Whore of God! I crimson!... Superficial dishes small crabs! If I wanted to talk... What papers I could show! What passports got me out of the Bath... Eh! well sir, I don't care!... I'm willing to put everything back on the table. If we share "absolutely". Not otherwise! For example! absolutely! I repeat and right away!... I feel like a communist without an atom of ulterior motive! "For do you see more communists every day! today more than yesterday and much less than tomorrow..." Do you know this mirliton? But then everyone! and together... I insist! without exception!... none! without reprieve!... not a false note! not a sigh in this great choir! I feel communist of all fibers! of all the bones! of all barbaque! and this is not the case for bezef! What papers I could show! What passports got me out of the Bath... Eh! well sir, I don't care!... I'm willing to put everything back on the table. If we share "absolutely". Not otherwise! For example! absolutely! I repeat and right away!... I feel like a communist without an atom of ulterior motive! "For do you see more communists every day! today more than yesterday and much less than tomorrow..." Do you know this mirliton? But then everyone! and together... I insist! without exception!... none! without reprieve!... not a false note! not a sigh in this great choir! I feel communist of all fibers! of all the bones! of all barbaque! and this is not the case for bezef! What papers I could show! What passports got me out of the Bath... Eh! well sir, I don't care!... I'm willing to put everything back on the table. If we share "absolutely". Not otherwise! For example! absolutely! I repeat and right away!... I feel like a communist without an atom of ulterior motive! "For do you see more communists every day! today more than yesterday and much less than tomorrow..." Do you know this mirliton? But then everyone! and together... I insist! without exception!... none! without reprieve!... not a false note! not a sigh in this great choir! I feel communist of all fibers! of all the bones! of all barbaque! and this is not the case for bezef! I don't care!... I'm willing to put everything back on the table. If we share "absolutely". Not otherwise! For example! absolutely! I repeat and right away!... I feel like a communist without an atom of ulterior motive! "For do you see more communists every day! today more than yesterday and much less than tomorrow..." Do you know this mirliton? But then

everyone! and together... I insist! without exception!... none! without reprieve!... not a false note! not a sigh in this great choir! I feel communist of all fibers! of all the bones! of all barbaque! and this is not the case for bezef! I don't care!... I'm

What is called communism in very advanced circles is the great nougat insurance, the most perfected parasitism of the ages... admirably guaranteed by the absolute serfdom of the world proletariat... the Universal

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Slaves... by the Bolshevik system, stuffed superfascist, international bolting, the biggest armored safe we will ever have designed, riveted, compartmentalized, welded to the blaze of our guts for the greater glory of Israel, defense supreme of eternal pillages, the tyrannical apotheosis of Semitic delusions!... Hello!... For that really!... no Moloch! I don't feel it!...to bring back to the throne other half-black madmen still a thousand times worse, more incapable, more chattering, a thousand times more criminal than those we have just lost! So many super-Béhanzins... Nails!... Why do it?... But if it is a question of true communism, of the sharing of all the goods and sorrows of the world in the strictest equality, then I m feel like no one... I [82] no longer need people to stimulate me, to bathe me... to catechise me. I'm ready, at attention... I'm the biggest sharer we'll ever know... and I'll give you my money, I don't need much to live. Communism as much as you like, but without the Jews, never with the Jews. Let's recall the events a bit: Monsieur Gide was still wondering, bewildered by reluctance, by sinuous scruples, by syntactical fragilities, whether or not to bugger the little Bedouin. that already for a long time the "Voyage" had been acting up... I didn't wait until I was 80 to discover social inequality. At 14, I was set once and for all. I had tasted the thing... I didn't need to know how to read. Allow me to note (since oblivion is fashionable) that before, since, during the "Journey" the writers on the left, in title, in court on the balcony, scratched themselves enormously, here, there down there, and then elsewhere, to give us in the "intimate communist" sense something even better... The intention was very laudable, perfectly honest... But where are the promised masterpieces?. .. Yet we got together well, here, there and then elsewhere. And how well we declaimed! Enormously pontificated! how we decided! judge! defended! sorry for the impious... On the ideological level. What a slaughter again! And then completely transported by apostolism, no longer holding it to make itself seen, too admirable to contemplate! how well we have tested our minds in front of millions of people! Amazed, exultant, haggard! at the edge of the stands! in front of all these radiant geniuses in power!

How well the criticism crept! how well she praised, preceded, blew, drummed these poor pieces of shit! the smallest wheezing fifrelins, the smallest sour vermicule falling from the ass of these prodigies... What a crash of drums to greet the fall to the paper of the most pitiful of these fake turds! What a flurry of trumpets! Where, however, are the promised masterpieces? I only see everywhere, farther away in these deserts of the Promise, only poor strewn with polishing brushes... all abused to the core... How stupid people have been yelling about it! With what cosmic sass did we push ourselves from pink to red! to white! to the "over-me" more than red!... Poor "me", of such a lukewarm nature...

It could be a great comic motive of the time, the spiritual discomfiture of the writers of the left (theater or novel)... [83] The soul did not follow, but not at all! doctrine, general tartuferie. In this respect, at least, the bankruptcy is total... The communist soul does not express itself anywhere... in any of these books trumpeted so loudly... for an excellent reason, it is that they emanate of individuals, so-called creators, all absolutely bourgeois in heart and intention, frenzied intimates of the ideal of the bourgeois. They only possess communist "doctrinal plating", gibberish, all coming from canards... Ah! it's not easy to bring music to command! the proof!

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Where are the promised masterpieces?... I asked the question, without malice, believe me. to the director of the State Editions, M. Orloff, in Leningrad. M. Orloff possesses the most agonizing, most frowning executioner's head that one can discover in this city where, however, patibulism is carried on enormously. With M. Orloff, M. Deibler, whom I know a little, would take on a benign, accommodating, cowardly air. "Where are the promised masterpieces?"

"They're coming!..." he replied, very engaging, in his own way... "They won't come, Monsieur Orloff, I don't think so, I don't think so anymore...

- Why, then ?... – Because your authors are not very communist... they are even quite bourgeois... and then something servile... With these words ended our interview... the only one.

If tomorrow, by supposition, the Fritzes were kings... If Hitler approached me with his little mustaches, I would groan just like today under the Jews... Exactly. But if Hitler said to me: "Ferdinand! It's the big divide! We share everything!" He would be my buddy! The Jews promised to share, they lied as always... Hitler doesn't lie to me like the Jews, he doesn't tell me I'm your brother, he tells me "rights are strength": That's clear , I know where I'm going to put my feet, I get bet, or I get out... With the Jews it's all syrup... all shenanigans

. . . insinuances... pranks... gossip, rubbed-rubbed... boomerang, harach-loucoums... We no longer know what we're taking in the mouth, whether it's a dick or a candle... It's is a Freemasonry in the other ... The Revolution? ... but I want! No more egalitarian than me!... Iama child of Robespierre for the question of being suspicious... So the privileges?... But [84] I have none! I don't care... Whoever hasn't given everything has given nothing at all... That's my absolute motto. "Débrouillard" died like "Credit!" Who wants to try? the bath then!... And all together! High positions in the same fleet! the same card at the baker! gig! Not one on foot, the other by bike. Not one at ten sous, the other at a thousand... You're going to tell me, these things are chatter, Ferdinand is still unblocking... That's good! It's good! ... I admit it. I'm going to give you details, minute!... quote facts, circumstances, I'm going to be brief, up-to-date and typical, I don't want to bore you, you will tell me if I lied...

The "Colombia" of the Transats approaching in Leningrad, the Soviet authorities put themselves, it is classic, on the expenses for the crew... It is a question in a few hours of carrying these "brothers of class", belated in the " "bourgeois" sleepiness at the temperature of enthusiasm... to the howl of "Soviets everywhere!" to make them admire during a few hours of stopover... all that the city and the Regime offer most revealing, most exciting for proletarian hearts. Bus...tour...return...churches...visits, revisits...rbus...indoctrination everywhere...speech...croquette finally... At the telephone factory, pilgrims are bewildered an avalanche of technical explanations... the "sound by the

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details " is part of the beautiful program... Visit finally over, meeting with the director.

Brief topo, allegro of the director, translation by the Jewish police interpreterguide... "You have seen, dear comrades, while browsing our workshops, that all our fellow workers work here in contentment, happiness, enthusiasm and safety, "There's joy! It's not overworked, fearful slaves here like in your factories in the West! Here, workers, engineers, foremen, directors, all their equals, all compete in the enthusiasm and perfect equality to the construction of world socialism... to the same work of international emancipation!... etc!... etc!... To conclude, comrades, if any of you wish ask the comrade director a question, he will be quite happy to answer you frankly."

A crew member: – So ask the comrade director how much does a worker in his factory earn on average? [85] – From 200 to 300 rubles per month (a pair of shoes costs 250 rubles, accommodation 90... etc., etc...)

Another fussy sailor: – And the comrade director, how much does he earn per month?... Little embarrassment... confabulation... whisperings between friend-director and friendinterpreter... The director (in Russian): - Come on! go ahead!... tell him 1,500 roubles... The interpreter:

– The director tells you that he earns 1,200 rubles a month. Then he continues, sputtering, enthusiastic and scrambling:

– But here, isn't it, comrades, the worker enjoys enormous advantages, I pointed out to you, the workers are not at all like at home, attached forever to the hardest jobs... they only serve for a while in menial jobs! they're going up! they're going up! they climb all the ladders! all worker comrades can also become directors! all!... The director (a little nervous):

– Tell them that I was a worker too... The interpreter (for the one-upmanship):

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– The director makes you say that he was once a sailor! like you!... No more sailor than butter in the ass... but 10,500 rubles a month and Member of the Party... No more workers' advantages than bleaks in the Sahara...

I have given you as an example this little cascade of deceptions, multiply this brief history by some three million cases, as many as members and cousins of the Party, and you will possess almost the truth about Russian things.

[86] Jehovah was always the God who loved the smell of burnt flesh (Exodus , 29,25) whose anger men had to perpetually appease by offering him blood. If they deprived him of human flesh, they sacrificed animals to him with such abundance that the Temple of Jerusalem became the most colossal butchery that ever existed.

(History of sacrifice, Ch. Picard)

War for the bourgeoisie was bad enough, but war now for the Jews! I can't find any adjectives that are really slimy enough, myriakilogrammic enough in shit, in verdant decay of carrion to represent to you what this means: A war for the joy of the Jews! It's really eating their gangrene, their worst buboes. I can't imagine a humiliation that's worse than getting killed for yikes, I can't think of anything more despicable, more infamous It's not the question of dying, it's the question of being the lowest, the most backward, the most stupid tadpole that we will have ever fucked under the skullcap of all the skies... What do you want? they Jews? from behind their socialistico-communist gibberish? Their demagogic carnival? All this infernal scam? what do they want? Let us go and get ourselves killed for them, let us take back their butts, let us go, us, to play puppets in front of Hitler's machine guns. Nothing else!... The Idea! as they call it, it's a phantasmagoria, a trick worse than the virginity of the Holy Virgin!... We always gutted ourselves under the impulse of the Jews for centuries and centuries for the virginity of the Holy Virgin , for the balls of the Pope! don't laugh!... The motives that the Jews are using to push us now to the rifle are just as bad, just as stupid. Communism, they don't think about it! they never thought of it... The Jews agitate, propagate, [87] attack in the name of their greatest Ideas, with the guts of goyme dogs... We should first ask the Jews, that they sacrifice them first their guts! personal... before ours are hired. Let them all die first, then we'll see... The Idea will perhaps germinate in Jewish carrion... That's how they prove themselves the martyrs, the real martyrs, not with words only. The Jews always commit to the future but only trust the present... It is in the present that they feast on our bullshit, our stupefaction, of our credulity in the form of an Einsteinian Universe, in billions of years of night. These messiahs, these holy apostles only make contact with the Spirit, enter into spiritual commerce with the help of the greatest comfort... Don't get confused! Comfort and the good life first! Basically. It is not, for the bottom

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of these Hitlerian or Judeo-Mongolian crusades than to snatch slaves between very rival shops... Whoever goes down non-Jewish, in the arena, will surely leave his barbaque there and will not come back up anything at all. It's a dog, it will have a bone, at best! and then it's fed up!... Never a round of profit!... Of the latest bourgeois madness 14-18. The youtres emerged as the big winners!... Poincaré, Viviani, Ribot, Millerand, Clemenceau: twisted shards, maniacal trebles, imbeciles. perverse puppets, rabble, venomous playthings, sold, sold to the Jews, salting of the Jews, old men drunk with the taste of death, drawn from rotten prostates, they lasted the Hecatomb, fanatics of the slaughterhouses, in the only hope, miraculous balm for these suspended corpses, that not a young person would return. We massacred half of France, the youngest, the most virile to nourish the lower marrow of four anatomical nests. It takes what it takes! This is glory! All great vampires last a hundred years! And the next one will be much better! much more implacable still, much more refined, more bloody, more torrential, it will be the end of the herd. The hatred of the Jews for the animals that we are is so virulent, of such contained, concentrated ardour, that we will be thrown, set ablaze, skinned, scattered in grapeshot, all alive, before having winced a bit. eye... much more implacable still, much more refined, more bloody, more torrential, it will be the end of the herd. The hatred of the Jews for the animals that we are is so virulent, of such contained, concentrated ardour, that we will be thrown, set ablaze, skinned, scattered in grapeshot, all alive, before having winced a bit. eye... much more implacable still, much more refined, more bloody, more torrential, it will be the end of the herd. The hatred of the Jews for the animals that we are is so virulent, of such contained, concentrated ardour, that we will be thrown, set ablaze, skinned, scattered in grapeshot, all alive, before having winced a bit. eye...

People always idolize shit, whether in music, in painting, in phrases, in war or on stage. Imposture is the goddess of crowds. If I was born a dictator (God forbid) funny things would happen. I know what the people need, it's not one Revolution, it's not ten Revolutions... [88] What they need is to be screwed for ten years in silence and water! that he disgorges all the excessive alcohol he has drunk since 93 and the words he has heard... As it is, it is irremediable! He is so stuffed with Masonic filth and vinasse, his guts are in such a state of Jewishness and cirrhosis that he is crumbling in rags in Jewish puppies at the push of the loudspeakers.

To my "bourgeois of the soil", during the time of my dictatorship, I would piss them off so much, I would make them learn such good manners, that I would make them miss the Commune, the Jesuits, the Incas. Ies Huns, suicide by wild beasts. But it is the "Past" our bourgeois! They mean almost nothing!... They have always been servants of the Jews, insecurity annihilates them, they are dying of fear in the depths of their pants. They don't even know where to put their fias anymore, they are so eager to betray, to sell themselves, the fear of "not betraying enough". They would have themselves painted as Abyssinians, they would have their nostrils twisted, so that the youtres would restore them, tolerate them a little longer, in the new order, not immediately deprive them of their "Hostelleries". They were born in treachery, they will die the same way... in the breakdown and in the negotiation... I always wonder which is more disgusting, a well flattened Jewish shit, or a French bourgeois standing upright.. … which is more infecting? I really can't decide.

The next war we can predict, it will be three borders at the same time, and badours! great ones! not little ones! huge ones! I wish you beautiful and perky! Children of Heroes! son of the Gauls... Germany! Spain! Italy! Those who know how to dig, will dig! Never so many trenches, so deep! so wide! so long! have swallowed up so many men at once! For the immense glory of Israel! for the Masonic Ideal! For the revenge of the little Jews expelled from the good places in Germany!... For the glory of the Stock Exchanges! Values and Trade! and Bidoches! For the fresh and joyous arrival of millions of plundering yatters who

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we still miss and who are consumed with impatience in the destitution of the ghettos!...

French from the ground, a bit of heart! Don't fall asleep like that!... Are you degenerate? Remember in this sublime moment, admirably awaited, your chivalrous traditions! a Frenchman has never blinked for a second for the defense of the Fatherland! Like father, like son! Warrior blood! The Frenchman [89] recovers only under the bullets! What a soldier! Bayard! Murat! The Tower of Auvergne! Here! Come on, then, to the Germanic hordes! Horrible massacres of Jews! The International! Yes! but only with the Russians! attention! the Judeo-Mongols. No mistakes! don't keep Yubelkrantz waiting!... Lisok, Lévy, Rosenbaum, they're brooding, those unfortunate people over there, they're suffering, they're bored... while you're still fussing in front of the door of the mass grave... So what are you cowards waiting for? 5 You can leave in peace... you will be replaced in your jobs promptly, in your homes and your beds... ten times rather than one! -I! they are as eager to take you to the Gare de l'Est as Lizok Lévy, Yubelkrantz... to propel you to the breaker... The woman is a born traitor bitch... as much as the Jew is a born crook... The woman, especially the French, loves kinky, Abyssinians, they have amazing cocks for you! They are so vicious, so cuddly. They understand women so well! Ah! this East!... it is something else!... cuckolds of the trenches, poor "kosher" meat! you will not be forgotten! you will be pumped, caught, swallowed, melted into the Jewish Victory... We will arrange you in pensions for willing widows!... We will feast with your bones... We will go in coaches to admire the places where you were rung for the Jews, we will go guincher on your graves, your beloved wives and the yurts. They'll come to your mass graves, puke on Sundays, we'll bugger each other over your martyrdom. It will be like that the survival, the memory! To your health buddy!... Allied England? my balls! Another famous swing! They will go slow, I assure you this time... even more soft than the next... They risk much more... A year to mobilize... another year to instruct... We will be already all maggots when the first Oxford inverts land in Flanders... the pretty Home-Fleet of Whiskey will spread over the expectant Atlantic... The Jews are kings of the City let's never forget...one of their supreme citadels with Wall Street and Moscow...We won't destroy much...be sure...Expectation! a lot of expectation, a formidable "wait and see"... They will do nothing this time the Jews, the Jewish House of Lords, the magnates of England with haste... They will send a few planes... a few generals have lunch at Maurois... and discuss the Channel Tunnel a little bit at the Ministry...

[90] But for the cosmic corrida, it is we who will provide the damage... it is our country, well appointed, the most rotten, the most decadent in Europe... which must pay all the costs.. . Costs! I mean our meat... our gizzards... our goymes! after all our money...

In the Balkans, the English Jews will donate the gold of the Bank (ours, that is to say by transfer), the Intelligence Service and the Czechs. The valiant scumbags of Oxford, delicate fanatics, will give themselves in manifestos and conferences... They will campaign in Trafalgar for the enlistment of the unemployed... But Bidart to us, Brodin from Puy-deDôme, Lacassagne, Vandenput and Kersuzon will nicely provide the pipes and all the carotids of the Stand... With them, no flan! no grimaces. It will be pinned on

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first day! They won't pretend! They won't go to conferences. They will give each other the peritoneum, the bayonet, I assure you, the grenade, the mediastinum... For them it's all the rifle, not a single possible discussion... in all the expanse of the fatherland... What about the Jew then? Our frenzied liberators?... where will they be?... our frenzied, our excellent youtres?... our rats?... our adorable naturalized?...

Huh?... "too old, too long, too fat, too myopic, too bigle, panards, systolic, albuminous"... The wind of glory passes by, they are too fragile and too precious... deferred in short... at most... stretcher-bearers... at worst: in the General Staff... "something" in a genre that inspects the cellars a lot... interpreters also necessarily... officers near the general to give butchery orders... a lot of telephone calls... It takes what it takes!... Gutman he said to me the other day:

– You will see, Ferdinand! You don't know the francecailles! A bugle call and presto! they fly away! They all rush like a single man!... There they are, chests showing! superb! standing before the enemy... That's right... It's Bidasse... It's definitely Lidoire and Vandenput, and another ten million like that who are going to die for the youtre! (out of three men killed in the war, two are peasants, only 1/1,300th is Jewish...). Gutman is right. A fortnight of radio, press, and fanfare will be enough for them all to rush, very vinassy, to be chopped up in the roadblocks, it's childish as a mechanism... Bidasse, Guignon, Miraillé, La Goumette, [9] (pp. 91-100) and two million others on top of that, you're overwhelmed already! you're in place in the big salt tub... You shouldn't shake yourself up all the same... it would hurt a lot of people too much...

Me, if I were a dictator (decidedly it's a mania), I would pass another law... another one and it's the last... Can you imagine that I know the right way to appease, to clarify , without delay the international atmosphere... Here is the end of my rescript: in three simple small articles...

1° All Jews on this territory, from the declaration of war, from 17 to 60 years old, half, quarter Jews, crossbred, married to Jewesses, Freemasons will be assigned, only, to combat infantry units, and front line. No infirmity, reason for adjournment, reform will be valid for a Jew or assimilated. This kind of soldier will never be able to exceed, in any case, the rank of captain. 2°· No other assignment may be given to a Jew, neither doctor, nor stretcher-bearer, nor artilleryman, nor sapper, nor scribe, nor aviator, nor political commissioner, nor moth guard, nor driver, nor camouflager, nor orderly, by virtue of this principle that any withdrawal, even twenty meters from the line of fire, becomes for the Jew an admirable hideout, an immediate opportunity to put his relations into action, the first step towards the guitounes, the rue de Grenelle, the Lodges, and the draft....

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3°· Any violation of these articles will be punished by the death penalty, without discussion or murmuring.

So all Jews on the front line! no nonsense, no suffocation! and for the duration of the war! No privilege allowed. The Jewish wounded will never be evacuated from the zone of the armies... They will die if necessary in the zone of the armies... They will fertilize the zone of the armies. You must always be wary of Jews, even when they are dead.

Since the Soviets, it's war! Well... so be it!... if the adventure turns out badly, as it is all in all quite probable, our Jews must not run out of steam. They have to pay all the damage, they have to taste everything. They must become hostages, immediately, already, they must guarantee with their skins this human emancipation of which they always speak. We'll see how it pans out. [92] Since the Jews are our masters, since they represent the Salt of the Earth, the Light of the World, Since it is they who must make the earth habitable, then it is time to begin! All on the front line! For God Sake! and no failures! This is the moment they treat us, I want to see them illuminate me, on the front line! Make the front lines habitable. Here is this marvelous spectacle: the most beautiful Jewish theater that one will have ever seen. It will be beautiful to death! Not cave for a sign, I promise to raise the curtain personally, to stay there as long as necessary to finally see all the youtres jump the parapet, to admire this splendid sport, to finally see Mr. Blum drop his bib and then the "Benda Brothers" go on the attack, despising us outright, with a thousand bayonets up their ass!

"Wars andrevolutions arethe harvest of the Jewish people"

Disraeli, PrimeMinister of'England.

Total population of France: 40 million. Jews and crossbreds: 2 million.

Total wealth of France: 1,000 billion including 750 to the Jews.

French mobilized: 8,400,000 Jews mobilized: 45,000. French killed: 1,750,000 (1 in 5). Jews killed: 1,350 (1 in 33). Statement by the Chief Rabbi. To be completely precise, let us examine these figures again During the war 14-18: 1,350 killed Jews, French Jews – In proportion this represents one Jew for 1,300 killed

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French... (1,750,000 dead)... This 1/1,300th of killed, I find, myself, that it represents quite exactly the full extent of Jewish rights on our territory. I would gladly give them 1/1,300th of the exercise rights, in each profession to the Jews, thus for example in medicine where we are approximately 30,000 French practitioners, well! we would accept 23 fellow Jews. Delighted! here is a very normal figure... absolutely sufficient!... But since there must be only in France, established Jewish doctors, about 8,000... so isn't it...

[94] "The whole world is ruled by 300 Israelites that I know."

Rathenau, Jew, German Minister.

"One Jew per slot"... such is my motto for the coming war. A Jew and then a Freemason... In short, the real interested parties, the claimants to the benefits, the participants in power... First of all, it will not be difficult to serve everyone, there will be no shortage of slots from Dunkirk to the Bay of Biscay. In this respect child's play! to entertain the whole coterie! there will be some for all the lodges, for the most discreet synagogues. My little decree, you see, of mobilizing the Jew, of his very strict assignment, is no small joke... Well understood, well accepted, well assimilated by our yanks, it can give results which you will greatly appreciate. surprised, completely precious, providential, avoiding us, what a miracle, to participate, in all meat, in the grandest mass grave of the ages... which only asks to function... which already screams in front of our doors... More certain participation (which the Jews make more and more certain with their "crime-pushing" ways...)

You would see as if by magic passing a breath, what am I saying? invincible, fiery gusts, veritable cyclones of peaceful protests! across all borders! it was raining doves!... Miraculous reconciliations, between enemies of "the mists of time" would not be long in sketching out... We would seek each other to kiss each other... from one end of the universe to the other... As soon as 'the [95] cook is assured that he himself, in person, goes through his court-bouillon, he no longer strikes any matches...

"My dear lobster! my dear lobster!" he exclaims, he becomes tender... He has understood... Judeo-Tartar alliances, imperious, absolutely indispensable to our happiness... to the emancipation of our minds. When the Jews will realize, absolutely realize, that it is their guts that are involved in making the battle sausage, they will immediately discover that it is very dreadful the "Alliances"... When it is necessary to pay for its barbaque, the worst frenetic "Risketout" question themselves... I assure you that they will find original compromises to solve the Social Question... The Jews are at ease in the deflate. We would let them fall dry,

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sides of the Universe, by the effect of a magic sigh, we would suddenly discover that they are really impossible, unbreathable, these Asians! defecatory... stercophages, mongoloids to puke, that we should never have let such dreadful people distract us... that we must kick them out quickly, that they all go to be squared behind the Walls... Kyrgyz, Manchus , Papaoutjans! We would no longer talk among the Apostles in the cellars of culture except about Scandinavia... Norwegian miracles... We would study in detail the collaboration of the classes... the ententophile unions. We would no longer speak at all of interventions, or crusades, or very firm attitudes... There would be appeasements everywhere! We would invite all the fascists to come to Garches to drink... to play bagpipes around, to crown the "rosières"... It will happen as it is, idyllic... the day when the Jews, all the Jews, will be intimately convinced, absolutely persuaded, that i! They will all go up in line, and them first, and them first from the moment of the first trigger, from the first salvo and then in line until the last, until the end of the last Jew, pipe included.

[96] Since it is a question of conquests and colonies... I must confess for my part that I make no difference between the Jewish army of the Blum and the Boche army of the Falkenhayn... For me it's kif in the similar The Blum army in larval legions and slimy formations...the other coarser, but not more furiously rapacious same humiliation, same constraint, same debasement, same shame... No difference I declare, between Jewish peace and German peace And I prefer German peace anytime. Monsieur Blum, for the performance of his services, can certainly count on as many French traitors and spies, entirely devoted to his orders as he would have devoted to de Moltke if he had come this far. On this side no illusion, the same Jews, the same Freemasons. Mr. Blum already has a nice body of yurt militants of about two million men, all perfectly disciplined, all perfectly determined to bring us to attention, we poor natives... to consign us to our kennels, waiting for us stew in "Anti-Nazi Crusade" sauce. It would be necessary to foresee that before a year, in the way that they give themselves there, our Jewish services to the prompt naturalizations, these numbers will have doubled... All the French "with a vengeance" escaped from all the ghettos: Vlachs , foreigners turned back by all the "emigrations" of the world (especially the USA) arrive here rotten with defects, "unfit for service" most of them, but marvelously rapacious, steeped in demands, arrogant, unbridled, [97] claimants, in pursuit, in fierce conquest, to the implacable aggression of all jobs, of the most reserved functions (see War and Navy) and then above all, hateful, of a demonic, Talmudic rage, against everything that could, even for a moment differ, prevent them from surprising, seizing, evading, immediately monopolizing all professions, all places. Who can rise up against this pack?... We, the pre-war French?... The young masonry puffs see nothing. Precarious survivors of 14, whom the Jews obviously judge to be at the lowest level, of a worn-out alcoholic race, screwed up, enormously despicable, detestable to death?... of the most reserved functions (see War and Navy) and then above all, hateful, with a demonic, Talmudic rage, against everything that could, even for a moment differ, prevent them from surprising, seizing, evading, monopolizing immediately all professions, all positions. Who can rise up against this pack?... We, the pre-war French?... The young masonry puffs see nothing. Precarious survivors of 14, whom the Jews obviously judge to be at the lowest level, of a worn-out alcoholic race, screwed up, enormously despicable, detestable to death?... of the most reserved functions (see War and Navy) and then above all, hateful, with a demonic, Talmudic rage, against everything that could, even for a moment differ, prevent them from surprising, seizing, evading, monopolizing immediately all professions, all positions. Who can rise up against this pack?... We, the pre-war French?... The young masonry puffs see nothing. Precarious survivors of 14, whom the Jews obviously judge to be at the lowest level, of a worn-out alcoholic race, screwed up, enormously despicable, detestable to death?... all seats. Who can rise up against this pack?... We, the pre-war French?... The young masonry puffs see nothing. Precarious survivors of 14, whom the Jews obviously judge to be at the lowest level, of a worn-out alcoholic race, screwed up, enormously despicable, detestable to death?... all seats. Who can rise up against this pack?... We, the pre-war French?... The young masonry puffs see nothing. Precarious survivors of 14, whom the Jews obviously judge to be at the lowest level, of a worn-out alcoholic race, screwed up, enormously despicable, detestable to death?...

Mr. Blum for his camp, for the progression of his horde in conquered country, for the submission of the native, can count on our caïds... our native freemasons, they are entirely devoted to him, intriguing, greedy and fat. M. Blum holds in his Jewish hands all their means of existence, their decorations,

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their whole raison d'être... They frame, subdue, train the native in the best interests of the master, of the Jewish conqueror... Nothing to say... This is how things happen in Africa. Only on this side, in France we are the bicots... Same arrogance, same injustice, same right of the Jewish lord. Ultimately, the Blum occupation, more hypocritical, more larval, is certainly more degrading than the Falkenhayn occupation would have been for us. Force destroys less, degrades, rots less in its path than intrigue and cunning. Colonization "from within" is the most infamous, the most despicable of colonizations. Colonization by Jewish Negrites represents the height of all moral and physical abjection. Falkenhayn, another advantage, did not ask the Belgians to go and fight for the Germans. The Germans wage their wars themselves.

[98] "The gifts of the Jews are pestilences." Tridon, Member of the Commune of Paris.

By the circumstances of life, I found myself for four years holding a small job at the SDN, technical secretary to a Julf, one of the potentates of the House. It was a strange job, quite funny, it must be said, but for the dullness, not very generous. Nothing to enjoy at all. I was part of the "little Executive"... of the "auxiliaries", people of little The notable places, the real nougats are occupied, there as elsewhere, by the Jews and the "masons"... Never confuse . Ecole Normale, Oxford, Polytechnique, the beautiful Inspectors of Finance, etc. Finally the Aristocracy... I wanted nothing, don't worry. I'm not jealous. It's not my style to succeed It was only an adventure... I'm not made to embed myself... But then, in fact from experience, I can say that it served me well! I don't regret my time in Geneva. I saw the great Jews working behind the scenes of the Universe, preparing the big fricots... They all come there sooner or later. It is a place of their devotions. It is the greatest Synagogue in the greatest "Mason" Temple in the universe... It is the lair of the most vicious combinations of the Age and of the Future... From the General Secretary to 'to the last journalist you have to have a funny smell to flourish in the sheet... You have to "be" what! you have to be!... Anything that isn't Yidd or "mascaille" is pretty quickly eliminated... I had no big illusions... It was watching that interested me. My administrative career lasted four [99] years. It's a lease. I saw them coming the big Jews! The greatest "masons" on the planet, the most restless, the most arrogant, the most hardened, the most annoying, the most megalophrasing, the most silent, the most opulent, the saddest, from Bergson and Curie Madame, to the British Ben Simons, and Ras Tafaris... You have to understand how that confuses all this little world... I had also learned the Chineseness of the Commissions... the dialectic of compromises. Just don't be too curious, be fond of "origins"... it's not well seen in the house. Not too specific please! When I became inquisitor, my big boss Yubelblat, he sent me on a trip, on a study mission... I thus made the continents in search of the truth. If travel forms middle age. I can say that I am well made. Crack! how I have travelled! to instruct me, to increase all my knowledge! As I have seen in hospitals. compared laboratories! looked at the accounts of the nurseries... seen how the beautiful barracks work! rushed to the slaughterhouses! admired so much

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of crematoria! appraised so many dairies, "models" and less clean ones... from the Gold Coast to Chicago! and Berg-op-Zoom in Cuba! I should be from the Institute, so much so that I was taught things, techniques and even worse... extraordinarily boring!... As I have seen scholars, bearded. bald, sluggish, double-eyed... How they taught me... from Harley Street to San Francisco! from Leyden, dreaming of tulips, to Port-Lagos in Nigeria... boiling with yellow fever. I should be almost perfect in ten thousand scientific subjects, of which I don't know a single word... I really am one of the most arrogant morons on the planet. Such is life...

They took incredible pains to rouse me from my torpor. As I have traveled through masters, and admired them all to the end, from every angle, for hours and hours... each one... fine ventropetic clinicians, hygienists so convinced, so transforming, renovating. so promising that just their saliva was already worth the price of diamonds. Iridescent mirages! I've seen cardiologists! crazy endocrines! sympathetic physiopaths, and even strangers, more peremptory, confusionists, superspicious ones than the others... Seed of God!... what torment! what a brood! All the neo-Diafoirus of Modern Progress have made an appointment to stun my poor [100] eraser... Ah! what I could have endured!... vertiginous, imperious, vindictive or honeyed... always getting caught, getting loose... getting lost a little, getting twisted... getting "come" on a glaviot, on a lentil peel, on a penile hair, a stupidity, a word, hours more for a comma, in every way... How talkative, childish and fat, narrow, groaning, boudah, worried, megalomaniac, persecuting, a humble researcher!... The worst pooch, a Sacha, is is still only a pale violet next to a crosseyed 'microphone', a pipette-tweezer... It is in the "Congresses" that one finds them, in the brawls of vanity, for the "Advancements of Science". You have to hear those screams then! have to watch those cow tricks! They are ready for all crimes to see their blaze in glowing review. Yubelblat, my dear boss, it was his very special job, his international work to maintain ongoing relations with all the great tenors of Discovery... Me, my little personal afur, it consisted in helping him in the course of his politics, the approach, the diplomacy, the art of pleasing everyone, the mother, the father, the cousins... A very dry task if ever there was one! Through these ungrateful bilious people... failures turn sour, into instant ruptures, into considerable, diplomatic vexations... Scientists are pitiless in terms of vanity... It's not, believe me, a little break that to reassure a scientist, to firmly anchor him in the cassis, that he is indeed the first in the world, all excellent, that we don't know two like him... in terms of intuition... overwhelming syntheses... probity, etc... It requires a lot of gestures and words and continuous writing and irreproachable tricks , and then an unbelievable nerve, and then a memory of canards, absolutely extraordinary, impeccable, extra-lucid. It's a matter of life or death, remembering what you said. The slightest blunder is the rocker!... on any occasion and by all valid or probable means, scientists must be jubilant from one end of the States to the other, from the 48, not a second of respite to pass them ointments, send them little "reminders", little fafiots, free transport, a thousand "expenses", ten thousand confidences, a hundred thousand compliments and then rounds of Commissions, so that they could come to Geneva in person, make their way... spread out and talk again. Bernard Léon de Paris, this fat medical rabbi, perfectly pretentious and useless was

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[10] (pp. 101-110)

[101] one of the great devotees of the Princess of Lake Geneva... We knew him well, he was an unbridled racist (almost as active as Widal, and that's no trifle!). He did a lot for the invasion of the yurt doctors, their triumph in town. His whole career consisted, apparently, in naturalizing 5 to 6 Jewish doctors a week... all obviously racists... They owe him a real statue, these alluvialists, in the courtyard of the Golden Faculty! on a calf. Yubelblat, we have to do him justice, he was much less stupid than the others, like the great scientists, much less petty, less stupid, less pretentious. He understood the trick perfectly. He wasn't delirious in his mirror. But it was erratic like all real foreskins, it didn't stay in place. He had to draw which he claims. His favorite kind of trip was to China... He was going to be an activist there... He went all the way to Japan... He prepared the little things... And then he came home quickly... He crossed the whole planet again for a telegram, for a sigh... for nothing at all... He went back through Russia... He went back through Russia more... He came back through the South. He caught up with his telegram... his sigh... his nothing at all. And then flop! I saw him spring up! one morning ! I found it all at once! behind his desk... He would emerge from the other side of the world... like that... He would play the wandering Jew, the whimsical man, the unusual... To think, he would stop, behind his binoculars, he oscillated forward... very gently on his tatanes... real boats... like the pendulum... This weird way of standing in life, of disappearing in the runaways and then coming back "draught" ... it didn't look like much. One might well have thought: this agitation is grotesque, it is only dispersion, the "not serious", thoughtlessness. This man works the bell. And yet it was the essential must not be misled. Take a look at the ants how they move about... not all of them really do something, they don't all carry a trifle... they go, they pass... it's their job! ...they come back...they hurry...they dawdle...they don't seem to know anymore...they wander haphazardly...and yet they swarm...they have their idea ... that's the main thing: swarming.

As the Jews there are not many in proportion on earth (15 million), they must show themselves everywhere, they must be everywhere at the same time, they spread the good words through the Jewish colonies and the powerful of Jewry, and the little ones

[102] Jews too, occult or avowed, apparent or camouflaged, but all very racist... the fervor must be maintained, the excellent understanding, the ardent currents of the work, the passion for the coming triumph, with "figures ", with the help of "figures", statistics, still other balance sheets, other partial victories, Congresses ad infinitum, for Peace, for Peace always, for progress, light, the advancement of science and men... Like this and always and all the time, from Washington to China, from Genoa to Greece, to Canada... It's a tremendous journey. Not a minute's interruption. .. Promise... Promise... flatter by tracing... awaken zeal or hatred... which linger, weaken, get lost... Relaunch! What a tom-tom... Keep an eye ! Browse... Browse! Disappear... He was tireless in his pirouettes, quick escapes, trapezes... furtive colloquies, mysteries and sleight of hand

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international, the frail Yubelblat. Always in "Coleanism", in aerobatics, vertigo, between two cables, two telegrams, two reminders. Always in the process of reviving a little further. in the mess, to unearth still other plots, other more confusing ropes, to hang up everything in riddles, and then to defend all these intrigues by small well hidden trapdoors. he wouldn't stop... We saw him... we saw him more... He reminded me of London Zoo, this extravagant animal the ornithorynx that is so clever, the incredible false beaver, that has an enormous beak of bird, that also does not stop to dive, to pry, to return... It disappeared unpredictably the same Yubelblat...

Plaf!... he sinks, plunges into the Indies... we don't see him anymore! ! Another time it's in China... in the Balkans in the shadows of the world... in the depths... He came back to the surface all flabbergasted, blinking... He was dressed all black like the ornithorynx ... and then also the enormous siskin, exactly as funny... horned as the platypus... He was infinitely flexible... extraordinary to look at, but at the ends of his fists, for example, he also had claws... and venomous ones like the platypus... You had to have known him for a really long time for him to show them to you... trust was not his weak point... Anyway, I'm not going to to pretend that I was bored under his orders... That would be lying... As he was, I liked him... I even had affection for him... Of course, he didn't forget to fix me up from time to time... to give me a taste of cow food... But I didn't mind either... There was a little underhanded struggle. One day he [103] had left me like that for too long in Geneva, in stupid jobs, pickling files, I plotted my way, a little play, it was harmless enough " the Church". She was a failure, that's a fact... but still there was substance... I made her read at Yubelblat. He who showed himself to be the most eclectic of yatters in life, never offended by anything at all, that one blow all the same, he bit himself... He made a little grimace... He never forgot... He told me about it several times. I had pinched the only rope that was forbidden, which was not good for toys. He clearly understood. He didn't need a drawing...

As for the Aryans, it's distress... If we don't announce things to them with neon”. . . What is the animal, I ask you, these days more stupid?... thicker than an Aryan? What Zoo would take it back?... Paradise? ...

[104] Yubelblat, it is a fact, he tried to make me perfectly "technical", diplomatic and sagacious, and then also, and above all, that I become a perfect administrator at his side. He liked me, despite my little flaws... my pig-headed... He wanted me to learn all the handling of strings, the big pins of the trade, the fine tricks, which make the Assemblies work. , the Commissions, 2nd, 3rd, 4th, 5th... the heads of pipes and the Finances... especially the Finances...

– Me, you see, Ferdinand, I am still Secretary, only Secretary, through all circumstances, you will only see me as Secretary... This is the title I have chosen, never more.. . Never ! ... Secretary ! no more ! that's all!... I'm coming, I don't say a word... The discussion has begun... Fine... I'm going to sit down very quietly, very calmly, to the President's left... Note, I don't disturb anyone... The debates open and unfold... dull or passionate... burlesque or morose... It doesn't matter! ... In any case, no continuity in the ideas... it's impossible... no coherence... This is the great absolute rule of all

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assemblies of the world... of any gathering of men... as soon as they open their mouths they say nothing but nonsense... Here is the gravity of the "number"... the crushing law of the Pendulums of Stupidity... It drags everything down, it tires everything, it crushes everything... It's not a question of fighting... All these fools around from the table, chatting, snorting, vituperating... forgetting at the first words what they had to say... They listen to each other and that's enough for them... They say, basically, anything. .. They flirt, they fidget... They are there to exert themselves... The more they mess up, the more they get excited, the more they get lost... It's very easy in our case with all languages... They misunderstand each other... They misunderstand themselves... They get confused in misunderstandings... They judge each other... They mistrust each other... end to end of the carpet... These effects lose them...They get carried away... Here they are frankly wandering... They no longer hold back... They have come to talk... and from afar, most often... delegates to gossip... from Venezuela ... from Arabia... from New Zembla... from Petites Comores... Microphones are not made for dogs... The older the delegates get, the more they babble... The old age is all feminine, it gets out of whack, it gets out of hand, it gets out of hand all in gossip... they outdo each other with their lungs... They set up real Asthma competitions... The poor initial question no longer exists ... so jostled by these absurdities, torn, calamitous, it has lost all contours... We no longer even know what has become of it... We are looking for it... we cannot find it... The debates are continue all the same and all the more vehement...There is a terrible traffic jam for speaking, they all want to keep it all the time... But the entangled delegates who cannot place a traitorous word in their speech... they find the president infamous... It's bad the retracted harangues... They are chomping at the bit in the corner of their chairs, they are preparing the worst nasty things... infernal vitriols to assail those who keep the whole spittoon like that... At the end of an hour or so of this frantic chattering, delegates "all against all", they don't even know where they are anymore... they have lost the North and the South, the sense of the door, the wide and the across. ..But the entangled delegates who can't manage to place a traitorous word in their speech...they find the president infamous...It's bad to hear harangues...They are chomping at the bit in the corner of their chairs, they are preparing the worst bullshit... infernal vitriol to assail those who keep the whole spittoon like that... After about an hour of this frantic chattering, delegates "all against all", they even no longer know where they find themselves...they have lost the North and the South, the sense of the door, the wide and the across...But the entangled delegates who can't manage to place a traitorous word in their speech...they find the president infamous...It's bad to hear harangues...They are chomping at the bit in the corner of their chairs, they are preparing the worst bullshit... infernal vitriol to assail those who keep the whole spittoon like that... After about an hour of this frantic chattering, delegates "all against all", they even no longer know where they find themselves...they have lost the North and the South, the sense of the door, the wide and the across...After about an hour of this frantic chattering, delegates "all against all", they even know where they are ... they have lost the North and the South, the sense of the door, the wide and the cross...After about an hour of this frantic chattering, delegates "all against all", they even know where they are ... they have lost the North and the South, the sense of the door, the wide and the cross...

They don't even know what's going on anymore... The question is in the apples... in the mouths, the hiccups... in the fumes... Panting, exhausted, ravaged, on the balls, they collapse... A kind of anguish grips them... they no longer know how to end... They cling to the table... The way I hear how they exhale hoarsely, how they stop, how they groan in jerks... to the snatches of insults that come... I say to myself: "Yubelblat, it's time!..." The exact moment to intervene... Don't be a second late! not a second early! ... It's got to be exactly right, just starting at the "optimum"... So it's won! I deliver them! I liberate them all at once... I organize, Ferdinand, the "ecstasy"... It's after that that they suffocate after an hour of pankration... of this ebullition of words. .. I know [106] the way to make them cum...I give all this chatter a kind of "ejaculation"...I still have it there in my pocket...in a little piece of paper.. When they can't take it anymore, when they are choking with confusion, when they beg the atmosphere... I take out my little text for them... I unfold my little piece of paper, a "Resolution"... remember this name... a "Resolution". I slip it to the president, the worst dotard of the gang, the most desperate of all... He throws himself on it, he grabs it, it's written... He just has to read, mumble... It's done!... Hearing this very clear text, which comes to them by a miracle, which closes their debates so well, the others then come to heel... they surrender they "adopt"!... in a joy! ... ejaculating to who better than better... Orgasm! They relax...they

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forgive... they caress each other... they delight... they congratulate each other... Vanity does the rest... They convince themselves immediately... that they ended up enjoying themselves... I I don't stay there myself, I disappear, I fade away... I leave them to their effusions. I said nothing... I didn't do anything... I always have them in my pocket... my "resolutions" all the time during the debates... Every morning, I prepare them... These are my little prescriptions... I write them at home, in the very calm, in my bed, before going down to find them in this mess... I know very well what I want, so I know what 'they all need, the delegates of the fifty peoples... What they are made to "adopt"... I'm here for that, Ferdinand, and it's "written"... all written, my friend... black on white in advance... in my pocket... with my little pencil... It's the decision, it's order at the end of chaos. I bring them their deliverance, Ferdinand. All these little wordy, haggard, diffuse, crumpled, they rise to pleasure all together. I had their coitus in my pocket... since morning... And I said nothing, Ferdinand!... not said a word about it. I slipped the little piece of paper, at the right moment, that's all!... It's not very difficult... It wasn't me who shone... It wasn't me who spoke. .. I have hardly been seen... I never talk, Ferdinand... I never shine, Ferdinand... Never... Remember this... never shine... never, Ferdinand ... it is order at the end of chaos. I bring them their deliverance, Ferdinand. All these little wordy, haggard, diffuse, crumpled, they rise to pleasure all together. I had their coitus in my pocket... since morning... And I said nothing, Ferdinand!... not said a word about it. I slipped the little piece of paper, at the right moment, that's all!... It's not very difficult... It wasn't me who shone... It wasn't me who spoke. .. I have hardly been seen... I never talk, Ferdinand... I never shine, Ferdinand... Never... Remember this... never shine... never, Ferdinand ... it is order at the end of chaos. I bring them their deliverance, Ferdinand. All these little wordy, haggard, diffuse, crumpled, they rise to pleasure all together. I had their coitus in my pocket... since morning... And I said nothing, Ferdinand!... not said a word about it. I slipped the little piece of paper, at the right moment, that's all!... It's not very difficult... It wasn't me who shone... It wasn't me who spoke. .. I have hardly been seen... I never talk, Ferdinand... I never shine, Ferdinand... Never... Remember this... never shine... never, Ferdinand ... . since morning... And I haven't said anything, Ferdinand!... not said a word about it. I slipped the little piece of paper, at the right moment, that's all!... It's not very difficult... It wasn't me who shone... It wasn't me who spoke. .. I have hardly been seen... I never talk, Ferdinand... I never shine, Ferdinand... Never... Remember this... never shine... never, Ferdinand ... . since morning... And I haven't said anything, Ferdinand!... not said a word about it. I slipped the little piece of paper, at the right moment, that's all!... It's not very difficult... It wasn't me who shone... It wasn't me who spoke. .. I have hardly been seen... I never talk, Ferdinand... I never shine, Ferdinand... Never... Remember this... never shine... never, Ferdinand ...

He then made a great effort, myopic, to look at me under his windows... to see a little bit, if I really understood things. "We have to go 'unnoticed', Ferdinand, like Jesuits, Jesuits of the modern world... you understand me, 'unnoticed'... or everything will go wrong... really very badly, Ferdinand... "

[107] Consider Ferdinand well, never forget, when you examine, that you closely observe the appearance of our commissions, that the keener is the intelligence of each of the participants in particular, the more grotesque, the more abominable will be their great mess once they are reunited... And note, moreover, that I have brought them here to examine a problem that is clearly their specialty... which does not necessarily reserve any kind of surprise for them... that they know by heart, thoroughly, on every angle... in all aspects... The more eminent they will be, the more fantastic will be their blunders... the more proliferating, preposterous their bullshit... their mistakes, the more unheard-of their absurdities... The higher you will find them, considered separately in the realm of the mind, of creation,more inept they will become once they are all together... Here is a rule, a theorem, a law of the mind... The mind does not like gatherings.

We had, in this regard at the League, a truly illustrious example, cataclysmic to put it better... the famous Commission, known as the "Intellectual Currents" for the "Expansion of Culture and of the Great Ideological Forces". Nothing but geniuses! hand-picked... proven geniuses, people who upset the History of Science and the Arts, all the techniques of the Spirit... "Look, however, Ferdinand, listen to these illustrious I just need to whisper to them, to offer them the slightest premise of a dilemma... that I shake before their genius the most [108] vague dialectical trifle... the smallest practical rattle so that they start messing around. .. that I ask them their opinion on the withdrawal of a single umlaut, the disjunction of a parenthesis... the project of buying a pencil... so that they start wandering! ... so that they get bogged down desperately, divert themselves, collapse... You must have understood, Ferdinand, carefully observed the phases of this

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messy digression... I must assign you for some time to the debates of this commission, to its "Report". By saying similar things one always seems to make fun... aiming for the effect... But the debates were not the worst... The worst of the tests for the great "Cephalo-Bills" , it was time to say goodbye... so, it was sorrow and pain... They no longer knew what to do... How to get back in motion, yet they had to return home to decide to get back on the train. When they had shaken their fads, jerked, jerked their ossicles, like that, for eight, ten sessions, leaked their last lecithins, they found more understanding, they no longer knew how to turn around, how to get out of colloquies, how to solve this puzzle. .. end the last session... start again and then come back a little later... They didn't know how to do it anymore...

On the question of the calendar, we really had to help them... To know the date that they would return... that they supposed to return... they would have vomited blood... so much they confused the days ... they strangled themselves in the dates... so as not to be able to choose... It was already a hospital just to watch them struggle in the convulsions... They always put great shame on the secretaries of service and then inevitably pity!... They had lost all color, these frail damned ones, and passed from the white to the diaphanous, quivering with loss of snags, after so many meetings of false fights... A terrible cruelty! ... in the apnea they still moaned, all the sphincters in disarray, meticulous agony... they cursed themselves on the Agenda... on the little dates in asterisks... [109] The "Resolution" saved them there again, on the edge of the grave... They tore off the little piece of paper... They were given the timetables... they no longer knew where they were going... They remembered more of their origins, we had to put them back in the station... They found their exuberance only once on the platform... in front of the big locomotives... Hatchou! Hatchou!... Another frenzy seized them... They had fun like little madmen at all the echoes... They imitated the big machines, the departures and the tinny trumpets... the whistles... your! ... Your! ... your! ... Your! ... Psiii!

Pssiii! ... Seeing "technique" like that again, they regained their confidence... They made friends!... friends!... very kindly to the travellers, to everyone around, with their little handcuffs... They were installed in the carriage... well wedged, far from the doors, they were recommended to the people who were in the corridor... And then the convoy started off... they went back to their work...

[110] When I wrote him his long letters, his delicate procedures, he often made me start over, Yubelblat It was his way... three times... ten times... fifteen times in a row... twenty times, one fine day... It was his sadism... about the same trifle, of circumlocutory finesse.

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Insignificance! Ferdinand! I recommended it to you! ... Insignificance! ... like the Jesuits... The Jesuits were his hobbies, his litany... Always enveloped, we will be feared... you will be feared... you will be believed... because things will be assumed ... we can imagine... Prestige is doubt... Do that for me, Ferdinand. I wish you well... do not engage me... Information... precise... for us... vague information for the others... Do you understand me?..." .. Do this for me, Ferdinand. I wish you well... do not engage me... Information... precise... for us... vague information for the others... Do you understand me?..." .. Do this for me, Ferdinand. I wish you well... do not engage me... Information... precise... for us... vague information for the others... Do you understand me?..."

[11] (pp. 111-120) [111] In the end he had trained me, I wrote, super-smart, amphigouric like a sub-Proust, quarter-Giraudoux, para-Claudel... I went away circumlocuting, I wrote in Jewish, in beautiful spirit of our fashionable days... dialecticulating... elliptical, fragilely reticent, inert, high school, molded, elegant like all beautiful shit, the Francongourt academies and the fistures of the Annales...

It definitely embarrassed me. This application, this debauchery, it hampered my development... I was overwhelmed one morning, I slammed the door... After so many years, when I reflect, it is in a stroke of heroism that I have left the SDN I sacrificed myself, basically, I am a martyr in my way... I lost a very nice post, for the violence and the frankness of the Belles-Lettres Françaises... They owe me compensation. .. I feel it coming.

[112] The world is a limited company, a trust in which the Jews own all the shares. Subsidiary Trust: The Communist”...The Royalist”...The Democratic” and possibly The Fascist”.

We should not all the same conclude that serving Yubelblat did not teach certain things... I am talking about the scientific field, applied medicine, sanitary arts and hygiene... He knew, the little sagouin , all the secrets of the trade. He was unequaled in tracking down the tricks, in penetrating the little mists in the recesses of a report. He didn't like nonsense, we had to bring him numbers... harshly positive... controllable substance, not small guesses... adventurous conjectures, elegant subterfuges... fine miraginous stories... .it didn't pass,... numbers first! and above all! ... The sources ! . . . budget revenue! ... before expenses!... Facts based on "cash"... in dollars...

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– Wait, would you like... I'm writing down... How much?... How much did you tell me?... I don't remember the figures very well...

The mists, the games of phrases... it was for the others... he only collected the dough... The Future, the words of hope only inspired him with suspicion... He did not appreciate the sweet promises of the Future... The Future was for others, for him it was the present... ponderable "The sentences, the imagination, let's give everything to the delegates, Ferdinand , to politicians, to artists. We, understand me, Ferdinand, if we are not very serious, then it is better to disappear... we will never succeed... Sentences for the Commissions... For we Ferdinand, the Caisse!” It was really reasonable, in practice, I quickly understood... this admirable principle... I learned to read budgets... never to take their word for it. ..to immediately go and look deep into the accounts... redo all the subtractions... Force the man who is always a crook, the best, the purest, the dupe, good with his fog before he envelops you in the same way. ..

Now, let's take an example, when people come to tell you that the USSR is the country of health, of nosocomial marvels, of desperate emulations, that prodigious progress marks all the steps of medicine... Cut everything short this verbiage, just ask what they spend in a hospital, average, of this famous USSR, for the current, the incidental, ask the number of beds? the salaries of the staff... fed... not fed... the price of fricot... Don't be misled... the price of linen, bulk medicines, laundry... chloroform, light, the maintenance of the bazaar... the thousand trifles of the bearing... It will be much less tiring and it will reveal to you at once a thousand details, that a thousand speeches, a thousand articles are precisely intended to evade your looks... Redo these additions a little, consider everything in rubles, carrots, margarine, shoes, anthracite... You will have some sacred surprises... Here is serious! solid!... All the rest is nothing but frolics, bubbles... shenanigans and pump movements... Gidism, hypotheses, poetry...

In a few months, it is a matter of knocking down the statistics, of presenting to the whole world something very suitable... respectable... of not remaining to fumble around absurd projects... justify as long as possible the money invested... A big blow of free and happy” in short! to deal with what is most urgent, to empty the hospitals which are always overcrowded, in calamitous times, the asylums... to relieve the overburdened relief funds"... to obtain, and this is the trick, the policy, the the quickest results... the clearest transformations and all at very little cost... And that everyone notices to repeat around: leaders are great guys! we have aces in power”. In a broke country, waste is fatal "... Suddenly, we think to present to the whole world something very decent... respectable... not to stay to fumble around preposterous projects... justify as much as possible the money invested... A great shot of freedom and happiness » in short! to deal with what is most urgent, to empty the hospitals which are always overcrowded, in calamitous times, the asylums... to relieve the overburdened relief funds"... to obtain, and this is the trick, the policy, the the quickest results... the clearest transformations and all at very little cost... And that everyone notices to repeat around: leaders are big guys! we have aces in power”. In a broke country, waste is fatal "... Suddenly, we think to present to the whole world something very decent... respectable... not to stay to fumble around preposterous projects... justify as much as possible the money invested... A great shot of freedom and happiness » in short! to deal with what is most urgent, to empty the hospitals which are always overcrowded, in calamitous times, the asylums... to relieve the overburdened relief funds"... to obtain, and this is the trick, the policy, the the quickest results... the clearest transformations and all at very little cost... And that everyone notices to repeat around: leaders are great guys! we have aces in power”. In a broke country, waste is fatal "... Suddenly, we think not to keep fiddling around with preposterous projects... justifying the money invested as much as possible... A great stroke of freedom and happiness” in short! to deal with what is most urgent, to empty the hospitals which are always overcrowded, in calamitous times, the asylums... to relieve the overburdened relief funds"... to obtain, and this is the trick, the policy, the the quickest results... the clearest transformations and all at very little cost... And that everyone notices to repeat around: leaders are big guys! we have aces in power”. In a broke country, waste is fatal "... Suddenly, we think not to keep fiddling around with preposterous projects... justifying the money invested as much as possible... A great stroke of freedom and happiness” in short! to deal with what is most urgent, to empty the hospitals which are always overcrowded, in calamitous times, the asylums... to relieve the overburdened relief funds"... to obtain, and this is the trick, the policy, the the quickest results... the clearest transformations and all at very little cost... And that everyone

notices to repeat around: leaders are great guys! we have aces in power”. In a broke country, waste is fatal "... Suddenly, we think to strip the hospitals which are always overcrowded, in calamitous times, the asylums... to relieve the deplet

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at the venereals, it's the classic condé... It's the Arlésienne" of Hygiene... we're sure to have a full house... We go up the whole theater all at once...

This is the ABC of the job of Reconstructor of the People”. Immediately: War on the pox... Here is at least a campaign almost devoid of hazards... Whoever engages in it wins for sure... The case is quite singular, very rare, let's face it, in Hygiene. Indeed, in practice, most of these crusades of the sanitary genre, supposedly, only work on assumptions, tuberculosis, cancer, etc..., all border more or less on fraud, forbidden begging, come under correctional, and does tend, ultimately. only to the prodigious increase in the number of parasites in the central administration, where they are already overabundant. But the fight against venereal disease is economically very urgent, especially in times of chaos, panic, riots, when everything is done on the sly, a kick in the stomach! nor seen! nor known! potpourri! I'm confusing you... it's the cankershaped farandole... the great ass-fuck in a crown! the great saraband of poxes, small pustules and large gonos... There's something for everyone... It's the great flow of gonorrhea that hurtles down the sidewalks.

All the most troubled, burdened, most rudimentary Regimes: Poland, Yugoslavia, Hungary, etc. ... soon fired all their guns, all their meager resources, on the treponeme, the cankers, the Neisser » , from the first lull... Why?... Here is the secret: All these affections are easily treated in large quantities, in series, are attenuated, limited, circumscribed, suppressed, cured (smallpox throughout). less) in the minimum of time... The police can intervene, constrain the rebels... the treatments, the drugs, the techniques, are [115] infinitely tested, traditional, popularizable. Few hours lost, not a penny wasted”. A very important fraction of the enormous contingent, of this venereal, occult, wandering crowd. disseminated, wandering, sadistic, often deliberately contaminating, very dangerous, catastrophic in freedom, once put in a frame, in a column, under markers", can be, if you go about it squarely, very quickly identified, limited, neutralized, labelled, bleached, sent back in the fields, in the factory, now harmless if not completely cured. The game is well worth the candle. Any anti-venereal campaign, socially, results, at relatively little cost, in an immense profit. The beings who compose this enormous venereal troop generally belong to the middle ages of existence, to the productive period. They will be able, whitewashed, to quickly resume all their habits, their occupations. They will behave, duly followed, watched, more or less like all other workers. They will no longer hang around in hospitals, from public budgets. Very big economy, capital! They will be able, almost without damage, to indulge in love games, to walk their parsnips through the slots. All this is very regular, absolutely clear, verified a thousand times over, well recognized... As for worrying about tuberculosis, cancer or women's gymnastics and even childcare in a starving country, overworked in every way, is a matter of nerve, stupidity, imposture, belote, farce... These very illusory, very expensive hobbies only concern, can only concern rich States. To dabble in it validly, without being ridiculous, it is necessary that certain general conditions be met, of atmosphere... of a very high social level... of security, of large exceptional budgetary resources in this world... that the we hardly find them united except in Sweden, Denmark, Holland, in some States of America, in Switzerland...

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Tribulations of luxury, in short, five hundred years from Russia!... Very costly, dubious recoveries, with very long deadlines... In bankrupt countries, very obviously miserable, overloaded with beggars, vermin and soldiers, everything must go by the finger and the eye, drum beating, to the strict economy, to the essential... Everyone, I think, is of opinion. Pox, primary disease, perfectly recognizable, prophylaxis, perfectly successful therapies... A lot of gold in return for a little mercury... All this is so proven, demonstrated, harped on! ... elementary... [116] Let us see a little how things happen, in the case of an enormous, overcrowded, military, underfed, alcoholic port, where prostitution abounds, where the transplanted, the hoodlums roam by the hundreds of thousands, hunted from hovels to streams in a sort of avalanche of scabies, lice, bewildered panics, scurvy, screaming nonsense, rotten sausages. Here is the state of Leningrad. Who refute us? The obvious! All you have to do is walk here and there for a week to notice... And then, damned jackal, the one who comes to retract it! And even that he would be more of a liar than twenty-five Jewish ministers and under-secretaries of state and thirty-six thousand shit flies that suck on mint.

[117] The large hospital for venereal diseases is located in Leningrad on the outskirts of the city, not very far from the port... It appears, at first sight, like an agglomeration of buildings, dilapidated, all of incoherent structure, courtyards, potholes, cabins, barracks crumbling, intricate, rotten from end to end. We have, in France, nothing so sad, so desolate, so fallen, in all our Public Assistance. Perhaps the former Saint-Lazare, and even then, could have sustained the comparison... A few old provincial asylums?... But, let us note to the credit of Saint-Lazare, that this one 'wasn't far off, and that he had by destination much more of a prison than a hospital... while this gigantic dump, said of venereal diseases,' does indeed look like a first-rate hospital , popular, and educational, please! Leningrad University's St. Louis... Now, Saint-Louis" would take on the aspect of a large majestic manor alongside this terrible amalgam of hutches, this funereal place among all... this kind of badly kept morgue... I served in the cavalry for years, never, I'm sure, would any regimental veterinarian have allowed, even for one evening, a squadron to be lodged in a barracks-slum, like this out of place. I know many hospitals, almost everywhere, in many cities and countryside... bad ones, worse ones, excellent ones, very primitive ones, I have never met in the world so sadly [118 ] devoid of everything necessary for a more or less normal, reasonable operation, for the accomplishment of its task. In this respect, a real challenge... A hospital whose ruins are certainly worth for the decoration the simulacra of Potemkine... as for the illusionism... the semblance, the show... And all that, let us never forget, after twenty years of thundering challenges, d insulting considerations for all the other so retrograde capitalist systems... hymns to unheard-of social progress... to the renovation of the cooperative USSR! director of happiness! and freedom! of the power of the masses by the masses”!... the deluge finally of preposterous plans, all more pharaminous, upsetting than the others... All insulting considerations for all the other capitalist systems that are so retrograde... hymns to unheard-of social progress... to the renovation of the cooperative USSR! director of happiness! and freedom! of the power of the masses by the masses”!... the deluge finally of preposterous plans, all more pharaminous, upsetting than the others... All insulting considerations for all the other capitalist systems that are so retrograde... hymns to unheard-of social progress... to the renovation of the cooperative USSR! director of happiness! and freedom! of the power of the masses by the masses”!... the deluge finally of preposterous plans, all more pharaminous, upsetting than the others... All

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the thunders of the organs of the Judeo-Mongolian wind... Note that this great hospital for venereal diseases in Leningrad seems to be visited very little by the pilgrims of the Intourist", the guides neglect it... It is not suitable, we must admit , with enthusiastic conclusions... By chance, if some special tourist, Minister of the Popular Front on a caviar tour, some learned Jewish doctor or Freemason strays to this side, off the beaten path, the eyes of Faith will soon discover, in spite of the evidence, some quite encouraging aspects... very encouraging... of this gigantic filth... the virtues, for example, of this perfectly admirable little staff! (he is dying of hunger), the stoicism of these patients who are so perfectly docile... understanding, social and grateful... (they are dying of fear). He will have understood the caviardeux pilgrim very early, he will repeat very quickly, and on all the tones, the good lesson well learned from the true friends of the USSR Namely that Youssoupof, Rasputin, Denikine and Koutiepof are the only real responsible for this shortage in raw foodstuffs and manufactured objects, which we can still deplore from time to time, but more and more rarely... the difficulties of Russian supplies, Russian construction, Russian hospitals... Finally, the cheeky salad , all the shenanigans, propaganda, the water fog of the future, that puke. all the Jews in the world when they are pushed to the wall... Denikine and Koutiepof are the only ones really responsible for this shortage of raw foodstuffs and manufactured objects, which we can still deplore from time to time, but more and more rarely... the difficulties of Russian supply, Russian construction , the Russian hospitals... Finally the cheeky salad, all the tricks, propaganda, the water fog of the future, that puke. all the Jews in the world when they are pushed to the wall... Denikine and Koutiepof are the only ones really responsible for this shortage of raw foodstuffs and manufactured objects, which we can still deplore from time to time, but more and more rarely... the difficulties of Russian supply, Russian construction , the Russian hospitals... Finally the cheeky salad, all the tricks, propaganda, the water fog of the future, that puke. all the Jews in the world when they are pushed to the wall... future water fog, that puke. all the Jews in the world when they are pushed to the wall... future water fog, that puke. all the Jews in the world when they are pushed to the wall...

The colleague with whom I visited this hospital, by chance, was not youtre, he was even a very Slavic Russian, about fifty years old, in the Baltic style, rough, explosive, and I must say picturesque. .. at all speeds!... He understood the apoloche well... About every ten words, between the explanations, between the details of technique, he would suddenly stop and start shouting [119] very high, very loud, in baritone, full echo, so that the walls all take it, he was laughing at the same time...

Here ! colleague, Everything is going very well!... All the patients are going very well! We are all here, All right!...”. He was screaming about the tonic... about the word Good! He insisted, he had the stentorian organ... We paced all along, corridors, corridors, large and small rooms... something... Of course, these sick people had sheets, troop bedsteads, straw mattresses, but what filth! ... good God ! what debris! what a big, moldy pup... what a range of horrors... what a filthy, sticky heap!... of sneaky cachectics... of bedridden spies, rancid Asians, twisted with fearful hatreds... all the heads of the nightmare, I mean the expressions of these patients... the grimaces of all these faces, what emanated from these souls, not from the rot of course, visceral or visible, for which I feel, one thinks, no repulsion, and on the contrary a real interest. However, the mixture of so many hideous things... it's too much! ... What desperate dung, what a prodigious collection of stinking puppets!... What a setting! What a sewer! ... What dejection! ... Not a lick of paint on the walls since Alexandre!... Walls?... Mud tow mud! A kind of immense insistence in the heartbreaking, the desolate... I have however seen many shipwrecks... beings... countless things... which fell into the great silt... which did not struggle even more... that misery and filth took to the dark without fighting... But I have never felt a more degrading, more crushing suffocation,

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even Poutchkine, where did these men come from with their trances, how did they maintain the tone of this delirious, funereal rumination at length?... this police epileptism, this obsession with the doorknob, this distress, this rage , this moaning of a shoe that takes on water, which will take on water forever, cosmic amplified...

This prodigy becomes understandable, the spell is easily explained after a few days in Russia... We can easily imagine this heartbreak. this oozing, this painful dripping of all [120] these souls, like so many rotten niches on the bones of a starving, beaten, crippled, condemned dog. Banal question of atmosphere basically... no need to force anything, to make the tremolo. Everything is there!... in front of the eyes, under the hand... There is certainly prowling all around these people, sick or able-bodied, these houses, these things, this chaos of atrocities, a fatality a thousand times more more overwhelming, relentless and sleazy, more implausibly demonic, than all the Dostoyevskys of the free and happy period” (in comparison) could have imagined.

Raskolnikoff? but for the Russians it's Bouboule! ... this damned” must seem to them altogether quite common, quite vulgar, as spontaneous, as frequent, ordinary, as Bouboule! ... They are born that way. I come back to my visit to the great cankerous Carpharnaum... My colleague Touvabienovitch, also wearing a very filthy blouse... neither more nor less than the other members of the staff... spared me no detail, no turning of this immense installation, no specialized service. I have seen everything, I think, well seen everything, felt everything, from the cubbyhole of injections, to the tabetic oubliettes, from the crèche to the swarms of flies, to the quarters for heredos”. These little ones, infantile syphilis”, seemed among other things very well trained, beforehand, they waited for me very well behaved,

As we entered, they all stood up at once, and then all together began to yell something in Russian... the sentence! Everything is fine ! ... We are all Very Well Here » This is what they are telling you, colleague! All... " Toutvabienovitch had pupils in the area... besides, he split the peach, this colleague is one of the rare Russians whom I saw laughing during my stay in Leningrad. Here are our service ladies! our nurses on the ward!...” We could have, with a little attention... distinguished them, recognized them among the sick, they seemed even more devastated, heartbroken, crippled, melting with misery than all the hospital patients.

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[12] (pp. 121-130)

[121] hemmed in... They were all literally teetering between the walls of the corridor, bloodless, emaciated, crumbling in rags... from one filthy edge to the other.

– How much do they earn?

– 80 rubles a month... (a pair of shoes costs 250 rubles in Russia) ... And then, he added, extra (in his usual thunder), but they are fed! brother, fed!... He is screwing up! Everything is fine ! he shouts. But the best of this visit was for the end! Gynecological treatments!... Tuvabienovitch's specialty. the bouquet ! ... A bazaar, a collection, a retrospective of instruments, chipped, twisted, cursed creaking antiques... that one would only find in Val-deGrâce, in the baron's canteens and kits Larrey, with great difficulty... Not a pitcher, a tripod, a probe, not the slightest scalpel, the most common claw pliers, of this repugnant hardware, nothing that dates at least from the Czars... real garbage, a ramshackle mess of unspeakable crap, shards eaten away, sublimated, rotten with permanganate to such an extent that at the Flea Market no one would want it... the rabouins would refuse without appeal...

Toutvabienovitch, in this area, he was in heaven... It was his consultation! the moment of his art!... Rolling up his sleeves, he immediately sets to work, and here he is working! Asses everywhere look alike. The patients wait their turn... a swarm to climb on the easel. The students, a bit dazed, a bit pimply, a bit malevolent, like all the students in the world take to the seed... it was a question of rummaging, taking off from the folds of great oozing from the vagina... from the cervix. .. full-vulva tamponades, squeezing the Bartholins... well, the ordinary boobies... the occasional mucus of metritis... Toutvabienovitch gave it a go... always cordial... very petulant... top of the line... verb... to his business merrily. He was walking me in full view... it's true that he was skilful... he handled very boldly with a rough dexterity all these routed paraphernalia, these annexes, these purulences... in large series a small jet of permanganate and floutt! ... I'm plunging half of your arm into another mound... in full fever he was making the glands go a little... still ranting... he was barely shaking his fingers... and whoops! was rushing into [122] the next... not a second wasted... like that!... bare hands!... hairy... dripping with yellow juice... absolutely without fingers... always haranguing... he barely shook his fingers... and whoops! was rushing into [122] the next... not a second wasted... like that!... bare hands!... hairy... dripping with yellow juice... absolutely without fingers... always haranguing... he barely shook his fingers... and whoops! was rushing into [122] the next... not a second wasted... like that!... bare hands!... hairy... dripping with yellow juice... absolutely without fingers...

I didn't want to bother him at all... to seem indiscreet, but still I wanted to know... When he had tampered with dozens of vulvas like that, I ended up asking him:

"Do you ever wear gloves?"

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- Oh ! no need!... no need, brother! Here, everything is fine ! Everything is going Perfectly!... and curling... more and more funny... in great shape... Of course it was not his fault if the rubber is missing in Russia... He was taking advantage of the neighborhood to look a little bit in the asshole... There too he was looking for gonos in riot in the jar of lentils, the little folds of the anus. He first threw a little water and a little Vaseline around, and then more menthol, he scraped with his fingernails... well, a little kitchen. And then right away, immediately, he slipped into the next vulva... He stopped at the entrance, a pressure on the Bartholins'... He was completely happy when it turned green, a very thick juice , well bound... Two, three stamps. Everything's good ! Brother!

But I had to be sad... It couldn't last forever... We parted in full agreement. I went back to see the director, a Jew, that one, very Jewish... and his secretary too... They both spoke German... They unfolded in front of me, for my edification, a whole series of Splendid plans, statements... sketches, projections, diagrams, immense, reports. All that having to do with the future... A project to build a magnificent hospital... I'm not interested in the future, it's all a lie... It's the astrology of the Jews. Me, what fascinates me is the present... What resources do you have for running your hospital? How many patients do you have?... Doctors? personal?... and bedridden? itinerant?..., etc..., surface?... fuel? bedding?...” finally the ponderable things... that you need to know so as not to drool so as not to waste your time... I don't like hospitals enough to spend four hours there for nothing in my bitch of life and then go back home like a dirty, caulked bastard... When you have to educate yourself, you educate yourself... When you have to laugh, we laugh... All one!... all the other!... I looked at his books, I examined everything carefully, scrupulously... he showed me the [123 ] columns (the numbers are the same in Russian). He received in this huge, sanieux hovel, about 5,000 patients, good year, bad year, bedridden, plus as many externs in treatment... I calculate that with the executives, its existing staff, the 90 housekeepers residence, nurses, light, transport, the price of food, medicine, etc..., etc..., it needed at least a budget of 12 to 16 million rubles to spread out somehow... For such a hospital to operate in more or less decent conditions... does not remain, as I I found a kind of morgue on the back burner... But this Institute, to tell the truth, for any allowance, only receives 2 million rubles a year, that is ten times less than its subsistence minimum... And certainly, I am careful not to compare things in Russia to Scandinavian conditions, to the hospitals of Copenhagen. I am simply referring to some very mediocre standard, the French standard to put it better. A standard for the needy » to tell the truth, for any allowance, receives only 2 million rubles a year, that is to say ten times less than his subsistence minimum... And certainly, I am careful not to compare things in Russia with Scandinavian conditions, with the hospitals of Copenhagen. I am simply referring to some very mediocre standard, the French standard to put it better. A standard for the needy » to tell the truth, for any allowance, receives only 2 million rubles a year, that is to say ten times less than his subsistence minimum... And certainly, I am careful not to compare things in Russia with Scandinavian conditions, with the hospitals of Copenhagen. I am simply referring to some very mediocre standard, the French standard to put it better. A standard for the needy »

But, on this level, we are still very far from account... All the Russian administrative organizations are suffering, are overwhelmed, condemned to the same grotesque shortage, to the same nonsense in terms of men, materials, funds. ... to the same filthy megory, to the same contraction to 1/10th of the normal budget (by normal, we mean some very modest, very watchful routine”).

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But don't get impatient, you lose nothing by waiting! Soon the Russians will be the envy of us!... We will be like them! And then even much lower than them! .. Which seems incredible! lower than the Russians!... We shall have their disease! the Russian disease! we already have it! We'll be picked up from the street.

[124]

Lying is not only a means that it is permitted to employ, but it is the the most proven means of the Bolshevik struggle.

Lenin.

.. his tartuferies, his racism, sometimes larval, sometimes arrogant, sometimes delirious. His imposture, the enormous armament of this permanent cosmic apocalypse.

a vibrating atom, in the construction of our prison, our prison for Aryans, Jewish directors... In the perfection of Jewish Tyranny, nothing is lost, if everything is belly, everything is Jewish”. This internal colonization takes place gently or by force, right in the middle of the interests, of the Jewish rhythms of the moment... In France, this seizure is still surrounded by a little glove, not for long, soon the cards will be slaughtered, those who disagree will have their throats cut (they already are) and the Jew will appear to the admiring glances of the prostrate livestock, as it should be! camped, implacable, the knout in the fist... Already, by an effect of chance, our journalists, speakers, authors, filmmakers, do not find anything more admirable through the present, the past, the History and the Future , in the arts, political gazettes,

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In this regard, Exhibition 37 brings us a magnificent, overwhelming demonstration of this Jewish colonizing fury, less and less concerned with native resentments and reactions, more established, more clamorous each day, as the more submissive native, stickier, looser ramp. This treacherously strangling fanaticism will soon be delirious... Thus this asparagus of Peace, planted, monumental, in full Trocadéro... What do you say about it? With its huge Jewish star in a bush at the top (Star of King David, star of the synagogues)... What does it teach you? ... This: French! the Jews, from this moment on, bugger you all! As they want, where they want! when they want!... This long rotten dildo consecrates their triumph! Let's repeat it! Crowds! For Jewish peace, you will go tomorrow to take your guts to the four corners of the world... That's how it's done! On your knees people!... and silence!... Stretch your buttocks, while waiting for new orders and pass the change...

Before leaving the triumphal ghetto 37, taking advantage of the opportunity, take a look at the vaunted literary stands... Same sticky salad, same tendentious trickery. Take a closer look at all the fuss about piously explanatory signs, these careful references, these ellip[126]tic diagrams... What do they want to teach us? Get us admitted straight away, confess, proclaim? now this and to attention: Decision of our masters: Ministers! ci-devant artists, Jewish critics, their slowly simmering decision! premeditated! designed! official lead! Namely: That it is well proven, very clear, quite classic, from this day that the irresolute bosom fucker Prout-Proust, the Jewish Miche aux Camélias "will take the same rank of eminence in everything and everywhere, in the manuals and minds that Honoré de Balzac!... Sound the bugle! It's up! It is triumphant! Take it or screw it! as I tell you! ... Now do you want to hear some other music? another trumpet sound a little more serious?... okay! please listen in this case to Mr. Hoare Belisha, Jew, War Minister of England. He expresses to us his confidence, his great enthusiasm, at the return of the French manoeuvres... his wonder, for the behavior, the resistance to the worst fatigues, the magnificent martial look of our little pioupious... Harangue of Ben Hoare Belisha: I am now convinced that the French army is the first army in the world! that she will know how to face up in everything and everywhere, to oppose victoriously all attempts at invasion!... Our frontier is on the Rhine! It's neat, it's graceful. Well translated from Jewish to French, it means: Bidart! Norbert! Lacassagna! Miraillet! Sleepy! to your guts! my little friends!... Brutes! And very soon! Try not to be zigotos! to quite frankly make you open! to launch yourself into the threads!... Yes! Like as many sold as you are!... Let your meat be used for something!... It's time! How nicely that preserves the prosperity, the happiness of the Judeo-British Islands! your bones will make beautiful barriers for our splendid English gardens... So you're not all jubilant?... Shit! What do you want to serve? Taratboom! Say! yie! By gosh! Long live the king ! Long live the Lloyds! Long live Tahure! Long live the City! Long live Mrs Simpson! Long live the Bible! Holy shit! the World is a Jewish brothel!

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[127]

The fifteen million Jews will bugger the five hundred million Aryans.

In France, the little people, the ones who are going to bail who are going to fill all the trenches, they don't know the Jews very well, they don't recognize them in the crowd... They don't even know where they are... the faces that they have, what they can have, their manners... First of all, they are all camouflaged, transvestites, chameleons, the Jews, they change names like borders, they are sometimes called Bretons, Auvergnes, Corsicans, the other time Turandots, Durandards, Cassoulets... anything... which gives the impression, which sounds misleading...

In the band, it is the Meyers, Jacobs, Lévys who are still the least dangerous, the least treacherous. You have to take a little trouble to recognize yourself in the Jews, the people don't like to take pains. For the people a Jew is a man like any other "... that is enough for him 100 for 100 as an explanation... delirious... his prodigious treachery... his implacable racism... his unheard-of power of lying, absolutely spontaneous, monstrous in cheek... the Aryan takes them on all occasions... in full, submits to them, dissolves into it, collapses from it, bursts from it without wondering for a single moment all that is happening to him... what is happening?... what strange music?... He is dying as he has lived, never undeceived, cuckold to the guts. It functions entirely and with all its meat...spirit and carcass for the prosperity, the glory of its most intractable, most voracious, most dissolving parasite: the Jew! and never notices it [128]; out of twenty sous we spend, fifteen go to Jewish financiers. Even the carrion of the Aryan serves again and again the glory of the Jew, his propaganda. There are only a few rare species of birds in nature that show themselves to be as uninstinctive, as dumb, as easy to fool as those Aryan bastards... Some species, the most silly of the avian kingdom, hatch the eggs of the cuckoo, the claiming chicks of the cuckoo who hasten, barely hatched, to transfer all the eggs, the whole brood of their adoptive parents to the bottom of the nest!

The Westerner represents the ideal dupe, ready-made, absolutely offered to the Jews... to Jewish prismatism! to the muddled, prophesying dialectic of the Jew... his socialistico-oraculo-communist verbiage!... What shimmering facets!... Ideologically the Aryan is the cuckold, the unmistakable lark of all Yid enterprises... In any canard the Jewish scientific-progressive-socializing sauce, the Aryan darkens! It is sinoqué in advance, fried... We can't stop it! he is dedicated, unbridled, exuberant cockatoo of all Semitic canards... He is ready to kill himself... The Aryan admirably prepared, let us note, by all his heredity... absolutely shriveled by all the dirty hypermean habits of the peasant past... He

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makes a splendid cuckold, distrustful and dodgy, a proud passive "par excellence, an extraordinary dupe...

The Aryan never travels, he is bouzeux, provincial, gossipy about tradition, constitution, incurably. He knows nothing, he reads nothing... he always talks, he gets drunk on his remarks, his own words... He is smug, he thinks he's critical... A beautiful lie, which comes from afar” , the Jew lies better than he breathes! ... Are you youtre?... Ah! but let's see!... Do you think about it?... I am Catalan!... see my hair! ... I am Basque! mataf! Wizard ! Albanians! boules player, zither seller, Nantes firefighter, anything but a Jew? fi so! never Jewish!...

The people don't believe in Jews, they firmly believe that Jews no longer exist. It is for him a new malevolent fable, invention of the “blood-drinking” Nazis.

[129] His newspaper, his radio, his movies never tell him anything about the Jews, or else, if they approach this scabrous subject, it is with infinite laudatory precautions, a cloud of infinitely respectful, very devoutly admiring comments. The supreme intelligence, the extraordinary political prescience, phenomenally overwhelming, of Generalissimo Raba Bloum!...” this is all he hears for weeks and years as soon as it comes to the question of the Jews... To dare ? the average Frenchman? confess, make it heard, directly, that he does not like the Jews? Jewish racism? the gigantic Jewish swindle? it is, to be classified irremediably, at the same moment, among the most infrequent late cancer patients, absolutely unbreathable, of the universe! obtuse, immobile to all progress, opaque bottoms of mucous dustbins, heartbreaking shards all clothed in stinking racial prejudices... Retrograde hoards, vicious mummies, poor shriveled turds, cloistered, heartbroken in their mud since the great cesspools! Dreyfus! Finally, things that cannot be watched... frighteningly monstrous, unlistenable, unthinkable...

A Jew is made up of 85% nerve and 15% emptiness!... The Aryan has no nerve... He is only brave in war... timid in life... sheep... Are we embarrassing him? he's ashamed ! immediately!... He is ashamed of his own race!... They make him believe whatever they want... That is to say, whatever the Jew wants... The Jews, them, are not at all ashamed of their Jewish race, quite the contrary, in God's name! ... nor circumcision! If they had felt the slightest shame of being Jews, a long time ago, over the centuries, they would have melted into the mass ... that they would no longer exist as Jews at all and Jewish racists... Their Jewry is no longer their defect, it is their whole pride, on the contrary, their supreme nerve, their hysteria, their religion, their patter, their reason for being, their tyranny, the whole arsenal of fantastic Jewish privileges... Lords of the Jewish world, they fully intend to remain lords of the Jewish world and then despots, more and more... The Myth of the Races”, it is for us the prejudicial lie! to shove it up our ass! it opens our buttocks wide! while they put us on and feast. You have to be ass as an Aryan not to have grasped these extremely obvious characteristics of the Jewry that possesses us, that surrounds us, crushes us, and bleeds us in every possible, unimaginable[130]ble way... Jew possesses the goye to the root of his entrails, to his vertebrae, unfailingly, effortlessly, through vanity, through boorishness... He wins every time. The Aryan, so simple, so crude,

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saying critical, trained in denigration, in distrust of his racial brothers, in the destruction of his racial brothers automatically and never in Criticism” of Jewish phantasmagoria. The Aryan is no more than the ape of the Jew. He makes funny faces on command. Nowadays, the most obtuse goye, rears up, revolts, if he senses that he could perhaps keep some little racial prejudices in the bottom of his bag... He worries, he worries. of not being sufficiently up-to-date, modern, liberal, international, cosy-corner, democratic, tuxedo, politically emancipated, that is to say practically speaking, rather well oriented rather profoundly, tenaciously, by the youtres possessed, headstrong, loti, forged, perspired, negrified in each hair of the eyebrows each drop of sperm, each crab, from the tunic of each viscus to the granule of its bread... from the cap of its cap to the socket that will pierce it... never sticky enough, conchied by the Jews... for the Jews... he shows himself to be a little bit curious, a little bit suspicious, we call him quickly to order, we teach him promptly, we make him understand right away, harp on, so that he goes and repeats everywhere (good jobard parrot of Aryan) the good lesson: That one cannot dream higher, more eminent, more perfect in the world than a Jewish scholar! a Jewish minister a Jewish star! a Jewish song! a Jewish painter! a Jewish director! a Jewish seamstress! a Jewish financier! a Jewish architect! a Jewish doctor etc. ! ... Let them surpass all these Jews... Snoring of drums! Chosen Race! supremely gifted! delete, what did I say ? erase! outclass beyond all comparison! reciprocal or dispute! leave endlessly behind them, pitiful, miners, the trifles, the scum of the native castes! these quaternities of stammering, embittered scatterbrained, moldy pretentious, childish riffraff... embarrassing even to look at! so ugly they are to see, shameful these ignorant rivals, claiming grotesque hi! hi! h! cannibals, gossips, gossips, snotty and sad clowns, nasty degenerate broods, soul scum, submissive caste to which one must never again boast of having belonged... Shame of Shames! Defilement! not to have a few drops of Jewish blood is nowadays to be “untouchable” more or less. leave endlessly behind them, pitiful, miners, the trifles, the scum of the native castes! these quaternities of stammering, embittered scatterbrained, moldy pretentious, childish riffraff... embarrassing even to look at! so ugly they are to see, shameful these ignorant rivals, claiming grotesque hi! hi! h! cannibals, gossips, gossips, snotty and sad clowns, nasty degenerate broods, soul scum, submissive caste to which one must never again boast of having belonged... Shame of Shames! Defilement! not to have a few drops of Jewish blood is nowadays to be “untouchable” more or less. leave endlessly behind them, pitiful, miners, the trifles, the scum of the native castes! these quaternities of stammering, embittered scatterbrained, moldy pretentious, childish riffraff... embarrassing even to look at! so ugly they are to see, shameful these ignorant rivals, claiming grotesque hi! hi! h! cannibals, gossips, gossips, snotty and sad clowns, nasty degenerate broods, soul scum, submissive caste to which one must never again boast of having belonged... Shame of Shames! Defilement! not to have a few drops of Jewish blood is nowadays to be “untouchable” more or less. so ugly they are to see, shameful these ignorant rivals, claiming grotesque hi! hi! h! cannibals, gossips, gossips, snotty and sad clowns, nasty degenerate broods, soul scum, submissive caste to which one must never again boast of having belonged... Shame of Shames! Defilement! not to have a few drops of Jewish blood is nowadays to be “untouchable” more or less. so ugly they are to see, shameful these ignorant rivals, claiming grotesque hi! hi! h! cannibals, gossips, gossips, snotty and sad clowns, nasty degenerate broods, soul scum, submissive caste to which one must never again boast of having belonged... Shame of Shames! Defilement! not to have a few drops of Jewish blood is nowadays to be “untouchable” more or less.

Those who still exercise here and there, their little malice, who

[12a] (pp. 131-140) [131] still retain a semblance of existence, owe this reprieve of extinction only to the great leniency of the Jewish powers, a reprieve, moreover, that can be revoked at any time... he does not come out of his bleds, from the depths of his countryside, this "minimized", fragile waste, "white intellectual specimen", we will not say much to him: schoolmaster, bonesetter, country guard, mobile guard , dauber, jobber... Maybe we'll let him breathe a little longer... But if he becomes pretentious, if he talks about going to town, then Tudieu! woe to him! ... Too bad for him ! ... The crush! ... Larva! ... In a Jewish world, the "white" can only be a manual worker or a soldier, nothing more... The intellectual, the artist, the "leader" must be Jewish, always. The selection is well >made, the dam works admirably, ruthlessly... All the newspapers of the right, or of the left, are all so perfectly jewish, so dependent on the Jews, that if they sucked a treacherous word on what is truly happening in the orders of our colonial country, in the background of our affairs, there would not be a syllable left to them, not a character for the layout, overnight.

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If there still remains here and there, in the depths of some crevasse, some possible anti-Semites, miraculously stubborn, these scarecrows must make people laugh, it is their role, by their incongruous remarks, their jokes, their nasal remarks, their perfectly vain gesticulations. To the kneeling masses, demonstrate even more obviously by their mischievous pranks, laughing pseudo-revolts all the grotesqueness, all the fatuity, the sickening stupidity of such sporadic, burlesque undertakings. Entertain the people, make them marvel at the expense of such antics! It's perfect. Since the Dreyfus affair the cause is buried, France belongs to the Jews, body, goods and souls, to the international Jews. They all are. – France is a colony of international Jewish power, any inclination towards chouannerie is condemned in advance to shameful bankruptcy... France materialized, rationalized, perfectly muffed up, perfectly subjugated, by Jewish baseness, alcoholic to the marrow, meanly free-riding, venal, absolutely sterilized from all lyricism, moreover, is doomed to destruction, to enthusiastic massacre by the Jews. Any uprising can only quickly be contained, be liquidated by the crushing of the rebels and provoke the outbreak of the worst reprisals... is doomed to destruction, enthusiastic slaughter by the Jews. Any uprising can only quickly be contained, be liquidated by the crushing of the rebels and provoke the outbreak of the worst reprisals... is doomed to destruction, enthusiastic slaughter by the Jews. Any uprising can only quickly be contained, be liquidated by the crushing of the rebels and provoke the outbreak of the worst reprisals...

[132] a whole apparatus of abuses and servitudes even more cruel, More meticulous, punitive. That's all...

The French no longer have a soul, a cancer has eaten their soul, a cancer of boorishness, a malignant tumor, but they are still more obtuse, more shrunken than boorish and malignant. Any anti-Jewish attempt instantly revives Jewish pruritus, which never sleeps... the great Jewish propaganda "to the Jewish martyr" for the never completely, sufficiently crowned, triumphant cause of Israel... Until the end of the ages the Jew will crucify us to avenge his foreskin. It's written... It's gay!... Any anti-oyster campaign justifies by immediate reply, the gathering of a thousand congresses even more overheated with Jewish demands, dripping with feverish Jewish whining, the flight of a hundred thousand others petitions, finally all the howling, sarabande, empapaoutage, terribly, all the overblown organ playing of the eternal Jewish jeremiad... the roaring Jewish anathemas. Nothing is low enough, infamous enough therefore, to depict to the indignant world all the monstrosity of these shameless rarity, these phenomena, these rebellious Aryan animals who cannot swallow, digest, collect, resolve, with diabolical nerve, to the myriad of Jewish cataclysmic filth. "Cave vampires!" Cromagnons salacious! Circus servants! Martyr hunters! Deiblers of human distress! Delusional beasts thirsting for democratic blood! Leper sub-fascists! all the din of the apocalypse instantly seizes the universe! pulverizes the microphones, breaks through all the echo, all the waves! deafens, crushes, vaporizes any possible objection... Useless! seedy! you will never be heard!... You can die! The infernal Jewish hype for persecution dominates, extinguishes, erases, from so high, with such crushing, all truth, all reality, that any attempt at recovery is absolutely laughable... The disgusting, infinite Jewish blackmail is bewildered at this not the whole earth, for so many centuries, that we can no longer agree at all... the great confusion of all values, the cosmic carambouillage, comes from there, from the universal tom-tom of the youtres, crooks, perverts, thugs and sterile... The noblest feelings, the purest and undoubtedly the most precious to human societies... pity, friendly affection, loyalty, esteem, scruples of authenticity, truth, trust, have been down through the ages so often, by all Jews, played around,

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lost any course, any value, any trading credit. Absolutely suspect, henceforth, these old feelings are nothing more in the eyes of the world than so many pitiful or burlesque deceptions, concealing for sure some sort of filthy intention, some new rabble, criminal scheme. But despite so many experiences, the blow of the "hunted" Jew, "martyr", still inevitably takes hold of this stupid cuckold Aryan. The lamentable little story of the persecuted Jew, the jeremiad of the Jews, the "Chaplinism" always makes him wet. Infallible!... If his people come to complain a little, his own brothers of race, of some very Aryan misfortune, how he sends them to rebound! He immediately abhors them for their complaints, for that very reason, he judges them as harshly as possible... he hates them for their nerve, their sight, their cunning... Only the misfortunes of the Jews touch him for sure! The account of these "horrors" finds him without suspicion, without resistance, without skepticism. He swallows everything. The Jewish misfortunes are part of the legend... the only legend, moreover, in which the Aryan still believes... Supreme miracle! ... When the stolen, the Jewish looter screams for help, the Aryan pear jumps straight away... bleak... fall... Tasting!... This is how the Jews possess all the wealth, all the gold of the world. The aggressor screams that we cut his throat! The trick is as old as Moses... It still works... It's surely a Jew caught red-handed, who brought us the Deluge, all the Deluges. The Jew makes everyone drown, jumps him into the Ark and saves his skin. The people do not see their Jews, any more than troops in war see generals. And yet it is really them, the generals, who make them go up the pipe, the generals "for the Jews", instruments themselves of the Jews... It is the Jews who possess all the gold in the world. Without gold there is no war. The people ? his guts are already crippled, burdened with billions of mortgages, all the abatis of the people are numbered, promised, sworn, solemn! to all the Jews of the earth, bankers, brokers, Commissioners, from New York to Helsingford, from Pernambuco to Moscow... plundered, skinned, calculated, tortured, speculated, completely! all in advance and "on foot"... for the next huge slaughter... As I tell you... And to make things better waltz, we will give all the music! ... the impulse, the right pace ... The one that seems to provoke, spice up, incite the bottom of the meat ... rush into the horde the terrible Instinct of Death...[134] the "Horses de bois" of the great butcher's shop... The communist air, for example, the great fanfare of delirium? jews! ... She's in the present fashion... of present Death... The main thing is that it spins... that it leaps and that it hums... That things don't drag, move, let the world startle, let states tumble, let inflations avalanche... The Jew holds all the strings, lodges, banks, states, orders, opinions, music, he will have the Aryans debited in slices, in bushels, with grape sauce on the day he chooses, the day when it will make him happy, at zero hour! fast !...

It is time, I believe, Aryans, to say your prayers, to confess that you are all doomed, happy victims, consenting, perfectly answered, well provided for, chilled and grateful... "My dear youtre, my dear tyrant, cheeky! " Let's all go together! "I implore you! show yourself! my atrocious dear cruel master! Deign! O my darling monster! too discreet a crucifier! too rare in my eyes! I adore you! Grant all my wishes! You make me languish! you see me in tears! chilled with happiness at the thought that I am finally going to suffer even more... more deeply than ever... I who have already given you everything! All that I have possessed! All my land! All my children! However, I still have a few bowls of blood in my veins! I want them to skin me alive... for you! You will see my blood flow for you! all for you ! fertilize your land, O my Jew

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adorable!... Deign _! deign! I adjure you! if you are good as they claim, as they assure you... on all sides, then cut our throats, yourself, O my Jew! Cut my throat, eyes wide open! O your divine cruelty! All of you, finally seeing you all! all gathered, rejoice! my pitiless executioners! All ! To see you all beaming once again. And then die for you! Under your knife at last..." Here is the good prayer of the calf, very perfect, the most stupid calf in the world! of all the slaughterhouses in the world! of all the sacrifices in the world! the best trained calf in the universe! the one who bellows! who gallops after his butcher to beg him to cut his throat.

[135] Let's be accommodating. Let's strike a compromise.

But first, what should they be called. Nothing could be more delicate... Her Grace Madame Edouard, the Jewess, almost queen? ... and him?... Mr. Simpson VIII?... We no longer know... Always this question of identifying Jews, Masons and Jews... I wonder if a serial number in each profession wouldn't do the job better?... a registration number, for example, quite simply... Mr. Filmmaker 350. No need to add Jew, everyone will understand... Mr. Great Painter 792... Mr. admirable virtuoso 1617?

- Oh ! how do you find this pretty folk singer? - But it's the little 1873! I recognize her perfectly! What spice! what a look! what feet! ... what brilliance! But didn't she play last Thursday at the XYZ?

I wholeheartedly applaud him... – From whom this moving article?

– But of the great journalist 7735... Hey! take ! let's take a closer look.

So no more ambiguity, no more fake names, names that hide... Numbers!...

“Whose pretty pavilion, so well gilded?” – But of the illustrious architect 1871! Ah! Ah! How much ? ... – And this splendid delegation, who is going to represent France at the American celebrations?...

[136] – But let's see, as usual, Gentlemen and Ladies, the great representative missionaries: 1411, 742, 635, 14 and 10357... Quite simply.

"Not a Durand?" ...

- No ! No ! No ! my friend ! never a Durand! or a Jewish Durand.

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– And this professor, of whom we go everywhere repeating that he has so much genius?

– You don't know?... But it's the incredible 42186! - You will tell me so much! ...

We've been banging our ears for years with these famous 200 families. Another fantastic flan! There is only one big family, much more powerful than all the others... the big international Jewish family, and their little "mason" cousins...

Since the great Frederick bailed out his finances by selling "names" to the Jews, why couldn't we, in our turn, earn a little gold, by forcing the Jews to buy numbers from us?... Next l importance... the taste... the success... the client's profession! in international currency of course! in shillings, in pounds, 100 pounds, according to opulence... per unit of registration. The new arrivals with "six figures" would thus always pay much more than the old immigrants... Justice! The little teacher, ragpicker, tailor, etc., one shilling per unit. Bankers, 100 Pounds per unit. Justice... Certain professions such as doctors, lawyers, overcrowded, would become unaffordable!... besides, registration numbers would be annual, annual plate, as for bicycles, annual tax... you have to decide... Do something thing! [137] Adherent to the Common Front, the closed and raised fist salute has been the Jew's "sign of the cross" for 2,000 years. They still do it in the synagogues.

I recently received a book from J.-R. Bloch, a book on the war in Spain, adorned with a violent dedication

"To Louis-Ferdinand Celine, because over there we kill!” Possible ! but the fact remains that we did not kill, J.-R. Block! So much the better ! For God Sake ! So much the better ! If they respected the life and freedom of J.-R. Bloch, well and truly returned from Spain safe and sound! documented, strapping, imprecator, martial like General Cherfils, interventionist at all cries! more ultra, more passionate than ever!... Veni, Vedi, Returns, Gives a few lectures, loudly applauded, embraces the Passionaria!... Gets back in a beautiful plane, snores, cheers up, comes back! . . . It's a strange war all the same, the war in Spain!... We enter it, we come out of it like in a mill... The real wars are those from which we don't come out... Already, the "delegations parliamentarians" at the front? Already ? already the little "dotted" caps? already?... Little enjoyers, little sadists of events, shuddering to live to the full "the extraordinary hours" of a world in catastrophe... But as well-prepared artists, spectators, let's not confuse them. Everything for the vago-tonic! ... and nothing in the panties! ... The breed of crime-pushers is always similar to itself, bourgeois "going to war", communist "pousse-au-crime", absolutely kif! like manure, identical! Apostles and strategists of the guts [138] of others... It's about experiencing new sensations, nothing more, nothing less... "better-than-cocaine". and nothing in the panties! ... The breed of crimepushers is always similar to itself, bourgeois "going to war", communist "pousse-au-crime", absolutely kif! like manure, identical! Apostles and strategists of the guts [138] of others... It's about experiencing new sensations, nothing more, nothing less... "better-than-cocaine". and nothing in the panties! ... The breed of crime-pushers is always similar to itself, bourgeois "going to war", communist "pousse-aucrime", absolutely kif! like manure, identical! Apostles and strategists of the guts [138] of others... It's about experiencing new sensations, nothing more, nothing less... "better-than-cocaine".

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It may very well be that in the short term, the revolutionary leaders will be obliged to assassinate, obliged? to have the people of the opposition assassinated before they themselves are seen again... This is in the order of things, fatal, classic... It even begins before our eyes... But fighting, isn't it? this step, for the famous ideal or without ideal... it's a completely different pair of balls... quite different... I'm not talking about entering the line against "the Franco army hoarder" , but to fight indeed against absolutely regular troops... Regular German troops, for example, and perfectly developed, perfectly armed... The real bigorne in short... No amateurism... So? ... whose musette?... Spread, scatter advice, orders,

– Do you agree?... Do you have the soul in front of the holes?... at the end of each of your gestures?... yes? I don't believe... I have the impression that you see false... that you live false... everything about you rings false... Spectators!...Enjoyers! you are, you are looking for yourself, you want to enjoy... to take advantage of the great Jewish and Masonic triumph... you do not hear that it is costing you your existence - you are not even risking your place... You will be more ambushed in the next one as the bourgeois were in the previous one... Ambushing like the machine gun has made enormous progress, so far as I am discovering, we hide, we superhide ourselves now years in advance.. I don't know an apostle who isn't at least in the General Staff... or talkative and photogenic super-aviation...

Those who, burning with faith and Soviet apostolism, are not [139] at present in trenches before Madrid or Zaragoza, are basically only equivocal "little talkers". To them, the cellars of Culture! picnics at Fausses-Reposes. For the next one, which is taking shape, which is being organized around us, we will never have surprised at the bottom of so many hiding places and cupboards, so many apostles and fervent warmongers hidden away... The world is rotten, it's is a fact by the cinema, the histrionics... (O these charges of light cavalry! ...) The most exorbitant, the most indecent matuvuism is at the base, basically, of all the great movements of current Ideas , inseparable.... The world was in 14 much more simplistic, more natural, more sincere, much less string, less vicious than today. In 1937, histrionics, phrasing spread everywhere, dominate everything, undermine everything, even the people, alas! itself already very gamy, well advanced in cabotine rot... I remember being mounted in rifle with Breton fighters. They couldn't read nor write, including the corporals... They inspired absolute confidence, which has never been denied! "ac cadaver". I'm very wary of soldiers who know how to read... who go to the movies... Anyone who knows how to read in the face of danger becomes easily argumentative, a little hesitant, subtle... He thinks he's in the movies, he asks to see what's next. .. There is no sequel! ... Attention!... It will be necessary in the rows to forget the cinema! ... Here is what promises a lot of work at the Provost... She does not There is no sequel! ... Attention!... It will be necessary in the rows to forget the cinema! ... Here is what promises a lot of work at the Provost... She does not There is no sequel! ... Attention!... It will be necessary in the rows to forget the cinema! ... Here is what promises a lot of work at the Provost... She does not

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will hardly be unemployed. She will be on the teeth behind all these "spectators". The platoons won't be idle either... the recommendations either...

[140] Each war, each revolution brings closer the moment when we will reach the supreme goal towards which we tend... Great Sanhedrin, 1884.

This revolution definitely promises to be an enormous, fanatical takeover of security... A skilful and gigantic consolidation of acquired beefsteaks.

On this point. there is nothing more demonstrative and more joyful than to go through and examine fairly closely the long lists of personalities which adorn, which recommend the fiery parties, pacifists, liberators, interventionists, emancipators, etc... The left-wing organizers launch, on all occasions, daily, such documents, pamphlets, etc., through all the press and Sovietophile circles... Nothing could be more buffoonish. Take a look at these lists of great friends of the USSR. All or almost all, civil servants, politicians, pensioners, retired Jews or Freemasons... And how! All amply paid, I would even say perfectly opulent, a hundred damned absolutely cozy, brazenly, handsomely parasitic, an average of 100,000 francs a year each... (francs Blum). Parasites of the super-states! Unite! reassure yourself around the Great Jews! Stand up the "haves" of the Earth!... Among these "fat" how many share a little their rents with the thin community?... I ask? How many of these brave men will go, to die if things go wrong, to the battlements of Madrid?... Knock! Knock! Knock!... who goes there?... It's the friend! whose friend? the friend of the Jews! the friend of the people ! his friend!... his own friend! the friend of the sofa!... Real fighters for Spain, we can see quantities,

[13] (pp. 141-150)

[141] he disembarked third class from any Transatlantic, returning from New York. These, in terms of fighters, they are real, authentic... They won't go to the Conferences! they will not embrace the Passionaria. Like all the real heroes in the world, they will make only one jump from the bunkers to the trenches.... They are not Jews!... They must not be confused, they must not get lost in the train ! They are marked for the pipe, they are returns from emigrants. The Great "Morgenthau, Barush, Loeb, Warburg Committee for the Emancipation of Peoples" paid them a nice trip. They'll get to the bottom of things... They'll pay off generously... Veni, Vidi, Clabotit.

[142] Denoël sent me a few days ago, for my personal instruction, a report from the "CGT" on the book crisis in France. Document not very substantial where "the pros and cons" run out of steam... where one wonders at length of chapter what will end up being decided after so much "goat and choutage". Nothing at all. The opposite would have surprised us... However, a short passage, against this background, this magma of

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completely innocuous grievances, suddenly awakens the reader... Joy! ... Passages, all in figures, which want them, finally, to say something. I quote : " Annual average spent in a few countries, per inhabitant, per year, for the purchase of books (only basis, possible comparison) United States: 25 francs per head.

Germany: 20 francs per head.

Great Britain: 10 francs per head. Belgium: 3 fr. 50 per head. France: 0 fr. 50 per head."

Here is what fills us! and which comes in the simplest way in the world, revealing to our eyes all the crudeness of the problem, why our daughter is mute, and how the Frenchman gives a damn about the book! as a whole and its particular... Nothing to chew, black on white. Let's accept the fact for what it's worth... Far more amusing than tragic... as cheerfully as it is stated. Not enough to whip a cat... But for example, let's refuse outright, for [143] insulting, as well as repugnant lies, the explanations that are offered to us academically, sleepy, namely that the cinema, the radio, the sports, the periodicals, etc., etc., are responsible for the crisis... prevent the French from reading, from paying for good authors... cheeky silliness, wanton rubbish! United States, England, Germany possesses ten times as much as the rest of us of all these kinds of amusements! and watch how they keep reading...

Benin Duhamel the sleeper, very measuredly moved by all the noise around the book, through Revues and Congrès, comes in his turn to quibble, smear the sentence a little, troufignoliser some relevant adjectives, adverbialiser the agonique. He does not fail to give us on this delicate occasion yet another magnificent book (the critics love the word "book", it sounds familiar, but all the same respectfully admiring, tender, filial). On the grotty he pours out, Benin Duhamel, in two hundred polished pages, here he gives himself in molded tenderness... strives in a thousand cursive marshmallows... "Ah! but! Ah! but! .. . "he wonders Benin, nothing is going right! What a crisis, my emperors! But we are sorry at the end!... to be so little asked! to die in flannel!... So where is it going? Where scatters? Am I asking you? the small plaster?... the small dough of the customers?... I sulk! I sulk! Here it is!... where the little money of our customers is dissipated, our dear customers so measured, so fine, so French, so subtle, so nuanced. etc...! etc... " But Duhamel, dear illustrious, you're not giving a headache! my dear Dumouton, but it's very simple, very easy, elementary, all their money goes to waste! It's not hard to find the little money from customers let's see, put on our glasses, admire another passage from the nice report, other figures... "Alcoholism in France" perfectly eloquent, substantial too. "France is the country with the highest consumption of alcohol in the world... 21 liters 300 of pure alcohol, taxed per capita... per year... (counting the distillers, this figure rises to around 26 liters per head...). The other peoples of Europe all have a lower consumption... By a quarter, half, three

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quarts... 14 liters 84 Italy, 14 liters 80 Spain, 9 liters 27 Belgium, 8 liters 87 Switzerland, 5 liters 64 Austria, 4 liters 89 England and Hungary, 4 liters 52 Czechoslovakia, 3 liters 85 Germany, 3 liters 5 Countries -Low, 2 liters 99 Sweden, 2 liters Denmark, 2 liters 77 Iceland, 1 liter 81 [144] Norway. If the consumption of distilled beverages has fallen since the war by about 1/4 (3 liters of alcohol per inhabitant instead of 4), this reduction has been largely offset by an increase in the consumption of wine, which was before 1900 , about 35 million hectoliters per year, which in recent years has become about 50 million hectoliters per year... It is therefore inaccurate to assert that alcoholism is decreasing in France, on the contrary, it is progressing, but it is produced today more often than before by fermented drinks... The distribution, the habit of drinking has won In women's circles, certain alcoholic habits have become particularly tyrannical, for example, that of the aperitif. (P.Rieman). See that in France, we still know how to have fun... On the question of chest pain, it is therefore absolutely official, tangible, palpable, that the Frenchman fears no one... He demonstrates himself on the clock at full counter, by the carboy, by the barge, by the litres, by the container one desires, the universal champion of vinasse!... lightning, unbeatable and from afar!... Pitiful reader, it is possible, but an unsurpassable alcoholic ! It's not even a question of competing... Who wants the drink? Even the Englishman who is sometimes cited as a proud drunkard, on trial, does not exist. What a bluff! what pretension! It's quite simple, no Nordic, no Negro, no savage, no civilized man approaches the Frenchman from very far, for the speed, the vinassier pumping capacity. Only France could beat its own vinasse records, its descents from Picton. These are pretty much the only records she can break. But in this event "Hors Concours", "Prima Classa". In other sports, of muscles, of breath, the French man spares himself, he reserves himself... He never shows himself very ardent, very lively. He is so brilliant in life, on the stadiums he no longer shines... That the French hate reading? This can very well be understood, defended and even become altogether a pleasant originality... That he prefers chatter to texts, labial rhetoric to deciphering paragraphs... And why not?. . Where is the harm? But that it demonstrates itself, without ever weakening, on any occasion, where it is put online, and for 50 years soon, as flatly, infallibly cakey, childish, in any sport, the laughter of the stadiums of the universe to tell the truth, this to be an originality too, is no less tenaciously humiliating. This enormous, infinite quantity of sports jackets [145] somewhat disturbs the assurance, the natural boastfulness of the French people. For once, in the face of all these defeats, as regular as they are imposing, as unmistakable, its masters quibble a little bit, the masses are wary... are confused... meditate... But why meditate?... The answer is there, quite dazzling, it flows to the full, if I dare say: Vinasse!... infinite quantity of sports jackets [145] somewhat disturbs the assurance, the natural boastfulness of the French people. For once, in the face of all these defeats, as regular as they are imposing, as unmistakable, its masters quibble a little bit, the masses are wary... are confused... meditate... But why meditate?... The answer is there, quite dazzling, it flows to the full, if I dare say: Vinasse!... infinite quantity of sports jackets [145] somewhat disturbs the assurance, the natural boastfulness of the French people. For once, in the face of all these defeats, as regular as they are imposing, as unmistakable, its masters quibble a little bit, the masses are wary... are confused... meditate... But why meditate?... The answer is there, quite dazzling, it flows to the full, if I dare say: Vinasse!...

This preamble is not in vain, it puts us in the presence of another little king of France, monarch in turn, secondary, suzerain, faithful vizier of the great Jewish king... old valiant himself, seasoned, of the brutalization of the masses, by zinc, gossip and grape juice to chemistry... The King Bistrot, also has all the rights, by absolutely intangible political agreement, to complete immunity, to total silence , to all the encouragements, for the exercise of his formidable traffic of poisoner and assassin... Nothing can disturb him: the press, the radio, the Prefects, the whole State him

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are, for his business, entirely submissive, at his orders, eager, unrestrained to serve him better... . Touching the preposterous privileges of vinasse, here is the only crime in France quickly punished... France is entirely sold, liver, nerves, brain, kidneys to the great wine interests. The national poison wine!... The bistro sullies, deadens, assassinates, putrefies the French race as surely as opium rotted, completely liquidated the Chinese race... hashish the Persians, coca the Aztecs... The Jew, when he is asked to see his papers a little bit, instantly declares himself an industrious old Auvergnat, a faithful Bigouden, a loyal Corsican, a Touraine, a Landes, etc... The Picrate too has only virtues, unanimous references, supremely favorable once and for all, that's understood! promulgated at annual billions... Wine is never anything other than harmless, anti-rachitic, hygienic, Gallic, digestive, antiseptic, fortifying, fuel of Intelligence (the most spiritual people in the world) and panacea for the surplus of "long life". But French mortality remains one of the highest in the world...

France, 15.7 (per 100), England, 11.7, Germany; 11.8, Belgium, 12, Spain, 15.6, Ireland, 14.4, Greece, 15.5, Sweden, 11.2, Switzerland, 12.1, Norway, 10.2, Australia,

9.5, New Zealand, 8.2.

In this respect, as in almost all respects, despite the [146] heavy cartloads of sickening sycophancy poured out to us in columns full of garbage cans and each morning our pretty demagogic press, France remains one of the most backward countries in the world. ... Figures in hands. However, let's do justice to the booze. Nothing can replace it to push the masses to crime and to war, to brutalize them to the desired degree. The most complete, most economical moral anesthetic we know is wine! and of first force... "One bugle call! and they will all fly to the borders!" claims Gutman. He's right Gutman, he sees it right. "Having drunk!" let's add! The bugle is not enough. The heart in the stomach is "wine at discretion"... The cocoricant bugle is music, the very soul of wine... The elections of the left I find are even more at the bistro than the elections of the right, without bias. The bistros have never experienced crowds comparable to those earned by "the 40 hours". The people ? Never so much leisure, Never so drunk... Never have the lemonade business been so encouraging, never have great aperitifs experienced such prosperity. Take a look at their material?... What a luxury!... A perpetual July 14th... Democracy is overflowing... Never has wine advertising (and wine-cooked derivatives, etc.) been so brazen, so insolent... The presumptuousness of the great nectars is at its height... What do they risk?... Nothing!... The 350,000 bistros of France have replaced everything in the life of the masses... the church, the songs, popular dances, legends, etc... The little people, the poorest crowd, are brought, drained to the zinc like the calf to the watering hole, mechanically, the first station before the slaughterhouse. The people no longer feel the need for anything other than new bistros, "more leisure and more bistros".

The libraries?... Ask a little, if more people have visited them since the 40 hours... They have even taken away from him even the idea, the people, the imagination, that he could perhaps

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to be to escape, to be "transposed" in another way than by getting drunk... chronically... The spiritual center, the center of the spirit, of attraction, the power, the "catalysis" of the village n t is no longer the church, neither the castle nor even the town hall... It is the bistro, well and truly... What spiritual gain!... and in the cities the bistro plus the cinema... the " complete" of modern bewilderment. The 350,000 bistros of France, the flattering and honeyed guards of the little working people are 350,000 times more formidable, irremovable, meticulous than all [147] the other obvious, previous tyrants, bosses, squires, priests, jerks... No comparison. .. They bleed and ring the people at the base... They deliver it to the Jews, to the generals the people, mouldering, burping, staggering, disgusting, What did they undertake? what have even our immense humanitarians attempted? our painful big brothers? These "infinite participants" in all the sufferings of the people, to free the people from their most intimate, their most implacable, their most insatiable tormentor, alcohol?... Absolutely nothing at all!... On the contrary! Just as stock market speculators, jobbers of all kinds, in raw materials, Jews or Jews, had never experienced a similar period as magnificently fruitful as the one we have been going through since the triumph of the Front des masses, so have the "great winegrowers and distillers", owe the most marvelous of candles to the government "Boom Bloum" for the miraculous forty hours and the incredible increase in the vinassir powers of the crowds. What have they done, our quivering dissipators, dispersers of darkness, to disperse a little bit all this alcohol of which we are bursting?... Ah! they themselves would soon be dispersed by the loudest thunderstorm that ever blew through the pigsties of Lucifer!... if they risked a treacherous word! What have our big rebels of the big mouth, our marvelous destroyers of all iniquities, tried to clean up the street a little?... To shake up even a little, the most disgusting, the most vile and the most cowardly of all the known dictatorships, that of the 350,000 bistros? all dazzling, shimmering in full glory and fortune...draining, decimating, putrefying, with the full protection of all public powers, at full throttle all the famous hobbies? The whole extent of this territory is nothing more than a formidable enterprise of brutalization, a gigantic cesspool of Jews and vinasse... Does anyone know about it?... simple beef but a Himalaya on the language of the great Jews! "Commodo et incommodo"... What nonsense?... The Frenchman is handed over hand and foot to the great vinasse industrialists, Jews or not... Lemonade is queen, if the Jew is king... We s going to bother, crusade! two or three unfortunate brothels in the provinces, in the name of general hygiene, of public morality, of such and such calembredaines, but with impunity aside, they file you [148] with madness, crime, spoilage at full counter , over the length of four hundred thousand zincs and no one winces! and everyone is very happy!... What bastards of bastard hypocrites!

Besides, all our yurts of great socialism (those who hardly toast) show themselves in practice, in the political kitchen, in complete solidarity with all the vinasses, they will naturally crawl towards the Emperor Hooch, to be endorsed , vote, induct. Precautions, tributes, and recognition... Their second circumcision. The talkative, free-riding and vain South is an excellent place for Jews, absolutely welcoming. The opium of the people is no longer religion, poor beleaguered legend, but vinasse in full triumph. Religion is discussed,

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refutes, offers a thousand outlets for ridicule but not the vinasse... Between him and nothingness, the Frenchman has only the Jew and the vinasse... Jews and vinasse triumph together... let's never forget that 80 for cent of the enormous quantity of alcohol consumed in France comes from the wine "Le long vaing de nos pères!"... naïve pickets. They never suspected the very existence, these ancestors, of our terrible breast-breakers, of our stuffed poisons, of these vitriols of labels, of our Elixirs of Asylum, with which we garnish, overhang, flood today like s it rained down the pedestal tables and the zincs of the sovereign people, under the delighted eye of its great apostles! The Bastille?... Fun!... But look around on the very location of the Bastille... all the bistros spread out. . But they are all worth a hundred thousand Bastilles!... for the cane and the exploitation. The sovereign people?... But since 93 they have been sovereign in a still! He never got out! It will never come out of it!... Not a measure, an Edict, a simple decree, since that famous sovereign day, which has not been meditated, promulgated, designed for glory, for glory, for impunity, insolence, for the perfect prosperity of the proliferating bistro! We have seen it all, the height! We have seen a Minister, and of Public Instruction, push through formal circulars for the [96] consumption of wine in all the schools of France!... Fear that people think about it a little less... teachers, by very strong exhortations, O the government of the people for the people, by vinasse!

[149] O Hydra of ignorance!...

In a country, it should be noted, where 50% of the conscripts are eliminated each year for various rickety causes, "adjourned" completely pathetic, by the Board of Review, more and more lenient, very anxious to maintain the numbers and to retain as many people as possible under the flag... 50% of the French population, thanks to wine, has thus fallen very clearly to the rank of physiological waste. This imbibition, this alcoholic massacre of the entire race is not, moreover, one of the least causes of this general weakening... of this great anemia, sterility, banality, boredom, this lack of all inspiration, effeminization . all French intellectual production... The intellectuals, after the people, have gradually lost all significance, all power, all enterprise, all real music... Velleitaires locked up in meat that is deeply, fatally alcoholic, diluted in vinasse. .. The usual drama of mental and physical degeneration of the doomed, alcoholic races. The great Jews of the popular front, perfectly informed, make no mistake about it... They quite naturally establish their headquarters in the major wine-growing departments... They know very well that a dictatorship in France can only hold, can only last in the enormous imbibition, the dip, the colossal vinassic bewilderment of all individuals, children included, hereditary... The Frenchman is currently the only living being under the sky, animal or man, who never drinks pure water... He is so inverted in his tastes that water now seems toxic to him... He turns away from it, as from a poison. In what way, I ask you, were the Chinese absolutely robbed, conquered, annihilated, dissolved, crushed? By opium!... And the Redskins?

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they who at first so splendidly rustled the Yankees wherever they met them, by whom were they, these valiants, finally reduced to slavery?... by brandy!... and all the negroes?... all the colonizable in general? by the tafia!... by the most popular poison at the time of the conquest... Nothing could be smarter... The French will suffer their fate, they will be put, one day, in the vinasse sauce... They already are. No mistake!... The conqueror must be [150] sure of his slaves everywhere, always in hand, sordidly submissive, he must be certain of being able to launch them, on the chosen day, perfectly dazed... docile. .. to the bone... doddering with servitude, in the most rumbling, roaring meat ovens... without ever balking, without a single hair of this herd standing up in hesitation, without there escapes from this horde the most furtive suspicion of complaint... The herd climbs admirably, it must be said, all the ordeals that are presented to it, it goes up to the crematory very well, all alone, simply stimulated by the exhortations, the howls of the gallery it is understood. This miracle has become commonplace, it has taken place every day since the beginning of the centuries, tyrannies and wars... but everything happens even better, much more admirably, more spontaneously, dizzyingly to tell the whole story when the organizers can initiate, prepare, rock the great sacrifice in the vapors of a few potions, some well-packed magic chemical rot, some solid, constant, unfailing, economical nervine poison, for us French, our vinasse... So, it's full billiards! from the Paradise of the mass grave on earth, we gain in everything, on everything, on the surface as well as in depth... On one side the slaughterhouse, we dress it up and prepare it... on the other side we distill with full pipes, barges, barges... The banks are happy, we press, we filter, we tug, at any capstan!... Instinct does the rest... Always there, present, lurking, instinct, unmistakable, unmistakable, the instinct of Death, deep within men. at the bottom of the races that are about to disappear, the instinct of which we never speak, which never speaks, the most tenacious, the most solid, impeccable, the mute instinct... He who is never drunk, waits, hears ... What posters! What promises! what euphoria!... the nectarde demagogy, thunderous, explodes!... It's the fair! the great carnival of the verb to lie... Listen to these servants of torture what they howl with full lies in front of their victims... They have lies full the mouth: the instinct of which we never speak, which never speaks, the most tenacious, the most solid, impeccable, the mute instinct... He who is never drunk, waits, hears... What posters! What promises! what euphoria!... the nectarde demagogy, thunderous, explodes!... It's the fair! the great carnival of the verb to lie... Listen to these servants of torture what they howl with full lies in front of their victims... They have lies full the mouth: the instinct of which we never speak, which never speaks, the most tenacious, the most solid, impeccable, the mute instinct... He who is never drunk, waits, hears... What posters! What promises! what euphoria!... the nectarde demagogy, thunderous, explodes!... It's the fair! the great carnival of the verb to lie... Listen to these servants of torture what they howl with full lies in front of their victims... They have lies full the mouth:

"What do the people want?... What do the people demand?...

"Work. And bread!..." But no! bastards! but no!... And you know it well! better than any other!... The people demand leisure and vinasse! first of all. Much more wine is bought in a working-class family in France than milk or bread... Alcohol and tobacco cost the people much more than their food. Admit it rotten! [14] (pp. 151-160)

[151] Wendel! Wendel! Wendel! Tartuferies! Puffing outrages! I know a hundred distillers, a hundred times more criminal than Wendel!... who kill year after year, a hundred times more people than all the Wendels on earth... And their business is much more solid, much less threatened than those of Wendel!... But these people hold, as you well know, all your electors, all the lists in their hands, and you close all your filthy stinking mouths of baleful clowns, because you are afraid, an infernal fear distillers your masters?... Take a look at their

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"shares"?... Their capital increases!... Have you even touched them with a beginning of rigor?... Not so stupid!... They are the darlings of the regime, of all the regimes and of the one you are preparing. They can always, these praetorians of poison, wait, like the Jews, under the elm tree, with their "permanence bistros" in complete serenity, the end of your antics, masquerades, nonsensical upheavals, .. they know what the yardstick of any Revolution... They weighed them all in muids, in barrels, all, they know that without them, all authority in France will collapse, without recourse, without appeal... They know that we will not do without never from them... They are the ones who make your electors crawl to the polls, they are the ones who make your soldiers' blood boil. Without bistros, you are nothing, with bistros you are everything. Tomorrow, the revolution made, the "communist", more bistros than ever on the territory... "Free France, staggering, disgusting and happy!..."

As vain, narrow-minded and frivolous as you may be... there are lessons from history that we learn... You have surely learned that the Tsar paid hard for his last "Ukases", his rescripts against the Vodka. It was his own edicts that made him topple the Tsar, tumble from the throne, and finally gut him in the Siberian cellar... far better than all the chatter of the Jew Ulyanov-Lenin. Stalin him, is not so mad... He will always leave in spite of everything, some rubles with his mouzhiks so that they can, no matter how black, in spite of all their miseries, very deeply the mouth. First of all, who is not always, more or less drunk, "between two wines", will never be here, or there, but a pale citizen, picky idiot, ugly comrade and dubious soldier. He is an equivocal man, all puffed up with mistrust, a watery anarchist, who needs to be pierced.

[152] With the ransom that you pay to the Jews, to your masters, international bankers, tomorrow the Grand Commissars of the People, you would have enough to live on doing nothing two days out of three.

Another brazen lie, a credo for vinous mouths, a chutzpah of infamy, "the proletarian International"! There exists in all the world only one true international, it is the racial Jewish tyranny, banking, absolute politics... That one, is international! we can say it! without interruption, without a total failure, from Hollywood, from Wall-Street the youtre, from Washington (Roosevelt is only the playboy instrument of the great Jews Morgenthau, Loeb Schiff, Hayes, Barush and associates) to Moscow, from Vancouver to Milan... A true international, very integral, very intricate, very inflexible, very sinuous, aurified, scraping, suspicious, criminal, anxious, insatiable. always in conquest, never satisfied, never tired, never drowsy... The "International" of the Aryans, of the workers, is just a song...exactly! nothing but a song for slaves, nothing more... One day the people would have to violently, furiously tear off the moth from their eyelashes to realize that their "Internationale" in mouth, their famous thunderous, is is just another bogus, another well twisted, well warped record, the enormous fantastic humbug of its appointed leaders... Another swindle of youtres!... no more "Internationale" for the "damned of the Earth" so much butter on the balcony!... The Workers' International is the prestidigitation, the socio-gigantic imposture of the very great ancestor "Marx Brother" the first by name... the Hirsute, to rip off the idiots of 'Aryans. He succeeded nicely [153]! To the Jews the golds and the beefsteaks, to the stupid Aryans sticks and songs... each one his kind... his destiny.

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A clamor: the International! A drunkard's lament, a lullaby for captives. No more worker fraternity throughout this great world than Jews on the front line... It is even quite the opposite that exists, it is obvious, from one end of the planet to the other.. These peoples who seek each other to embrace each other, to come together across cursed frontiers... prevented as they are the unfortunate ones from crowding together heart to heart by the wicked capitalists... What a terrible jigger! What a shameless imposture!... Nothing could be more absolutely contrary to all reality!... In the Congresses, yes! without a doubt! in palavers and blunders, of course! at Grange-aux-Belles, or elsewhere, we certainly fraternize! between "delegates" very fyke, well-off, not tired, not clumsy, how much we roar at such nonsense! This good crap! What are we risking? We toast! we put that back! we [99] promise each other!... and how do we castigate!... at hell what do you want! all the profiteers of the Regimes, the iniquities, the exploiters, the organizers of "Scarcity" ah! ha! this good crack!... the stuffed ones here... the ferocious ones sated with that... But in practice? Gentlemen, ladies? ... Once returned home, the same, exactly the same sold, how they rush to the police. demanding, begging for tighter restrictions, tougher immigration. turn the screw! So no more sentences, gentlemen, ladies, no more sighs! no more salads!... no more tremolos!... realities! directives that are very selfish, very tough, very formal... Down with the lousy ones!... Down with the "de facto" communists! To those who would like to feel, share among the peoples the riches of the soil!... organize justice, distribution... All these skinny, stray, sniffing dogs! off the coast! For God Sake! and then to the cudgel! Here is the concrete language of the fraternizing delegates of the most opulent "trade unions" once they have returned home...

Homelands no longer exist! But the beautiful "standards" of existence, they have never existed so many... So many countries, so many "standards" of existence and ferociously defended, I beg you to believe, by those who enjoy themselves... and feverishly envied by those who skip it... It is a deep, permanent... deaf... unavowable... war between all the proletariats... and no less ferocious than the other... between the most low "standards" and then "the standards-[154]full-the-head"... The standards have borders and barbed wire, I assure you, even more than the Homelands... Go and try yourselves, you , proletarian, turner, hairdresser, milliner, typist, any dauber, to earn a little crust in the United States!... in England, in Sweden, in Holland... like that, on the flan... all natural!... to treat yourself a little bit... to a higher "standard of existence" (so to marner a little less while getting paid more), you will see a little bit, as you go bounce! and on the spot! without discussion ... eliminated with great blows of the slats, like a cheeky purulent mangy! Ah! it won't be pretty to see! Ah! It's dead, it's too sad, the brotherhood of workers!... if it ever existed! the fruits of the promise, the excellent fraternal thing, so much vaunted, howled, the great participation of which we speak in all the congresses, to all the echoes of the world, so how do we get ourselves extended!... It is no need to insist! This adorable fraternity, it's a rhetoric, it doesn't exist!... They make you see, from the frontier, one of those implacable cudgels, one of those "iron stamped" truncheons, which rush you right into the niche you're leaving! impertinent crazy!... no pity! no jeremiads!... in the practice of slaves, each one has his own galley... No daydreams... The ship where one is better fed does not take fugitives at all, the free riders of the other crews... those who come to swim along the good hulls how we put them off! with great blows of chucks full the vial! let them go to no jeremiads!... in the practice of slaves, each one has his own galley... No daydreams... The ship where one is better fed does not take fugitives at all, the free riders of the other crews... those who come to swim along the good hulls how we put them off! with great blows of chucks full the vial! let them go to no jeremiads!... in the practice of slaves, each one has his own galley... No daydreams... The ship where one is better fed does not take fugitives at all, the free riders of the other crews... those who come to swim along the good hulls how we put them off! with great blows of chucks full the vial! let them go to

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melt those crap! to get swollen!... Ah! It is well organized the defense of good democratic borders! No pity! No mistake! No free-rider! The envious! the chicks, to the puppies! Each people for itself!... And to the surin! with pomegranate if it is useful! At the door of each country it is written, very black on pink... the beautiful welcome that awaits you all the proletarians of the world! "HERE IT'S COMPLETE"... That's it! it's weighed!... Don't imagine, to give yourself an explanation, that it is especially the "big ones", the "two hundred families", who drive back the hoodlums from elsewhere... But no! But no! understand well... it would make them rather happy... the "exploiters" to receive quantities! "ass combs" from other hemispheres!... Why not ? They would only have to gain from it... Less expensive labor... more customers... For their own benefit!... These are indeed [155] for the circumstance, in each country , the proletarians fiercely in quarter, unionized, organized, entrenched behind the bosses who absolutely defend their surroundings... their "switchboard" acquired their radio, their fridge, their car, their tailcoat, the kind of luxury in short (most often on credit) by all means of force and bad faith... by "Emigration" above all, by the intractable police. We have to do battle with these affectionate nonsense that we laugh at full blast, all the time. Any "Trade-Union" English, American, Danish, etc... is infinitely more scathing towards the "thin" workers of other countries than all the possible bosses put together... implacable!... constitutes indeed the most disgusting farce of this last century... All the facts of all the borders contracted before us, prove absolutely the opposite, in the practice of the "croque", the only one which comes into play, " working-class speaking". Never have the "favoured" proletarians been so strongly attached to their relative patriotic privileges, those who hold within their borders abundant wealth from the soil, have no desire to share. "Nature knows no borders" Hi! She perfectly endowed certain territories with all the riches of the world while she left to others, for all appreciable fortune, flints and cholera. The borders came by themselves, quite naturally... The men, they put themselves in terrible quarters as long as they can, they value it more than honor, these good riches of the soil... They defend them at all costs. to tell the truth, like the apple of their eye... against any interference, against any kind of sharing with the proletarians of other seedy countries, with the children of bad luck, who were not born on oil... Everything else is n it's all foolishness, antics, marxeries. We have never seen, heard, the rich "British Trade-Union" to present to its "Communes" some nice motion of welcome in favor of the unemployed specialists Belgians, French, Japanese, Spanish, Vlachs, "class brothers" in misfortune. Never!... Nor the US unions To ask that the ferocious "quotas" be unbridled a little... Not at all! nails ! on the contrary!... For the affluent proletariats, the others have only to manage or all die in their mire... neither more nor less... It is deserved... They are enemies. .. enemies of the same [156] "class" on the terrible question of beef... Adamant! Every man for himself!... To ask that we unleash the ferocious "quotas" a little... Not at all! nails ! on the contrary!... For the affluent proletariats, the others have only to manage or all die in their mire... neither more nor less... It is deserved... They are enemies. .. enemies of the same [156] "class" on the terrible question of beef... Adamant! Every man for himself!... To ask that we unleash the ferocious "quotas" a little... Not at all! nails ! on the contrary!... For the affluent proletariats, the others have only to manage or all die in their mire... neither more nor less... It is deserved... They are enemies. .. enemies of the same [156] "class" on the terrible question of beef... Adamant! Every man for himself!...

Galleries no doubt! All ! But don't confuse galleys and galleys!... Those who grumble on the oar bench, those who leap on oil, "sail" and "steam"... There's a difference everywhere! Capital nuances... No defectors... No stratagems! Those who must stay will stay!... It's not a Salvation Army!... very solid sleeves, full of mouth for those who will not understand!... Only the Jews, can at any time, any moment, penetrate, filter, settle in all the States of the world, they enjoy in everything and everywhere, the same privileges exactly as the Roman citizens of formerly throughout their Empire... The Jews

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are at home, everywhere... therefore it is justice!... The Jews, "Civis devorans", do not stop darkening, going up to you in the quarry, always, still, on some new expanses... They then come in gangs! all camouflaged, very sinuous, very supple, very greedy... bankers, Virtuosos, pilgrims, cousins, filmmakers, ministers, Powers of equivocation... They are immediately adopted, adapted, pampered, doped, thoroughly re-carded. .. darlings... They are the lords of the world... Nothing is more normal!... They feast as soon as they arrive. But us, the simple jobs, the rough teasers, that only our hands recommend and our little tricks... what the fuck are we going to do, us in the adventure?... so far from our steeples?. .. The Aryan can't weigh very heavily at the immigration barriers... We're going to make him suddenly lose all his illusions, his proletarian "humanities". It will be, from the first customs startled, expelled, propelled, dissolved. He will not have taken a look, a first glance at the promised land, the happy shore, that he will already be crestfallen, heartbroken, put in a box, thrown back into the bottom of the cargo... That will teach him this cellar, repeating the refrains, things he can't understand... Never have the borders, the ports been so fiercely prohibited for the Aryans, bristling with absolutely exclusive regulations, draconian prescriptions, lazarettos and donkeys. .. The fine, the interrogations, the search, the disgusting quarantines, that's all for him... the whole range of police humiliations, filthy and prophylactic. all the armaments of the good war against the manure which is brought, it must be rebarred from the start! take away from him and forever the idea of coming back... of transplanting to the little thing to cure him of the adventure... let him weave himself! let it rot elsewhere! It is the law of strong countries. Ruthless "quotas" [157] very well protecting all the States, where life is a little less hard, against the rush of beggars... the "owning proletariat"... against the invasion of the starving who come to complain to its borders, prowling around the pot-au-feu... take away from him and forever the idea of coming back... of transplanting to the little thing to cure him of the adventure... let him weave himself! let it rot elsewhere! It is the law of strong countries. Ruthless "quotas" [157] very well protecting all the States, where life is a little less hard, against the rush of beggars... the "owning proletariat"... against the invasion of the starving who come to complain to its borders, prowling around the pot-au-feu... take away from him and forever the idea of coming back... of transplanting to the little thing to cure him of the adventure... let him weave himself! let it rot elsewhere! It is the law of strong countries. Ruthless "quotas" [157] very well protecting all the States, where life is a little less hard, against the rush of beggars... the "owning proletariat"... against the invasion of the starving who come to complain to its borders, prowling around the pot-au-feu...

It is only in France that we receive everything... That is to say, everything that our Jewish conquerors bring behind them... all of us, all of Africa, the Near East, all their janissaries, their killers, their henchmen, all of them! more and more voters... Of course, let's understand that the low youtre, the fias, the "unichemise" who has just come out of his souk... from the depths of his Romanian ghetto, he finds a serious difference, a strange change when he sees the Place Pigalle ... All these stores, these torrents of light bulbs, these pyramids of odds and ends, It throws his eyes full... all these little sucking saleswomen, he likes it enormously... He finds himself at the moment, delighted , transposed sinoqué, he who for 14 centuries has not stopped cunning, shuddering from one cholera to another, from typhus in thirty-six massacres, from shit blood of rout, from all the steppes and pogroms , he finds this country all open, prettily, madly delicious... It's no surprise that he's delirious... that he quickly takes himself for a pope...But we shouldn't go off the rails, declare that it happened... The reality is quite different!...

France is not a rich country, far from it!... It is even a poor country, a country of little resources, of little economy, a country naturally miserly and petty in its contours. A soil which can give neither oil, nor copper, nor cotton, which only allows very mediocre agriculture, is not a rich soil! It's a country with shabby soil, for shabby... It's a country where you have to row, toil, just to live. Especially with the huge tithe we pay to our Jewish, national and international parasites (3/4 of our income, roughly). If the natives rave, they are quick to skip it. This is the law of shabby, "looking" floors. It is

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as things present themselves, no more and no less. We need to obtain the essentials of our existence, our raw materials from outside (except wine alas!) These economic conditions make us perfectly dependent on the departure of foreigners... No more land "blessed by the gods" than sugar on the balcony... The regions blessed by the gods are America, England (and the colonies), the Scandinavians (because of their situation), Holland and a few others, whose [158] proletariats ipso facto did not have no kind of desire to share their native resources with the seedy people here... Better than that, they exploit us! and without pity, and how! behind their Jews... as one man!... They are privileged slaves, captives of the good galley... You must never confuse...

Any good English proletarian finds himself pretty happy, "in petto", in full solidarity with the Lords on this point, that 300 million Hindus in rags and other exploited frims, make him very happy, half-animals, half-humans , scattered at the bottom of the universe, fellahcieux, feathered Incas, coolies, benibouffes, anthropogans, red kaffirs, orthocudes, Karcolombèmes, quite of the opinion that all these wretches jump it, over there, smoke it, twist it , starve it, break their ass all for him... Rummage the mines, prune the rice fields, rake the pampas, to send him his comfort... On that, he is pitiless!... Selfish, "Briton d' on board" ! He is not at all "brother of pain...". He doesn't want to share either with me, or with him... or with you... With the "Britons" only and his Jewish masters. He finds that the conquest of the weak represents many advantages... It's puritanical hypocrisy, you don't know it yet, it is taken over by the Syndicates and then "over-brazed"... If you want to have fun, go and try the experience, introduce yourself a little bit, to the "Alien offices" (from the Latin alienus: madman) in any port on the coast... Dover, Folkestone or elsewhere... So go find out if you can't land... look for a little job in London... something a bit up your alley... If you've ever waltzed in your painful existence, you'll learn in less than two... You'll be blown away , volatilized in the atmospheres so much you will provoke, violent, their indignation... Kif!

If you want oil, cotton, copper, proletarian from here, my friend, you must first, enlighten, fatten, a little bit and seriously friends, the proles opposite... other side of the border, the humanitarian patter, at that moment, is no longer enough!... You must first pay the tithe to your class brother, better shared than your apple by birth, soil, luck... He was born there, on an oil well, that counts... And how! And good for him! He will never present you with a scrap of the [159] cake he bites... He awaits your tithe... joyfully! You can burst along his edge, he is completely insensitive on the question of sharing, like a Jew, like a boss... He becomes inflexible chauvinist from that moment on... "Comfort" has no ears throughout the world... You can keep your salads!... The absolute sharing of all the goods of the earth is an orchestra for the Congresses. a popular orpheon!... It goes no further than the music, like the beautiful hymn to Degeyter... That's all... In practice, the class brothers, once they have cleared their customs , that they came back from talking, that they dried their saliva, become perfectly patriotic, to prevent you from being annoying, they will find themselves perfectly united with their police, with their bosses, so that you stay dying outside. Even though they have extra junk, no longer knowing where to shove it, they it is an orchestra for the Congresses. a popular orpheon!... It goes no further than the music, like the beautiful hymn to Degeyter... That's all... In practice, the class brothers, once they have cleared their customs , that they came back from talking, that they dried their saliva, become perfectly patriotic, to prevent you from being annoying, they will find themselves perfectly united with their police, with their bosses, so that you stay dying outside. Even though they have extra junk, no longer knowing where to shove it, they it is an orchestra for the Congresses. a popular orpheon!... It goes no further than the music, like the beautiful hymn to Degeyter... That's all... In practice, the class brothers, once they have cleared their customs , that they came back from talking, that they dried their saliva, become perfectly patriotic, to prevent you from being annoying, they will find themselves perfectly united with their police, with their bosses, so that you stay dying outside. Even though they have extra junk, no longer knowing where to shove it, they become perfectly patriotic, to prevent you from being boring, they will find themselves in perfect solidarity with their police, their bosses, so that you stay dying outside. Even though they have extra junk, no longer knowing where to shove it, they become perfectly patriotic, to prevent you from being boring, they will find themselves in perfect solidarity with their police, their bosses, so that you stay dying outside. Even though they have extra junk, no longer knowing where to shove it, they

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prefer that we screw it up rather than give it to you... it would hurt them... Textual... It would lower all their prices, their lifestyle, their tithe on your apple, and their bathroom. baths. From then on, more friends, more phrases! no more galley fraternity! Dog go to bed!... They don't want that, name of God! Everything but not that!... Terrifyingly patriotic as soon as you want to take back their bathroom... Hands off... Back! Out of here! filthy calamities! filthy, naughty, gamey! That's how they receive you! You are informed... Immensely shared! humanitarians certainly as far as the eye can see, rectifiers of infinite wrongs, as long as it doesn't cost a little fang, not a smaller spring of comfort, bed base, super-radio... or else... Nothing! they go into a trance, in tetanus... There's nothing to beat yourself up about, vociferate scandal, it's human, it's quite natural! However, we must be aware that we are a "tributary" country and this is exactly the case with ours, for essential foodstuffs, for the materials essential to everyday life, that if we start operate haphazardly, on credit, by the providence of the birds, then it's the end of love! We can expect an awakening, which is not in a bagpipe when we let ourselves be taken in by the absurd, when we go beyond the means, when we start to burn our reserves... when we fart more onion is high... Fate awaits you... and it's not at all funny... It can get very strange... Even worse than we've ever seen... to find oneself one fine morning with one's balls so heavy, so heavy after the pumps that one is a slave to all the others, definitely once and for all... of all the English on earth, of the Brazilians, of the cows -boys, of all... and even more of the Jews... It becomes the infernal prison, it weighs enormously on you... you automatically tumble to the rank of botocudos, circumfits, yatagans, zouzous, cafres, all the flogellates, of the "Colonial Governments". All the filthiness of the sub-slaves who leave their bones all over the place, in the deserts, the plains, the ice, so that the gentlemen up there, bourgeois as well as workers, do not suffer too much from times so hard, as their cricket season begins all the same at its time, that the crisis does not make the magnificent English dogs suffer too much,

[15] (pp. 161-170)

[161] I was talking to you about some professional things about the book crisis... and then I stopped... I'm going to pick up a bit... It will relax you. The "Book" is not very serious... It's a very incidental subject... entertainment I hope... Everyone talks about "literature". I can also, in my turn, give my little opinion... I support myself, on this subject, from a small series of articles which seemed very funny to me... in the "New Literature" (when I want to tense up, I buy them)... Yves Gandon, so-called critic, armed with a strong polishing brush, was reviewing, with what care! for the admiration of readers, some of the best-chosen texts, of some great contemporaries... The commentator's cunning, his admirable prowess in everything, consisted in underlining all the Charm, the fine artifices, the relevant subtleties, all the spell of these Masters, their indescribable magic, by the intuitive analysis, very "proustageous", of some texts particularly loaded with genius.

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Work, enterprise, devotion of an extreme audacity! of a perilous delicacy! The shivering commentator ventured even more beyond... but then, beading with anguish! to the Holy of Holies! even to the Treasury! to style! in the reflection of God! even the quiverings of Form in these Messiahs of Beauty! After what pious approaches! What incredible luxury of preambles!... What fragile swoons!... Ah! If I were treated like this, how impossible I would become! Let's watch him work... Soon [162] staggering... completely dazzled... our guide pulls himself together again... faints. Words fail him... Panting, he asks us if we can still follow him... endure so much splendor... Are we worthy?... Are we worthy? Himself who thought he knew everything... he is troubled enough to lose his senses... He had an idea... some confused imagination of the extent, the depth, the chasms of these styles!... Presumptuous!... He knew nothing!. .. Barely the Firstfruits!... In this manor of a thousand and one marvels, all succumbing to admiration... Gandon staggers!... all tottering... Shivering!... Tragedy!... The Tragedy ! Ah! I'Intrépide!... from indescribable ornaments to exquisite cascades... from sublime and even more sublime passages... to dizzying falls... these masterful texts... literally magical turn out to be dripping with infinite aesthetic contributions ... moving Messages... invaluable spiritual gems... We no longer know where to prostrate ourselves more... Ah! really it is too much!... Gandon, himself, however, transposed by the faith that ignites him, can take no more... He surrenders!... He gives himself!... He implores us to his aid. Ah! fast ! Let's act, let's help! Let's support Gandon!... Let's prevent the worst! Let's get ahead of some atrocious outcome... Pity! Let's detail! Let's share his ecstasy! Humanity commands it! Courage ! Valor! For him alone, it's very simple if he insists, if he persists! It's death ! In the sentences! by the sentences! Passed away by beauty!... by phrasal Beauty! Gandon! Ah! Valor! For him alone, it's very simple if he insists, if he persists! It's death ! In the sentences! by the sentences! Passed away by beauty!... by phrasal Beauty! Gandon! Ah! Valor! For him alone, it's very simple if he insists, if he persists! It's death ! In the sentences! by the sentences! Passed away by beauty!... by phrasal Beauty! Gandon! Ah!

It's too much ! So much verbatim perfection... for a single adulator... It's damnation!... we suffocate for him!...

O murderous literary delights! O murderous inkwells, phrase-like delights! To what atrocious paroxysms! spared the vulgar, do not practice Purismology! your best children! Blessed dirty filth! Blissful brutes!... squatting in the consonances!... From leathers to velvet you will ascend to heaven!... But he, Gandon, does not belong to the race of more or less-ist celebrants... who put up texts in the shade... He's a Jansenist, Mordieu! damn impeccable... the lukewarmness would drive him to murder... He only wants our salvation through ecstasy... and not a sleepy ecstasy... A thrilling ecstasy!... transfiguring!.,. Ah! please, he urges us...take me there...this nuance...here!...inferred from this unstable turn...Ah! before a horrible zephyr disperses it forever... the iridescent wave... have you seized it?... I won't survive it!... Ah! Hold me, I succumb... Ah! I fail [163] dear reader, to delight... Ah! the strength of this "epiphora"... barely after this "synthote" ah! ah!... I panic... I turn pale... the priceless audacity... Ah! how the Master transfixes us! Ah! what a miraculous virtuoso... Ah! woe to him who does not sigh! And violence! Imagine! of this simple comma! But it's genius! It's genius!... And the irresistible weakness of this deferred fall? Ah! bite this singular feature... these two conjunctions... which confront each other... Ah! is it characteristic!... He remakes Pascal in three words... Racine in

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twelve!... Ah! how he takes us by the adverb! Ah! the monster ! Ah! the divine!... Ah! This Gide finally! ... This Maurras! Ah! this Maurois! What would Proust say? Ah! the dizziness of this Claudel! Ah! the infinite Giraudoux! Ah! Gandon! Why wouldn't you sing?... It would still be, I assure you, much better, much more marvelous!... more loving!...

Look over here! Look over there!

How to find this?... Look over here! Look over there!

How do you find that? It is thus in the Bells of Corneville with the music, the umbrella and the intonations...

I certainly wouldn't want to come to Gandon's effort, to his Mass, his devout trances, to come and play the clever kid, the nasty atheist, the little spitter, the vandal. the denigrator at all costs, out of system and sadistic pleasure... It's not my style, my intention... but all the same I don't agree... Since Literature is not a big deal, we can to say what we think about it... Me, in all this, that he admires Gandon, I can't find a rabbit fart, I should perhaps be ashamed! but in vain I widen myself, the clarity does not reach me... I must be very opaque... For me it's all "Goncourt"... pull myself together, stiffen myself, pinch myself again, Suspend myself, I find nothing at all... In any of these people, and then no longer in all the others of the same vintage. I must be vaguely crippled. In my obtuse sense, they all look alike... fiercely insignificant... A little more a little less of swaggering, pedantry, twisting, inclinations, onanism. That's all I can find out! ... I realize that they try to do big and small effects, that they go to great lengths, it's exact to make the dough rise a little on these platitudes... but the dough never rises... It's a fact... no matter how much you claim the contrary, it's missed... it gives way... it follows. ..

And the more they squirm, manhandle the poor traguitte, the more they sound horribly artificial with all their organs and drums... The more they are painful to watch... the more they screw up intimately and the more they boil with rage and hatred !... let us suspect it and realize it... They can only ever emit "shapeless", it is indicated in the oracles of magma, of "inorganic". .. They are no longer alive enough to engender anything other than hollow stories that no longer hold water... These are nervous pregnancies, infinitely pretentious, authoritarian, touchy, delirious, of pride. The marrow bone has become all hollow... It still makes funny noises... but they don't give out any more marrow at all... It's nobody's fault, and they resent everyone... The most beautiful girl in the world... They can never succeed again... They only talk about creations like frigid women only talk to each other about sex... at a loss of sight, chatterers, silly buggers. moralizing. Nor have they ever enjoyed, the great artists of our great styles... They are the worst business that spend their time judging, pretending, modifying, the business of sex and the arts... They are the worst skins of the book that pisses us off... endless with the resources of their style. They have some Nor have they ever enjoyed, the great artists of our great styles... They are the worst business that spend their time judging, pretending, modifying, the business of sex and the arts... They are the worst skins of the book that pisses us off... endless with the resources of their style. They have some Nor have they ever enjoyed, the great artists of our great styles... They are the worst business that spend their time judging, pretending, modifying, the business of sex and the arts... They are the worst skins of the book that pisses us off... endless with the resources of their style. They have some

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damn never had style! they will never have any! The problem goes beyond them everywhere. A style is an emotion, first above all, above all... They never had any emotion... so no music. Do they catch up on intelligence?... It would be seen.

It's not entirely their fault... these great writers... They have been doomed since childhood, from the cradle to tell the truth, to imposture, to pretensions, to rationalizations, to copies. .. From the benches of the school, they began to lie, to claim that what they read they had lived it in person... To consider the emotion "read", second-hand emotions as their personal emotion! All bourgeois writers are basically imposters! crooks of experience and emotions... They started out in life with a fraud... they continue... they began life with a fraud... the original hideout, "Le high school"... This seminary of the Freemason, the incubator of all privileges, of all cheating, of all symbols. They felt superior, noble "called" special, from the sixth year of their [165] age... An emotional world, a whole life, a whole life, separates the communal school from the high school... Some are right from the start, in the experience, the others will always be pranksters... They only enter the experience later, through the front door, as lords, as impostors... even Valles. They took the road by car, the kids from the town hall, at push-ups... some read the road, others held it back, stopped, subdued step by step... A man is completely complete, emotionally, that is to say, around the twelfth year. It then only repeats itself, it's vice! until death... His music is fixed once and for all... in his meat, like on a photo film, the first impression... It's the first impression that counts. Childhood of the petty bourgeois, childhood of parasites and muzzles, sensitivities of parasites, of privileged on the defensive, of pleasure seekers, of precious little ones, mannered, artificial, emotionally in vicious dislocation until death... They never seen nothing... will never see anything... humanly speaking... They learned the experience in the Greek translations, the life in the Latin versions and the chatter of Mr. Alain... As well as an evil recruit put in the saddle, will climb on the balls askew, during all the rest of his service... all the little bourgeois products are magnifying glasses from the start, emotionally perverted, dried, wrinkled, mannered, preserved, gamey, from the start, Renan included ...

they will remain heavily blocked, impermeable to living waves. Parents, teachers. devoted them, from high school, that is to say forever to simulacra of emotion, to all the charades of the mind, to sentimental impostures, to puns, to equivocal incantations... They will remain decked out , delighted, penetrated, solemn encuistrés of all their limbs, [166] convinced, elated by superiority, babblers of Latino-chuggery, puffed up with Greco-Roman emptiness, with this buffoonish "humanity", this false humility, this fantastic thrift store

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gratuitous, pretentious cooing of formulas, stultifying tambourine of axioms, maniacal, brandished from age to age, for the stultification of young people by the worst parasitic clique, phrasalistic, sly, entrenched, politicking, worm-eaten theory, profiteering, inextricable, twisted , incompetent, enucoid, disastrogenic, of the Universe: the stupid teaching Body...

The Latin versions, the cult of the Greeks, the pretentious and tendentious nonsense, embellished with the Alains, the PluriBendas... will always be right in the mind of the bachelor against direct experience, the direct emotions including the simple life lived directly with all the. personal risks abound... He is inverted from the "sympathetic" the bachelor, from the "sixth" and it is even more serious than the first handjobs and the "onion" inversions... Life is an immense mess where the bourgeois come in, move around, help themselves... and leave without paying... the poor alone pay... the little bell of the cash drawer... it's their emotion... The bourgeois, the little bourgeois children , never needed to checkout... They never had emotions... Of direct emotion, of direct anguish, of direct poetry, inflicted from the first years by the poor condition on earth... They have only ever experienced high school emotions, bookish or family emotions and then later , "distinguished" emotions... even "artistic" emotions... All that they develop thereafter, during their "works" can only be the patching up of borrowed things, of things seen through a screen. - breeze... a bumper or simply stolen from the depths of libraries... translated, arranged, doctored from Greek, classic versions. Never, absolutely never, of direct humanity. Phones. They are castrated from all direct emotion, doomed to endless chatter from the first hours of childhood...as the Jews are circumcised, dedicated to claims... It's all organic. relentless, nothing to say. Their destiny as petty bourgeois Aryans and petty Jews, almost always associated, engendered, nurtured by families, school, by education, consists above all in rendering them insensitive, humanly. It is above all a question of making them cheats, impostors, and pooches, privileged people, social frigids, artists of "concealment"...

French finely French, "bare", adapts [167] marvelously to this purpose. It is even the absolutely indispensable corset for these emotional castrated children, it supports them, assures them, boosts them, provides them in all circumstances with all the charades of imposture, of the "seriousness" that they absolutely need, under penalty of collapse... The beautiful "relevant" style but it is a miracle! to equip all these frigids, these raptors, these impostors!... He endows them with the exact language, the providential vehicle, adjusted, meticulous, here is the impeccable shelter of their emptiness, the hermetic camouflage of all insignificance. "Style" rigid frame of imposture without which they would find themselves literally destitute, instantly dispersed by brutal life, having no substance, no specific quality in their own right... not the slightest weight, the slightest gravity... But with this proud classic corset all covered with formulas, borrowings, references, they can still and how! play their roles, the most monumental of the social farce... so marvelously fruitful to the eunuchs. It's always the fake, the fake, the ignoble and empty junk that imposes on the crowds, the lie always! never the authentic... From then on, it's won! The cause is removed... The "French" of high school, the "French" decanted, French filtered, stripped, French frozen, French rubbed (modernized naturalist), the French of mufle, the French montaigne, root, French Jewish to bacchots French of Anatole l'enjuivé, French Goncourt,

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molded, oriental, unctuous, slippery as shit, it is the very epitaph of the French race. It's Mandarin Chinese. No more need for real emotion in Mandarin Chinese than to express oneself in "high school" French... Just pretend. This is the ideal French for Robots. The truly, ideally bare Man, the one for whom all the literary artists of today seem to write, is a robot. It should be noted that any Robot can be made as shiny, "simple lines", as lacquered, aerodynamic, streamlined as desired, perfectly elegant, up to date. He should hold the entire center of the Palace of Discovery the Robot... He is the culmination of so many "rational" civilizing efforts... admirably naturalistic and objective (However, Robot struck with drunkenness! The only human trait of the Robot to date)... Since the Renaissance, there has been a tendency to work more and more passionately for the advent of the Kingdom of Science and the social Robot . The most bare... the most objective of languages is the perfect [168] objective journalistic language Robot... We are there... No need to have a soul in front of the holes to express oneself humanly... What volumes! ridges! sections! and advertising!... and any robotic nonsense triumphs! Here we are... Since the Renaissance there has been a tendency to work more and more passionately for the advent of the Kingdom of Science and the social Robot. The most bare... the most objective of languages is the perfect [168] objective journalistic language Robot... We are there... No need to have a soul in front of the holes to express oneself humanly... What volumes! ridges! sections! and advertising!... and any robotic nonsense triumphs! Here we are... Since the Renaissance there has been a tendency to work more and more passionately for the advent of the Kingdom of Science and the social Robot. The most bare... the most objective of languages is the perfect [168] objective journalistic language Robot... We are there... No need to have a soul in front of the holes to express oneself humanly... What volumes! ridges! sections! and advertising!... and any robotic nonsense triumphs! Here we are...

All these writers that I am praised for, that I am urged to admire... will never, it is obvious, have the slightest suspicion of direct emotion. They work as mannered "surveyors" until quite soon, when they will only work as surveyors altogether... Perhaps at the last moment, at the moment of dying, they will feel a little authentic emotion, a little shiver of doubt... Nothing is less certain... Their famous stripped neoclassical style, this shiny, bevelled, strictly fitted, ruthless, impeccable cuirass which shields them against any intrusion into life since high school, also forbids them forever , under penalty of being immediately dissolved, resorbed by the living waves, of letting any of them penetrate inside their carcass... The slightest direct emotional contact with the human torrent and it's death!... this time, without a sentence. . . They move at the bottom of the current, as at the bottom of a too heavy river, under an enormous weight of dully caressing treachery, in diving suits, flabbergasted, entangled with a hundred thousand precautions! They communicate with the outside only by microphones, towards the surface. They pontificate in "public" style, impeccable, against all odds, acrobats, soothsayers, cuckolds... They grow up with their breastplate... They die with their breastplate, in their breastplate, hugged, bandaged, salami-cut just the right way. buckled, necked, polished, shiny robots, diving suits crawling under the enormous gear, borrowed from ten thousand pipes and strings almost motionless, almost blind, groping, they thus crawl towards the pretty luminous goal of these existences, deep down deep in darkness... the Retreat... All that emanates from the openings of their armor, from the cracks of these "elite" robots but a few sheaves, bouquets slender, infinite tiny gurglings, their bubbles rising. outdoors. They are never congratulated on the fact that they have finally managed to burst one day, dismember their extraordinary metal yoke, but on the contrary that they sometimes succeed in harnessing themselves even more heavily than the day before, caparisoning themselves better, deck out other overwhelming "cultural" contributions and then keep despite everything, in the depths of their darkness, a sort of possibility of petty gesticulations...

[169] Once back in their "cozy rooms", at the height of chamomile, anguish grips them, torments them for a long, very long time, strangled, livid, obsessed by the memory of these glaucous infinities, these abysses. They depict it with desperate reluctance, all the monsters glimpsed... the other monsters... They

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always rise very badly... very bruised, very painful, under the caresses of the lamp, of these tragic boyscouteries, of its descents to the origins. They then have to "work" very laboriously, from strains to contractions, so that all these fears finally dissipate, rock each other, so that they are deposited, adhere, finally stick to the paper, finally black, soft and warm on white... So much love, even more love, so that their well-massaged, adorably caressed petoche loosens their guts a little... All the affection, so attentive, so vigilant, of a family all moved so that their colic lessens, their teeth calm down... Love, the greatest Love, this redundancy of emptiness, their great hollow soul listener. Why are all these castrates coming to infect us with their novels? of their emotional simulacra? Since they are once and for all, opaque, blind, penguins and deaf! Why don't they devote themselves solely to description, that is to say, to the rehashing and patching up of what they have read in books?... descriptive goncourtism, objective rummaging at full force, Zolaism à la 37, even more scientific-judolatre, Dreyfusian, liberating, than the other or the very minisculeizing analysis of buggery à la Prout-Proust, "risenuance" in fly quarter half dart? or even more simply, furious with constipation, why don't they stubbornly set about sawing the wood relentlessly? in all weathers, a few steres, every day after lunch, and then in the middle of the night? Their insensitive and robotic fatality dooms them all, once and for all, to rigid estimates, descriptions, to the survey of feelings, to grimaces, to collective movements, to booklets on tourism orders, to inserts, to explanations for photographs to advertising subtitles, to event headlines... Out of there, they're finished. Without atrociously blundering, they cannot risk themselves, get involved in the slightest emotional reproduction. You are ashamed to observe them, to snort, to wade as soon as they venture into the slightest expressions of the most natural, the most elementary feelings, it is then an abject [170] sickening catastrophe. Indecent, rude, firecrackers, they are instantly buried under an avalanche of clumsiness and obscenity. At the slightest sentimental incitement they swell, they explode into a thousand infinitely fetid excrement. It is only a maquis of salvation for all these robots oversaturated with objectivism. Surrealism. There, nothing more to fear! No emotion necessary. Take refuge there, proclaim there genius who wants!... Any castrate, any putty, youtre in delirium of imposture goes there of himself to the pinnacle. All that is needed is a small agreement, very easy to conclude with the critic, that is to say between Jews... "My grandmother in the stratosphere hunts the connecting rods of Mr. Picard. The little fish of the Exhibition think of the war... are silent in the Seine... seasickness... will never go to America...

Admirable Jewish thing!...Kif Jewish criticism!...Suddenly above all judgments!...all benchmarks!...all human texts...And the more is neutered, impotent, sterile, pretentious and a joker, worse an impostor, more boring, and the more nerve he will necessarily have, the more genius and fantastic success he will have... (Jewish advertising "at orders", of course). Admirably simple! miracle!... The Renaissance had splendidly prepared, by its enslaved fanaticism, its pre-scientific cult, this stinking evolution towards all baseness. This catastrophic promotion of all the castrates of the world to the royalty of the Arts... Naturalism, this cultural manifesto of "freemason laboratory boys", crap even more tied up, more inferno of Positivism,

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calamitous prejudice to the ultimate potency in fariboles. The trick did not fall on the ears of a deaf Jew...

The Jews, sterile, fops, pests, monstrously megalomaniacal, swine, are now completing, in full form, under the same banner, their conquest of the world the monstrous crushing, degradation, systematic and total annihilation of our most natural emotions. of all our essential, instinctive arts, music, painting, poetry, theater... "Replace Aryan emotion with the black drum."

Surrealism, extension of naturalism, art for hateful robots, instrument of despotism, swindling, Jewish imposture... cadastre of our [16] (pp. 171-180)

[171] emotional degradation... the acre of our mass grave, of our common grave of idolatrous cretins Aryans, cosmics, bastards and cuckolds... And then it's completely typed! admirably... for our faces!... On the doorstep of sur-realism, quivering for a long time with impatience, objectivism, to all degrees, stripping, all our writers, or nearly, never stop no more stripping themselves infinitely of "bell", of all their ultimate substance. If they mishandle each other a little longer, if they strive for the fantastic, if they give way to idealism, to poetry, then here they are, inevitably so bare that they find themselves after so many analyses, in the process of surrealizing... That is to say launched, ambushed, delirious with impunity, in the most preposterous imposture of this century, for the astonishment of the people and the bourgeois... by the accumulation of hollow frenzies, parasymbolic simulacra, the frenetic fraudulent jiggling... Bells all!... bells! ... not even bumblebees! vile little bells! for furious little beasts!

Each time, whether they move a little or a lot, it stirs... it moves... it comes out with little unusual noises, tinny tinkling, little false notes. And then it's fed up, and then that's all... The surrealist invasion, I find it absolutely ready, it can break through without hesitation, by the effect of the law of numbers... say nothing in front of art Robot, ready to melt. The upholders of high culture, the continuators of the classics, have become so slack, arrived at by dint of styliform constipation, at such a degree of weakening by scratching, jerking off, idle clowning, transmutations of false bladders, fraying of fallen symbols. such a degree of stagnation, puffed up with such bland anasarca, bullomatous insignificance, that they now all look horribly alike, lying on all the straw mattresses, in all the lofts of the official Jewish brothel!... They all come out of the same dishes! , of the same infinite rincette... of the goncourtesan insignificance, of the re-crepit putassier Zolasime, the same overworked laundry, the same plunge into soft, opaque, sly and medusoid things!...

I may have badly formed taste, but finally for my humble part, I find that Monsieur Duhamel admirably prolongs M. Theuriet in his pious works... his edifying power, that the house of Bordeaux, Bazin, Bourget cousin, Mauriac son, can replace Mr. Gide admirably for the threading of cocoons. [172] The

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"complicated babies Goncourt", can still perfectly hold all the grades and all the competitions, it is enough that one "freudizes" them with a little care... Mr. Giraudoux, it is a very relevant fact, polishes up when he gives himself to it, just as well as Prout-Proust. M. Paul des Cimetières Valéry foams, pecks, disappears in the waves, beadekerinne, unanimous, surrealizes if necessary like a Roman... reappears on the shore like Maurras, returns to Barrès, gets lost again, bergsonizes, tested, we taunts little nothings... And finally Mr. Maurois who is not quite from the Gard, but still seriously Vautel would make us forget them all... By training for a few months, he would erase them completely... could suffice on its own for the whole Jewish future. Why not ?...

I see nothing in these trinkets that can really fascinate us... enough to wake up a real fly, a living fly, a flying fly... the cause seems understood to me, Renaissance, naturalism, objectivism, surrealism, perfect progression towards the robot. Here we are. I find myself admirably in agreement. Rattles, frolics, parpaillotes, "Vermot" varnish. baedekertises, and asshole. Not enough to boil the water in the dishes. Groupignoteux mixed lanterns, croutons of watered-down manuals, bigoudineries, "translation" chickens with "measurement" sauce, all nuanced stuffed cardboard. Insignificance to the myriacube. Show off, fair of eunuchs in dildo-pretexts, bass drum, can, lantern, bladder, more dips and strips of reconcised foreskins! Nothing of all these inclinations, these brazen solicitations, which has not been patched up at least a hundred times, on all sides, casually of high school reminiscences. All these stories, these styles, these poses, these graces come from the head and the school... Never from the guy himself. These are just so many alibis, small pretexts for career advancement, career consolidation, petulant academic itching, ornamentation for vaults... Contemporary literature calamitous crumbling catafalque in phrases, acrostics, frills, so dry, so rough , that the maggots themselves no longer come to swarm there, corpse without a future, without life, larva, colorless magma without horror, more despairing, more repugnant a thousand times more disappointing than the greenest, frank, buzzing, dripping carrion,

[173] Anyone who doesn't want to be blacked out is a fascist to hang.

Anything that could provoke the slightest emotional outburst, the most furtive revolt, within the masses, perfectly debased, deceived, deceived in a hundred thousand ways, awaken in the natives the slightest inclination, the slightest reminder of their authentic, instinctive emotion, finds the immediate criticism, hateful, fierce, irreducible opposition. The debate becomes personal. It is their own marketed meat that is depreciated... She is so benign, so passive, usually, perfectly ready to pass one-meter "fillets" in all the slots offered to her, stamped Jewish ... twitches in a quarter, immediate, at the slightest reminder of the Aryan emotional background, of the spontaneous background. She jumps. She smells that we're going to strangle her and all the enjuicing Negroids.

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horrible, she possesses the scent of peril, of catastrophe, as all rats scent shipwreck. [174] When the French set up an anti-Semitic league, the President, Secretary and Treasurer will be Jews.

Since all our great authors, those who set the tone, the law of good genre, all come out of the high school of dead languages, that they learned from the bottle to fatten up on good mixed food, perfectly sterilizing Greek roots, parchments, tangerine mannerisms, examinines and plutacrottes of Dictionaries, they are no longer to be feared at all, emasculated for life. Nothing unforeseen, disconcerting, can ever again spring from these eunuchs in humanitarian papillottes. It's over, carefully raked. Will they forever be just so many pretentious babies? devoted to defunct things, strictly in love, passionate about mummified substances. They will take all their experience from academic treatises, psychological, salonnières, medicinal ashes, "preparations". They are doomed from the nurse to existence by hearsay, to supposed emotions, to clever ambushes for passionate cheaters, to incubators in cenacles, libraries, stock exchanges, institutes or deputations, finally all the surprisingly diverse hideouts, which range from Goblins to Houses of Culture, from the Mines to the Tobaccos, and from the Transat to the Finances, hideouts, where all the cozy meats, infinitely preserved, wrapped in their "versions", will find all the comfort and security of the family cradle throughout their existence. . They thus preserve themselves once and for all, anxiously from all the shocks from the outside, from real life, pleurisy, earthquake of the rabble, all the catastrophes which [175] can disseminate, vaporize in an instant all the great babies of Art and Administration, as soon as they risk themselves in broad daylight... in the great winds of the world. We have to face the facts, most of our authors are never weaned, they remain attached all their lives to infant problems, from which they then only break away bit by bit, with infinite scruples, interminable reluctance known as "works of maturity"... They all ultimately fall into senility, and death without ever having committed a loss of career, only small iridescent bubbles and then fragments of lexicon chewed on, re-chewed a thousand times, infinitely rehash, in balls, in surprises, in rebus. They are completely granted, if they were able to wail, grab the feathered cocked hat, the tickling sword and then above all, roof of the roof, to be engraved in full oigneul, the beautiful hollow eunuch epitaph: "Everything in this world has been said". Such a slew of insignificance, militant, implacable, this gigantic clowning around of all infantile, disguised, pompous frights, plays the game admirably, fits in well with all the plans, all the tricks of the Jews. Since all these stammerers, these swaddled pontiffs are fucking incapable of awakening the masses' taste for authentic emotion, let's go all the "translations!" Why bother?... Let's standardize! the whole world! under the sign of the translated book! flat book, very insipid, objective, descriptive, proudly, pompously robot, doting, presumptuous and useless. The book for ready-made spectators of cinema, for lovers of Jewish theatre, Jewish painting, international Judeo-Asian music.

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book for betrayal, the spiritual destruction of the native, the completion in short of the work well begun by film, radio, newspapers and alcoholism. [176] Since all the "original" authors, from the ground, persist in writing more and more "bare", banal, lukewarm, insignificant, insensitive, exactly like "translations". Since brought up in dead languages they go naturally to dead language, to dead, flat stories, to the unrolling of mummy wraps, since they have lost all color, all flavor, all cowiness or personal tone, racial or lyrical, no need to bother! People take what they are given. Why not overwhelm everything! simply, in a supreme effort, in a stroke of supreme nerve, the whole French market, under a torrent of foreign literature? perfectly insipid?... Jewish criticism (at least carefully jewish, in its most minimal rubrics, right or left), prepares, orders the passage of the nutmegs. The tide changes from one day to the next, she, however, so clumsy, the criticism so prosaic, so perfectly obtuse to everything that is not her usual purring-gossip, no longer knows Anglomania, enthusiasm , for the wrung-out turnips of AngloJudeosaxonia. She begins to vaticinate, all wild with recognition, she so mothballed, so perfectly "elm of the mall"... homebody to live on it "in beer!"... sudden hyperbolic tremors of a thousand international flowers... We don't recognize more! Magic!... What's going on? It lacks adjectives to better boast of these "admirably reticent tendernesses" of English authors... their marvelously [177] elliptical palpitations, their treasures of supervirtual depths... Our most seasoned, hard-core naturalists, "theatrical librists" of the first hour rush to stammer in cures of tenderness at "Miss Baba"... They come back chilled with exquisite fervor... they no longer flourish except in candy epithets of the English spring countryside... This for poetry... But if it is a question of psycholodramas, then they swear only by the audacity of the brilliant trans-shattering Lawrence... bravery unheard of for his sexual messages... (a poor gamekeeper's dick for 650 pages) of his worldrenovating premonitions... of his inspirational tortures... of his trans-spinal setbacks... his matrimonial reversals... The 'was she? Was he?... Was she? Was it? Finally all the Jewish tobacco, the publicity gibberish, intimate, Hollywood, which bears all the better on idiots, as the merchandise is more vain, more hollow, more brazen, more catastrophic. From the moment, when the Jews, decide, promulgate and make admit. once and for all that we can henceforth remove emotion from all works of art... melody, living rhythm, (the only test of authentic value) confusion reigns and triumphs, farce, publicity , the imposture replace everything, settle, proliferate instantaneously. They are just waiting for this Jewish moment to replace everything, invade everything, erase everything. Here we are. Forward descriptions "flat!" missed pasta!... flies without dicks! soft sphincters! fake tits, all the damn imposture. They immediately become admirably licit, official, dominating, dogmatic, despotic, intractable... The dictatorship of the larvae is the most stifling, the most suspicious of all. From the moment they govern, everything can be violated, mired in, disguised, trafficked, destroyed, prostituted... Any crumbling carrion can instantly become the object of a cult, trigger typhoons of enthusiasm, it is no more than a banal question of publicity, weak or strong, of the press, of radio, that is to say ultimately, of politics and gold, therefore of Jewry.

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[178] We think we're fucked by a small centimeter, we are already several meters away.

The poor little French book market, already so perfectly stunted, hunted down, at bay, soon finds itself crushed by novels, serials by Mr. and Mrs. Lehmann, Rosamonde, Virginie Woolf... Vicki Baum... Mr. Ludwig ... Mr. Cohen... Mr. Davis... Miss "Cat who fishes"... all and all Jews and Jews... who better better more tendentious, more useless, more plagiarizing, more tricksters, more "genius", more dissolute, dirty, sly, vicious, contemptuous, voracious, whiny, comedian or smug than the other. All announced of course, launched, consecrated, blown, overblown, with great reinforcements from juries, Jewish international literary circles... (Jewish International Literature Prizes) brought to France through Jewish agencies... enthusiastically adopted by all the Jewish newspapers (they all are). Great Jewish cocktails... Champs-Elysées... orgies... Jewish cocaine... Jewish buggery, etc... If all the translated authors are not Jewish, they are at the very least carefully enjuivées, marries of Jewish women , pro-Jews, devoutly, insatiably... proyoutres, more than youtres, hostages... All the literary agents, the impresarios of literature, like the other impresarios of all "artistic expression" are Jews. Directors, stars, producers and soon all the so-called creators of theatre, film, radio, song, dance or painting will be Jewish. The public, that is to say the rotting horde of drunken Aryan cuckolds (province, towns and countryside), [179] slaps indiscriminately, with the same craving, feasts admirably on all the turnips from Mr. Sacha, the stables of Mr. Bernstein, the salsify from Mr. Maurois, the fricassettes from the Comédie, the peelings from Mr. Cocteau. Our snobs swallow the dos Passos just as well as the Sinclair Lewises, the Mauriacs, the Lawrences, the Colettes... same grind, same lubrication, same insignificant chatter, deadening purr, big and small "withdrawn" pericycles... Translated or not translated, they remain identical, absolutely, to themselves, bloatedness, boorishness, the same tambourines, the same carambouille, the same uselessness, the same insensitivity, faked, laborious, the same devaluation, the same villainous bankruptcy. For the triumph of this nonsense, Jewish criticism, obviously gives its all (it only exists for this purpose, for this office) insists, praises, pontificates, acclaims, proclaims...

[180] We are in the midst of Jewish fascism.

Don't think I'm going astray, that I'm kidding for fun, I took a little detour, but I'm coming back to my hobbies... in bags of resuscitated rhetorical curlers, the Jews do not remain inactive... They prosper marvelously.

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All the decadences, all the rotten eras, teem with Jews, critics and homosexuals. The Jews today are in heaven, in finance, politics and in the arts. Vermicular, persuasive, entwining, invading more than ever, they spin the train behind Prout-Proust the Picassos, the Sachas, the Cézannes... they break in increasing tides, they submerge everything... The supreme Reform sticks to the train of the Jews , the supreme discomfiture of the Aryans. The ghettoization of the Aryans would not be long in coming...under Negro rule. It coincides with the advent of the greatest Jewish Art of surreal Robot art for robotic natives. The "taichnic" of this conquest of the world by the Jewish cesspool, of the consecration of Jewish Imperialism, the apotheosis of the Jew, spiritual and material, nothing occult, secret. Everyone can admire it... It unfolds under our windows... All you have to do is look a little...

[17] (pp. 181-190) [181] It is excellent that M. Faulkner, Mlle Baum, M. Cohen, M. Lévy, M. Juif Genialsten, copy throughout their triumphant career, plagiarize, rummage, single out our most venerable hackneyed naturalists, rebèct them to our taste" tough" american sec. They can only win every time...and the Jewish cause with them. Our Jews from the theater here and elsewhere never do anything but mark out, loot, resell all the folklore and classics of the countries they devastate. They are doing admirably. The crowd of universal native cuckolds rushes to all their counters, delighted and supplicating. They resell to him at a very high price, to the Aryan crowd, copies of his heritage, well conchied, soiled, spoiled in every way... But it's a fantastic nougat!... The idiot turned gold!... All of this through Jewish mutual aid... racism. sass and publicity. Criticism never sucks, it would be nice to see! What an instant spree! irreparable! Not only does she cash in on everything, but she exults every time! She glows! It carries to the skies, to paradise, the most rancid deceptions, the most disgusting impostures. The Frenchman never recognizes his property. He forgot all his heritage. He only has eyes and heart for his little 4 percent! that the Jews also suffocate, by the same godsend. He makes the Frenchman under him, with all his head, all his guts, all his dough... He, always so miserly, can no longer keep anything. He's no longer a man, he's a real gift... Jewish miracle! He [182] buys back his own guts from the Jew. Shylock sells Ducon his own pound of barbecue, after he's screwed it up, squeezed it, squeezed it all the juice out, and then smeared it, stuffed it with mucus and Jewish shit. Ducon is delirious with gratitude, it's the most beautiful of the adventure. (Great victory of the cuckoos over the cuckolds.) Durand plays into the hands of the Jews, anything that can stupefy him even better, invert him, pervert him more deeply, spoil his sensitivity, falsify his judgment, and above all his emotional rhythm, Durand adores him... Criticism?... We find him only one voice, but what accents! to praise, incense, extol all that facilitates, prepares, completes the imbibition of the masses by these crap, the Jewish advertising chiasses. and then smeared, stuffed with mucus and Jewish shit. Ducon is delirious with gratitude, it's the most beautiful of the adventure. (Great victory of the cuckoos over the cuckolds.) Durand plays into the hands of the Jews, anything that can stupefy him even better, invert him, pervert him more deeply, spoil his sensitivity, falsify his judgment, and above all his emotional rhythm, Durand adores him... Criticism?... We find him only one voice, but what accents! to praise, incense, extol all that facilitates, prepares, completes the imbibition of the masses by these crap, the Jewish advertising chiasses. and then smeared, stuffed with mucus and Jewish shit. Ducon is delirious with gratitude, it's the most beautiful of the adventure. (Great victory of the cuckoos over the cuckolds.) Durand plays into the hands of the Jews, anything that can stupefy him even better, invert him, pervert him more deeply, spoil his sensitivity, falsify his judgment, and above all his emotional rhythm, Durand adores him... Criticism?... We find him only one voice, but what accents! to praise, incense, extol all that facilitates, prepares, completes the imbibition of the masses by these crap, the Jewish advertising chiasses. inverting it, perverting it more profoundly, spoiling its sensitivity, falsifying its judgement, and above all its emotional rhythm, Durand adores it... Criticism?... We find only one voice in it, but what accents! to praise, incense, extol all that facilitates, prepares, completes the imbibition of the masses by these crap, the Jewish advertising chiasses. inverting it, perverting it more profoundly, spoiling its sensitivity, falsifying its judgement, and above all its emotional rhythm, Durand adores it... Criticism?... We find only one voice in it, but what accents! to praise, incense, extol all that facilitates, prepares, completes the imbibition of the masses by these crap, the Jewish advertising chiasses.

It is she who lays all the milestones, who polishes all the stages of the Jewish world conquest, souls, goods and meat. Apart from extremely rare exceptions, choirboys well buggered. Gentlemen youtres, semi-niggers, you are our gods!

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[183]

Why has Mr. Martin du Gard just won

Nobel prize? because he spoke very well of the Dreyfus Affair in his books. (See Israelite Universe, December 3.)

A good international literary standardization, very degrading, very bewildering, would come at this very moment, to complete the work of insensitization, of artistic leveling that the Jews have already perfectly accomplished in painting, music and cinema. Thus the cycle of the international robotization of minds would be perfect. The Jewish snake, as in the oracles, would have finally circumnavigated the earth and all dilacerated, stuck, perverted, charred in its path, in a demagogic, pacifying, edifying-progressive, freeing, Freemason, Soviet sauce of course. and salutary. The Jew dreads in this world only the authentic emotion, spontaneous, rhythmic, on the natural elements. All work not adulterated, not putinized to the depths, to the supreme strings, provokes in the Jew the fiercest defensive reactions. He smells there immediately his loss, all the punishment of his appalling cosmic hype, of the phenomenal, cataclysmic Jewish imposture. The Jew avoids the authentic like the snake of the mongoose. The snake knows very well that the mongoose is not kidding, that it is strangling it, for sure... The authentic, only balance to weigh the Jew at his weight of filth and deceit.

Looting, stealing, perverting, brutalizing, polluting, bleeding everything he encounters, modesty, music, rhythm, value, this is the gift of the Jew, his ancient raison d'être. Egypt, Rome, Monarchies, Russia, tomorrow the rest of us, anything goes. It macerates the least of [184] literatures like the greatest empires, even "Art and Taichnic", to satany, to venoms, to plagiarisms, to incantations, to swindles of a thousand kinds. Ten thousand various poisons for all works of death like certain toads. He hardly has the Jew, no other talent, but this one he possesses to the root of his foreskin. The most obtuse, the most glamorous, the most blundering of the Jews all the same ultimately possesses this sense of alert for all that he can grasp, what must enter his strings, tumble in his tin, The rest, all that he cannot absorb, pervert, swallow, mess up, standardize, must disappear. It's the simplest. He decrees it. Banks execute. For the robot world that is being prepared for us, all it will take is a few articles, endless reproductions, bland simulacra, inoffensive cardboard boxes, novels, cars, apples, professors, generals, stars, tendentious pissotières, all standard, with a lot of tam-tam of imposture and snobbery Universal junk, in short, noisy, Jewish and revolting... The Jew holds all the governments, he commands all the standardization machines, he owns all the cables, all the currents, tomorrow all Robots.

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[185] What do you want me to hope for among these bastard hearts, if not to see my book thrown in the garbage.

D'Aubigne.

Standard in all things is the Jew's panacea. No more revolt to fear pre-robotic individuals, that we are, our furniture, novels, films, cars, language, the vast majority of modern populations are already standardized. Modern civilization is total standardization, souls and bodies under the Jew. "Standard" idols, born out of Jewish publicity, can never be formidable to Jewish power. Never were idols, to tell the truth, so fragile, so friable, more easily and definitively forgettable, in a moment of disfavour. The adulation of the crowds is at the command of the Jew.

Political, scientific, artistic idols, etc., concocted by the Jews from scratch. All these stars, screenwriters, musicians, modern, modern junk, all markdowners, looters (of folklore and classics), who better, anxious to bluff and please and lie, whores to the core, create themselves , destroy themselves, disappear absolutely at the slightest whim of the gold and the publicity of the moment. These so-called immense creators are only so many imbecile puppets, ventriloquist virtuosos, Jews or not, whom their masters, the potentates of high Jewry, the Sages, allow to parade, pirouette, through the world for the bewilderment, the anesthesia of colonized degraded people, of their negroes in reverse. Until the moment when, tired of their grimaces, they cut off all the strings, where these little pieces of rubbish drop straight into nothingness. It doesn't even cause a void, there was nothing. [186] The authors of forgery, junk, fictitious, modern bigophoneries, all modern art, in surreal, polished tricks, drama sauce, humor or fun, will never be formidable to their Jewish tyrant masters. Strictly devoid of any direct, singing emotion, these clowns cannot arouse anything, trigger anything dangerous in the masses. They will never be anything but employees, minions of power, ass-lickers, sucking slaves of Jewish despotism. For one of these clowns coming to die, a hundred immediately rush to prank in his place, more cowardly, more servile, more ignoble if possible... The great brothels of modern arts, the immense Hollywood clans, all the sub-galleys robot art, there will never be a lack of these depraved acrobats... The recruitment is infinite. The average reader, the fancy amateur, the cocktail snob, finally the public, the abject horde of film eaters, the morons-radios, the star fanatics, this prodigious international, yelping, swarming of drunken jobards and cuckolds, constitutes the tramplable base through cities and continents, the magnificent humus the miraculous soil, in which the Jewish advertising shit will shine, seduce, bewitch like never before. The modern public thoroughly disgusted with science, objectivism and the Jew of all genuine emotion, inverted to the marrow, is just asking to feast on Jewish shit... the cocktail snob, finally the public, the abject horde of movie eaters, the morons-radios, the star fanatics, this prodigious international, yelping, swarming of drunken and cuckold jobards, constitutes the tramplable base through cities and continents, the magnificent humus the miraculous soil, in which Jewish advertising shit will shine, seduce, bewitch like never before. The modern public thoroughly disgusted with science, objectivism and the Jew of all genuine emotion, inverted to the marrow, is just asking to feast on Jewish shit... the cocktail snob, finally the public, the abject horde of movie eaters, the morons-radios, the star fanatics, this prodigious international, yelping, swarming of drunken and cuckold jobards, constitutes the tramplable base through cities and continents, the magnificent humus the miraculous soil, in which Jewish advertising shit will shine, seduce, bewitch like never before. The modern public thoroughly disgusted with science, objectivism and the Jew of all genuine emotion, inverted to the marrow, is just asking to feast on Jewish shit... the magnificent humus, the miraculous soil, in which the Jewish advertising crap will shine, seduce, bewitch like never before. The modern public thoroughly disgusted with science, objectivism and the Jew of all genuine emotion, inverted to the marrow, is just asking to feast on Jewish shit... the magnificent humus, the miraculous soil, in which the Jewish advertising crap will shine, seduce, bewitch like never before. The modern public thoroughly disgusted with science, objectivism and the Jew of all genuine emotion, inverted to the marrow, is just asking to feast on Jewish shit...

At the call, at the threshing (the Semite, a Negro in reality, is only a perpetual brute on a drum), the Aryan crowd comes back quivering, shedding all her dough, the better to jump, she commits everything to better enjoy Jewish, wallowing Jewish, rotting Jewish, his head, his meat, his soul and all his bullshit. She gives herself. She is damned. The Aryan crowd now believes only the posters of Jewish politicians and cinemas, newspapers and film reviews and art critics, all of which are Jewish.

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On the other hand, everything else seems to him entirely conventional, obnoxiously fabricated, ratiocinative, coarse, vulgar, show-off.

Never servants, never slaves were in truth so totally, intimately enslaved, inverted body and soul, in a way so devout, so suppliant. Rome? In comparison?... But an empire of small happiness! a philosophical Thelema! The Middle Ages?... The Inquisition?... Berquinades! Free times! intense scruffy! of unbridled free will! the Duke of Alba? Pizarro? Cromwell? Artists!

[187] In all the thunders, the din of the great communist, socialist-confusion gibberish, a single cry from the heart, a single fury! Everything for youtres and death to goyes! It was already not going very well in the Kingdom of Fine Arts, since the Renaissance, this great triumph of "sing out of tune"! We were going, all distraught, copiously enjuiciated, already negrified, from salsify to false lanterns, but now we are tipping over definitively in the shit, here we are fallen, fallen to the sub-rank of sub-prousteries, into the invertebrate, the insensitive by force from bourgeois analyses, from discipleship, from casual objectivism, from "closer to facts and causes", from emasculating scientificology, from brazen jabbering, from superbly wanking scenarios, to the immense spiritual, organic debacle, to the great downpours of boorishness, to the confusionist collapse, to the Jewish deluge, communisard, preacher, to the Jewish ark, the Jewish prison, that is to say, ready to float on the ocean of Jewish murders. The Ranz des Robots... You hear nothing, Bishop Turpin?...

No! No! They are souls passing through the air on these vapors of flames... The immense trick of the Jews consists in gradually removing from the crowds to be standardized any taste for the authentic and then from the indigenous artists any possibility of expressing, of communicating their sensitivity to their brothers in race, of awakening in them some authentic emotion. The Jews Revenge of the Abyssinians! have inverted the taste of white people so much, so profoundly, that the French now prefer the false to the authentic, grimaces to sensibility, foolish mimicry to direct emotion. The times are not [188] distant when the French will blush at Couperin. Modern music is only a tom-tom in transition... It is the Jewish Negro who probes us to find out how degenerated and rotten we are, our Aryan sensibility negated... So all the Jewish Negroes, we having robotized, we will only pass on trade junk, Stakhanovized, quite good enough for our filthy slave meat. (See Russia.)

From this moment, from the perfect realization of all these great designs, the Jews will be able to enjoy their omnipotence quite peacefully. They will hold the whole world, by police and by gold, in absolute slavery. We will return to the great Jewish pharaohs. We will no longer be under the feet of the Jews but an intense proliferation of stubborn beasts, saddled with placards.

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[189] The Christian merchant does his business alone, each house

is somehow isolated, while the Jews are

quicksilver particles, at the slightest slope, they come together in a block.

(Request of six corps of merchants to Louis XV.) It is not useless to come back to this subject. We said that in the beginning, any article to be "standardized": star, writer, musician, politician, bra, cosmetic, purgative, must be essentially, above all, typically mediocre. Absolute condition. To impose itself on the taste, on the admiration of the most brutalized crowds, of the spectators, of the most molasses voters, of the most stupid swallowers of nonsense, of the most conspicuous frenzied jobardeurs of Progress, the article to be launched must be even more idiot, more despicable than all of them at the same time. This species of scientificolatre, materialistic, "cosy-cornerian" cretins, proliferates, swarms since the Renaissance... They would be killed for the Palace of Discovery. As for "standardizable" literary productions, Desired by these neo-brutes, worse, much less artistic (a thousand proofs) than the Cromagnons, the modern Anglo-Saxon "masterpieces" fairly well represent their appalling level. What could be more abusive in terms of preaching bullshit, apart from the movies, than a very pretentiously literary English novel, in the style of Lawrence? or any other kind?... Hardy, Chesterton, Lewis and so on? I ask you?... More fabricated, more vain, stupidly bleating?... more stupidly perverted? blunderingly "slice of life"? chaotic by impotence, than the Dos-Passos, the Faulkners, the Cohens and accomplices?... Fadasseries "forced climbs", gratuitous excesses "delirious climbs", rehashing of our most outdated naturalists, the most cardboard, the most hackneyed "mea nonsense",

[190] I know them a little bit about all these eminent figures of Anglo-Saxon Hebrew art, "damned" from Bloomsbury, neo-Murgerians from the "Village", the most damned clique of little Jewish minions, aesthetic imposters who can imagine... the most worn-out brelan of mystifying little cocaino-literary puppets gathered to drool, squirm, under the caps of the Jewish copies pissotières. All these delicate chills, à la "Wilde". all these little dervishes made up "Frankenstein" persist in their clowning. way "lyricism", or way "power" than by the presumptuousness, by the enormity of the Jewish advertisements, the crumbling stupidity of the Aryan snobs. Here are the rotten clowns of our debacle, the pederast gravediggers of the Aryan era.

[18] (pp. 191-200)

[191] The Jew lives not from his work, but from the exploitation of the work of others.

Rochefort.

It hardly seems possible to catch all these little crooks in the act of imposture, unless they get involved in "transposing", "lyrizing"... Copying, plagiarizing, as they give themselves!. .. All our libraries creak, moan,

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to be plundered so wrongly, through... But transposing life directly, it's another pair of balls!... Good dreams only arise from the truth, from the authentic, those which are born of lies, never have grace or strength. Who cares?... The world has no more melody. It's still folklore, the last murmurs of our folklore, which lull us... After that it will be over, the night... and the black drum. Good dreams come and go from the meat, never from the head. Only lies come out of your head. Life seen through the head is no better than life seen through a goldfish. It is a French garden. The only defense, the only recourse of the white man against robotism, and undoubtedly against war, the regression to "worse than caves" much worse, is the return to his own emotional rhythm. The circumcised Jews are castrating the Aryan out of his natural emotional rhythm. The Jewish nigger is dragging the Aryan down into communism and robot art, to the objectivist mentality of perfect slaves for Jews. (The Jew is a Negro, the Semite race does not exist, it is an invention of Freemason the Jew is only [192] the product of a crossing of Negroes and Asian barbarians.) The Jews are the enemies born of Aryan emotionality, they cannot suffer it. The Jews do not feel emotional, in our opinion, they are the sons of the Sun of the desert, of dates and of the tom-tom... They can only hate us to the core... with all their nigger souls, all our instinctive emotions, they abhor them. Established, emigrants, looters, imposters, under our skies, out of place, out of sorts, they mimic our reactions, gesticulate, rationalize, bugger the fly a thousand times and a thousand times before beginning to vaguely understand, what an Aryan not too stupid, not too alcoholic, not too vinassic, seized on the fly, once and for all in twenty seconds... emotionally, silently, directly, impeccably. The Jew never assimilates he apes bitch and hates. He can only indulge in crude mimicry, with no possible extensions. The Jew, whose African nerves are always more or less "zinc", possesses only a very vulgar network of sensibility, in no way raised in the human series, like everything that comes from hot countries, it is precocious, it is botched. He is not made to elevate himself very much spiritually, to go very far... The extreme rarity of Jewish poets, all of them moreover resuscitators of Aryan lyricism... The Jew, born cunning, is not sensitive . He saves appearances only with perpetual antics, simulacra, grimaces, imitations, parodies, poses, "cinegeism", photographs, bluff, arrogance. In his meat, even to move him, he possesses only the most rudimentary negro nervous system, that is to say the balance of a boor. The Negro Jew, half-breed, degenerate, by striving for European art, mutilates, massacres and adds nothing. He is forced one day or another to return to black art, let's never forget that. The biological inferiority of the black or half-black in our climates is evident. Nervous system "shipped", ransom of precocity, it cannot go very far... Negro adolescence is extremely brief. A nigger is finished at four years old. The Jew is anxious for refinement; an obsession, to surround oneself with gold and precious objects, "to do refined". But it is never intimately refined, somatically refined, impossible. I lived for a long time among the Negroes, I know them. Grimaces. The Negro, like the Jew, needs gilding, a lot of gilding of drums, of tom-toms, of publicity for him to wake up... He only understands the bass drum, or the seringante Arabic trumpet, at best. It passes through all the nuances, it leaps, gallops, collapses, shits on the violets as soon as it is launched on the gardens, [193] like a badly trained dog... And to think that we have become the submissive slaves of these out of place sub-brutes! The Jew remains, in spite of so many contortions at the end of all this antics, much more a log than a violin... disastrously impenetrable to all the waves of intuition, to the enthusiasms

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impersonal, a greedy buzzard, wildly pretentious and vain. And then, at the height of nerve, he becomes critical.

[194] I want to have at my funeral the Fanfare of Tel-Aviv and the "Cadets" of Triangle Street. God knows if the Jew tries to polish himself, to refine himself "Aryanly", the better to deceive us, to entangle us, to strangle us. Despite this gigantic work, he remains after so many centuries, the unsurpassable blunderer of the five continents.

It is, in fact, extremely difficult to find among the most boozy, sloppy, boozy Aryans any individual who can be compared, in a matter of "blunder", to the most "refined" of the Jews. In all somewhat delicate circumstances, you will recognize the Jew by the fact that he literally rushes to blunder. He will betray himself, wading on two feet and what feet! (from Afro-Asian, child of the sands, webbed). It is normal that he hates us, just as much for our spontaneous emotional sense, our Aryan sensitivity, our Aryan lyricism for our direct humanity, as for all the other reasons in the world at the same time. Yet already quite sufficient... This biological superiority deeply vexes him, humiliates him, irritates him as much as possible, infuriates him much more than all the ponderable resistances that he happens to suspect... Anxious to blunder, he immediately redoubles his tyranny. But after the great "standardization", the Jew will be very quiet, the blunders will no longer count... Who will notice?... Not the robots! Long live blundering Jewish Liberty!...

[195] I'm not Mr. Goat and Cabbage. I don't weigh the pros and cons. The Jews, on the other hand, rush in, round up and expel us. It is for us the dosages "for and against", the pusillanimous enfioteries. We are dying of it. The Jew has already "standardized" almost everything in the major arts. At the moment there are very great efforts to standardize world literature, translations, literary agencies, cenacles, academies, are hard at work, giving their all. A very small fact among a thousand: Do you think, dear cuckolds, that it is naively, by effect of pure chance, that the Académie Goncourt, in its choices, laureates, academicians... becomes more and more Jewish each year? .. The Jewish power needs many agents, very zealous, well-placed, docile, dedicated quartermasters, shrewd gangsters, they are essential for the army of Jewish standardization to proceed without firing a shot at the strangulation of indigenous art in all areas, the smallest recesses, spiritual, material. The translations will do the rest, the great work of brutalization. But it is already essential that we carefully disgust, minimize, undermine, saw, without respite, implacably, by all means, all the creators, all the Aryan elite, that the bed, the canopy, the sinecures, assurances, thrones of all kinds, the worst rehashes, spongy Jewish pancakes, are rapidly being built on the rubble of native art. The great invasion by film and translations must not be stopped by anything. We fuck to the millimeter, the first centimeter is the hardest, the most expensive... for the following ones it goes by itself! All pederasts tell us that. Any by all means, all the creators, all the Aryan elite, Let the bed, the dais, the sinecures, the assurances, the thrones of all the peels, the worst rehashes, spongy Jewish cakes, quickly be built on the rubble native art. The great invasion by film and translations must not be stopped by anything. We fuck to the millimeter, the first centimeter is the hardest, the most expensive... for the following ones it goes by itself! All pederasts tell us that. Any by all means, all the creators, all the Aryan elite, Let the bed, the dais, the sinecures, the assurances, the thrones of all the peels, the worst rehashes, spongy Jewish cakes, quickly be built on the rubble native art. The great invasion by film and translations must not be stopped by anything. We fuck to the millimeter, the first centimeter is the hardest, the most expensive... for the following ones it goes by itself! All pederasts tell us that. Any The great invasion by film and translations must not be stopped by anything. We fuck to the millimeter, the first centimeter is the hardest, the most expensive... for the following ones it goes by itself! All pederasts tell us that. Any The great invasion by film and translations must not be stopped by anything. We fuck to the millimeter, the first centimeter is the hardest, the most expensive... for the following ones it goes by itself! All pederasts tell us that. Any

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asshole can become, well buggered by publicity, a huge nonsense, the object of a cult, a [196] supreme star, a horrifying criminal, a catastrophic leviathan, a dantesque film, a cosmic razor paste , a transatlantic that makes the sea overflow, an aperitif that makes the earth turn, the greatest Lepidaurus of the Ages, the President of the Council who eats the living caps. The more ass and hollow it is, the better it is. The taste of the common is at this price. The "common sense" of crowds is: always more idiots. The banking spirit, he ends up at the learned chip, the completion of realistic, surrealist art. All political parties know this well. They are all learned fleas. Spotty Melanie takes her dick like a queen, if 25. 000 loudspeakers howl through all the echoes, above all the roofs, suddenly she is Mélanie the incomparable... A minimum of originality, but a lot of advertising and nerve. The being, the turd, the object in question of publicity on which the massive propaganda will pour, must be above all at the start, as smooth, as insignificant, as null as possible. The painting, the hype-advertising will spread over it all the better the more carefully it is devoid of asperities, of all originality, as all its surfaces are absolutely flat. That nothing in him, at the start, can arouse attention and above all controversy. Advertising, to give all its magic effect, must not be hindered, held back, entertained by anything. It must be able to affirm, consecrate, vociferate, megaphonize the worst nonsense, any Himalayan, mind-blowing, thundering phantasmagoria... about automobiles, stars, toothbrushes, writers, light singers, hernial belts, without anyone blinking. .. rises in the floor, the smallest naive objection. The floor must always remain perfectly hypnotized by bullshit.

[197]

You know how great their multitude is, how united they (the Jews) are, how much they have

influence in our assemblies. Cicero.

Obviously the Jews, at the start, had a great interest in choosing Judeo-Anglo-Saxon authors to carry out their worldwide literary standardization, same tobacco as for films. Identical shenanigans. A language immensely widespread in the world, whose books are already selling perfectly in their home market. Here is the immense asset of these "switchboard" Jews. Take an "average" French author, who sells in France, in good times, for example at 20,000 copies, the same author, quite average, but English, on his own Anglo-Saxon market, "pulls", very normally, automatically, to 200, 300,000 copies. For this simple reason that the Judeo-Anglo-Saxon market is infinitely potentially much richer than the seedy French market (100 million possible readers instead of 2 to 3 million). Perfectly equal in all respects in all their mediocrity, the English author will nevertheless become a "very well-known" author, of "tremendous talent" by tenfold circulation, therefore stuffed with royalties and rebates, while the poor French author vegetates or literally dying of misery (if he is not a civil servant somewhere, that is twice a moron). There are a few exceptions in the theater, but they are necessarily all Jews. They bet on all the tables, the most gamey of the Jewish International: cinema,

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police, radio-theatre, politics, banking, they devoted themselves from the foreskin to the barter of international versions [198]. But as for the book, the immense, incomparable advantage, the royal privilege of the Anglo-Saxons, is their market a hundredfold of ours...

It is thus, by the effect of the "number" that the very insignificant Lawrence, Huxley, Cohen, Wells, Cahen, Lewis, Shaw, Faulkner, Passos, etc... with a bit of snobbery and hype about fantastic fames! unique "Victor Hugo Awards"!... quite funny when you know the birds. The Jews, to impose them on us, rely heavily on the snobbery and the chatter of the small socalled "avant-garde" cliques... Jude-artistico-enculagaillantescommunisardes and are hardly mistaken. Everything will be fine, our loaves have seen others. [199] Long live freedom! No! Long live Liberia! With something Tartar! In addition! When Jews are passionate about Folklore and the classics (see Comédie-Française at 8/10 Jewish) it is the better to suffocate you, my children! gradually bring their own Jewish works up to the level of the classics, and then eliminate the classics, sack them, Folklore as well, absolutely, you'll see! The Jews are the greatest readers in the world, they mark out, poke around, loot, jewish nonstop, everything that falls under their glasses, that can serve them, serve them, everything that can be translated into Jewish propaganda, songs, novels, music, getting drunk. The Aryans, especially the French, hate books, "empty ideas" (Ah! but!. . Ah! but!... who cares about them then?). They demand positive! substance! something rational! goal! Who do we take them for? Damn it! Common sense! For God Sake! Common sense! Descartes! This demand for "positive" when you examine it a little, consists in wallowing belching, without precise intention, on all the "gossip" of the day and from the pedestal table sputtering wrongly and through between the canards of posters. The great feat, the pride, the feat, is to learn and know by heart an electoral sign, a whole, very enlightening (all Jewish necessarily). Vinasser, gossip again, beloter, sharpen the outfits, launch new challenges. Here's to the positive, the spiritual life,

Maybe we'll go leisurely, chatter to the hiccups... everywhere... until the vinasse runs out... until it comes back up... [200] belch the good ones again instructions from the Jewish newspapers... to show one's culture to passers-by... to make them also learn, for those there, the long watchwords of the Jewish leaders... The orders in short that we have deciphered as best we can... The instructions of the invisible masters... who do not forget you... those who command... inevitably... invariably to hate each other better and better among white brothers, to harm each other by all means while waiting. the next war, at "Jewish time"... then they will all be cuckolded Aryans together, with a truly unanimous heart, finally unanimous... They will all be massacred together for the Jews.

The women, who are just as alcoholic as the men, are still if possible a little more brutalized than the men... by the endless gossip, their pettiness

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delirious "housewife", "the spy of bignolles", the rage, the hysteria to mediocritize everything, to judge everything, to lower everything to the lowest, even lower, more and more basely, all speech, all unknown, all work, all lyricism, all mystery, except the shit of course, the magnificent Jewish shit, which they adore and feast on even more frantically, more blindly than men... They are the ones who drag their husbands along, who force them to cinema accustom them to the superfaddishness of the screen, to the good "ideolochy", objectivist materialist, youtre... To the veneration of super-comfort, of blockbusters; from the super-wanked youtres platitudes, to the super-smoking, super-cocktails, super-cars, finally all the super-mechanizing and robotic bullshit of the dark rooms, of these caverns a hundred thousand times more brutalizing than the worst idolatrous catacombs of the first centuries. All these miserable people, these delirious serfs, completely worm-eaten by the "ideological" propaganda of film radio and the "gossip" are now delirious with material desires and militant boorishness. The unemployed rent tuxedos!

"We won't give a damn about it either, we'll fuck your whores." Even cuckolds! The Jews are waiting for you, you wanton morons! to ring the bells funny for you, for the final incarceration, the final passage of handcuffs, tobacco, at the precise moment... at the moment when the impeccable, communist Jewish jails, already ready (Russian model) will close in on you on your words, your pipes, belchers, donkeys! They will close in on you!... They will make you swallow them down with great blows of the butts in the sideboard, your words of hatred and demands. YOU [19] (pp. 201-210)

[201] you will collapse in irons completely debased, rotten, you will continue to belch, completely brainless by so many nonsense vociferated for any judgment, on all the tones of the universe, Aryans who have become "Robots", you will all vote like robots, for the ceusses who will wind up your mechanics, all your clocks, who will provide you with all the current: the Jews.

[202] Why wouldn't I have the right, in my country, to shout that I don't like

not the Jews Freemasons hesitate to lead a war to the death against the priests. We are in Jewish fascism.

Talking to you about all these things about translations, bookshops... I got a little excited... Don't think I'm jealous! It would be wrong to recognize my perfect independence. The Jews, I fuck with them, they can kindly give it back to me, to the right, as to the left, as in the center, across, to the particular. They bother me personally only a little bit, almost not. This is a completely "ideological" conflict.

Admittedly, I observe that through Yids: publishers, agents, publicists, etc., under the influence of films, Jewish scripts, aggressors, rotten wankers, Jewish politics, in short, Jewish instructions, occult where official, the small French artistic production, already so thin, so little radiant, is well and truly dying... The Jews must crush everything, of course... But life is not that long, nor so joyous that it can actually keep you awake. And then

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let us remain completely fair, the Jews were always well helped in their work of destruction, of spiritual enslavement by the "noble, reborn" mannerisms and then pusillanimous, official bourgeois, finally all the academic, puristic, hopelessly obtuse our so-called French arts succumb.

What bothers us the most about the Jews, when we examine the situation, is their arrogance, their protestism, their perpetual martyrology-dervichery, their dirty tom-tom. In Africa, with the same Negroes, or their cousins in Cameroon, I lived for [203] years alone, in one of their villages, in the middle of the forest, under the same straw hut, in the same calabash. In Africa, they were good people. Here, they bother me, they sicken me. They only became completely unbearable in Cameroon at the time of the full moon, they became torturous with their tom-tom... But the other nights, they let you doze in peace, in complete safety. I'm talking about the "pahoin" country, the most negro country of negroes. But here, now, in France, Moon or no Moon, always tam-tam!... Negroes for niggers, I prefer cannibals... and then not here... at home... Basically, that's the only damage they cause me, aesthetic damage, I don't like the tom-tom... As for the material, my God! it was extremely easy for me to manage... I could afford the luxury, not only of ignoring all this turpitude, but it was childish for me to take advantage, and how, very handsomely, wonderfully, of this murine invasion. .. putrefying... A thousand means, a thousand precedents! It was open to me, among other things, if one considers my charms, my very advantageous physique, my solid financial situation, to marry without making so many fuss, some little Jewess well in court... well related... (He always comes to prowl around, to test the waters a little), to have me naturalized by the same token,

Isn't it amusing in this regard to observe that young Jews from the best families (French Jews included), most often go to Oxford to complete their studies. "Finishing touches!" Supreme polish! If I wanted, if circumstances forced me, I could perhaps write my books directly in English. It's a string to defend myself, a small string to my bow. I shouldn't complain... But no one gave me my little bow... I would have liked to be given a few gifts in life! It's all there!... For the moment I still prefer to write in French. . I find English too soft, too delicate, too shocking. But if necessary... And then the Anglo-American Jews translate me regularly, another reason... and read me!... We are not very numerous, among the French authors [204] of the "international class". That's the saddest thing. Five or six, I believe... at most, who can spread out... It's not much... far too little!... The invasion is one-way, that bothers me.

Judeo-Anglo-Saxon publishers, very aware of the things of literary production, recognize them as "standard" novels, they have exactly the same ones produced every year, by the thousands, at home. They have nothing to do with "replicas", to bother with other postiches... Personally, it will be possible for me, no doubt, to defend myself for a while longer, thanks to my incantatory style, my vociferous filthy lyricism, anathema, in this very special genre, quite Jewish by

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sides, I do better than the Jews, I give them lessons. It saves me. I pass among the Jews of the United States for a strong spirit. Hope it lasts! [205]

We command every Jew to curse three times a day all the Christian people and pray to God to exterminate them

with its kings and princes. The Talmud.

Quite by chance I came across a newspaper the other day that I did not know: "L'Univers Israélite", from November 15, 1937... We are wrong not to read "L'Univers Israélite" regularly. A single issue of this UI teaches us much more essential things about the march of the world than all our betraying press, for slaves, for a whole month.

Thus we read: "The Art of Hâbimah. At Exhibition 37". You will see how instructive it is... "Art in general can be divided into two categories: national art and international art...

"To the first belong principally the artists of the spoken word: poets, speakers, actors... "On the second floor, painters, sculptors, musicians, singers. The range of spoken word artists is very limited; it extends over such and such a country – sometimes it also embraces a neighboring country. other words, the artists of the word are organically linked to their land, and only their people know them, understand them, appreciate them at their fair value.

"Happier is international art: its gifted children are cherished throughout the world, they are everywhere at home, for them, all peoples have eyes and ears. Examples abound! Picasso and Chagall, Rodin and Epstein, Duncan and Fokine, Menuhin, Heifetz, Chaliapin... [206] “Very great spoken word artists from time to time break through the barriers of their language and their country and become international – such as Duse and Sarah Bernhardt. But that only happens very rarely, for that you need an extraordinary, prodigious talent, a particular situation, a rare energy, a universally spread language. "Vachtangoff, this brilliant Russian-Armenian – and in some sense also Jewish – director – created a new method. He did not want to wait for the great, the very great artist to be born: he kneaded him himself, breathed into him a living soul. He succeeded mainly because he knew how to unite all the talents of speech in a magnificent whole, all the artistic temperaments in a single rhythm, with the qualities of some making up for the faults of others. Moreover, he had incorporated into each theatrical piece all possible arts – music and painting, choirs, dances and songs. He ... not

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did it not in a mechanical way but in an organic way like religion in its ecstasies of prayers and faith. “The language of the Bible, however beautiful it appears in the mouths of the artists of 'Habimah' plays only a minimal role.

"It is not in vain that many theaters set out to imitate 'Habimah' in his art, they glimpsed the dove of Noah's Ark, the herald of an international expression for spoken word artists , these spiritual emissaries who create links between peoples better than any diplomatic representative. This is why we must all salute "Habimah" and its artists, on the occasion of their new appearance in Paris, contributing to their moral and material success. No one better than "Habimah" can speak for us in the hearts of foreign peoples who do not know us or do not want to know us." ******

We are told: "That on the occasion of the performances of the "Habimah" theater, a reception committee has been formed and is composed of MM.:

“The Grand Rabbis M. Lieber and Eisenstadt, Louis Jouvet, Charles Dullin, Gaston Baty, Georges and Ludmilla Pitoëf, Pierre Renoir, Marc Chagall, Max Nordau, Naoun Aronson, Chana Orloff Jules Adler, Georges Duhamel, of the French Academy , Victor Basch, André Maurois, Chalom Asch, Z. Schneour, Paul [207] Abraham, Edmond Fleg, André Spire, Henri Hertz, Joseph Milbauer, Ivan Goll, Dr. Weill-Hallé, Me Marcel Mirtil, Louis Asscher, Robert Lévy , O. Pernikoff, I. Jefrykin, Léonard Rosenthal, René Rocher, Maurice Lhemann, I. Naïditch, Léonce Bernheim, M. Jarblum, Nahoum Hermann, Joseph Fischer, etc..." Prague: "The Jewish Telegraphic Agency informs us that Mr. Léon Blum, Vice-President of the Council, who represented the government of the Republic at the funeral of President Masaryk, took advantage of his stay in Prague to visit the old and famous synagogue: Altneuschul. Mr. Léon Blum, who was accompanied by Mrs. and Miss Blum, was received at the synagogue by the president of the Jewish community of Prague who welcomed him in French and Hebrew. Palestine:

"The Tel Aviv City Council has decided to name a street in the city after President Masaryk." (President Masaryk, despite all the journalistic effrontery, hated France, great prince of Freemasonry in Central Europe, he owed all his power only to Freemason and communist Jewry. He swore only by culture He prepared with all his might with Benes the advent of Judeo-English.

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Bolshevism in Europe. Czecho-Slovakia is only the forward citadel of the Kremlin in Europe.) Vienna: "At the request of the Hungarian government, the authorities in Vienna have arrested Dr. Buxbaum, from Jerusalem, a delegate to the recent Agudath Israel congress in Marienbad. "The Hungarian government is requesting the extradition of Dr. Buxbaum, who was allegedly part of Béla Kuhn's government in 1919. He had been sentenced to death by the military tribunal after the end of the communist regime, but managed to flee and took refuge in Palestine.

"The British consul in Vienna protested the arrest of Dr Buxbaum, as he is a Palestinian citizen." ("Jew" and "English" are perfectly synonymous, we should be convinced, a Jew or an Englishman is the same.)

[208] Small miscellaneous facts

Palestine:

“However, the KKL remained and remains the major land purchaser of the Jewish National Home, since in 1937 it acquired 20,000 dunams of land, out of the 25,000 of which the Jews became owners. "Despite all the obstacles, the KKL intends to raise half a million pounds this year. We are not short of offers, because the strike has been disastrous for the Arab economy. So the Arabs are- they ready to sell anything they can.

"Sixteen years ago, Keren Kayemeth had only 20,000 dunams of land. Today we have more than 400,000. We have achieved land reform, which is to nationalize the land, and we have done it beautifully." The Army:

“We learn with the greatest pleasure of the appointment of M. le Médecin Général Worms, associate professor, currently director of the Health Service of the 1st Army Corps, as director of the Military Health School in Lyon, and send him our sincere congratulations." ********

And each issue of the "Israelite Universe" contains at least as much information, very precious teachings as this banal copy. Absolutely useless to read our other native gossip, all sleepy, misleading, slyly frivolous (by order). "The Israelite universe" anticipates them, sums them up,

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dominates, extinguishes them all from very high, from very far away. It gives us the real news from around the world and from France. This is "L'Eclaireur de France".

[209] Again from the "Israelite Universe" of November 19, 1937:

"Me J. Tchernoff made on Sunday, November 7, in front of the listeners of "Shema Israel" a very remarkable lecture on Judaism, source of justice and morality... Our readers know Me Tchernoff, renowned lawyer of the Paris Bar, one of the undisputed masters of financial criminal law, historian, sociologist, writer... and an excellent (textual) Jew. Me Tchernoff has always leaned with understanding and sympathy on "Jewish problems...", etc..., etc...

What does Me Tchernoff teach us during this "remarkable conference"?... "How absurd and criminal it is to want to identify Judaism and Bolshevism, a doctrine of calm and evolution with a doctrine of violence and revolution ..." Are we more cheeky?...

What else does Me Tchernoff tell us?... "The Bolshevik Revolution 17 in which took part among "others a few de-Judaized Jews..." Magnificent!... sublime... Take here the Jew in flagrante delicto of exculpation, of oblique communist propaganda... "Some!" ... "Déjudaïsés!"... Delicious! Adorable! Supreme!... To twist the synagogue!... But the first council of the People's Commissars "17" was precisely made up entirely of Jews.. .. and since then it has not changed!... Me Tchernoff knows it better than anyone!... "Dejudaized!" But the Comintern is Judaism itself!... the [210] Most Executive Consistory !... the most ardent, the most intransigent, the bloodiest on the Planet!...

The opportunity is excellent since we are nearing Revolution 17 to talk a little more about the famous Felix M. Warburg... the great Jewish banker of New York, you know? the son-in-law of Jacob Schiff, head of the Warburg family, of the Loeb clinic, Barush, Hanauer, etc... Warburg who subsidized the old Breton Trotsky (15 billion, then 200 billion), Parvus, Lenin and all the others to revolutionize Russia in 17. Was he also "de-Judaized"?... This "one of the few Jews"?...

It hardly seems... He has just died in New York on October 20, this very powerful Felix M. Warburg, true instigator, creator of Communism in Russia (calm down, the Warburg family is not not extinguished)... What do we learn about this death... May all the synagogues of the whole world resound, hum at present in prayers for the repose of his soul... What a stir in the Consistories!... It is only solemn funeral services after solemn services... Precisely in Paris on October 31st, Mr. Léon Bramson, president of the Ort (the great Jewish work)... MR de Rothschild, MM. Bodenheimer, Bader, Weill, etc.... carry the words of lamentation... We find all high Jewry in tears... and small Jewry likewise... with "good works"... The whole tribe crowds around its rabbis to groan at the loss of its very great Jewish patriarch, American-Soviet-billionaire. "The extraordinary charm which emanated from Félix M. Warburg, his great nobility of "character, his generosity, his devotion to the

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economic reconstruction of the downgraded Jewish masses... It was during the Great War and the years that followed that the deceased, constantly in the breach, worked most actively and most generously to alleviate the sufferings and heal the unheard-of evils caused by the war to the millions of Jews of Central and Eastern Europe... Thanks to him, American Jewry coordinated its efforts..., etc...." You speak!... In short, the funeral eulogy of a great universal monarch... Justice, moreover... Justice!... Louis XIV was only a very small sire in terms of victories besides of Felix M. Warburg of New York!... He could talk about a triumphal reign!... Do you understand these very beautiful euphemisms?... "the Jewish masses [20] (pp. 211-220)

[211] downgraded..." dear cuckolds? "the coordination of efforts?... the alleviation of suffering?...". time!... The Jewish sign of the cross! As in the synagogues, as in the Place de la Nation! for the soul of Mr. Warburg... For his complete happiness! My dear calf!... The Warburg children have the eyes on you!.. as well as Messrs. Barush... Loeb... Hanauer... Brandes... Samuel... Belisha... Kaganovitch... Rothschild... Blum... and his very holiness the Pope... "déjudaisé"... as you say. [212] It is a commandment for every Jew to strive to annihilate everything related to the Christian Church and those who serve it.

Christ is the son of a prostitute. He is Ben Pendera,

that is, the son of a lustful beast. The Talmud.

Still in the "Israelite Universe" (June 25, 1937): “Where is Europe going without the Judeo-Christian Spirits. Lecture by RP Dieux (superb!), Théâtre des Ambassadeurs. Gods don't send it to us to say...

"Between Christians and Jews there is no difference...Israel suffered to spread in the world God's conception, the most beautiful...the purest...the noblest..." Long live the Bible... Name of Gods! And the author quotes André Gode (textual) on the unworthiness of man in the USSR.. further, Gods adds...: "The Pope and the qualified representatives of Protestantism and Judaism have solemnly condemned racism (you think!), ordinary citizens must follow this example... But, on its own, no compression is powerful enough to undertake an effective struggle. This is why it is necessary to organize the Judeo-Christian Front (Celestial Popular Front in short) for the defense of freedom "... "Two specters must remain from the past: anti-Semitism and anti-Christianity, because anti-Semitism is the first chapter of anti-Christianity. Already, almost everywhere, believers of all professions are joining together. The rabbis of France protest against the persecution of Catholics in Spain, and among the Jews they are beginning to understand the greatness of Jesus... The great event of the future will be the meeting of all the [213] sons of the Bible and of the Gospel... But until that day

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far away, to save Peace, Civilization and Revelation, we must reach out to each other", concludes the speaker under the warm applause of the public..." We are not dreaming... This "Gods" in the plural, is surely a Freemason... and even more surely a Jew like the Pope... And then, what a shame! the devil is everywhere! the report of this meeting is signed: Mandel.

[214] In spite of everything, I would not want my simple opinion to have any importance whatsoever, to cause grief around me... There are always a few heroes, among so many weak-willed people, enculomaniacs, pluriproustiens, ugly Bordeaux gidois... Their merit is all the more immense in a country where the reader, the buyer, ultimately turns out to be just as rare, sparse, unlikely, as the stealthy grouse at the Buttes-Chaumont. Here, then, is a very stoic phalanx, ever shrinking, crumbling more each day, quite succumbing to the dirty work of journalism and radio. Riveted by the youtres to the galley of Jewish litanies for the drunken masses...

On the other hand, I say it right away, it would be wrong to believe that I take myself for a model, that I would like to be copied!... Of course I have my little music, those who can tell as many are not yet so numerous these days... They are even becoming, because of mechanics, cerebral fatigue, frenetic objectivist castration, more and more rare. This prevents me from being jealous... It is jealousy for others. It would be stupid on my part... I groan on principle. That's all. I do not like here, the challenges, the imposture, the false blases. All these people who install, shock me and excite me. I have the right. I know clearly that Gidian art after Wildian art, after Proustian art, are part of the implacable continuity of the Jewish program. [215] Getting all the goyes to fuck each other. Carefully rot their elite, their bourgeoisie by the apology of all inversions, snobbery, vanities, irritate them, gangrene them, ridicule them in such a way that at the slightest shock of the proletariat that the Jews will have perfectly, meticulously doped with advancing, stuffed with hatred and envy, this so-called elite, rocks to the bottom of its cesspool. A good hunt for blood, and all will be said!... swept away in the sewer!... a vertigo!... meticulously doped in advance, stuffed with hatred and envy, this socalled elite rocks to the bottom of its cesspool. A good hunt for blood, and all will be said!... swept away in the sewer!... a vertigo!... meticulously doped in advance, stuffed with hatred and envy, this so-called elite rocks to the bottom of its cesspool. A good hunt for blood, and all will be said!... swept away in the sewer!... a vertigo!...

Let's come back to what concerns me humbly. I don't force anyone to buy my books. All the critics are on watch, at the door of every bookstore to prevent people buying me. The potential reader is carefully warned, the well-juiced criticism (right and left, I repeat) extremely virulent to unravel my junk. Even booksellers are mostly hostile to me. They have their own tastes, narrow French tastes... they deplore... dirty cuckolds! Ah! If I had wanted to howl with the "emancipators", as it was proposed to me so many times! Eight days still before "Mort à Crédit" not a single newspaper of the "gôche" which did not come by special envoy, to pass me a small well stuffed lich... to offer me its columns and at what price!... Eight days later what a deluge! Ah! the filthy filth! .. Ah! how vile and foolish they all are! How well Gide did, in God's name, to fuck them all up the ass! I really want people to buy me more. I know two hundred other ways and much less tiring to find my ox... All these bigleux will eat shit that I will still have real thrushes. Ah! if I had howled like them, how beautiful they would have thought me! a lion! Prophetic messenger! Unsurpassable! Ah! that they would have entitled me: One of the Voices of the World!... Ah! if they can really run that fast fuck 'em like they gonna win it I really want people to buy me more. I know two hundred other ways and much less tiring to find my ox... All these bigleux will eat shit that I will still have real thrushes. Ah! if I had howled like them, how beautiful they would have thought me! a lion! Prophetic messenger! Unsurpassable! Ah! that they would have entitled me: One of the Voices of the World!... Ah! if they can really run that fast fuck 'em like they gonna win it I really want people to buy me more. I know two hundred other ways and much less tiring to find my ox... All these bigleux will eat shit that I will still have real thrushes. Ah! if I had howled like them, how beautiful they would have thought me! a lion! Prophetic messenger! Unsurpassable! Ah! that they would have entitled me: One of the Voices of the World!... Ah! if they can really run that fast fuck 'em like they gonna win it that they would have entitled me: One of the Voices of the World!... Ah! if they can really run that fast fuck 'em like they gonna win it that they would have entitled me: One of the Voices of the World!... Ah! if they can really run that fast fuck 'em like they gonna win it

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Grand Prize! How important are these miseries? I'm going off the rails!... I have some admirable colleagues, I won't name them all, I don't want to harm them. Take Simenon from "Pitard", we should talk about it every day! Marcel Aymé succeeds the tale better than Maupassant. Malraux's "Conquerors", as far as I can tell, this is a masterpiece! Obviously now the Jewish press is "engineering" it out of breath. These are the horrors of the profession. Elie Faure, although half yoke, so mason fascinates me, except when he talks about love, then he plays around like crazy, he starts [216] to weigh several tons of clumsy shit all at once, like almost all Jewish people launched into sentiment. I would kill myself for Lenôtre. Dabit of the "Villa Oasis" so little noticed... Morand (when he is not trying to write a novel, emotion) seems to me to be the model of any vigorous writer of the genre. And McOrlan! He had planned everything, set everything to music, thirty years in advance. I would have at home, if I could, all the "Cartoons". This is to tell you that I'm bignoly, not delicate for a round... I'm willing (you see that) of all genres, none seems inferior to me, provided that the matter is organic and organized, that the blood circulates, everywhere, around and inside starting from the heart, breathes with the lungs, hold upright, in short, that the thing turns with a very alive point of catalysis, as alive as possible, unbearable! in the center well hidden, well sealed, in the depths of the meat, let no one deceive me let it throb let me not be praised for such a poor corpse in frilly chatterboxes... All these rotten cheaters, these vague "genius" kind of people, these inorganic people make me give in. I would give all the Prousts on earth and yet another for "Brigadier you are right", for two songs by Aristide. If you start delirious, you really have to have a fever... don't pretend!... I like Claude Farrère even better than twelve or thirteen counterfeiters. For my little staff, I owe a lot to Barbusse, to Daudet from "Rêve éveillé". Vlaminck seems to me among the painters the one who comes closest to my ideal with Gen Paul and Mahé... Do not imagine that all these people are friends or were... It would be a fatal error! Maybe they probably hate me or hated me when they bitch alive. Most I have never seen. I don't want to see them at all, nor to please them, on the contrary, they are the hairdressers of life, who are always keen to please, the whores. The more you are hated, I find, the quieter you are... It simplifies things a lot, it's no longer worth being polite, I don't want to be loved at all... I don't need of "tenderness"... It's always the worst crap in existence that I've heard sigh after the "tenderness"... That's how they reassure themselves. It's like honesty, probity, virtue... What are the walls in the world that hear the most about these things?... They are the walls of an examining magistrate's office. .. What are the arenas where one vociferates maximum in the name of all [217] Freedoms? from France to the French? of the abolition of injustices and privileges?... In the arenas of Communism full to bursting with Jews delirious with racism and voracity. It's weighed! Dear beasts, come and tear all these calves for me!...

Back to our gay sheep ... I digress like an old chair. Question of "literature" I do not therefore give myself as a model, nay! I have been copied enormously, of course, without saying a word! to divulge anything, it was fatal... Here and there, almost everywhere and in many other countries... Those who copy me necessarily abominate me, exhaust me as soon as they can, more than all the others at a time. I am the father of many small children, with meager noodles, who, at my expense, play the little farauds, the inspired little ones, the feverish little prophets, from one little "jump" to another on the right, in the center and above all

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to the left. I don't want to disturb them, I'm discreet by nature, dads know very well that you have to step aside, that it's children's pleasure to show off... I don't want to disturb them, bring me spoilsport... I even have for them, I admit, a very understandable little tenderness... I would like to be able to give them a little bit of glycero-phosphate, to strengthen their bones a little. .. a more solid framework... In general, they are soft, they stink of high school, the babbling, the handjob, the heart misses them. They pain me to look from there... For a little I would deny them. It's unfortunate, in fact, in short, that they didn't rather continue to write politely "Goncourtian"... It comes all alone among the muffs, this Goncourtian kind. All polite people are boobs. No more polite than an executioner... When one has taken the time to study the appropriate adjective so well, when it goes up to the pen, it is because one is dry as a cudgel. Believe me I have often experienced this. Our beautiful neoclassical, Goncourtian and Proustophile literature is nothing but an immense flower bed of dried out boorishness, an infinite dune of wriggling ossicles. To succeed well in the coarse franc, the direct emotion, it is not enough, it would be too easy, to invoke shit each time one finds oneself short. Such romantics and classics as soon as they felt themselves babbling, misguided a little bit in treacherous ground, came to the rescue of God the Father! imposed it immediately. Strings! silence! and reverence!

Rudeness is bearable only in spoken, living language, and nothing is more difficult than to direct, dominate, transpose spoken language, emotional language, the only sincere, ordinary language, into written language, to fix without killing it.. Try... Here is the terrible "technique" where most writers fall apart, a thousand times more difficult than the so-called "artist" or "stripped down", "standard" molded, mannered writing, that we learn branleux in school grammar. Rictus, who is always quoted, did not always succeed, far from it! He was forced to resort to elisions, abbreviations, apostrophes Cheating! The master of the genre is Villon, without a doubt. Montaigne, full of pretensions in this respect, writes quite the opposite, in Jewish, As soon as one feels a little "common" in fiber and intimacy, the best, by far, without question, is to devote oneself to good manners, to pursue a career in "sparseness" in elegant conciseness, sobriety delicate, finely trembling, colettism. All the "perfect styles" therefore belong to you with more or less a little finger, lonlaire I

Nothing more to be feared from your outbursts!... You will never be discovered, the world, so muddy, so porky, so irremediably low in the ass, its "puppies" always so close to the heels, only wipe themselves with pasteurized wrappers ... All his distinction!... The only one, to tell the truth. For this reason and no other, you will observe that the ladies are startled and disconcerted, challenged with harsh words, startled at the slightest coarseness. They are always so close to the broom, always so kind by nature, as soon as they write, it is with the most precious, the most refined, with orchids that they agree... They only borrow from Musset, Marivaux, Noailles, or Racine their seductions, their transvestites. Suppose they let themselves go... what an unpacking! a

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minute! Judgment of God!... It would then really be the end of the world! However, writing about ass, shit, in itself is nothing obscene or vulgar. Vulgarity begins, gentlemen and ladies, with sentiment, all vulgarity, all obscenity! to feeling! The writers, like the female writers, similarly enfiotées nowadays, enjuivées domesticated to the ventricles since the Renaissance, have ceaselessly, strive, frantic to the "delicate", to the "sensitive", to the "human" ... [219] as they say... For this purpose, nothing seems to them more convincing, more decisive, than the story of the trials of love... of Love... for Love.. .by Love... all the "lyrical bidet" in short... Their chops are full of these crumbling degenerate mannered pigs of their "Love I!" ...

It is by writing love to a loss of soul, by vocabulating on a thousand tones of love, that they consider themselves saved... But here it is precisely, scoundrels! the word of infamy! the rancid of the stables, the heaviest word of abjection there is!... evil filth! the most stinking, obscene, slimy word in the dictionary! with "heart!". I forgot that other viscous dismissal! The mark of an intimate baseness, an immodesty, an insensitivity of a sprawling, irrevocable cow, for extraordinarily infamous artistic-shitty litters... Each letter of each of these sweet words weighs its good half-ton of exquisite shit ... All the Feminas juries taste it, breathe only through these turds, swooning over it, intimately delight in it, Root? What a quivering, exhibitionist bewilderment! What an obscene, snooty swooning pup! Half a quarter Jewish moreover!... Look at the wild beasts a little bit, always noble, always modest... But the rabbits in hutches, the dogs in kennels, the pigs in their wallows, here are beings who speak, dream, think, act for Love! All the rot, the slavery of the races begins, ends with love, the "tournaments", the emotions, the whisperings of Love!... A good shot of alcohol on top of that and it's the collapse! Here they are, very bastardized, very ripe for all kinds of slavery, provided they bugger each other more and more and more and more... in all the kennels, the hutches that are presented to them... wallowing in their quibbles, in their arabesques of Love, they exult!... It's their straw!... Frankly speaking, there is only one obscenity. But this elementary, inexorable, infinitely corrupting biological one, it is the putrefying "Speak to me of love". Nothing resists him. Everything is found, in a very short time, corrupted, worm-eaten, "muflized" forever... It's the real "debauchery"... The unrestrained putassery of feelings and words must ultimately be paid for very dear, result in very cruel tortures. To the slack, "amorosed" hordes, the infinite servitudes!... All the prostitutions of the ass are only [220] trifles with this "niagaresque" puke of "sweet murmurs" of "burning feelings", "of ineffable drunkenness "... all this deluge of enfioteries with which we are submerged for our decadence. The baseness of things of the soul makes us more morons, serfs and boring madmen, obtuse and deaf maniacs than all the poxes of a century reinforced together.

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[21] (pp. 221-230)

[221] The Jew who rapes or corrupts a non-Jewish woman and even

the killer must be absolved in court, because he only harmed a mare.

The Talmud.

What goes in hard and comes out soft?" Here's a good riddle...

Those who know answer: the biscuit!... Films are the same... They start out hard and end soft... marshmallow to shit!... with "feeling" juice. The crowds enjoy themselves, it's their happiness, their drunkenness, they need their shit, their good Jewish shit, radio shit, sports shit (all boxing fights, all road and velodrome competitions are rigged), shit-alcohol, shit-crime, shit-politics, shit-cinema, they are dying of it!... Never too much! Never too many turds! Never too expensive! Literature also prepares them to fully appreciate this pretty droppings. Literature is at the level, it has to be, of the most damning scenarios, of the most shaken up. She no longer vegetates except at this price, no longer knows how to enjoin herself more, therefore to please, silting up a little more, becoming more sentimental... All in turds!... Always closer! Closer to the people! more political! more demagogue! In short, the "banquier" spirit... The spirit of the clown Tabarin (1630 is already a youtre)... On to the next act, the learned chip! Gentlemen, Ladies, the people will send you back to the gogs one of these three mornings!... So all in prison!... and Robots Name of God!... and forward surrealism!.. The modern art thing is even simpler!... I'm going to tell you for nothing... You photograph an object, any object, chair, umbrella, telescope, bus, and then you cut it into a "puzzle"... You scatter the crumbs, these shreds, all across [222] a huge sheet of paper, green, orange cream. Poetry!... Did you understand?... When the robot wants poetry, we regale it... We are still only at the last stage of naturalistic, mannered, cosmeticized, Napolitanized, persuasive, sycophantic, screaming decrepitude. You'll wait a few months!... You'll get it robot art! We rot the Aryan slave, we prepare him in every way: and as long as he can stuff himself with it!... If some little Jew comes along, by chance possessing a new way of mining, stun the Aryan even better, more intimately... His future is assured... And what a future!... What a dazzling contract! It only takes Hollywood three weeks of intensive worldwide publicity to transmute the spindliest, most adulterated, normally smiling, rancid, ulcerated little youtre minion into the stupendous Phoenix, the reincarnated Michelangelo! no more Rembrandt, no more Mirandola! See you from here! You don't exist!... The Jew is at the origin of all cinema... at the helm, Hollywood, Moscow, Billancourt... Meyers on Meyers... Korda, Hayes, Zukor Chaplin, Paramount... Fairbank... Ulmann... Cantor..., etc..., etc. He is in the middle in the "circuit" rooms, in the newsrooms... the critics. He is at the end... at the checkout... He is everywhere... What comes from the Jew returns to the Jews! automatic!... inexorably. Having drained along the way, ironing on all the roads of the world, all the spiritual sustenance and all the nonsense of Aryan idiots, morons, cuckolds, drunk, fanaticized by this shit! for those shits! Damn it!... How well they taught the crowds, the yokes of film, sentimental obscenity!

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The theater is going to tumble one evening, soon, all of it, without making a big splash in the cinema!... Squirming turd! in the common grave, in the gigantic drain! in the Universal Attraction! Jewish world art. You will observe that the stream of stars (all great geniuses of course, theatrical and cinematic), has become more and more animated, intensive, these last months between Hollywood, Moscow and the capitals of Europe... These "artists" do not travel than in commissioned service... They all take part in the great world colonization by Jewish cinema... Each bringing to Hollywood in turn, his little personal betrayal, his little intimate information, his little felonies, infinitely anxious to please again to Ben Mayer, Ben Zuckor... quivering to bring them [223] yet another emotional string, stolen from native arts, from Aryan arts, to make rotting Jewish film merchandise even better. A little secret of penetration... All this carefully remunerated, despicable traffic I assure you... spiritually... Jews of all grimaces unite!... It's done!...

Other parallel traffic, for apprentice stars, between Europe and Hollywood. Trafficking of the most beautiful, the most desirable little Aryan women, very sucking, very docile, well selected, by the Negrite Jewish khedives of Hollywood "Directors" (!) writers (?) dykes of pashas, stagehands... bankers assorted. .. All our viziers of the Jewish Universe!... It's no longer the road to Buenos... it's the road to California and "high luxury" and vice versa. The little Aryan asses, the most tender, very youthful, and cute, all that is best in the herd, absolutely the very first choice, for the big old ones, negrifying... the most fermented concentrated rots youtres supreme cinema!... Jews everywhere! in the ass! of all! and in the pipe!... the good Jewish fuck! ... You will devour them the hemorrhoids of the big paneux, sulphurous famous youtre, hateful pasha, little sister of race!... beauty queen!... They are mad about stuffed frills! You're not sixteen for plums! Do you want to make a career?... Minois? You want to be admired! tell me?... You want to be Queen of the Jewish Universe! Wait!... Wait a little bit first... quivering! To the pipe child!... You think it's enough to be beautiful?... First open your nice belly... You believe the movie newspapers?... You haven't finished! Do you want to become sovereign, little bitch?... World favorite? Alright! So go down a little bit first to the anus of Mr. Lévy-Lévy, known as Samuel the Abyssinian, known as Kalkeinstein, known as Ben Cinema, to amuse him with his prolapse... gently suck the heavy package... that he tests you!... Enough sentences! there!... Do not burst your teeth!... Glory is an asshole! very complicated, fragilely swollen, sultry Jew...gently!...Don't damage anything, my charming, above all! Don't make Mr. Kalkeinstein bleed... He's waiting for you!... Hurry up honey. Sweet!... Now another one! adores "blondes" above all else, Mr. Kalkeinstein, Ben Cinema... like all niggers... He possesses, dear postulants! all the photographs already in place, on his big director's desk... He's wet. The Abdul-Hamid Deer Park? Rio-Janeiro? Brothelly primitives! Hollywood does it much better... a much finer selection... much more astute, more rational... Preface to [224] the great Reserve of the most beautiful white women exclusively for Jews. Razzia every Sunday. The French selection of small beauty tendons is particularly watched by the large Jewish jackals of California. A magnificent reputation as suckers, very dainty whores precedes French women everywhere... The Jewish-Canak nabob of Hollywood, late out of his ghetto... wants, it's natural, he's the king... to surrender count... I knew one of these pashas, he was splendid in his way. He died, moreover, at work... When he disembarked, he never stopped rejoicing until his departure... He felt in person at late out of his ghetto... wants, it's natural, he's the king... to realize... I knew one of these pashas, he was splendid in his way. He died, moreover, at work... When he disembarked, he never stopped rejoicing until his departure... He felt in person at late out of his ghetto... wants, it's natural, he's the king... to realize... I knew one of these pashas, he was splendid in his way. He died, moreover, at work... When he disembarked, he never stopped rejoicing until his departure... He felt in person at

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length of cock and night, all the aspiring stars... It was not possible to imagine the consumption of this man... The number of cuties who show up to be calcified just at the furtive prospect of an engagement for Hollywood ...or even a small test role around Paris... Completely flabbergasted! It's by the dozen that it sucks! each cuter than the other for sucking the gentleman's cock... and his hot piss and his pox... And not badass, I assure you! nothing but sinew.!... all presented by their families, and even maidens. Nothing but Aryan women and not starving petty bourgeoises. Nothing above the "majority"... Ambition!... And the horrible Abyssinian on top of that! ugly, old and dirty, clumsy and stupid, a real scumbag, in everything and everywhere... a real ghetto disgust. He never had any resistance... He stuffed them all... with hope, with the Jewish mirage, with the bon mot! Ah! Don Juan! what a talker! The mothers would have made the impossible fear that they bugger them more, their pretty little girls! so gifted for the Arts... He couldn't take it anymore... They licked him on all sides... his old flabby balls... Hollywood! The more they were "engaged" the more they liked it... He kept a small notebook to number the maidens... sometimes 25 in a month... He was sadistic like 36 Persian cats... From time to time it went wrong , there was tobacco, fathers, brothers of families who showed themselves... little blackmails in perspective... But the pashas are protected... he even had, this one, especially, for his service, a real police commissioner attached to his person to extricate him.. when things were smoking a little strong... The police intervened. We even woke the Prefect at night in his Prefecture to give orders... so that we bring back his cuties, when they packed their bags... absolutely like under Louis XV... when his tail l prevented [225] from sleeping... That. our taxes are good for something. Only I shouldn't spoil you, that you would believe you are Pasha... There is the enormous difference!... The "Good Pleasure" remains... it's no longer the same people who benefit from it, that's all ... Don't get confused!... You little bell, you Aryan cellar, you'd make yourself ring strangely if you took the fancy to play the little satyrs like that! even a quarter! even the tenth! we'll make you quickly pass the taste... You wouldn't even have the Bastille coup! You would be entitled to the "castanets"... Pfoui! the native scum! who now pisses everywhere! The dirty coyote! The disruption! to the niche! filthy... in bed!... These are, I assure you, just as many childishness... Conqueror's relaxations! distractions of khedives. Trivia! Serious work does not suffer from it! On the contrary!... The Talmudic program suffers no delay in execution. Polluting eroticism is part of the program. That's all. Intimate chapter. These are, I assure you, just as many pranks... The relaxations of conquerors! distractions of khedives. Trivia! Serious work does not suffer from it! On the contrary!... The Talmudic program suffers no delay in execution. Polluting eroticism is part of the program. That's all. Intimate chapter. These are, I assure you, just as many pranks... The relaxations of conquerors! distractions of khedives. Trivia! Serious work does not suffer from it! On the contrary!... The Talmudic program suffers no delay in execution. Polluting eroticism is part of the program. That's all. Intimate chapter.

As for the general principles, they are intangible. Observe that all French, English, American, that is to say Jewish, films are infinitely tendentious, always, from the most benign to the most amorous!... from the most historical to the most idealistic... They do not exist and spread only for the greater glory of Israel... under various masks: democracy, equality of races, hatred of "national prejudices", the abolition of privileges, the march of progress, etc... the army of democratic canards in short... their strict goal is to stupefy the goye always more... to bring him as soon as possible to renounce all his traditions, his unfortunate taboos, his "superstitions", his religions , to make him abjure in short all his past, his race, his own rhythm in favor of the Jewish ideal.

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You will note that, in the films, the Jew, as a "Jewish character" never appears to you except as a "persecuted", touching character, crushed by the malignity of things, bad luck... and above all by the brutality of the Aryans... (See Chaplin)... "Whining feeds" beautifully! Jewish humor is always one-sided, always directed against Aryan institutions; we are never [226] shown the Jew, greedy, voracious, larval and vulture, arrogant or dab, as he is transformed, tirelessly fregolinized, in everyday life, according to the needs of conquest. What a prodigious field yet offered to the verve of comedians! analysts, satirists, virulent rectifiers of all wrongs, fanatical vigilantes, fine scalpels of iniquity! What manna! what abracadabrant material of unforeseen! unheard-of imbroglios, this gigantic rush of yurt rats on the universe, insatiable, voraciously delirious, insatiable, enraged by a virus from which the World is annihilated... before our eyes, with them, beneath them, what a universal cyclone! ... From the grotesque in cataclysm to the most harrowing grand guignoleries... of everything!... From Subcarpathian Russia to the American deserts... to the little "lapidary cafes". The world in torture! From Sub-Carpathian Russia to American deserts... to small "lapidary cafes". The world in torture! From SubCarpathian Russia to American deserts... to small "lapidary cafes". The world in torture!

Funny! At the moment of approaching these infernal surroundings, the Jew, the djibouk of the arts, of touching has his own problem, his own destiny, the Jewish person is reabsorbed, evaporates, evades... Nobody left!... At the moment to confront the real, the only human question of the moment, the typical refrain of the earth, to unleash this anthrax a little: the Jewish Conspiracy... its infiltration, the monopolization by the youtrerie of all the springs, of all the levers and commands of the world... The fabric in short of the Demiurgy, the Hebrew apostolic... Nothing more!... No more a Jew!... These same thunderbolts of humor, these pitiless scalpels, these supervibrant playwrights , become tender... all these extra-lucids get confused... these frightening super-analysts start to banter, the whole superartist gang youtre, skews, undulates, avoids, All that is absolutely hollow, grossly out of date, fictitious, screaming cheating... Always around the "200 families" more or less!... But who comes to tell us about the fundamentally [227] Jewish crap of the 500,000 frantically Jewish families, camped on our sol?... The appalling progression of the world Jewish horde? Nobody!... Our progressive strangulation? Here is the real drama! No other drama exists in comparison... From small to large, from the individual to the whole... Our progressive strangulation? Here is the real drama! No other drama exists in comparison... From small to large, from the individual to the whole... Our progressive strangulation? Here is the real drama! No other drama exists in comparison... From small to large, from the individual to the whole...

I did not fault myself for rushing headlong into the bourgeoisie. I do this much better than a Jew, much better, knowingly. But each his turn! on the fly of nettles!... I would like, it is the moment, that the Jews also enjoy themselves! They deserve it! enormously!... What are they waiting for to spoil themselves with these fine scalpels, these supervibrant cellos of humor and tragedy? , fanaticized by the smallest social pustules, heroes to unleash the most

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dripping scrambles, now that they are governing... I catch them chilled, wild with verve? What a surprise! What disappointment! In humor as in war, those in command must toast first! But it is elementary! immanent justice! The magnificent Louis XIV (and all his court of scoundrels) heard very harsh and colorful ones! and took pride in listening to them. Our Jews are much more fastidious, intolerant, touchy, bad players... I'm still waiting for some very substantial piece, a really period work, from our Bernsteins, Verneuils, Acharts, Passeurs, Devals, Jouvets, Sachas and all the others. ... which would show us the Jews at their great work of enslavement, conquest, penetration. And how they must be informed! front row seats! It's time to be objective! dazzling! "slice of life!"... If the subject does not lend itself to it! no one is ready for it! With or without circumlocutions! each according to his nature! his mood! his favorite! Show us without ceremony, the Jew trying to shake our corn... to make himself shine in our bullshit... to hug our chicks well... to wipe his fias in our curtains, to deliver us "there's happiness!" our booklets for the next... Chick we'll never see that!... or on film! nor in ditties! Tragically? Incredibly? the Prince affair, and a thousand others? Quite simply! What super detective novels! Very Jewish at heart, classics! Masonic! Definitely the famous Jewish humor... the outright objectivism... the supremely thorough analysis...

[228] All these illuminating marvels go no further than the Aryan, all these truths: for the Aryan... analysis of the Aryan... pulverization of the Aryan! never of the Jew! All Jewish films are stuffed with outrages for the Aryan, always with flattery for the Jew. It's the rule... Look closely, dear cuckolds... like all the Marxs, these Chaplins, these Cantors... etc..., don't care about our poor slice. If we are shown a little Jew somewhere in the theatre...in a movie...in the music hall (all musichalls are entirely Jewish) as a Jew, "avowed Jew", then bet for sure! We will serve it to you in the idealistic form, infinitely! touching illuminated! even playful, spiritual, quivering neo-little Jesus, dedicated body and soul to the redemption of our infinite depravities, of our bloody attacks, of our frenzies of incurable pithecanthropes, of inveterate massacres. He offers himself... Brute! we'll tear it!... Your ass! Shit ball! We are never represented to us as he is the Jew, an implacable little polluting racist cholera, linked by each filament of his being as a Jewish larva to all the evil spells of all ages and of the whole universe... And it this is what drives me to despair. It is precisely this little Jew that I wanted to see on screen. linked by every filament of his being as a Jewish larva to all the evil spells of all ages and of the whole universe... And that's what drives me to despair. It is precisely this little Jew that I wanted to see on screen. linked by every filament of his being as a Jewish larva to all the evil spells of all ages and of the whole universe... And that's what drives me to despair. It is precisely this little Jew that I wanted to see on screen.

[229] In the films (all Jewish) all the grotesque, the crime, the imbecility is for us, all the beautiful role, the Glory, the Finesse, the Humor,

Goodness, Beauty, Humanity is for the Jews.

Any little Jew, at birth, finds in his cradle all the possibilities of a fine career as a director, a great actor, a great rabbi, a great slut, a great banker... If some daring non-Jew s adventure in the cinema, he will have to give these proofs of absolute servility... that it will come down to genius in the polishing brush?... if he manages to be tolerated, admitted, among the Jews, he will have to he adds, so endlessly and endlessly... juicing that he gets enrouted so hard... so deeply! in a way! let it open!... super-open the behinds!... for the

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love them all at once!... How inconvenient that will be!... That his films will literally drip with messianic "ideology" and super-tendentious humor... If he doesn't manage to give a hundred thousand and a hundred thousand other proofs of madly slimy, very irrefutable slugging, he won't go to Hollywood! He will never be able to crawl to the heights of the quarry... He will never know Ben-Cameraman, the Supreme in person! the "living Jerusalem" of today! of which we adore, Aryans, all the Messages, by the miracles of the light... that he asks us to stay well on our knees. . . to pray... to wait... very cute, docile... That we'll all be stuffed... that we'll each have our turn! that we'll have something for everyone... that it's the Hollywood Host... Jerusalem Ben Yiyi!... that while waiting we spend all the pèze for the quest... May he think of us Ben Yiyi!... That he is there for our happiness! that he is God already!... that he will put us to the heart!... Finally all the hopes that we need in our pots, so sad... so empty...

[230] In the past, certain nobles maintained a theater in their castles. They gave the comedy there, in family: audience, actors, authors, all was of the family. Today Parisian theaters are still family theatres, they function according to the same principle, everything is Jewish: actors, authors, audience. critics... They all belong (and the Music Halls) to the great Jewish family, the pieces also necessarily... or so arranged, doctored, embellished... tendentious... "silent"... that they are still Jewish. So here we are back to the family theater, for a "certain social category", the big profiteers of the moment, our Jewish masters... The success of the plays we play depends entirely on Jewry, this success is maintained, supported , propagated by Jewry: jewelers, haute couture, banking, snobs, furriers, putanat..., etc... If you happen to enter one of these theaters (avant-garde or rear-guard) you will find, in these theaters, a funny little air... strange... equivocal..., C Are you the strange one... the foreigner!... You are never really interested in the shows... They hardly concern you. They don't speak your language... You find yourself ill at ease... A certain snobbery... a certain excess... annoys you... a certain sweetness... warns you... a certain tendentious insistence... Sentimental obscenity... a very certain horrible bad taste... a certain rhythm annoys you... These people talk about a funny You are never really interested in shows... They hardly concern you. They don't speak your language... You find yourself ill at ease... A certain snobbery... a certain excess... annoys you... a certain sweetness... warns you... a certain tendentious insistence... Sentimental obscenity... a very certain horrible bad taste... a certain rhythm annoys you... These people talk about a funny You are never really interested in shows... They hardly concern you. They don't speak your language... You find yourself ill at ease... A certain snobbery... a certain excess... annoys you... a certain sweetness... warns you... a certain tendentious insistence... Sentimental obscenity... a very certain horrible bad taste... a certain rhythm annoys you... These people talk about a funny

[22] (pp. 231-240)

[231] in a specious, reticent way... preaching at times... and then emphasizing... These actors hold each other in a funny way... shopkeeper... they always seem to be selling. .. We don't know what... love?... feelings? to brag about some rubbish?... Parbleu! You are in a souk!... In a Jewish "family theatre"... You are an intruder... And the "Theatres for the Masses!" (even more Jewish if possible than the other theatres) despite all their anathemas, their declamations, their trances, do not escape the great rule of the day: "Theatres for Jewish families" created, designed, subsidized for the virulent frenzied defense of Jewish World Interests: Strictly! of the privileged Jewish families, of the great world Jewish family (against us).

No more "sozial" in all this adventure than butter in the ass! impossible!

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Strictly "family and Jewish" these so-called popular, communist theatres, hence all these terrible inevitable fiascos, very easily foreseeable, in Russia as well as in France: Théâtres du Boulevard, Théâtres de Culture... even tobacco!... meticulously !... even haunting! same job! These family theaters can only really interest Jewish families, our Negroid potentates, that is to say their parasites, their whores and their clients, Freemasons and other traitors... Just like the very special shows that were put on in his Château de Passy, Grimaud de la Reynière, interested only him, his family, his clique, his whores, the other Farmers General and the great parasites of the Farms, infinite pleasure seekers, all extravagant satraps who all necessarily thought more or less of the same way on essential issues and ways to have fun.

[232] The Earth is the Paradise of the Jews. They have everything. They can afford anything.

Since we are at the Beaux-Arts, let's not leave this chapter without talking a little bit about the Poly-Jewish-Masonic Exhibition 37. I title it quite well since all the big jobs were equally distributed, half and half between Jews and Freemasons. The 100 per cent native of the last war and the next, he had nails for his loaves, to shield them, and then the right to spend his money in paying turnstiles. It is going to close, we are told, this exhibition, it is a pity, but the memory remains, the memory of an official seizure of the great power youtre, temporal and spiritual over all of France and the French, from the Comité des Forges to to Public Instructions, from the smallest souk, to the oldest "regional". All this perfectly enyogurt, sly, gatecrashers, materialized, immobile, greedy rancid, anti-artists, anti-lyrical, dechansooned, perfectly keratinized muzzles. Truly the most infamous collection of larvae that can be resolved in the crevices of such a spongy social dunghill. An extraordinarily abject peat of anarchic, misguided, depraved peasants, debauched to the point of phlegm, gluttons turned guts, unbridled by base caution, delirious with shady dealings, shit and treason... Finally the rotten bouquet of a decadence in torrents vinassy manure. I can imagine nothing worse than a Christian board of directors, a "cathedral factory" for example, which is almost always carefully embellished. The Jews still in a pinch can give us a show, be funny, provide us with good times with their racist jokes, their incessant merry-go-round of martyrs, their boasting, their époustouflettes, their paranoid companies, their tails always in motion, always caught, taken back in the doors, crushed, recovered in the thousand trances and contortions. It's a perpetual clownery, a whole trick of djibouks, the merry-go-round of voracious cuckoo clocks – it can make you laugh. They can

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distract. While our bourgeois on the ground, they are frankly unwatchable... boring enough to dissolve into their "cemetery-like" homes, their family waiting rooms. They speak only to lie. They would sell the sun and the earth, and all the innocents on it to add a little nougat, to preserve a coupon. Woven into each other they form the doormat of the "Loges". It is on their backs that the Jews dance and prance. They would sell all their blood brothers for much less than thirty denarii. Judas Dupont much worse than the other.

[234] I will allow myself one more small remark about this exhibition

37. It's funny that the Jews, always so "prognosticators", so "oraculant" to put it better, are like that, for once, completely shriveled, disconcerted... that they didn't plan everything better, l 'Future, the Greatness of the Inevitable Phenomenon of the Great Jewish Empire. It's all ridiculous, insipid, "hairpiece and toupee" an Exhibition in the current era. It's outdated, it's petty, it's forever 1900. It can no longer move anyone. The trepe has already seen all that in the marvelous films, heard everything on the chattering radio. It was good under Félix Faure, "On the descent of the Omnibus", now it's a lost spectacle, oddly cracked, an agricultural capital fair. Now people are jaded. They always expect more. You have to turn the whites of their eyes, torment them with anguish, hang them upside down, make them breathe Death, so that they begin to amuse themselves... It's over, we're surpassed, science is become too bluffing, on the Barnum side it's all cooked, it can no longer cover the costs. But to make sensational! to throw the music full of it, that it really be in the measure and on the scale of our time, gigantic, it was necessary to show great works... real pharaminous, mammothian labors, titanic undertakings... that they then burp sea urchins... their tongues would hang out at bizus from the four hemispheres... kinds of super-Pyramids... multi-channels [235] of the White Sea... the leveling of the Hautes-Alpes ... the filling of the Channel... Finally, very monstrous things... which we can show off... Not sketches, architectural bungling... no! No! Real wonders in the Line... in the super-proud plane. Such super-corporations could very well employ millions, millions of slaves for years, even decades!... Here is the decisive argument... But what is the point, I ask you, of this grotesque piss , friable, windy! shacks?... all this infinitely shabby, crumbling, pretentious agglomeration of false splendors?... What confidence can inspire! what reverence? those poor heaps of plastery carambouilles?... But it's burlesque, come on!... It's not like this that you force the slave to throw himself on his knees, wild with gratitude... But no! ... But no! The slave, observe him, redoubles in these parterres, sarcasm, banter and sausage... It is not serious!... It is not at all the goal, the essential role of so many palaces, marvels, over-dazzling attractions! A truly calamitous failure, on all counts! How did the Jews, those who travel so much and so much around the world, who never stop travelling, not understand right away that their new Trocadero would still, if possible, be a little more shabby, more ridiculous that the other... Demolishing is not enough! Look at these two poor "stuccos" that they have put in place, don't they look like two very mediocre "Caisses d'Epargne" for a small suburb of New York?... Since they want to throw material at us , they did not notice, the Jews, that most of all those puny little pavilions they've been cooking up for so many months would just make good, nofrills little puppies in any Chicago? Since it is the Eiffel Tower that is always the highlight, well Citroën for the swagger he drew much more! He was getting some

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effects... real fires... absolutely, really superb... that these are not ruined... nothing comparable!... As for their fireworks... Nogent-le-Routrou would make you pale! We must split well in the countryside!... In short, our fantastic khedives of the Popular Front, let's recap, they succeeded in only one thing, it was to produce the dirtiest fair, the most fake and the most expensive that the people will ever have seen... Yes, it's a show without excuse, a preposterous wolf... If we are talking about [236] mechanics, but their Palace of Discovery, it does not come to a small tenth of the he old Galerie des Machines: It's a fake carton. All that, I will not deny it, probably cost billions, which are not lost for everyone, but the people are arranged, he doesn't have any for his shoes, apart from the asparagus of course, which buries him from the Trocadero, the supermirliton of the youtres, the Bite-Blum, that's really the only thing, really memorable. All the same, that can't be enough to hypnotize the stranger... We had to do it differently, quite differently. I don't want to give advice! but anyway if it was myself, I would have taken on some gigantic job. For example, tripling the Seine to the sea, both broadly and in depth... Here is a program that exists! These are things that can count! Make the Seine supermaritime! Enough of these "sheepfolds"... these trimmings at the end of sewers, these splices of "collectors"... Let's get out of it, damn it! once and for all! It's horrible all these small reaches in oily drains, these heavy stagnant dumps, these pestilential decantings of all the liquid manure from twenty provinces... To the sea! Your barges even sail more, they crawl viscous on the shit.. The maritime Seine, it's already very beautiful, but that's not enough!... No! No! No . I would decree more, it is necessary to amplify the traffic towards the sea in a very monstrous way! leviathan! I would decree the construction of the most beautiful freeway in the world, on an immense scale then, fifty meters wide, four lanes, direction Rouen and the Channel. You see that?... That's what they should have thought! It was worth a little better than all this crumbling soukerie, this calamitous carambouille of bistros and know-it-alls. And then another twenty highways that I would launch towards the cliffs, towards the beaches, towards the open air, from Rouen... I would open a range of them, as we would never have seen, on these landscapes... ask for that between Le Havre and Le Tréport! a range of lively accesses to happiness, to the lungs, to the high wind, to the globules, to the sea!... Popular buses from Paris to La Bleue there and back: 20 francs... It would exist as work and as a result. It would be more djiboukeries... That would have sound, background, color, duration, real progress! without a palace, without a roof, without a bell! Paris, since we are there, is a city that we can no longer rebuild, [237] even develop, in one way or another. The times of tinkering, odds and ends, little tricks, sharpening works are over... It is a city that has been made all his life, that has now become quite harmful, deadly for those who live there. The best thing is that it remains languishing in permanent withdrawal in a "touching" museum, with turnstiles if you like, a permanent exhibition, behind events, like Aigues Mortes, Bruges or Florence... You have to dismember it all absolutely, just leave him the dead parts, all the game that suits him. For humans it's something else, they can't live in a corpse... Paris, a pretty stagnant city, gently dying between the noble Place des Vosges and the Carnavalet Museum... Perfect. The agony is a spectacle that interests many people. Fetid old woman who breaks up while whispering things from History...

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organic, inhaling, expiring, chiatic, fermentative, febricilant, virulogenic rots. The most unhealthy city in the world, the most nested, the most embedded, infested, confined, irremediable is Paris! in its yoke of hills. A culde-sac caught in a sewer, all simmering with carrion, millions of latrines, torrents of burning oil and petrol, a wager of rot, a physiological catastrophe, preconceived, maintained, enthusiastic. Population from May, plunged, maintained, tied up in a prodigious gas bell, literally suffocating, strangled in the fumes, the volutes of a thousand factories, a hundred thousand cars in traffic... the sulphurous, stagnant releases of millions of puppies, absolutely corroded, mined, putrefied down to its last hemoblasts, by the most insidious, the most pernicious aerial refuse... Zero ventilation, Paris an exhaust pipe without an exhaust. Mists, clouds of all carbides, all oils, all rots up to the second floor of the Eiffel Tower. A tank, asphyxiating at the bottom of which we crawl and die... Density of vaporous rot impassable to all direct sunlight. At night, the famous "Ouessant" itself with its 500,000,000 candles, dries laughably against this curtain of all the stagnant, perfectly opaque Parisian rot. No light can pierce, disperse this mush. [238] Prodigious rot, overheated, infinitely enriched, during all the summer months, by so many other permanent filth, organic exudates, chemical residues, electrified, millions of abject carburations that spin us straight into the bronchi and the treasure of our blood. Cheers to the City of Light! A gas dustbin for imbecile tortures!... Hello! Humans crawl through Paris. They don't live anymore, that's not true!... They never have their human count of blood cells, 3 to 5 billion instead of 7. They only exist in slow motion, in worried larvae So that they jump you have to dope them! They only get titillated with alcohol. Look at these agonized faces... It's horrible to watch... They always seem to be struggling a little in a suicide... ... Hi! Humans crawl through Paris. They don't live anymore, that's not true!... They never have their human count of blood cells, 3 to 5 billion instead of 7. They only exist in slow motion, in worried larvae So that they jump you have to dope them! They only get titillated with alcohol. Look at these agonized faces... It's horrible to watch... They always seem to be struggling a little in a suicide... ... Hi! Humans crawl through Paris. They don't live anymore, that's not true!... They never have their human count of blood cells, 3 to 5 billion instead of 7. They only exist in slow motion, in worried larvae So that they jump you have to dope them! They only get titillated with alcohol. Look at these agonized faces... It's horrible to watch... They always seem to be struggling a little in a suicide...

A capital far from the sea is a filthy tank of asphyxiation, a Père-Lachaise in convulsions. It's not "Town Planning" that we need!... It's no more Town Planning at all! The suburbs must not be fixed, must be destroyed, dissolved. It is the bead of infection, the suburbs, which maintains, preserves all the decay of the city. Everyone, the whole city to the sea!. on the arteries of the countryside, to recover generous blood, to scatter in nature, in the wind, in the spray, all the shame, the droppings of the city. Unleash all these crevices, these streets, all these pustules, these glands oozing with all the pus, the buildings, cure humanity of its foul vice: the city...

As for our great industries, these immense poisonous machines, always groaning after the Seine and transport, we could well satisfy them, satisfy them in their desires... distribute them immediately on all the highway routes, on all the immense rural course. It is because of the space they would lack by category. They would have a thousand kilometers of large green spaces to clear their infections... It dissolves poisons well, a thousand kilometers of atmosphere, green takes carbon well... asphalt, the "damned of the vinasse mouth", tear them out of the bistro, put them back a little in the meadows with their schools and their cows, so that they think a little better, see if they would be a little less stupid,

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More or less great distances, for work or school, it is not a question. Transport, it has to serve... The more [239] it is distant, the better... "Transport" is made to transport... kind of Emperor Julian. He used horses to transport him, this man, who were harnessed like dogs, with a collar likewise, which strangled them at a trot, it was not practical. It would take less time by highway from Paris to Rouen than to go nowadays from Porte Montrouge to Place Clichy... That's what we should have shown to foreigners! insatiable, frantic sensationalism! a whole capital of Europe in the process of unraveling, packing its bags, going over the mountains, by vale, with all its staff, to move to the beaches... They would not have come for nothing, the tourists "so much per head"... They would have had something to talk about, to reflect on during the long evenings of 'winter. It's not hard to understand that Paris is more livable. Take a look at the rich people, they hardly live there anymore. When they spend two months a year there, it's the end of the world!... Paris now lacks everything, they know it well, the michés, everything that can allow man a more or less bearable life, not too asthenic: clear water, wind, lungs, flowers, spaces, gardens, red blood cells, silence... We took all that away from the masses, slyly. It's the nastiest scheme, The Exhibition is the height, one could not do more despicable, than this overflowing quagmire of all the residues of junk, of all the grinds of alcohol of all the stench of the universe... a whole sewer. All the oil-fired Jewish hysteria, loudspeakers and horns, bistros and sausages, that's the bouquet of our city, its true heart...

We must no longer urbanize, we must burst, crumble, dissolve the cities! and Paris... for the example, first!

Scatter this Paris, make do with it, little Thumb, to the edge of the waves. It always pisses me off a lot, when I hear such a shitty writer in crisis of dithyrambic effects, doped journal, sing the "Credo", sing once again the Hosanna of the marvelous city (infamous and marvelous city). It is only these underlings, tumbling from their "apple wagons", their asses still all stuffed from the stables of their native village, to hoar themselves with enthusiasm... "When I was treading, in my twenties, this cobblestone [ 240] magical... the Boulevard Saint-Michel! I felt myself coming from the wings!..." Fine sowings of false colic!... Such idle little crap! If you had been brought up a little in the Passage Choiseul, under the caloric stained-glass windows, if you had known a little about the evenings of torture in the oven, in the sulphide gas bakery, you would not talk for nothing... You would perhaps be less ardent... much less fervent, less "bardic" on the Parisian delights... on the alluring underwear of the incomparable capital! Always the same banal reason... for all these disgusting Credos... these urban sycophancy... for all these imbecile boasting: blindness! bullshit is everything! That's the flattering purr of the flabbergasted in "their province"... It doesn't really matter that these little crunchy kids are messing around, they don't have much of a voice in the matter. But where the error is deplorable is when the great Jews go astray. They are the ones who should be thinking of dismantling Paris, of taking us all to the fresh air...

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overwhelming!... Sozial! Sozial!... it's quickly said. But "sozial" first and foremost, it's a question of air and blood cells!

We must maintain the livestock, that it does not come slack in the war. The Jews don't really like the Channel, that's understood... the climate doesn't suit them... their genre is the Côte d'Azur, the Senegalese are the same. Never higher than the Vaucluse! But they have to be content, Paris is a capital, we can't take it to hell! [23] (pp. 241-250)

[241] The best Christians must be strangled, for he who spreads the blood of the impious offers a sacrifice acceptable to God.

The Talmud.

When Lord Samuel, English Jewish Viscount, leader of the Liberal party, tells us point blank:

"France is the first interested power in the Mediterranean", we understand perfectly what his Grace means: "All the Franscaille to your guidouilles! All the men of the peritoneum on deck!” Basically, it is only to get along, once and for all. Mr. Léon Blum, implacable racist, very bloodthirsty pacifist, also thinks only of our death, and makes no secret of it. He very notably clarifies the words of his Grace Samuel. He dots the i's. that is to say, precious, reticent, sucked, unctuous, over-hamelized, syrupy, enculeux, a real shred of Harachloucoum, what the inverted Frenchmen of the high school, negrified in the same way, call the Beau Style Ah, how well our Bloum writes! How smart he is! Ah! the East! with a big long guiguite very proustious as you wish! good youtre!... For your filthy nasty melting loaves of baleful crunchy! This is what the Bloum whispers: "International commitments are challenged or defeated if the powers that have subscribed to them are not resolved to go all the way. All right, but going all the way is is to accept the risk of going to war. You have to accept the possibility of war to preserve peace."

Wouldn't we say two thieves, two associated Jewish surgeons, who put themselves in ankle, Mr. Samuel and Mr. Blaoum, to push the patient to the billiards... to bring him, persuasive, to be cut open... . [242] Funny little detail, do you have any idea of the pace of the Jewish invasion in Paris?...

Before 1789 ...............500 Jews In 1800......................4,000 – In 1830................. ........10,000 – In 1848.........................18,000 – In 1870......... ................30,000 – In 1914 ..............90,000 – In 1936. ......................400,000 –

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Another picturesque detail, let us note that under Philippe-Auguste, the Jews owned half of Paris and were driven out by the people themselves, so much did they know how to make themselves odious by their abuses, by their practice of usury. They were again banished under Philippe le Bel, Charles VI Louis XII, Louis XIV, Louis XVI finally, weaker than his predecessors, paid with his head for the resistance of the other kings to the Jews. No more democracy, liberation of peoples in all this history, in all respects fetid, than lively trout in Bas-Meudon... Do you know, it's quite pungent, what our great patriot Poincaré (married to a Jewess) replied to the representatives of a very important financial company who came to approach him, to ask him to possibly plead against the Rothschilds?... "Gentlemen! You're not thinking about it!... For the first time already Minister of Finance, I could be called again at any moment... and a word from Baron de Rothschild would suffice..."

Tardieu, our great neo-Puritan, must share this opinion... Pardieu! if fixed! So think! He never speaks to us, either, of the Jews!... Anyone who shows himself mad enough to alienate Jewish banks can say goodbye forever to Power, to all Powers! even to these disguised Powers, “fasciform protesters” a fortiori!... Feints! Diversion! morphine!... There is only one serious thing at the bottom of all [243] politics: the Jewish world conspiracy, all the rest is just chatter, lollipops, purrs, confetti! Despite appearances, the rantings of History, the French have never had a sense of nationality. They have waged many wars, very long and very bloody, among themselves and against foreign countries, but almost never for their own account, always for the benefit of a foreign clique. Successively a Roman colony and then an Italian one, for centuries... in the Spanish, English, Germanic style, now a Jewish colony, France actually gives itself over to the most astute and cheeky team of gangsters of the moment who bend her, bluff her and bleed her...

France is a female nation, always good at turning cod. Listen to Victor's women, how they chatter emptyly on all the curves of the sidewalk, in all the corners of puppies, chattering about petty bullshit, getting themselves dying of it... enraged by petty stupidities... c are "true Frances"... France too, like Victor's women, descends lower each year in the order of pimps and in the order of gossip like all the whores. In the middle; take a look at the old kids: they all end up being niggers, very happy, very drunk, very regaled, well buggered, well beaten... France is in the thick of it at the moment! At the time of the Negro. The Jew in the ass is her happiness, he will make her die, that's her role... Fate is quite simple. Any Frenchman who seizes power feels lost without foreigners, without foreign cadres. He immediately hurries to sell, it is his first concern... We have never had a king, a president of the Council, a conventional, a "leader" who has not been sold at least two or three times to some foreign power. That is to say ultimately to Jewry.

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[244] Let's talk about less serious things, do you know this prediction of Dostoyewsky (after the Commune of 71): "When all the wealth of Europe will be dissipated, we will be left with the Bank of the Jews!" Let's talk about the war again: "Do you know why the Jews, during the great hecatomb of 14-18, counted only 1,350 killed? I know how to free you: because the Jew Abrahami, called Abrami, a Turkish subject, originally from the ghetto of Constantinople was, during all the hostilities, Under-Secretary of State for Personnel – it's simple – He was amply assisted by the Jew Rheims, Colonel-Director of Recruitment in the Seine.

That's not all! Do you know why our Military Justice, until the last day of the war, always showed itself so implacable on the fierce repression towards the simple French soldier? Because Military Justice was under the orders of Mr. Isaac Israel, on the other hand Dreyfus, Under-Secretary of State for Low Works, quite simply, with Mandel-Joroboam Rothschild, son of the real King of France, as effective dictator alongside the puppet Clemenceau. Admirable distribution of work. General Mordacq, Jew, director of the Grand-Quartier. Here is the complete Aryan slaughterhouse... And for the Register of Complaints!!

Let's not leave the war anytime soon. Do you know that all wars, and not just the last one, are premeditated by the Jews, settled by them long in advance, like music paper? It is even amusing to closely observe the details of this company. To find the Jewish words (even of antiquity) prophetic. Didn't the prophet Daniel (Leviticus XXVI) predict for the year 1914 "the Great World Upheaval, the beginning of the end of the goy empires?" Without a doubt...

But more seriously, do you know that the student Princip, the assassin of Sarejevo, currently statuefied in Belgrade, was Jewish?...

[245] Do you know in full the response of William II, during the war, to the superior of the Abbey of Mendret (Belgium): "No, Madame, I did not want war, the person responsible is not me. The war was forced on me by the Jews and Freemasonry.”

A more recent, belated echo of the "Great Illusion": Statement by Lloyd George in the House of Commons on June 19, 1936 (on the Palestinian problem): "In 1917 the French army mutinied, Italy was defeated, Russia was ripe for revolution and America was not yet on our side. the Jewish Community." Since we are in England, do you know that the English Intelligence Service, creation of Cromwell, constitutes in fact the super-government of England, occult organization with unlimited resources, well above the monarchs and the Parliament, Jewish emanation, entirely devoted to Jewish interests, to Jewish world politics... that there are two queens in England... Mrs. Simpson and the other. The queen of English Jewry and the Intelligence Service and then the other--one

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much more powerful than the other, the past... the future... A viceroy of India, moreover, always more or less Jewish. And this Sino-Japanese war? It belongs to the same species as all the wars on the planet. It represents only one of the acts of the World Conflict on the Yellow Theater, of the struggle to the death between the Jews and anti-Jewish Judeo-Sino-Russian communists against Japanese militarists... There will be no more for many centuries, of time, of place. of peoples in the world to deal with something other than this Conflict: Jews against anti-Jews...

It is the books of the Jews that tell you the best about the state of Jewish claims, about their temperature of hatred and [246] racism. We read in the book of the Jewish professor Arthur Ruppin, professor of Sociology at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem: "If it were true, as the Nazis claim, that the place taken by the Jewish minority in Germanic economic and cultural life was intolerable to non-Jewish Germans, the fact remains that the way in which the German government tried to solve the problem, in total disregard of the rights of the Jews, constitutes a real outrage. Jew in France, he summoned the "Jewish Sanhedrin" and submitted to it a certain number of questions..."

Take! take! see me this little trickster! That Professor Arthur Ruppin! Ah! how funny he is! with his "Sanhedrin"! But the "Sanhedrin"... Napoleon is precisely exhausted by it! It was indeed the "Sanhedrin" which succumbed Napoleon! Not Wellington! Not Nelson!

No Napoleon would not have died in Saint Helena

If Napoleon had never "Sanhedrized".

Sanhedrin! but here is the major architect of the whole Napoleonic debacle, of the catastrophe. It was through the Sanhedrin, this great Jewish Consistory, that the supreme attempt at Aryan unification of Europe was savagely sabotaged...

What is called in the diplomatic journals, the English tradition, is really only world Jewish politics (as the famous Anglo-Saxon optimism says, is really only Jewish optimism, their triumphant song of exultant Negroes). The Jews have always undermined, crestfallen, bungled, smashed very quickly by their negotiations, and what negotiations!... all the serious attempts at European federation. All of them failed, demolished by the Jews... The Jews, in fact of the unification of Europe and the world, only want to hear about their Jewish unification, under Jewish heels and nothing else, the tyrannical Jewish World Empire. And doesn't this passage by the same author, Ruppin, make you wonder? Does he explain to you a little about the relentless march to the ghetto, ours this time!

"In the Middle Ages, when economic life was based on the system of guilds (Aryan corporations), [247] it was considered dishonest to seek a very high profit, since one would have thus attacked the livelihood of the other members of

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the corporation. But the Jew, excluded from the guilds, could only see competitors, not colleagues, in those who had the same profession as him. He was perpetually in conflict with the spirit of organizing guilds. His way of understanding business seemed immoral, reprehensible, from the point of view we had in the Middle Ages. There remains a vestige of this view in the professional code of doctors and lawyers, to whom it is tacitly forbidden to solicit patients or clients. In matters of commerce, this conception completely disappeared with the system of guilds, and the commercial methods of the Jews were rehabilitated, by the general adoption which was made of them, since the search for gain and free competition became the bases of the system. capitalist. The Jews rapidly rose to prominence in banking, commerce, and industry, improved and expanded their business, rose to the forefront of the liberal professions, and generally succeeded in securing a better and freer existence. anxiety. In many cases they even achieved fortune, sometimes great opulence."

He thus tells you everything Mr. Ruppin and why your press is dumb and why you find yourself at the very bottom of the molasses and why you will die of it... Judaically strangled. Why you will be in hell "boulluz", jew. Moreover the Jew Kurt Munger in his book "The voices of Zion", announces it to you: "It will be impossible to get rid of us. We have corroded the body of the peoples and we have infested and dishonored the races, broken their vigor, putrefied everything, by our moldy civilization."

Do you want to know how the Jew Leon Trotzky, creator of the Red Army, treats in his book "My life", the soldiers of this same army? "Tailless monkeys, proud of their technique and pretending to be men." You can well imagine that if the Soviets had wanted to execute Trotsky a long time ago that it would have been done! If he had [248] really bothered them!... But Trotzky? a friend!... He represents the Devil in this farce... Stalin's "baron", he works in "export" that's all... According to what the Jews of New York say, the next war should break out towards the end of June 38. Gossip...

Perhaps you know the name of the "Universal Rally for Peace"?... Creation of the Soviet Union financed by the USSR, outline of a vast international popular front? Do you know how Dr. Temple, Anglican (pro-Jewish) Archbishop of New York expressed himself at the last Assembly?... In these terms:

"It may be necessary for another terrible great war to arise to restore the authority of the League of Nations... It may be necessary for the present generation and future generations to be decimated, sacrificed, in a new world war, so that the Geneva League emerges strengthened, just as the last war was essential to its creation.

Take! Take! Protestants too? This good joke! Protestantism is only a chapel of the greatest Jewry. Protestantism owes everything to Jewry, its

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own "Reform" to begin with. The Anglo-Jewish Universal Pact is based on Protestantism. Transitional religion. When you are hit in the streets for the "Universal Gathering"... You will know what it is about.

Randomly, closer to us, and much less serious, do you know why the Académie Française seems to be undergoing a revival of taunts?... of fyke nets, venomous assaults? Why do the pamphleteers and rebels of the left rage to show us the Academicians in their more incontinent reviews and satires, more "suckers" than ever? the Academy. Why are his newspapers abandoning him?... Because his account is good... Ah! Why didn't she get a little more swarmed, while there was still time, why didn't she hastily had MM. Bernstein, Maurois, Picasso, Sacha, [249] Golding, Carco, all the Alexandres and Samuels, and the Léos, who were in court, and then some Jewish generals to color the assortment. She just escaped! But now it's too late! A thousand platitudes change nothing, his months are numbered. Old toilet, old impertinent wardrobe, you will be shaved! You will go there first!

Observe then, it is amusing how the small academies, in the periphery, all anxious in the wind, hurry, the very urgent hour to fill up their full of yucks, to give to the great yuckling, a hundred thousand pledges of crawling submission ... of absolute comprehension... of making himself well seen by M. de Rothschild... of being swept away to the hilt. Twisting spectacle!... It would be piquant if I in turn flew frantically to the rescue of the old whore! No! No! Blunder! The French Academy has done a lot, enormously, everything possible for the triumph of Jewry, for our colonization by the Jews in all areas. Very ancient crumbling old ribald now wants to close her ass! Barricade his rotten? Enough to ? Which way ? This is impossible chichi! Very burlesque insults! Pies! She must die of the old filth, by the negroes, as she lived, the fias enormously open. Justice.

[250] The Frenchman, if he were curious, he would learn things from it, if he wanted a little bit, for example, to know all the real names of those who run him, and especially the names of parents and grandparents. -relatives of those who command him, who govern everything in his house, who make him his politics (right and left), his theater, his administration, his finance, his Public Instruction, his painting, his music, his novels, his songs , its medicine, its justice, its police, its aviation, and soon all the high executives of its navy and the army (not the combatants). He would realize that over the years, since the Dreyfus affair especially, the French of race have been almost completely ousted, discouraged, minimized, eliminated, banished from all places of official or hidden command, that they can no longer on their own soil by castrating, systematic disarmament, form anything other than an amorphous herd in the hands of the Jews, ready for all the slaughterhouses. May each new position be immediately filled, each void filled by a Jew, Jew, Mason, husband of a Jewess, etc. The negro rises implacable, sadistic, intransigent half-breed. And I'm not talking about our Nobility so perfectly saturated with Negro blood!... I was told the other day the case of a very large family, of one of the greatest names in France where out of 135 valid bearers true to name and title, 73 were Jews! by marriages, alliances, ready for all slaughterhouses. May each new position be immediately filled, each void filled by a Jew, Jew, Mason, husband of a Jewess, etc. The negro rises implacable, sadistic, intransigent half-breed. And I'm not talking about our Nobility so perfectly saturated with Negro blood!... I was told the other day the case of a very large family, of one of the greatest names in France where out of 135 valid bearers true to name and title, 73 were Jews! by marriages, alliances, ready for all slaughterhouses. May each new position be immediately filled, each void filled by a Jew, Jew, Mason, husband of a Jewess, etc. The negro rises implacable, sadistic, intransigent half-breed. And I'm not talking about our Nobility so perfectly saturated with Negro blood!... I was told the other day the case of a very large family, of one of the greatest names in France where out of 135 valid bearers true to name and title, 73 were Jews! by marriages, alliances, I was told the other day the case of a very large family, of one of the greatest names in France, where out of 135 valid bearers of the name and title, 73 were Jews! by marriages, alliances, I was told the other day the case of a very large family, of one of the greatest names in France, where out of 135 valid bearers of the name and title, 73 were Jews! by marriages, alliances,

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recognitions, etc., etc. And this case is not special, the proportion is valid for almost all "large families"... The Jewish-Negrites are not among us. We are the ones with them. [24] (pp. 251-260)

[251] The French communist leaders imagine once communist power is established in France, that they will still be leading their French communists! Burlesque illusion!... As submissive scoundrels, vicious, Aryan communist cuckolds as you may be, you will be stubborn, chiefs! you first! To the first pipes! This is essential! your masses must not go astray. We're going to teach them at once, all the good manners. And first to forget you. To recognize above them only the official Jewish power, the absolute Jewish authority... We are going to teach you all at once the abolition of "stupid racial prejudices!" you've got your mouth full! Ah! dirty fools! frightening cuckolds! By bumping into you! For the sole reason, by virtue of the sole fact that you are not Jews! Have you ever sensed through the Jewish honey houses, all their contempt, the extraordinary disgust of the Jews for the "untouchable", unbearable braggart, stupid sapajou that you are?... Stupid presumptuous credulous puppets?... They will bring you back to order, your masters of supreme thought! from the first balls, in the first holes. Your convictions, French communist leaders, are all tallied, registered, signed on the desk of the Comitern, and for the "first hour". You will have led, imbeciles, frivolous or cunning, clever cigarette butt freeloaders, your hordes to the slaughterhouse. You will never go further. Your role ends there! You will not go past the slaughterhouse. Your Jewish masters will no longer need you. .. For all their elbow room, your disappearance is essential, without delay. Parrots, your masters have only too [252] heard all your chatter! You don't know how much you get on their nerves! Your masses, Revolution made, will have to learn other songs, but not with you! never again with you!... As soon as the Soviets are established, a whole terrible roster of mystical crows will swoop down on us from the Comitern, thousands of implacable Djibuk Jews, commissars of the new atrocious order, the one that you stamp on best, always know better , French communist leaders! You will be served! regaled!... It is perfectly written in the stars, that it is you who will furnish the first posts, with your own barbaque minions. It's not heads you have, it's coconuts, you know how it opens! Hard hit......

You will enter it in the new order! feet first!... tortured by your own troops!... and with enthusiasm! to the Jewish command!... I am not very aware of the Spanish circumstances... [253] The Jews themselves, from time to time, take the trouble to give us a little warning. Listen, it will be brief, this excellent Jew, Elie Marcus Ravage, how interesting:

“We (the Jews) are intruders; we are destroyers; we have taken your own possessions, your ideals, your destiny. We have trampled them underfoot. the last war and not only of the last, but of almost all your wars.

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We were not only the authors of the Russian revolution, but the instigators of all the great revolutions of your history. " (Century Magazine, January 1928.)

Ah! the Jew, when he unbuttons, he's curious to listen to, he's not at all casuistical... It's not noon to two o'clock! It's frank! (ah that word!)... And this one even neater:

"If in fifty years you haven't hanged us all, you Christians, you won't even have enough left to buy the rope to do it." The Jew Mires.

React? But how? But why?... Since they possess all the gold in the world by virtue of what sophistication the Jews would not tend to seize power?... All power? Quite simply?... To confront world Jewry, but that is to confront Vesuvius with a small watering can, to put it out. [254] Diversion...

A beautiful story... the Great Arverne Era... "Attacked by the Romans, Bituit, king of the Barbarian Gauls called on all his warriors... On his silver-plated chariot, with bronze axles, he advanced wearing bronze, adorned with gold necklaces and bracelets. His hunting pack accompanied him. Behind the squadrons of his escort pressed two hundred thousand Gauls with their long twoedged swords, their spears with sparkling irons and their great flat shields of wicker or wood, painted bright colors. When from the top of the hills, the king saw in the valley of the Rhone the small square of the Roman Legions: "There will be hardly any today" he exclaimed, "for the quarry of my dogs..."

Another old and ugly story... the Gauls of decadence... "There are Gauls on all the shores of the Mediterranean, in the pay of all the princes or all the states who have an injury to avenge or ambitions to achieve. There was no war during the third century, in which did not take part, often in both camps and against each other, Gallic contingents... And more than once, the war ended, to escape the demands of their mercenaries, the Ptolemies of Egypt or the Senate of Carthage, caught them in some trap and had them massacred..."

(Excerpt from "Gaulois" by Albert Granier.)

[255] The Jews are the very substance of God, but the non-Jews are only the seed of the cattle. The Talmud

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Admire now, the honest Jew, in the process of working for us "reciprocal esteem". See how insidious, homely, pseudo-scrupulous, harmless and philosophical he is

(Excerpt fromForum,great American periodical, October 1937.) Children of the Martyr Race by Maurice M. Feuerlicht

"I learned very early in my life that I was a Jew and that there was a 'Jewish question'. Later I had to learn further that Jews, as a group, do not behave like dice normal people, that is to say not like the majority of citizens. "Son of a rabbi, from a typical Jewish family, I could hardly harbor prejudices against Jews and I have no desire to hide from being one. But that no one has ever had the innate feeling of his status as a Jew, I do not think so. This is a feeling that is inculcated in young Jews almost at the same time as they are taught to speak, and all religious teaching will subsequently tend not to not let them forget that they are different from the Gentiles. My earliest memory relates to the celebration of the "Festival of Lights" (Chanukah). Sitting at the feet of my father, as did countless other little Jews , I listen to him tell the thrilling story [256] of Judas Maccabee and his valiant soldiers who risked their lives for their religion.I light candles, I sing: "Children of the martyred race,

Free or in irons, Awaken the echo of your songs, Wherever you are scattered on earth "This theme of "children of the martyred race", I have been so much beaten and re-beaten in my ears that my sensitivity was very quickly and very deeply penetrated by it. "Oppressed people", "martyrdom", "prejudice", "persecution": these are almost the first words whose meaning I understood. If the little Gentiles called me a Jew, they took great care to explain to me at home that they had wanted to insult me and that the world did not I don't like Jews. The education I received at home never allowed me to forget the past. Each little Jew, in turn, has to go through all the persecutions that his people have been subjected to for 3,000 years.

"After the "Festival of Lights", I celebrated the Passover and hated with all the strength of my child's heart the Pharaoh who had persecuted the Jews. Lest I forget the hasty flight across the Red Sea, I was fed unleavened bread – reminiscent of 2,000 year old ordeals In Sunday school, at home, where the other children listened to fairy tales, or played with the toy soldiers, I learned the Spanish inquisition, the imprisonment of Jews in reserved enclosures and ghettos. "The result for me, as for other Jewish children, was a persecuted complex which grew as I grew. I had not learned much of the religious principles of Judaism, but I was not ignorant of anything Dreyfus affair, the Ku-Klux-Klan, the exclusivity of such clubs, such hotels, university "quotas".

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It is such a body of knowledge that, more than anything else, makes a Jew today feel like a Jew, for we are much more aware of the wrongs we have been subjected to than of our religion. Our illness of persecution perverts our relationship with those around us. The Jew who fails an exam or a case, who tries in vain to find a situation or to enter a club will exclaim: "It's prevention, it's because I'm a Jew!" [257] Not many of us will have the courage to recognize that there could well be other reasons behind this, all of them personal. Certainly the man who fails looks everywhere for the cause of his failure except at home. It is a general trait of human nature.

“In the important university establishment where I completed my studies, 15% of the students were Jews, several distinguished members of the teaching staff were also. , and an incredible number of parents cried out no less incredibly anti-Semitism because their sons had failed to join an association, a team, had been refused an exam, had not obtained a I, who had to deal with them every day, knew that they were badly brought up, spoiled, lazy boys, perpetually on their toes, who would have been considered just as undesirable if they had been Protestants. or Buddhists. "One could cite an infinite number of examples of this kind applying to all ages, to all types of Israelites. For if in many cases anti-Semitism really comes into play, the fact remains no less than all too often the so-called racist prejudice is, in fact, a self-defense reflex directed against an individual. Many Gentiles are fairminded, inclined to judge people on their personal merits. It is the Jew who provokes misunderstandings with his susceptibility always on the alert.

"A person afflicted with the disease of persecution is always possessed by the blind desire to return blow for blow. The presence of a Gentile at a Jewish ceremony is severely criticized by those Jews who yearn most to be received among the Let a Jew commit the most heinous crime of taking a Gentile wife, and he will feel the full force of the prejudice that the Jews themselves have raised up around them.

"Certain consequences of this martyrdom complex are long-range and in any case cause irreparable harm to the individual Jew. morbid sensibility about his Judaism, the Gentiles refrain from making an enlightened critique of the question, for fear of being accused of falling into the anti-Semitic bias, and thus the Jew is deprived of the benefit which he fair examination of differences and prejudices that actually exist. "The completely tragic side of this situation arises from the inconsistent attitude of the Jew who complains bitterly that he is seen in the first place as the Jew and not the individual. He forgets that his own first impulse is always of a Jew. Are the newspapers reporting that 26year-old Isaac Rubens robbed Smith's grocery store last night?

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Town Jews stand up and cry libel. But let Albert Einstein revolutionize the world of science with his theories, and the same Jews radiate satisfaction when they read an article on "the great Israelite scientist". Should we, however, decide to choose what we expect from the world? does he take us for individuals or for Jews? "I believe that we will never be normal individuals as long as we remain in the grip of our martyrdom complex, as long as we shirk the task of our individual selfimprovement, as long as we find it more convenient to blame others for our own shortcomings. ." Do you see this benign! This little string! He writes like Mr. Duhamel, he thinks like Mr. Duhamel.

[259] After the Rose water, the warnings... The newspaper "The Moment", published in Warsaw, in Yiddish, the most important of the Jewish newspapers of Eastern Europe, gave us in its number 260 B. of November 13, 1934 a very interesting article entitled "Laser Moissejevitch Kaganovitch, the representative of Stalin and his alter ego"...

Some very instructive, prophetic passages: "He is really a very great man, this Laser Moissejevitch... He is the one who will one day reign over the country of the Tsars... His daughter, who is about to turn 21, is now Stalin's wife. He is excellent with regard to the Jews, this Laser Moissejevitch... You see, there is profit in having a man of ours in the best place."

[260] Not a day goes by when you don't find – if you're a bit knowledgeable – in your usual newspaper, right or left or information, that is to say crushed according to your futile taste for this or that. such and such a policy (in reality all perfectly Jewish, simply various departments of the great bazaar of deceptions) a hundred little echoes... whole articles devoted to the triumph, to the glory of the greatest Jewry. Your usual newspaper is literally stuffed with these little echoes, snippets of theater and cinema...reviews of great diplomacy...beauty charts...playful...innocuous...pompous...frivolous...philosophical. .. every kind. At random, I'll give you this little pataquès, taken from "Paris-Soir" (end of October). It is not more inane, more syrupy, more sickening than another, of the same intention: "juivage, Jewish colonization". It gives quite well, I think, the general "la" of this great music, sometimes symphonic, sometimes rigodon... later Carmagnole...

"Career and Careers" “Mme Lévy de Tact, daughter-in-law of the French ambassador in Moscow, then in Bern, made her debut on the radio, on Radio 37. She sang, and very well. Its success was very great.

“It is curious to note that the family of Mme Lévy de Tact enjoys a rather rare artistic privilege. Everyone has an amateur talent that could easily, overnight,

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[25] (pp. 261-270)

[261] turn into a professional. His mother is a composer and virtuoso pianist. Her sister dances and her husband is a first rate imitator who could hold the stage by borrowing the voice of Louis Jouvet, as well as that of Michel Simon or Joseph Caillaux.

"As for Mme Lévy de Tact, she likes to sing old songs with a diction similar to that of Yvette Guilbert, and a voice of incomparable charm. "If Mr. Lévy de Tact, ambassador, belongs to the Carrière, one can say that those of his family would have, if they appeared in public, a very enviable fate."

How many "wunderkinder" is not in one family?... But what to whip a spade? No! I grant you! Such conceited chatter cannot alarm anyone...cannot start a riot! Certainly!... I also abandon this tone to you!... This very Jewish one-upmanship in sycophancy... We are in the Congo! let's not forget it!... this overwhelming concentrated clumsiness, this so pabouin, so tropical narcissism... We can't do anything about it... The worldly echoes (almost all Jewish) almost all hold this same note, this same tuning fork of an equatorial fair... All this very bad taste comes to us from the bush to the calabashes, by very frenetic, very ardent, very old and convoluted ways, let us never forget it... This howling, hectic, stultifying vulgarity, Nothing is more "monroviesque", more farce in fact, in practice, than this funny claim of salons to "good taste"... to "refinement"... In any salon, in ten minutes of assembly, there are more blunders, horrors of taste and tact, than in all the Corps de garde in France in ten years... The mere fact of going out into society already denotes a shamelessness of a pig... a sensitivity of a log. Le Monde is a true paradise for exhibitionist sapajous. – Ah! but, will you answer me, you big disgusting pervert yourself?... Here are just as many absolutely useless, futile, insolent and ugly remarks... - But no! But no! not futile at all! This childish "echo" either... Ah! the abominable error! It has its place in the Great [262] All. He is not to be despised. The Jewish penetration, the infiltration, the imbibition of Jewry, takes place in a layer, imagine!... by a thousand advertising nets... Radiant... ponderable... occult... This little echo in all its sufficient silliness, will play his small role very well, like so many others before him, similar... after him... He will give the general public, perfectly stupid and cuckold, the good thought, that all these names, these stars , and those socialites and radios revealed to him (all perfectly Jewish, half-Jewish, or Jewish) represent just as many [161] stars in a certain firmament...adorably mysterious...towards which he turns. get used to praying. . to pray only "Jew". All his fervor, all his Aryan prayers will now go to the Jews... A little echo like this... but it's a "Ave Maria"... a little "Ave Maria" from Jewry.. .it's not much, of course a little "Ave Maria". But it's with millions of

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millions of these "Ave Marias"... that the Jews turn the earth... Jewish... in the Jewish way.

[263]

God gave power to the Jews over the property and the blood of all peoples. The Talmud.

In the next day's "Paris-Soir"... entertaining... I discovered two or three more... small echoes of the same order... superb in truth... without effort... You will find them also... if you look for them a bit... and without giving yourself any trouble:

"The Baron de Cahen or lyricism in Finance" "The Odéon has just presented a piece in verse by Baron Léo de Cahen, on "Sapho et l'Académie de Lesbos", and today the Association France-Grande-Bretagne is organizing a conference by the same Baron de Cahen on Abraham.

"Everyone knows the position occupied in the City of London by the famous financier who, even in his business, did not neglect to mix a certain lyricism. He devoted himself, in fact, to two grandiose projects: the Channel Tunnel and the Cape to Cairo Railway. The Channel Tunnel. Its history deserves a volume. Its vicissitudes were many; it shocked the insular spirit of Great Britain.

"The railway from Cape Town to Cairo was started. It was not completed despite the efforts of the Cahen house, which ordered the construction of the line to Kenya and the work on the fort of Monbassa.

"Baron Cahen belongs to a real dynasty of scholars and artists. His brother Alexandre, had in his Moorish seraglio of Sidi-bou-Saïd, in Carthage, collected the melodies of [264] Arabic folklore, while the other , Samuel, composed the music for "A Thousand Kisses" which Covent Garden once performed successfully during the Ballets Russes season. “The Baroness of Cahen, born of Grand-Bey, is a talented painter and her welcoming house in Piccadilly is one of the centers where the French spirit and Parisian taste radiate over London.

"His granddaughters Sarah, Esther and Rachel are the favorite playmates of little Princess Elisabeth, future Queen of England." *****

I won't explain anything to you anymore... I hope that now you know how to read "Jewish"... At most I could, with a few opportune words, underline the exceptional qualities of this very especially rich vintage... comment on it very devoutly, like a great wine from a famous cuvée. Bouquet of "Jewish" aromas quite precious... Great class!... very rich in "Tunnel under the Channel"... Monarchical intimacy...

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dynastic!.... supported by bewitching exquisite perfumes of "City"... Seraglio of Carthage... railway and Russian ballets... "A thousand kisses:"... the "certain lyricism"... the whole very heady... very sustained, very Sapphic, very enveloped... on Paris-London... Huge year of HébraIsme!... Do you enjoy?

[265]

If you were spiritual children of Abraham you would works of Abraham... the spiritual father from whom you came

he is the devil... And there is no truth in him. Jesus.

Do you remember? overcast whores whose astronomical wages for a single day of grimacing very often surpass those of several miserable working-class families! to hard work! for months!... What a shame! What a challenge to our immense distress! The collusion of the Banks... the complicity of the Trusts!... Haro!... Haro!... This prostitution, this shameless degradation of all the Arts... of all feelings, this sacrilegious mercantilism, rotting noblest impulses of human nature... blah... blah... blah... Cinematic gangrene! To the pillory of the people!...blah...blah...We'll find you my beauty! The permanent conspiracy against the sane mind of the masses! bla... bla... bla... the ideal top for the masses!... bla... bla... bla... What a shame! What a challenge to our immense distress! The collusion of the Banks... the complicity of the Trusts!... Haro!... Haro!... This prostitution, this shameless degradation of all the Arts... of all feelings, this sacrilegious mercantilism, rotting noblest impulses of human nature... blah... blah... blah... Cinematic gangrene! To the pillory of the people!...blah...blah...We'll find you my beauty! The permanent conspiracy against the sane mind of the masses! bla... bla... bla... the ideal top for the masses!... bla... bla... bla... What a shame! What a challenge to our immense distress! The collusion of the Banks... the complicity of the Trusts!... Haro!... Haro!... This prostitution, this shameless degradation of all the Arts... of all feelings, this sacrilegious mercantilism, rotting noblest impulses of human nature... blah... blah... blah... Cinematic gangrene! To the pillory of the people!...blah...blah...We'll find you my beauty! The permanent conspiracy against the sane mind of the masses! bla... bla... bla... the ideal top for the masses!... bla... bla... bla... rotter of the noblest impulses of human nature... blah... blah... blah... Cinematographic gangrene! To the pillory of the people!...blah...blah...We'll find you my beauty! The permanent conspiracy against the sane mind of the masses! bla... bla... bla... the ideal top for the masses!... bla... bla... bla... rotter of the noblest impulses of human nature... blah... blah... blah... Cinematographic gangrene! To the pillory of the people!...blah...blah...We'll find you my beauty! The permanent conspiracy against the sane mind of the masses! bla... bla... bla... the ideal top for the masses!... bla... bla... bla...

[266] "Cinema, the global octopus of brains... all the rot... as many rot suckers as dark rooms!... "The golden calf of Hollywood... arrogant, camped on its Cinema... "the mill of world obscenities... blah... blah..." Who then informed us like this, column length?... But "Humanity", my dear!... from the beautiful ages!... austere times!... "Humanity" precisely from before the "Triumph of the masses"... under the Jewish leadership... Do you also remember?... But the tide is turning, my dear, you have to grasp it... And all the misfortunes to those who do not know how to understand !... In October 1937, the same "Humanity", on an entirely different string, in an entirely different tone, sings an entirely different song... Rejoice in what it now thinks "Humanity ", of the same Hollywood farces... (in its non-advertising pages)...

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"The Easy Life"

a wealthy banker throws his wife's fur coat from a 20th floor. This coat falls on the head of a young girl, secretary of a children's newspaper. That's all. But from this starting point the Americans have drawn all the possible consequences with a fantasy to discourage the most fertile imaginations. This coat of great luxury gives the young girl such appearances that, from consequence to consequence, all the difficulties will disappear before her. She will soon be clothed, housed, fed for free. If she did it "on purpose", it might not succeed, and it would be a scam. But since she doesn't understand what is happening to her and remains ingenuous...it's like a fairy tale. It is not until a prince charming that she meets and that she will end up marrying, despite all the tragicomic situations in which her adventure has plunged her. It looks like Andersen reviewed and arranged by the "Marx Brothers". And Joan Arthur, by her natural kindness, makes it easy for us to believe that everything that happens to easy-going Marie Smith is deserved."

How cuddly we have become, cousin of Hollywood to "Humanity"! We would positively say La Rocque taking his orders from Tardieu... we support each other, we understand each other now... as we "have each other in hand"... The coup n is not at all the same!... We learn more than one piece of news in ten years!... Only the idiot does not evolve!... All it takes is one day, a very small telephone... and we begin to understand each other... all of a sudden and the miracle is accomplished... and the easiest way in the world... And there you are... buttocks in the air... You remain you "mass of masses"... ruminants!... disgusting!... You understand nothing!...

[268] I would like to be buggered on a man's body who have just been guillotined.

(Rachel to her lover Léopold Lehon.) It would be quite surprising if the Jews, having redoubled their atrocities and plunders since the advent of the Popular Front, had not felt a small whiff of anti-Semitism coming to France... had not conceived some fears for their future. immediate...

We could have expected some large-scale preventive counter-offensive...at very great expense...Why not?...Already all our press (right or left) ultimately only serves the defense of Jewish interests , to the maneuver of the great Jewish designs. The cinema, always so eminently Jewish, was to give us

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for the occasion, some very convincing, very remarkable works, an extremely cushy apology for the Jew Until recently, this propaganda was carried out by symbols... insinuations... allusions... coincidences... by the band... Now the tone changes with the "Great Illusion"... Everything exchange! Strengthened by its political successes, Jewish propaganda flushes out its batteries, becomes categorical, affirmative, aggressive... it discovers itself... It now shows us on screen the Jew as he is... no longer in Breton, Flemish , Auvergne, Basque... but in real, textual Jew, in "Rosenthal"... No more fuss!...

No doubt, we will soon see, in the same spirit, much better, even more insolent, more imperative. This film has already won, howling with sectarianism, a huge success... Youtre colonization can now go "on the nerve"!... All the dikes are broken!... Youtre colonization is happening day by day, more impatient , more despotic, more susceptible, intransigent. In [269] this film all entangled with "hairon-the-soup" dialogues it is basically only a single refrain, but then passionately... to make the Aryan imbecile masses well understood, to bring in all these drunken cassis, that the Jew and the Aryan worker are exactly created, brought into the world, to get along, to bind themselves to each other by a life-and-death pact, absolutely indissoluble... In the course of this film, we are told about this Jew, the main character, only one little failing, quite venial to tell the truth, a certain tendency to pride, to ostentation... little negro failing ... trifles... This Rosenthal only seems to us more sympathetic, more "human"... and on the other hand, to his credit, only virtues! and what virtues!...essential! the primordial qualities of a new elite, a new nobility!... Great generosity, great clairvoyance, quivering pacifism, general knowledge, tender prescience of the human heart... and above all of the popular heart!... Oh! popular!...Infinitely popular!...Usually pro-Jewish films (they all are) operate, traffic, tamper with public opinion by allusions, suggestions, comparisons, stammers, they hardly present the Jew to us as he is, positively Jewish, in his warlike or "sozial" role... The "Great Illusion" comes to rush things... This film takes a date... It makes the Jew pass from his shadow, from his transvestite, to the foreground, to the "sozial" plane as a Jew, distinctly Jewish. The "Great Illusion" admirably completes the Jewish exhibition, the great Youstricade 37. Advent of the little Jew to the role of official Messiah.

Perfectly a millionaire, this little Rosenthal... but perfectly "popular"... Ah! but popular even more than a millionaire!... He is rich! rich! notice that little yank. At the start, he has this little nabob all against him to play the roles of redeemer: draws, verbiage, face... He has everything "stinking"... the exact over-concentrated product of the abominable class... Everything for to be reviled, hissed, hanged straight by the people. Absolute parasite, baleful super-Jewish product, he's a Stavisky child, a Barmat cousin. It completely represents the abject game of lamppost... All the imagery of Epinal Soviet plays on this prototype. He represents for Moscow, for "Humanity", the perfect "speculant", in full insolence of office, to roar with perfection! the Enemy of the People incarnate... the synthesis personified, the most contemptible, most hateful example of Vampire Capitalism. But error, [270] misdeal! No way! Miracle! Jewish miracle! People on their knees! Far from dodging the difficulty... of

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cheating... the creator of this thing on the contrary tackles head-on (popular) all the incompatibilities of the problem. And everything that seemed irreconcilable becomes perfectly, before our eyes, harmonious and conclusive! Triumph! And how! Easily! Everything's good! The new truth flows in floods, in full dark halls... This little Jew Rosenthal is not at all what one could imagine!... some capitalist of the same kind as the other capitalists... clique of impassible brutes, vain, narrow-minded, entrails pumpers, all the others!.... Ah! but not at all,... Warning! Nothing at all despicable like the others... like all the Aryan exploiters... the bosses... the Aryan vampires!... Ah! but!... Ah! but! Watch out People! always so quick to generalize... let's make a distinction! Finesse! Not abject at all, this little Rosenthal!... Let's not confuse! This supercapitalist, son of a supercapitalist only reluctantly enjoys his exorbitant privileges... But yes... but yes... We only discover in him, in use, this very small defect of being a little unsure of him... like all the Apostles... That's all... So you see... how one must be wary of hasty judgments!... This little Rosenthal is a real little djibouk and we did not suspect it!... A little neo Jesus Christ... He suffered for us!... and we did not know it!... He said it himself: "Jesus, my brother of race" Nowadays, the Messiahs are no longer born in stables, they are born in safes... This is how it is with the Jews... "Billionaire and Jesus"... Who would suspect it?. ..

A little more spirit, please! More complacency! More zeal towards the native: "The Jew is a man more than another"! This is what should be chattering now!... Aryan parrots that I hear you! Jump to your perches... and repeat in chorus... "There is more!...more!...more!..." This "more" is essential! he is everything!...

You have now understood, I hope, Masses of Masses! that the Jewish supercapitalist always remains, in all circumstances, a special capitalist, very close to the heart of the people... [26] (pp. 271-280)

[271] messianic, prophetic, pacifist, essentially apostolic, idealist, supremely beneficent, "human"... Ah! always more "human"... Worker's systole, Jew's diastole... ventricle against ventricle... The same heart, the very heart of the proletariat... Ah!... He looks like a frivolous pleasure seeker, this little Rosenthal, an abject profiteer. Attention! Completely the opposite! Appearances!... In reality he thinks only of the people, of the misfortunes of the people... no one better than he understands, is touched by the great distress of the people... If he is won over to the popular program ?... to all the demands of the people?... Ah! Ah! Ah! And pacifist!... Fuck! Fuck! He himself makes them the programs of the people to be more sure... Then?... No one is better informed than him, no one more than he implores, sighs, desires the coming advent neighbor of a much better world for the people, a world where all Justice will shine!... at last! A world without iniquities, without wars, without racial privileges of

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birth!... a "very free and very happy France!"... in short, without a Stock Exchange! without Police! without Barracks!... Yes! As it is... This multi-billionaire little yurt thinks only of the misfortunes of the people every day more... At the Circle, at the Wood... at the Ass... at its Bank... always at the People!.. Humanity literally haunts him!... his intimate mission... Systole against diastole... His pulsations are those of the people... He "beats" with the people... He was created, brought into the world, to go to the people, to understand the people, like Mr. Blum-Latige, to realize, like Mr. Blum-Latige too, the whole program of the Front Populaire!... to flower for the Front Populaire!... Ah! but... Ah! but there. He would have voted too, don't worry, Rosenthal, just like Baron de Rothschild, for the Popular Front and the Franco-Soviet alliance. He is a terrible proletarian under ungrateful appearances, this little banker Rosenthal! quite like MM. Warburg, Loeb, Jacob Schiff, Kerensky, Trotzky, Zaharoff and Blum...exactly. Ah! systole... diastole... The people understand it instinctively, with all their Jewish instinct... the aspirations of the worker, the misfortunes of the worker... are his own aspirations... his own misfortunes!...

And now the film takes care of us, watch out! Aryans of intelligence!... Attention! Contrast! Our elite: Intellectuals, Aryan nobility, Aryan bourgeoisie demonstrates itself absolutely, radically, grotesquely, incapable of understanding a treacherous word to the demands of the people! Ah! It's heartbreaking... but it's [272] like that!... Perverse, monstrous egocentrics! What bastards! Irremediable! What monsters... What superbrutes!... Infinite!... On the margins of any evolution... Conclusion! This Aryan "elite" must hand over to the Jews, and immediately, and disappear! CQFD Implacable decree of the Future!... Boom! Blum!... They retard, sabotage, these sinister, marvelous social development, absolutely obvious! The hatching of the Soviets! Redemptive Workers + Jews, the Jewish Kingdom for all to say: So?... A new time! New men!... The Jew, "new man"! It's a find... (See in Russia 10 million white people executed by the new Jewish men.) This film turns out to be decidedly rich in high propaganda, in numerous examinations of conscience, in "recapitulations"... It makes us understand, among other very precious truths, that the "Aristocrats" have always, for their part, desired, desired. called war with all their wishes!. Take! Take! Here!... I don't mind... but let's not stay on the road! Let us light our lantern completely!... This passage is obscure... Let us warn the audience very honestly, very scrupulously that the said aristocracy, French, German, English, very copiously married, allied to the Jewish banks, is not in strict truth that one of the tribes of Jewry...

Representatives of the said aristocracy hasten to comment, to justify with what eagerness! what enthusiasm! the death warrant that condemns them... and that's the highlight of the film! They are very afraid that we don't understand!... They go one better! “Thank you! Be blessed, they exclaim, Gentlemen of the Jewish Jurors! You have done well to condemn us to death! we are irremediable! imbecile! bloodthirsty! frivolous! selfish! savage! catastrophic!... Ah! how salutary, absolutely imperious it is for the happiness of the human race, that we go there... We are, it is perfectly exact, absolutely monstrous!... Another cigar, dear viscount?... [167] And now to spare you, oh dear Jewish jurors, any superfluous trouble, to dirty your hands a little, we are going to put ourselves in duty to slaughter each other mutually... With what joy! session right now! at your Jewish command!” One!

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Two! Three!... And they do as they announce!... to the sound of a flute!... And it's perfect!... They clear the ground! [273] These simian or fragile bullies, all infatuated with very rancid prejudices, finely moldy, these furious mothballs on borrowed time from "collections" aspire to nothingness! They howl! Perfect! We give it to them! And to sing their own "Dies irae"...

The Jews: "Bravo! Bravo! Very fine courage! Magnificent pace! Splendid attitude...". As for the Aryan intellectual, the "Pindar" of this adventure, we are presented with him from the start, already rendered in such a state of futility, of precocious spoilage, of inconsistency, of bullish harping, that he dissipates all on his own. in the course of the film... We lose it... evaporated...

This "Great Illusion" thus celebrates for us the marriage of the simple, crude, little shitty Aryan worker, confident tourlourou become editor, with the little Jew, djibouk, billionaire, viscous Messiah, tomorrow quite naturally People's Commissioner, predestined. Everything you need to realize the Jewish-Worker Soviet, the bare necessities, nothing too much, nothing less! The Future is cleaning up! The Sinai has just thundered for the third time: "Pelure de Goye, don't leave your youtre! Or it's going to suck horribly! The Jew is your guardian angel!...". And these sentences immediately penetrate to the depths of the Aryan heart!

Bite that air pilot who can't even read a map the moment the little Jew takes command! is it symbolic enough? And you, there, Mr. Face!... Mr. Goat and Cabbage!... who are nothing very avowable... neither soldier... nor militant... nor professor... nor grand duke ... not an archbishop... not a billionaire... not a Jew... not a laborer... What are you standing there, planted?... Perhaps you are waiting for a role?... What are you waiting for? to disappear?... Come on, youp! there... Are you being pushed?... Come on, a little courage!... You're getting in the way! You are grotesque! You are obscene! You're not from the wedding party!... What are you doing here?... Your mere presence is disgusting! You decompose the air... Do you understand the symbols?.. The coffee grounds?... Come on! a little energy!... The guns are on the table!... All these actors are giving themselves trouble!... Do not remain insensitive!... frozen!... Know how to finish beautifully!... He it's time!... It's "minus five" Jewish! – The Great Illusion? – "The Israelite Universe" cannot be mistaken, here is what it tells us:

"...One of the best films the war inspired: [274] "La Grande Illusion" gave us, this winter, a beautiful scene of a very French symbolism. Two prisoners of war, of very different conditions and origins (Aryan worker, "Jewish millionaire) whose common ordeals have made two comrades, before attempting a dangerous escape, separate: "Goodbye, dirty Jew!" says affectionately one. "Goodbye, old nut!", replies the other vigorously. And the two soldiers separate after a moving embrace. They meet again... They reunite..."

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Great Illusion? Great Illusion?... Ah! of course, yes! the Great Illusion!... And how! The Huge Illusion! To the Prodigy! Beelzebub! Moloch! At your service! Illusion's formidable stratosphere myriacube! For God Sake! The most supreme illusion of the most pharaminous Tadpole that will ever have been sold for the superfusion of pyrites in the next Bacchanale! The 1940 Mongo-yotre Idéofournaise! [275] Yankee American women, whom we hear utter such cries, create such fuss, universal howls (lynchings, petitions, lawsuits, etc.) as soon as a Negro buggers them (in public!) how that they marry the Jews! and at top speed! and as long as it can! and full loaves! Jews make a premium as marriage partners in the United States. The Jew is vicious, the Jew is rich, the Jew stuffs well. The "negrite" Jew, much lower than the Negro. Another very prodigious blank this famous barrier of USA races! A barrier in cocks! But wait! I, in turn, am going to tell you a little about the future: One day, the Jews will launch the negroes, their brothers, their shock troops on the last white "executives", will reduce them, all drunkards, to slavery. Harlem will be the "white" district... The negroes in carousing, they will go and see, they will make the whites dance for them, the "blancboula".

[276] "You have to have lived behind the scenes of Politics to realize

realize that the world is run by people who are quite

different from those imagined by the people. Disraeli-Jewish,

Prime Minister of England Always certain Jews, from Egypt, from Moses, a great occultist, have distinguished themselves by their "prognostic" power, Jews, dervishers, prophets, hermetists, incantors, initiates, talmudists, fetishists, khabalists, magi, freemasons, messiahs , gris-gris, djibouks, etc., all the sauce. These superhuman specimens form, above Jewry, the super-clan of mystical guides, always listened to, always followed, in fact the true leaders of the Jewish universe. This is also the case with all Asian or Negro regimes. The Jews keep as their most precious treasure all their black magic under their skin.

In all periods of upheaval we see the emergence, it is automatic, of their prophetic representatives, the soothsayers, their Jewish oracles... Nostradamus... Cagliostro... Mesmer... Marat... Marx... etc These Jews, super-Jews, even more "transmitters of evil spells" than the other yurts, seem through their gibberish to possess however the sense, the premonition of the great crises, of the great Jewish upheavals... They are "global Hebrew cataleptics" ... Their predictions, their warnings, are very often admirable in their accuracy and relevance. They are wrong, but often they fall flat... Thus Nostradamus, around 1620, already announced very exactly, the date of our great Revolution 1793 (written date)... We would be wrong to laugh... Moise [277] had done well...

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as vain, gibberish and phrasal as our smart little "experimentalists", atheists, positives, dupes and cuckolds always claim. A little spell that successively topples the Egyptian Empire, the Roman Empire, the French Monarchy, the Napoleonic Empire, the German Empire, the Russian Empire, tomorrow all democracy, the British Empire is not a mirliton... And I count for nothing the Crusades, the Reformation, etc., which all come just as well and truly from the same philtre... Do we still find, today among us, some prophets of this great lineage?... of the same force?... same stature? Certainly!... The famous "Protocol of the Elders of Zion" is nothing other than a vaticination of this kind, one of those Jewish divinizing hysterias, of which one makes fun at first reading, so much at first sight do they belong by the tone, the content, the style of the tetanism, the Asylum humbug, the pranks of PG, the "jacket" writings, the insanity, the vicious fury, deceptively coherent by chance... and then. .. and then one discovers with use... over time... that they were perfectly reasonable... that such frenetic, fanatical preposterous fantasies, correspond very exactly to the evolution of things... . It is the evolution of things which superimposes itself very exactly, geometrically, miraculously on such nightmares. And we can't believe it... The prognosis of the madmen is confirmed... All our stupidity is not made up only of credulity, it must be admitted, it is also made up of skepticism. These Protocols published around 1932 very accurately predicted everything Jewish that has happened in the world since then... and Jewish things have happened in the world!... The Jewish truth is its color, its rhythm, is expressed in trances, it is a virgin forest truth... In the "viewer" genre we have perhaps even better than Protocols, more substantial, shorter, more hateful if possible ... Thus the little-known speech of Rabbi Rzeichhorn, pronounced in the cemetery of Prague in 1865 on the tomb of another great prophetic rabbi, Simeon-ben-Jahouda. This text was reproduced only eleven years later in the "Contemporary"... and then in the "Compte Rendu" of Sir John Radcliff. The authors of this reproduction did not take their audacity to [278] paradise... Sir John Radcliff was killed a short time later, as well as Lasalle, the traitorous Jew, who had communicated it.

Here are the main passages of this magnificent composition, so prophetic, we will realize: "Gold handled by expert hands will always be the most useful lever for those who possess it and the object of envy for those who do not possess it. With gold one buys the most rebellious consciences, one fixes the rate of all values, the price of all products, one subsidizes the loans of the States, which one then holds at its mercy.

“Already the main banks, stock exchanges around the world, claims on all governments are in our hands. The other great power is the press. By tirelessly repeating certain ideas, the press makes them finally accepted as truths. The Theater renders similar services (the cinema c and the radio did not exist then). Everywhere the theater and the press obey our directions. "By the tireless praise of the democratic regime, we will divide the Christians into political parties, we will destroy the unity of their nations, we will sow discord there. Powerless, they will submit to the law of our Bank, always united, always devoted to our cause.

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“We will drive Christians to wars by exploiting their pride and stupidity. They will massacre each other and clear the place where we will push ours. "Ownership of land has always brought influence and power. In the name of social justice and equality, we will break up large estates; we will give the fragments to the peasants who desire them with all their might, and which will soon be indebted by exploitation. Our capital will make us masters of it. We will in our turn be the big landowners, and the possession of the land will assure us of power. (Palestine is nothing but a camp of Training of Jewish Commissioners of Agriculture for the Next World Revolution.) “Let us strive to replace gold in circulation with paper money; our coffers will absorb the gold, and we will regulate the value of the paper, which will make us masters of all existences. "We have among us orators capable of feigning [279] enthusiasm and persuading the crowds; we will spread them among the peoples, to announce the changes which must bring about the happiness of the human race. By gold and flattery, we will win over the proletariat, which will undertake to annihilate Christian capitalism.We will promise the workers wages that they have never dared to dream of, but we will also raise the price of necessary things, so that our profits will be even greater.

"In this way, we will prepare the revolutions that Christians will make themselves and from which we will reap the fruits. "By our mockery, by our attacks, we will make their priests ridiculous, and then odious, their religion as ridiculous, as odious as their clergy. We will then be masters of their souls. For our pious attachment to our religion, to our worship, will prove to them the superiority of our souls...

"We have already established our men, in all important positions. Let us endeavor to provide the goyims with lawyers and doctors; the lawyers are aware of all interests; the doctors once in the house, become confessors and directors of conscience. But above all let us monopolize teaching. In this way, we will spread the ideas which are useful to us, and we will knead the brains at our pleasure.

"If one of ours unfortunately falls into the clutches of Justice among Christians, let us run to his aid; find as many testimonies as necessary to save him from his judges, until we ourselves are the judges . "The monarchs of Christendom, puffed up with ambition and vanity, surround themselves with luxury and numerous armies. We will supply them with all the money their follies require, and we will keep them on a leash."

Let us recall for pleasure and for memory, the main provisions of the Protocols (remember 1902). Nothing is more invigorating than this reading for an Aryan. It is worth for our salvation many prayers which are wasted... God knows how! between heaven and earth...

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"Encouraging unbridled luxury, fantastic fashions, splurging, and phasing out the ability to enjoy the wholesome and simple things... [280] "To entertain the masses with popular amusements, games, sports competitions, etc., to amuse the people to prevent them from thinking "To poison the mind by harmful theories; to ruin the nervous system by the incessant din and to weaken the bodies by the inoculation of viruses of various diseases. (The little Jew Rosenthal repeats this in the "Great Illusion".)

"Creating universal discontent, and provoking hatred and mistrust between social classes. "Deprive the aristocracy, with old traditions, of their lands, by encumbering them with formidable taxes, thus forcing them to contract debts; to substitute businessmen for people of race and establish everywhere the cult of the Golden Calf .

"To poison the relations between employers and workers by strikes and "lockouts" and thus eliminate any possibility of good relations from which fruitful co-operation would result.

"Demoralize the upper classes by all means and provoke the fury of the masses by the sight of the turpitudes and stupidities committed by the rich.

“Allow industry to exhaust agriculture and gradually turn industry into wild speculation. – Encourage all sorts of utopias in order to lead the people astray in a maze of impracticable ideas. – Raise wages without any benefit for the worker, given the simultaneous increase in the cost of living...

“To cause incidents to arouse international suspicion; to inflame antagonisms between peoples; to hatch hatred, and to multiply ruinous armaments. "To grant universal suffrage, so that the destinies of nations may be entrusted to uneducated people. "To overthrow all monarchies and establish republics everywhere, to intrigue so that the most important posts are entrusted to characters having to hide some unavowable secrets, in order to be able to dominate them by the fear of a scandal, to hold them by the Police .

"Gradually abolish every form of Constitution, in order to substitute for it the absolute despotism of Communism.

"Organize vast monopolies in which all fortunes will sink, when the hour of political crisis strikes. "Destroy all financial stability; multiply crises [27] (pp. 281-290)

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[281] economic and preparing for universal bankruptcy; stopping the wheels of industry; collapse all values; concentrating all the gold in the world in certain hands; leave huge capitals in absolute stagnation; at some point suspend all credit and cause panic. Prepare the agony of States, exhaust humanity through suffering, anguish and deprivation, because hunger creates slaves."

All this fits, agrees, I think admirably with current events. The Jew Blumenthal was therefore in his own right, writing so that it would be known, in the "Judisk Tidskrift" (No 57, year 1929): "Our race has given the world a new prophet, but he has two faces and two names, on one side his name is Rothschild, leader of the big capitalists, and on the other side Karl Marx, the apostle of the enemies of the Capitalism. " Here are substantial words and moreover quite accurate. In the great hours of Destiny, when the cards fell... Mr. Rothschild and Mr. Marx previously separated, found themselves completely in agreement, admirably in agreement to spin us to the cassepipe, "comrades of comrades" , make us turn into sausages. It is the pretty rule of the Jewish game, the Supreme of the Jewish theater. First act: argument... third act... perfect agreement to debit our guts.

Trotzky-Mexico, know it, will agree, at the supreme moment admirably, in blood, ours, with Litvinoff-Moscow, Baruch-Washington and Samuel-Cité to spin us to the machine guns. Not a small thread of doubt is allowed in this regard. The parade of hatred to death, between Jews, is a bogus for us cuckolds... for Durand... for Corporal Peugeot. It is completely official, proven a hundred times over, by irrefutable documents, that the first decisive funds of the Bolshevik Revolution 17 were provided to Trotzky by American bankers, Jewish high finance (12 billion, then 125 billion).

The same or their descendants who now find themselves around Roosevelt, the fat ventriloquist, preparing the Next... It is these same Jews of the Great Golden Calf who command with the City, New York and Moscow, the world, war and peace, namely Jacob Schiff, Gugenheim, Barush, Breitung, Loeb et Cie, Félix Warburg, Otto Kahn, Mortimer Schiff, Hanauer. (US Secret Service Report, 1917, 2nd Bureau.)

[282] You may remember the names of the main leaders of the Bolshevik Revolution 17 – all Jews. "Lenin of his real blase Oulianoff (1/2 Jewish) – Trotzky – Bronstein – Zinovieff (Apfelbaum) – Kameneff (Rosenfeld) – Dan (Gourevitch) – Ganezky (Furstenberg) – Parvus (Helphand) – Uritsky (Pademisky) – Larine ( Lurge) – Bohrine (Nathason) – Martinoff (Zibar) – Bogdanoff (Zilberstein) – Garine (Garfeld) – Suchanoff (Gimel) – Kamnleff (Goldmann) – Sagersky (Krochmann) – Riazanoff (Goldenbach) – Solutzeff (Bleichmann) – Pianitsky ( Ziwin) – Axelrod (Orthodox) – Glasounoff (Schultze) – Zuriesain (Weinstein) – Lapinsky (Loewensohm) The author wishes to add that some authors are convinced that Lenin's mother was a Jewess... Lenin was a Jew (Kalmyk ) married to a Jewess (Krupskaya) whose children spoke the

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Yiddish (Herbert Fitch, a Scotland Yard detective who had spied on Lenin as a waiter for months, said he was typically Jewish). Secret service report. In the "German Bolshevik Conspiracy", page 27, published by the "Committee of Public Information, Washington DC", in October 1918, we learn that: "Max Warburg was advancing money to the Bolsheviks: "Stockholm...September 21, 1917: Mr. Raphael Scholak, Haparand: "Dear Comrade. – In accordance with a telegram from the "Westphalian Rhineland Syndicate, the Max Warburg bank and C· "informs us that a credit has been extended to Comrade Trotzky's company." (signed) J. Furstenberg.

"Jacob Schiff appears to have given $12,000,000 for the 'Russian Revolution of 1917' (first installment).

In Mrs. Netsa H. Webster's book, "The Surrender of an Empire", p. 74-79, we find additional information on the rise of Bolshevism. "It appears that the true name of the individual referred to in Section III above as Parvus, is Israel Lazarevich Helphand, a Jew from the province of Minsk, White Russia. Towards the end of the last century he took part in revolutionary work in Odessa. In 1886 he went abroad and finally after several wanderings came to Copenhagen where he amassed a large fortune as chief agent for the distribution of coal German in Denmark, working through the Danish Social Party.

[283] "Doctor Ziv, in his "Life of Trotzky", relates that when he was in America, in 1916, he asked Trotzky: "How is Parvus?..." To which Trotzky replied laconically: " He is a completing his twelfth million." "It was this Jew, a multi-millionaire who, after Karl Marx, was Lenin's greatest inspiration. It was through the intervention of Parvus that Lenin was sent to Russia.

"Russia is not the triumph of the workers, but seems to be just a gigantic investment by Jewish capitalists for their own ends. All this is not the result of an ephemeral agreement between Jews and Bolsheviks. Everywhere it was like this:

"In Hungary, the great leaders were the Jews Béla Kun, Agoston Peter, Grunbaum, Weintein; in Bavaria, they were called: Kurt Eisner, Loewenberg, Birbaum, Kaiser; in Berlin the attempted revolution had for leaders Rosa Luxembourg, Lewisohn , Moses; in China the organizer of Bolshevism is the Jew Borodin-Crusenberg; in Italy the Marxist leader was the Jew Claudio Trèves; in Brazil where the recent Marxist insurrection had as leaders the Jews Rosenberg, Gardelsran, Gutnik, Goldberg, Strenberg, Jacob Gria and W. Friedmann; finally in Spain, where the Red Revolution was organized by the Jew Béla Kun, maintained by the Jew Rosenberg and "legitimized" at the League of Nations by the Jew Del Vayo."

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And besides, all these events fall into the order of things that the Jew Baruch Lévi (another prophet) had foreseen in his letter to his friend Karl Marx (real name Karl Mordechai, son of the Rabbi of Trier) : “In the new organization of humanity, wrote Barush Lévi to the doctrinaire of Jewish socialism, the children of Israel will spread over the entire surface of the globe and will become everywhere, without opposition, the leading element, especially if they manage to impose on the working classes the firm control of a few of them. The governments of the nations forming the universal Republic, will pass effortlessly into the hands of the Jews under cover of the victory of the proletariat. Private property will then be suppressed by the rulers. of the Jewish race, who will everywhere control the public funds. Thus will be realized the promise of the Talmud that, when the time of the Messiah arrives, the Jews [284] will possess the property of all the peoples of the earth". (Letter quoted in the "Revue de Paris", June 1, 1928,

The great Jews are proud, and they are not wrong, of their Bolshevik revolution 17, the great Rabbi Juda L. Magnes, New York, 1919, thus shares his joy with us:

"The radical qualities that are in the Jew go to the bottom of things, in Germany he becomes a Marx and a Lassalle, a Haas and an Edward Bernstein; in Austria he becomes a Victor Adler and a Friedrich Adler, in Russia a Trotzky. See the present situation in Germany and Russia. The Revolution puts into action the creative forces of the Jew, see what a great contingent of Jews is immediately ready for the [174] battle. Socialists, revolutionaries, Mensheviks, Bolsheviks, majority, minority, whatever name they are called, one finds in all these parties Jews as their devoted leaders and as their regular workers. Mr. Cohan, in the newspaper "The Communist" of Kharkoff, n° 72, April 12, 1919, also seems very pleased to us: "It can be said without exaggeration that the great Russian revolution was made by the hand of the Jews... It was precisely the Jews who led the Russian proletariat to the dawn of the International".

It emerges from all this, we hasten to agree, a certain whiff of "Ambiguous"... of carbonarism with the lack... of farciform conspiracies... of gray wall extensions... of maffia. .. footsteps on the ceiling... big horn... something from "Tour de Nesle"... which makes you laugh a lot... This good joke... "There's Jews everywhere". .. You think that on this side, we can't be late... I myself am quite sensitive to what is ridiculous... But all the same, there are the names... the people, the events... this unmistakable, irrefutable, instantaneous, implacable gathering of the most croaking, virulent, relentless, voracious Jews around each of our catastrophes... like a flight of a thousand crows from hell, on the very site of all our disasters.This cannot be invented.

Outrages!... nonsense of polemicists!... ramblings of starving rabbis... feverish!... illuminations of old khabalists!... Chimeras of synagogues!... fleeting coincidences of some ugly delusions! It's easy to say...

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Are you going to answer me further that all these furbelows of imprecations date from the dark ages... that now, our great, our [285] most eminent Jews are perfectly emancipated from the tutelage of their filthy rabbis that our great youtres modern, are all infinitely "progressive" outright, insatiably thirsty for Experimental Science and Freemason Light, for statistics, intellectually superrefined, emancipated... that all these shenanigans and these vociferations, these super divinations -khabalists, bring them to smile absolutely... as we smile at the Transubstantiation, at the Resurrection of Christ... In short childish shenanigans, poor djibouks at bay, oraculous superstitions... old creaking debris of the biblical scarecrow... nonsense... You could perhaps answer me that the Great Jews, of the great Jewish world influence, no longer maintain relations with their rabbis and their synagogues that are rather vague... quite distant... vague... just the minimum. .. the simple politeness... that they have other fish to fry... these great Jews... more serious... Good.

Do you know that the executive power of all world Jewry is called the "Kahal"?... Assembly of the Elders of Israel?... Do you remember that Napoleon, worried about Jewish universal power, tried to capture the forces of the Kahal for his benefit, to make the Kahal serve his own Napoleonic world policy, to fix it first of all in France, this Kahal, under the name of "Grand Sanhedrin"... and that he failed, Napoleon, pitifully, very fatally in this enterprise. (All the same, there was something cuckold in Napoleon.) Do you know how the Jew Léon Say later commented from the rostrum of Parliament on this great Napoleonic defeat, certainly the most decisive of all, a major cause, without any doubt, of his great debacle. We who are not Napoleon, our fate even more than his depends entirely on the goodwill of the great Jews, the "great occultists". It is not foolish to think that our destiny is certainly still discussed in the consistories of the Kahal, as much as in the Lodges and much more. Note that for France, the Central Consistory is headed by Chief Rabbi Israel Lévi. The president no lesser lord than the king of France himself, that is to say Baron Edouard de Rothschild... The vicepresidencies, ensured by MM. Bloch-Laroque and Helbronner [286] (Councillor of State)... See that we remain quite observant in very high places... MM. Oualid and Weisweiller are treasurers (they must not be in difficulty very often)... The members of the central Consistory represent, not only Paris,

Here is the list (absolutely nothing secret), in the 1937-38 Yearbook.

Aboucaya Leon. Bader Maurice. Baur-Marcel.

Blum Jules.

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Bodenheimer Henry.

Brisac Jules. Cahen Adolphe. Cahen Albert. Cahen d'Anvers.

Debre Simon, Chief Rabbi. Dorville-Armand. Ducas Raymond.

Eudlitz Moise, Dr. Hayem Jules. Helbronner Paul. Jacob Elijah.

Klein Dr. Leven Georges. Matchou Dr. Merzbach Georges.

Moch Fernand. Mosse Armand. Naiditch Isaac. Nedjar Maurice.

Olchanski R.-A. Proper Michael. Rothschild Robert (Baron de). Salzedo Mosès A. Sananes.

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See Jacques. Simon Jules.

Trier André Dr. [287] Weill Mathieu. Wormser Georges. Sachs, in Paris. Bakouche André, Constantine. Behr Simon, Nancy (M.-and-M.).

Geismar Pierre, Neuilly-sur-Marne. Kahn André, Luneville. Lajeunesse Henri, Lille. Lang Rene, Lyons.

Messiah B., Saint-Pierre-les-Elbeuf (S. Inf.). Risser Gaston, Rouen.

Seches (Chief Rabbi), Lyon. Seiligmann André, Vaucouleurs (Meuse). Sommer Leon, Tours. Wormser Achilles, Dijon. The Masonic Lodges always count among their members a very large number of "pougnassons brothers", simple little beings anxious to improve their little beef... their material consistency... to ensure, to amplify their "leather circles" , ambitious youngsters of comitia... eager little bosses... They constitute the infantry, the great needy workforce of Free Thought.

Obviously one cannot ask of these cowards, these baffled little pimps, anything other than the "all comers" saliva, the bullous electoral boasting... the puking of demagogic formulas, all shitty for Drunk Robots... They are Give it!... One cannot at any price initiate them, these woodlice, into great Designs. The Israelite Consistory is precisely formed, created for this purpose, for the study and the maneuver of the great Jewish Designs. It is made up of an elite. This is no longer one of those little clans of slender sly hoodlums, gate-crashers, neo-Jesuits, overblown, overrated, as it swarms, it is fatal, at the bottom of all the Lodges... Alouettes

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mirrored... But no! But no!... Few postmen, no more jobbers, navvies, fire captains, teachers, among these eminences... Nothing but characters of high social condition, high culture, satiated, oversaturated with pleasures for cads... mouth, ass, living room, etc. pleasures of ministers...

Amply freed from all material worries, these true "wise men" can afford to see very high and very far... And why not?... Certainly!... Communicants at least... What the devil! just as well as Doriotists, Laroquists... As one wants... no matter!... Baron de Rothschild (Mauritius) votes in the Senate, absolutely like Cachin, the ratification of the Franco-Soviet Pact. .. Baron James de Rothschild, mayor of Compiègne, completely withdrew from the legislative elections, in favor of the candidate of the Popular Front... It takes what it takes...

But what is the exact role of this consistory?... central?... I will tell you... "He deliberates and decides on the situation created by events; he decides on the measures that should be applied. Thus he interferes in the daily life of each Jew, and he directs it, in a way to all points of view. Also the activity of each member of the Jewish community is exercised in the direction indicated by the Kahal and in the sole interest of Judaism."

There you have it, Corporal Peugeot?... So as soon as the next stand "For the Liberation of the Peoples" opens, for an ever freer and happier France, well, you'll rush!... The first rigodon , as usual my friend, this is for your cuckold chest! Spread the word!... The Consistory and the little friends of the Consistory have all their democratic eyes fixed, hypnotized, on your guts! Ah! like the English! Not more!... but not less!... War and Peace?... Jews!... Ultimately, French "Cocoricos", you will go to war, at the time chosen by Mr. le Baron de Rothschild, your lord and absolute master... at the time fixed, in full agreement, with his sovereign cousins of London, New York and Moscow. It is he, Mr. de Rothschild, who will sign your Decree of General Mobilization, through the intermediary, through the quivering pen of his puppet-lackey-minister.

Ah! If we still had a tiny bit of balls in France... our little word to say... Ah! If we could still write the "Timide Supplication"... But we can do nothing more... No more a word to say... We would go crawling on our knees... the noose around our necks... to the Consistory. .. most humbly in the world... beg to be spared... another year... 18 months... leave us alone once and for all... "Aryan Peace" ... [289] Will we be received?... The famous 200 families, Aryan or not, but I give them to you! I won't remember one!... I'm giving you, too, the very royal gift... I'm not going to cry over their foul fate! Be very calm! All the Patenôtres, Lederlins, Dupuys... Renaults... Wendels... Schneiders... Michelins and tutti cotys... But you can take them away... I owe them nothing... I assure you... Only

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since we are having fun, I would like all the same, that we play fair! fair game to the end!... Let us not forget the Consistory in the general bigorne... nor the beautiful associated families... Nor the big hungry yurt trusts... the LL Dreyfus, for example ( multi-billionaires) nor the Baders and others... the great friends of MM. Blum... But no!... But no!... Not at all!... I will not enjoy a few sidekicks and a few scared scum... fleeing entities scapegoats... melting Turkish heads ... But let's see! Not at all!... I refuse these "draughts"!... I want something solid!... Realities!... real leaders!... "hard Khabales"... I have the tooth!... A huge tooth!... A real totalitarian tooth!... A world tooth!... A tooth of Revolution!... A tooth of planetary conflagration!... Of mobilization of all the mass graves of the Universe! Surely a divine appetite! Biblical!... [290] Neither promise nor oath binds

the Jew to the Christians The Talmud

Now the good big slice of this beautiful Thorez... on its cover "My life"... good big face well offered... Boubouroche in triumph... Incredible!... in shirt sleeves... well in heat, chubby, very vain, very chubby... the ideal Aryan for a Jewish magician... The dream cuckold... The freshly promoted sergeant... delighted... exulting... while " wheel"... first outing!... shimmering with braid... Pity!...

What a splendid piece to walk around in the vampire cage! What an auspicious, tasty turkey! Poor innocent super-guignolet!... So here is the baby-führer!... The sprinkler sprinkled!... who is going to play our poor little game, already so compromised, on the international checkerboards?... against the clique political horse dealers, diplomats, "grey-gris", Jewish commissars, the most cunning, the most perverse, the most complex, the most gamey, malevolent, grim, poisonous, scorpionic imaginable!... The bunch of scoundrels, djibouks, double agents, magicians, jerks, quack illusionists, the most complete, the most armoured, the best matched, the most racist, the most cheeky on the planet, proven bonkers, seasoned, witchy, unofficial, official, dizzying, of intrigue maleficent, magical, a hundredfold bottom, [28] (pp. 291-300)

[291] Gentiles were created to serve the Jew day and night. The Talmud.

The Jews, directly or through intermediaries, own the following Trusts in France, i.e. 750 billion out of the 1,000 billion of French wealth:

Trust: Banks and Gold.

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– Food. – Articles from Paris

– Fur. – Confection and Stockings.

– Oils and its Derivatives. – Furnishings. – of the Shoe. – Transport and Railways. - electricity. – Water and Gas. – Chemicals and Pharmaceuticals. – Telegraph Agencies. – Narcotics. – Armaments. – Combat Gases. – of the Grands Moulins.

- wheat.

– Press and Journalism. – Objects of Piety. – Leather Goods. [292] – the Book Industry. – Unique Price Shops. – Theaters (authors and venues).

– Cinema (Studios). – Sales (Black bands).

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– Automotive (in training). – Sponges and Fibers for Brushmaking.

– Jewellery. – real estate speculation. – Usury and Fraud. – Radio Stations. – Political Organizations. – Works of Art and Antiques. – Houses with multiple branches.

– Photographic Products. – Mineral Waters. – real estate companies. – Department stores. – Fashions and Haute Couture.

– Insurance. – Hides and Skins.

– coal mines. – Airframes and Aircraft Engines.

– Navigation companies. – Medical Optics. – Hosiery. – from the Chemiserie.

– Foundries and Forges.

– Commodities (global trust). – Great Breweries.

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– Tourism (Big Hotels, spas, Casinos, etc.). – Sugar Refineries. – Military Adjudications. – TSF Lamps – Liberal Professions (in training). – and Lisieux! and the Pope!

You have to be much more stupid than a calf the first week not to admit, under these conditions, that the Jews [293] are indeed our tyrants... absolute, that they decide absolutely, sovereignly on our existence or our our suppressions: Revolution, war, famine. In any public limited company, when one of the shareholders holds the majority of the shares (the enormous majority), it is he who commands, the others obey. So many fragile tadpoles. And we are not even tadpoles, the rest of us... not shareholders!... sub-tadpoles!

[294] We must never forget that... "It is to Freemasonry that we owe the Republic of this time; that it was the Masons and the Lodges who made the Republic."

G. Orient Convent 1887. "The first act of the Freemasons will be to glorify the Jewish race, which has kept unaltered the divine deposit of science. Then they will lean on it to erase frontiers." "The Symbolism", Masonic magazine, 1926.

"Freemasonry is a Jewish institution whose history, degrees, rites, passwords and explanations are Jewish from beginning to end." Rabbi Wise Isaac,

Israelite of America, 1886.

"The International Revolution is for tomorrow the work of Freemasonry." Official Bulletin of the Grand Lodge of France, October 1922.

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[295] "The Men in power in this century have not only to do with Governments, Kings, Ministers, but also with Secret Societies. At the last moment they can destroy all agreements. They have agents everywhere, unscrupulous agents, who push for assassination. They can, if they deem it appropriate, bring about a massacre." Disraeli, British Prime Minister. "The Spirit of Freemasonry is the spirit of Judaism in its most fundamental beliefs; these are its ideas, it is its language, it is almost its organization." "The Israelite Truth".

"Masonry is nothing more, nothing less than revolution in action, conspiracy at all times." Secret initiations to the 33rd degree.

[296] The Messianic Age will be the glorious time when the extermination of Christians and Gentiles will be accomplished.

Grand Rabbi Ahabanel. All the same, it is enough to look, a little closer, at such a beautiful face of a very typical youtre, man or woman, of character, to be fixed forever... These eyes which spy, always false to be pale. .. this stuck smile... these lips which raise: the hyena... And then all of a sudden this look which lets itself go, heavy, leaden, stupid... the blood of the black man who passes... These naso-labial commissures always restless... flexuous, gullied, ascending, defensive, hollowed out with hatred and disgust... for you!... for you the abject animal of the enemy race, accursed, to be destroyed... Their nose, their "toucan" of crook, traitor, felon, this Stavisky, Barmat, Tafari nose... of all the shady combinations, of all the betrayals, which points, lowers, darkens on the mouth, their hideous cleft, this rotten banana,their crescent, the filthy youtre grimace, so naughty, so viscous, even at the Prix de Beauté, the outline of the sucking trunk: the Vampire... But that's zoology!... elementary!... It's your blood they're after, those ghouls!... That should make you scream... shudder, if you had the slightest hint of instinct left in your veins, if something else happened to you. thing in the meat and the head, but a lukewarm rhetorical paste, stuffed with fifine ruselettes, the little gray oozes purring formulas, marinated in alcohol... Such grimaces as one finds on the face of the Jews , know that, cannot be improvised, they do not date from yesterday or from the Dreyfus Affair... They arise from the depths of the ages, to our horror, from the [297] tugs of miscegenation,bloody Talmudic quagmires, of the whole Apocalypse in short!...

Woe to the damned! Die then animal impossible!... Reject! You don't even jump with fright at the sight of such monsters! Don't you see your torture and your death inscribed, ravined on these heads? What mirror do you need then?... To see your own death?...

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All ugliness all mean something. Look at! Since you're too lazy to read in books, decipher at least learn to read on the face of the Jews the judgment which concerns you, personally, the judgment, the living, grimacing announcement of your massacre. [298] We have a thousand times, a hundred thousand times worse than the Farmers

Generals. We have the Jews and the Freemasons.

Jews! Fixed! You are not bursting the imagination! You have it heavy and goofy

I'm not the No. 1 Hood. I'm not paid by Goering. Neither by Musso nor by Tardieu!...

Not even by Mr. Rothschild! (Anything is possible) I'm not paid by anyone...

I will never be paid by anyone. I don't want to found any party.

I don't want to get on the platform.

I don't want to dominate anyone. I don't need money. I don't need power Really I don't need anything. But I'm home, and the Jews piss me off and their shenanigans piss me off

I say it out loud, in my own way... As I think. Rest!

Fixed!... If all the Jews were turned back, let them be sent back

In Palestine with their Freemason bosses – since they adore each other – We would cease to be “Untouchables”

In the land of the Negrite Emirs... [299] We would have neither war nor bankruptcy... Before long... long... long...

And we would have a lot of empty places...immediately Right away...the best ones indeed...

Our children would no longer need To beg, beg...

To the Jews... Freemasons... and other bookworms Tapeworms... Vermin, "Lumbrical Farmers" of the Common Meat... A few small scraps of food...

Alms... charity... They would no longer need to beg the Jews to please let them live...

To subsist, on their own territory, for a little longer... Reprieve! Before going to die for them...

For their devilry, their pranks, their complexes...

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Their prodigious bellies Of Jewish octopuses

In the furious terrible battles. In the great Kabalic furnaces. Rest! [300] Formerly, when the Jews became restive and insolent, the Kings became cruel. The Jew Simon did not want to open his treasures to King Henry III, the king summoned him, had 17 teeth extracted, separating each of these extractions from this request: "Lend me your treasures..." At the seventeenth the Jew yielded. This mode of borrowing has been abandoned by modern heads of state, but in order not to lose the process, finance people have applied it to their way of lending.

Today, in fact, it is the people of high finance (the Jews) who pull the teeth of governments until they have delivered the money of their constituents.

This balances that.

Under Louis XV and under Louis XVI, equality tended to be achieved, finance rose, dignity fell. The mass was stripped, but individual talents were brought to life.

Today this one and those also die. (Extract ofthe History of Finance People, by John Grand Carteret.) [29] (pp. 301-310)

[301] Ahoy! Hear the Jewry! the Mascaille!

And cover me with garbage! I hear you jerking off! to frisk! fuck your trash cans! You are bear urchins and idiots! More windy! More loose! Vier than the school of rhinos in the dung in panic! Nice saying! Beautiful cross! Nice to do! "Princess!" Nice kill! Donkeys! Loufs! Popes of treason! Companions! Mouth to the wheelwright!

Ding! Ding! Dong! That you have it in the ass! Carillon! Charades! Tornadoes!

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That you have it in the ass!

Shit! [302] [This page repeats p. 290. This is a layout error] Neither promise nor oath binds the Jew with regard to Christians. The Talmud

Now the good big slice of this beautiful Thorez... on its cover "My life"... good big face well offered... Boubouroche in triumph... Incredible!... in shirt sleeves... well in heat, chubby, very vain, very chubby... The ideal Aryan for a Jewish magician... The dream cuckold... The freshly promoted sergeant... delighted... exulting... while " wheel"... first outing!... shimmering with braid... Pity!... What a splendid piece to walk around in the vampire cage! What an auspicious, tasty turkey! Poor innocent super-guignolet!... So here is the babyfuhrer!... The sprinkler sprinkled!... who is going to play our poor little game, already so compromised, on the international checkerboards?... against the clique of horse-dealers-politicians, diplomats, "grey-gris", Jewish commissars, the most cunning, the most perverse, the most complex, the most gamey, malevolent, grim, poisonous, scorpionic imaginable!... The bunch of scoundrels, djibouks , double agents, magicians, jerks, quack illusionists, the most complete, the most armoured, the best matched, the most racist, the most cheeky on the planet, proven boners, seasoned, witchy, unofficial, official, vertiginous, of the evil plot, magical, a hundredfold bottom, dodging, a hundred thousand Asian sleights of hand, murderous tarot cards, miraginous deserts... headless corpses... ropes without hanging... [303] words without continuation... trunks without covers... messenger clouds... Unsurpassable virtuosos for all mazes and casuistical losses... unimaginable acrobats for all catacombs and all dungeons... The very quintessence of the most infinite vicious gangsteric scoundrels of the Universe... And then then to defend ourselves?... our bones, our poor "squares"... Who? This Cadum?... Damn!... It's going badly!... It's going very badly! trunks without lids... messenger clouds... Unsurpassable virtuosos for all mazes and casuistry losses... unimaginable acrobats for all catacombs and all dungeons... The very quintessence of the most infinite vicious gangster scoundrels of the Universe... And then to defend ourselves?... our bones, our poor "squares"... Who? This Cadum?... Damn!... It's going badly!... It's going very badly! trunks without lids... messenger clouds... Unsurpassable virtuosos for all mazes and casuistry losses... unimaginable acrobats for all catacombs and all dungeons... The very quintessence of the most infinite vicious gangster scoundrels of the Universe... And then to defend ourselves?... our bones, our poor "squares"... Who? This Cadum?... Damn!... It's going badly!... It's going very badly! . It's going very badly!... They'll just make a glottal stop of the yatters. . It's going very badly!... They'll just make a glottal stop of the yatters.

[304] "Let the hour of mobilization strike and, before leaving on the road glorious of their destinies, the mobilized ones will cut down

MM. Béraud and Maurras like dogs."

(Le Populaire, November 1933.)

Ah! don't forget me! Especially since the "Jewish assassin brigades" do not go up online! Kinky little ones, pull fast! just shoot! Attention!

[305]

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"The Jews alone are men and the other nations are only varieties of animals." (The Talmud.)

I don't know which bumbling little yuck (I forget his name, but it was a yuck name) went out of his way for five or six issues of a so-called medical publication (in reality Jewish puppies) , to come and shit on my works and my "vulgarities" in the name of psychiatry. The racist rage of this coward, his madness of envy was disguised for the circumstance in "scientific" vituperation. He foamed with insults, this revolt, in his psychologicalFreudian gibberish, delirious, pluricon. This imbecile according to his verbiage, his fad, his pathos, must have been an alienist. The alienists are almost all idiots, but this one gave the impression of a real tetanic in "stupidity", of a super critic in short. I no longer know by what flaws, mental and physical, by what abject perversions, monstrous dispositions, very cadaverous obsession, rottenness of soul, this asshole of the pedantry explained all my books, but, in any case, never pustulous toad (my apple) all dripping with poisonous droppings was more hideous, more intolerable to the gaze of the white, perfect dove (himself). All this without importance, but a small remark is essential, amusing: Freudianism did enormously for the Jews of medicine and psychiatry. He allowed all these grotesque, diafoirous, goofy sub-niggers, of the Diploma, to give free rein to all their fads, insanities, rampaging rages, unavowable megalomania, intimate despotisms... Here they are, all pontificating with Freudianism, these bush acrobats , [306] post-Congolese, with all their devilish sass, of neofetishers... "All of Liberia within our walls!" Nothing is more comical in the colonies, more lively subject of laughter than the overweening bravado of the native doctors fresh from the colonial faculties. They are worth their weight in ridicule. But here we take, we, the bamboola of the doctors, the worst dreamlike Negrite Jews, at face value!... Prodigy! The slightest diploma, the slightest new amulet, makes the Negroid delirious, all the Jewish Negroids, roar with pride! Everyone knows that...Kif with our youtres since their Boudah Freud gave them the keys to the soul! (Elie Faure declared to me a few days before his death that Freud had discovered the place where God was! where the soul was!) Admire how they now judge, decide, decide our lying supermental yanks, of all value, of truth, of power, sovereignly, of all spiritual productions! Without appeal! Freud! God's alter ego! How Kaganovich is Stalin's alter-ego!

It is by bleating that we, little children frozen with fear, we must henceforth go and be judged by these emanations from God himself!

I shit one every morning myself, a Jewish critic, and it doesn't hurt me badly! Spread the word... But where do they get all these insolent canaques from? Who will bring all these broken grigris back into the straw hut?... all these Negroid jesters, depraved "drummers" of the Parchment?... these Coconut Demiurges? What chicotte will put lead back in the mass graves of all these monkeys? make them crawl into their lairs? shut their cassava mouths, keep their garbage for a bit? Which chicotte?... Jewish experts? Jewish psychiatrists? These are the judges of our thoughts! of our wishes! of

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our arts! It's the coup de grace! Lower than macaques here we come! Messed up monkey ass! Seek advice, permission shit even, to breathe! [307] Dr. Faust speaks with the Devil. Dr. Freud speaks with God. Everything is fine.

[308]

Small quotes: No man, writer, politician or diplomat, can be considered mature until he has squarely tackled the Jewish problem. Wickham Stead.

The admission of this species of men can only be very dangerous. They can be compared to wasps which enter the hives only to kill the bees, open their bellies and extract the honey which is in their entrails: such are the Jews... Merchants' request to Louis XV (1777). Ah! if only Titus had not destroyed Jerusalem, we would have been preserved from this Jewish plague, and the victors would not have groaned under the yoke of the vanquished.

Claudius Rutilius Numatianuss Gallic poet (350 AD). In Germany, the Jews play the leading roles and are revolutionaries of the first order. They are writers, philosophers, poets, orators, publicists, bankers who carry on their heads and in their hearts the weight of their old infamy. They will become a scourge for Germany... But they will probably know a tomorrow that will be harmful to them. Metternich (1849). Anything complicated is wrong and rotten.

[309] It is my superstitious belief that if the Dictatorship of the Proletariat ends by succumbing is that she will not have shed enough blood.

Bela Kun.

But I know very well that you don't like Jews! he replied Gustin, but you're filling my ears... It's not worth talking about. You break us with your salads... Me neither, I can't smell them, however, I put up with it... You have to live with your illness... In my practice of clientele between Epinay and the "Bastions ", it's them now who grab everything... There's more than just them on the plain... We used to be quiet... There was Father Comart and Gendron... I'm talking to you about before the war... We existed without hurting each other... Now there are fourteen Jews and three

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Armenians in the same space. They are expelling all the natives of us... Shouldn't have gone to war, we committed suicide... For each Frenchman killed in Verdun, twenty youtres arrived. It is manufactured by cohorts of medical yurts in our faculties. All the juries are very propitious, devoted to the Jews, Jewish body and soul... The best customers of the great masters are the Jews, we must not forget... They are the ones who pay our grand masters... who ultimately pay the order! ... They are being treated over and over again... It predisposes them well for the Jews, the little Jews, for the exams... the competitions, the magnificent "equivalences"... to them, all the keys of the House ... The French him "his equivalence" is the "blessed idiot"... It's good for his face, that's all he deserves!... do they find refuge?... But in the Vatican!... For the resistance?... our army?... Jewish to the hilt!... since Dreyfus, since Alexandre Millerand Jew (son of a synagogue keeper!) All the generals? in the dig! and the Police?... But let's see... All those who hold the keys to the pantry, the Stock Exchange, the Cellar, Education, Books, Cinema, Song... Jews! ... All Music Halls! all the theaters (and the Comédie-Française), all the newspapers, all the radios are Jewish and Jewish, militants of Jewry, bubbling with Jewry... folklorists if necessary!... what the devil! "to better seduce you, my child, to better strangle you"... All the stars (with rare exceptions) of stage, film, song, science, "spirit", are Jewish (1/2, 1/3 or 1/4...) The people only hum, eat, drink, read, admire, hear of, vote Jewish... So you mironton! doting twisted little scribbler, what are you coming to annoy us?... what are you coming to stun us with your fads?... I ask you a little bit? say breadcrumbs?... But they will solve you! my friend! do you know the Jews?... You don't know them yet... But no... but no... not yet... Tell me, haven't they picked up a chick for you?... say, Rheumatism? But they will solve you! my friend! do you know the Jews?... You don't know them yet... But no... but no... not yet... Tell me, haven't they picked up a chick for you?... say, Rheumatism? But they will solve you! my friend! do you know the Jews?... You don't know them yet... But no... but no... not yet... Tell me, haven't they picked up a chick for you?... say, Rheumatism?

– I don't have one... I've never had one from a chick...

- For what?... - I'm afraid to love... – You're a hater, and then it's fed up... It's your dirty nature...

He was vinasting Gustin hard, but still he was right. “They have everything...” He continued. They are a million Jews in France distributed... two million perhaps, if we count the enjuivés... the "mascailles". They do what they want basically... opposition? there are none!... the "Colonels"... the "Doriots"... they are simple entertainers... they are not serious... they are Terrors

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[30] (pp. 311-320)

[311] to morphine... In the Tragedy they will only be sidekicks for a moment... That the colonist took a bite of it?... How important!... None! mon petit!... a trifle!... The colonel never speaks of youtres! from then on, he can say whatever he wants... like Tardieu... he has full license!... babbling!... He who does not speak of the Jews, who does not have in his program put them in the air, above all... he talks for the sake of talking... He retains ulterior motives... or else he's a terrible idiot... even a thousand times more dangerous... some presumptuous blind man. .. He misleads the masses... Same tobacco for the other Jacques... "bankers"... I tell you, travel agents... Not crusades! No! cruises. They organize "benefits"... do you realize?... "advantages"... They seduce, reassure the little players with "advantages"... All these absolutely innocuous fabulous Judexes, they are part of the great program... amusements for the gallery... of the chapter: the Diversions... Their staffs, moreover, very long in advance, very carefully embellished, orchestrate all the concerts... all the phases of the Cruise... "This way! Gentlemen, Ladies! another point of view marvelous!..." It cannot be otherwise for these "Savers of Advantages"... They will collapse like so many others for a long time, for a hundred years, have collapsed in a real cascade of giggles. . All these Braves of the mouth, these rectifiers of saliva, are made just to collapse... at the desired, decided moment, premeditated by the Jewish bankers, the Jewish commissars, the Jewish international. They will have only one word to say, the great Jews, the Warburgs, the Rothschilds, to dissolve all these hams, at the chosen hour of the Kahal, as they vaporized all the other puppets in the same way, the chatterers: Boulanger ... Poincaré... Clemenceau... etc. A little button that they turn and... fluff!... little fellow goes to nothingness!... disappears... We don't talk about it anymore!...

France is a Jewish colony, with no insurrection possible without discussion or murmur... To free us, we would need a real Sinn-Finn... an implacable racial instinct... But we do not have the "class" of the Sinn Finners!... Way too drunk already, debased, effeminate, jewish, masonized, muffed up in every way. Rotten cankers of alcohol and ever greedier gnawed rodents. Atrocious! ... very shameful little fistulas!... To overcome, to free oneself from the Jew, it would be necessary, above all, to announce to him in full pif: "You, your stinking, rotten dough, you [312] can spin it to you in the slot, and then now saddened! filthy! or I'll kill you!..." Who can talk like that?... it's not our livestock... stupid, and oversold! ... No chance! All the chouanneries elsewhere in France are failing miserably!... Great misfortune!... Any curse on whoever the desire may take to take care of the French!... reread, reread, a little bit the most frightening stories of the Dupleix... of the La Salle... of the Montcalm... you will forever be edified!... What People carries, to its shame, such prodigious pages of vertiginous boorishness?... Nothing to say , the die is cast! And then the war will come by itself, vigilante, at the time of the "Intelligence Service"... and then we will have three fronts to fill... and then all the Jews hidden in the rear... among the Freemason generals... to the presidency of the Council... I'm going to tell you, here, I, Ferdinand, the secret of the stars. Diplomacy is never, in short,

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Jews definitely, we have to go!... Why all these poor fuss?... Calves you are?... Calves?... yes or flute?... Resist who?... Resist what? ... Have we ever seen "conscientious objector" calves?... Do you want to be killed, bitch? ... You first! you first of all!... You are going to see the martyrs a little! How are they going to go into quarters... how are they going to come back!... Now you've shit on everyone! you will pay! bullous crab!... You can no longer count on anyone... You're all alone!... It's nasty, you know, the martyrs... You're going to have yourself stretched out... And then you you won't even go to heaven... because I'd rather warn you right away, the Good Lord is a Jew. You're getting on everyone's nerves... what are you going to win?... In this great Latin country, everything, something like the Ouednails always trailing behind the Bat d'Af. The nobles, they follow the Jews in the same way to eat... to hold on... The nobility is the real greatcoat of the youtres through the ages, so much the youtres have slipped away from the virgins of nobles on the parsnip. The French nobility has sucked more black cum than is needed to drown the plain of Agincourt... They are the gluttons of the foreskin. As for the Kings of France, to be honest, I find that they have funny noses... Ferdinand! ... really funny "bourbon" noses... Around the Third or Fourth century, Mama the Queen, somewhere... must have been treated, a little bit... by some pretty Commissioner... Judeo-Christian... Bolshevik then. Kinky... can't you find Ferdinand?... that they really have funny noses?... that they look a bit Abyssinian, our great kings of France? That they're all a bit Tafaresque?... Look at Henri IV.

For the Catholic clergy, it's still much simpler, it's even a clarity... they're real yatters... For fear of losing their tabernacles, they're ready for anything... They come bless everything that is shown to them... The holes of the hounds... the Masonic Temples... the trunks of the Poor... the machine guns... They have no prejudices at all... They do never the small mouth as long as the person illuminates. They are going to bless lifts... the mice of the Abbe Jouvence... many other little relics... They only want to please... Here is the most servile troop of hams in the Universe. As for the people, I'm going to explain to you... Bonnard, dupe, he, always cuckolded, stuffed with ringleaders, as long as we divide him up by placards, give him a blow of fanfare, he will go vinassy to twist, wherever you want! tweak! to be solved in the gusts... It's his destiny... It's his good luck!... To the good fortune of the riflettes! for the funny magic of words! for the greatest stupor of Israel!... Israel Shylocratic, democratic, ally to death of the City, of the "Intelligence", of M. Loeb and Comitern, triple apron of pigskin. He will finish all these good people, absolutely meat and "Kachaire" in the bottom of the "Maginot tombs", to the sound of the bugle, International this time! the mouth still all shimmering [314] with bubbles of enthusiasm! It is well written in the stars, it is absolutely won! The slope is soapy like everything... Note, not to omit anything, that we see workers, these days,

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Things are never alike twenty-four years apart!... Maybe they're screwing up... they're watching... The Jews promise certain things... and then, isn't it? , they delight... The white dogs will go up to the rifle! all the white dogs... without exception!... The herd is no longer abundant, we raided it enormously from 14 until 18... This time we won't leave anything... C it is the women who will make the factories... As in Russia... the men will go to be opened... Workers or not workers... kif!... to the equality of the entrails!... Aren't you Jews?... are you? So always remember that you are the hostages of the Jews!... The meat of experience. The whites will not even see the Peace of France in pieces... From Ariège to rue Lappe, from Billancourt to Trégastel, we'll take everything!... Sausages!... You'll all be in the farce! Olivet! From the oven! Bidart!... Dudule and big Lulu!... and the Gum! and the Tondu!... Keriben and Vandenput... you won't see that!... You will see only a cloud of blood and then you will be dead!... shattered!... all torn apart alive... along the three fronts... In one funnel you will leave your guts to soak... in the other you will turn the soup, the big rata of the gadouilles with your stumps... your lungs out, worked in fringes, translucent, will do embroidery in the wires... Won't it be pretty? Already for fun on Sunday, go and add your names to the War memorial, that of your parish... It will give you a goal for a walk with the family... That way we won't forget you... absolutely... Take care of it tomorrow... Thus [315] engraved in marble, you can leave in peace, with a freer spirit. It's even the only place, this marble, these days, that the Jews don't try to monopolize... You'll be there, between racial brothers, I guarantee it... You won't find many Jewish names on the Monuments of the last... the monuments of your dead... our ghost pissotières, our dolmens for docile idiots, for our super-cuckold corpses... they nevertheless speak well of our past, our revolting "monuments to the dead".. .our present, our whole future... We don't look at them closely enough, never close enough, I find, these meridians of our luck... Everything is however very clearly written on them... in the granite and in marble. Thus [315] engraved in marble, you can leave peacefully, with a freer spirit. It's even the only place, this marble, these days, that the Jews don't try to monopolize... You'll be there, between racial brothers, I guarantee it... You won't find many Jewish names on the Monuments of the last... the monuments of your dead... our ghost pissotières, our dolmens for docile idiots, for our super-cuckold corpses... they nevertheless speak well of our past, our revolting "monuments to the dead".. .our present, our whole future... We don't look at them closely enough, never close enough, I find, these meridians of our luck... Everything is however very clearly written on them... in the granite and in marble. Thus [315] engraved in marble, you can leave peacefully, with a freer spirit. It's even the only place, this marble, these days, that the Jews don't try to monopolize... You'll be there, between racial brothers, I guarantee it... You won't find many Jewish names on the Monuments of the last... the monuments of your dead... our ghost pissotières, our dolmens for docile idiots, for our super-cuckold corpses... they nevertheless speak well of our past, our revolting "monuments to the dead".. .our present, our whole future... We don't look at them closely enough, never close enough, I find, these meridians of our luck... Everything is however very clearly written on them... in the granite and in marble.

This time the opportunity is splendid, never so magnificent riflette was offered to the lost hordes, an extraordinary expanse to surrender their souls madly! From sullen Dunkirk to sparkling Biarritz!... All tastes! So much space for our skimmers!... We're going to have to dig, tamper with the Recruitments to fill all that with staff!... we scrape, we rake thoroughly, we purge tiniest crevasses in the soil, let us clean out the tiniest cracks where the native can hide... Ah! Ah! Laridoire, you wriggle my friend! You are already frolicking! You like cockades I see! You exult with horns! Wait a little, my little twine! But I find you, my boy, pale from the booklet!... It is a great doctor who is talking to you! I already feel you "disappeared"...

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friend!...Paradise is open!...Do not turn back please, never!...under no pretext! Don't worry about the Jews!... They have their comforts. The Jew is exempt by nature... He is this... he is that... He is a doctor... a lawyer... too fat... too myopic... too rich... too long. I told you!... He's not in his climate... He suffers from being with you... He's always given orders... He's far too educated for you... too shrewd to be involved... too vicious... more performer than combative... did you understand dumbfounded brute?... You wouldn't demand all the same! delirious! that we go and sow the Salt of the Earth in the mess?... You wouldn't dare to say it too loudly!... It's good for you, filthy thing!... Do you know that in this present moment, in the anticipation of events, which are approaching...

It is not me who speaks thus, it is the Venerable Paul Perrin, during a recent outfit of Lodges. He warns you, it's kindness, that your guts at the ministry, it's like the franc on the Stock Exchange, it loses value every day... Know it! and take heed! Another maybe one or two months of the current regime, you will no longer have any human value, you will be completely devalued, you will be a "number" in the workforce... Robot in every way, civil and soldiery. Secure your horns! You should plan!... Sniff a little the sense of the vapes. You will pay them your "holiday"! accursed proletarian!... You won't have enough support behind your Revolution, to get caught up in the posters, the Decrees that will appear... four times a day... small penny,

When it becomes too complicated, Thorez will go to the Caucasus, Blum to Washington (if they are not stubborn) in charge of very complex missions, you will go and see in the Ardennes, to realize a little, the imitation of birds by small balls so furtive... so well chirping in the wind... real nightingales, I assure you... who will come and peck your head...

– Ferdinand, when it's a battle, fascism is worth communism... In the next Valkyrie, you can believe it very firmly, whether it's Hitler who wins or his cousin Stalin... it'll be the same thing. .. the way we will be tadpoles, us. The Frenchman throughout the ages, he never knew what he wanted, neither in peace nor in war. For fifteen centuries, he fought, revolutionized, crashed into all the panels to appropriate the land, get rid of the Jesuits, the land now he wants more, he replaced the Jesuits with the Jews and the Freemasons which are a hundred thousand times more carrion... Now he wants the factories... once he has taken them, he will want more, that's fatal!... He will want something else... It happens that childishness in his poor cassis, tipsy nonsense, the little whims of old people, never a firm statement. Always things that don't make sense, or immediately... No one can say to him: "Frenchman, you're the worst idiot if you move, you're the worst cuckold in the universe, the fatal cellar. Your barbecue is at the stall... a dirty guinea pig motherfucker here for your glory! We're going to spin you into pepper". [317] No one told him. He doesn't realize, he doesn't know anything. Yet we have to admit it right away, the wars, all the wars, that the Jews want us to wage are not worth a customs officer's pee... half an admiral's ball, a pantomime shako, the rotten skittle of a a bateaumouche... It's worth nothing. I regret to say it. May it please the Consistory, I really don't give a damn about Hitler going to beat the Russians. He can't kill

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much more, in fierce war, than Stalin himself stumbles upon, every day, in free and happy peace. It can't make a big difference!... Let Hitler send all the Ukraines to each other! in a vein of conquest! and then again Romania! and the Czechs with! I can't find a single word to say... I'm not a champion for ghettos... Ah! But not at all!... As long as it doesn't collapse my nativity scene!... It's the Jews in our country who provoke it... It's their sticks and their ambitions... It's not at all , at all ours... I would like to make an alliance with Hitler. Why not? He said nothing against the Bretons, against the Flemings... Nothing at all... He only said about the Jews... he doesn't like the Jews... Me neither... I don't like the Jews. niggers out of their homes... That's all.

I don't find it a divine delight for Europe to become all black... It wouldn't please me at all... It's the Jews of London, Washington and Moscow who are prevented by the Franco-German alliance. It's the "Intelligence Service"... It's the descendants of Zaharoff. It's no other interests. We can no longer move, move... our guts are over-mortgaged, overspeculated, over-priced, over-sold for the Jewish Crusade. It's infernal!... Every time we stir, we sketch a very small rapprochement, an anti-youtre protest... We are called back... from high places, brutally, at attention... that we are slaughterhouse meat, that we are already in the bestiaries... We take the cavesson blow on the muzzle, the chambrière in the buttocks... I don't want to go to war for Hitler, I say it, but I don't want to go to war against him, for the Jews... No matter how much they slap me around, it's the Jews and them alone who push us to machine guns... He doesn't like Hitler Jews, neither do I! me, untouchable!... The Jews in Jerusalem, a little further down the Niger, they don't bother me! they don't bother me at all!... I give them back all their Congo! all their Africa!... [318] Liberia, I know it, their Negro Republic, it looks damn like Moscow. To a point that you wouldn't believe... Well, it doesn't bother me at all that the niggers dominate Liberia and Palestine... As long as I don't become a slave to the tartarified Liberians, Russified. That's all I ask. That's the difference. But in an alliance think then, between the weak and the strong, the weak is always crunched. See! See! Goodbye! Hitler would have so much work, such unheard-of complications in defending his conquered cows, in all the steppes of Russia, in the suburbs of Baikal, that it would keep him busy. It would take centuries before coming to annoy us... In centuries... isn't it... the King... the donkey... and I... we won't need bags... And then, to be colonized, to tell you quite frankly, we can't be colonized any more than we are today by the Jews, by the Negroes, by the filthiest alluvium that has ever been oozed from the Orient. By half-breeds, half-breeds, the lowest "conglomerate" of all the garbage of Egypt... garbage multiplied by shit... Hi! your good health! Colonized from within, by Judeo-Russian metics, it's supreme infamy... Man, we can't go any lower!... Ask what all the bordering states of your adorable Russia think of it. .. Those who know by secular experience, what Jewish Tartar means!... They will educate you a little bit... They cannot conceive, these experts, more filthy, more degrading, more infernal, torturing enculade, than a Yutro-Mongolian tyranny... Two million Boches camped on our territories could never be worse, more devastating, more infamous than all these Jews from whom we are dying. your good health! Colonized from within, by JudeoRussian metics, it's supreme infamy... Man, we can't go any lower!... Ask what all the bordering states of your adorable Russia think of it. .. Those who know by secular experience, what Jewish Tartar means!... They will educate you a little bit... They cannot conceive, these experts, more filthy, more degrading, more infernal, torturing enculade, than a Yutro-Mongolian tyranny... Two million Boches camped on our territories could never be worse, more devastating, more infamous than all these Jews from whom we are dying. your good health! Colonized from within, by JudeoRussian metics, it's supreme infamy... Man, we can't go any lower!... Ask what all the bordering states of your adorable Russia think of it. .. Those who know by secular experience, what Jewish Tartar means!... They will educate you a little bit... They cannot conceive, these experts, more filthy, more degrading, more infernal, torturing enculade, than a Yutro-Mongolian tyranny... Two million Boches camped on our territories could never be worse, more devastating, more infamous than all these Jews from whom we are dying.

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Taking things to extremes, not in the habit of biasing, I say it quite frankly, as I think, I would prefer twelve Hitlers rather than an omnipotent Blum. Hitler still I could understand him, while Blum it's useless, it will always be the worst enemy, hatred to death, absolute. He and all his clique of Abyssinians, in the same wheelbarrow, his bosoms, his Consistory. They know it perfectly well, and they yell it from time to time that it's a hatred between us to death, between blacks and whites, it comes from their hearts... You just have to remember the words. We would be wrong to fuss... We have nothing more to lose... At least the Boches are white people... To finish to finish, I prefer...

– So you want to kill all the Jews? [319] – I find that they don't hesitate much when it comes to their ambitions, their purulent interests... (10 million in Russia alone)... If calves are needed in the Adventure , let the Jews be bled! it's my opinion! If I palm them with their charades, pushing me on the lines, I will smash them all and without fighting and until the last! It is the reciprocal of Man. I would like it to be proclaimed, so that the people without vertebrae, called French, find a little of their self-esteem, absolutely concluded, certain, universally deceived, that a single rotten toenail, of any vinasse bewildered ugly of Aryan, wallowing in his puking, is still worth a hundred thousand times more, and a hundred thousand times more and in any way, at any time, than a hundred and twenty-five thousand Einsteins, standing, all deretinizing from amazing radiant glory... I hope you have understood me correctly?...

Gustin was not convinced... He went off in arabesques, like a Jew, he fled... – They may have the future for them, Ferdinand... through all their scavenging... It may be for the future that they are working... – If we strangled first of all, all those who talk to us about the Future... that would simplify things a lot... When a man talks to you about the Future, he's already a complete scoundrel... C It is in the present times that the Jews are fattening up! them!... they say "coucous" in our afurs... They don't tell you: "I'll wait a bit!... No! never! They tell you: "Sorry native bitch! go wash yourself! con de cuckold!” They butter the Jews in the present!... no Future!... “Aren't they doing you any personal harm?...

– They get on my nerves... I've had plenty of them... I turn around, I crush them... I scratch it in life... I can no longer open a gossip, without finding their traces of slime... small filaments, the slightest echoes... insidious... columns... from top to bottom... They're screens from the youtre army.. There's plenty behind them. .. it's teeming.. it's going up... it's going down... there's plenty of it in the comments... they grope me to invest me... They come to appreciate the bullshit, at each turn of the page. .. every minute... to see how much I've softened, weakened more... that I'm going to notice this new traitorous string, this little junk again, this unpredictable trick... the progress penetrating… infiltration [320] word for word… If I don't doze… sometimes…where they can still put me... if I don't have an absence yet... One day it's a radiophone... the next day it's a big drum... A young poet

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evanissime... A swindler so financial that he is bigger than a thousand honest... The next day there are Charming prizes... beauty... all Jewish by chance... All that disguised, poisonous. .. It's more than an undergrowth full of vampires, don't get drowsy... vermin crawling in the shadows... sticky, slimy, in all the moss... It's no longer a existence... It's a fantastic "reptarium"! I leave my house the other morning, what do I see on the opposite wall?... A poster: "Humanity"... For "free and happy France!" Their tart for idiots with cream there... I approach, a photograph... smiling... a blissful youtre!... shit!... It's a cheeky phenomenon!... It's the real challenge!... I'm not going to display Breton girls, me, on Tel-Aviv... I'm more discreet... And then Comrade Lipchitz, when he pours out in full form, the way he warns us. "If the French are not happy, we will get them out." I don't find that at all reasonable!... I find that rude, prejudicial. Charles Martel, what was not crazy, when the Negroes spoke to him like that during the battle of Poitiers, he opened their throats to all of them... So they made no noise at all...

[31] (pp. 321-320)

[321]

If I am found one of these mornings with a little coat rack... No need to pretend to look like you're looking...

(It only costs 3 to 4,000 francs to have a man shot any day in Paris, a little less in New York, a little more in London...). Gutman well pushed to the bottom, he revealed himself as he is, a wicked, resentful nature... As I started to say to him again, all that I thought of many Jews... He completely pissed off!... He screwed up in a terrible quarter... He left in a crisis! a real cursed anger... – But you're delirious, Ferdinand!... God damn it, you're drunk!... You're black to roll, my word, you're just a filthy "usual" drinker... But I'm going to make you intern! I swear to you!... You're a colleague in vain!... It won't take long... I have relations in the Asylums, me... You'll see a little bit... They're all Jews in the Asylums!... They'll be entertained... to hear your number of follies... your nonsense... They'll make you padded... you call them... in a nice cabin... I'll have you made an exactly custom-made tank top... So, you'll leave us alone... You'll go back to your novels... If you're wise you will have a pencil... First of all, it's nonsense... the "Race" doesn't exist anymore... it's myths...

– Here is the big canard dildo! for us!... to spin us in the bagouze... the "myth of the races."!... The Jews, their interbreeding, their fake-bamboula, they are not proud of it as of a race!. .. Proud as Artaban. They aren't ashamed of being Jews!... They [322] know where they come from... They push each other along like dogs... They're the worst racists... They whose whole triumph is racist... They talk only to mislead us, to stun us... to disarm us further... affirm that it's over, urbi-orbi, and there it is... It's irrefutable... The Popular Front has never lied... It's a blunder, it's a chimera... a disruption of

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the vision... quite heartbreaking, a discomfiture of your poor onanist senses! a veritable ideorrhoea... a loss of lecithic substance... You have handled yourself too much Ferdinand... You know, what does "Aunt Annie" say?... What will I do to cure you?. .. Is it the exhaustion of the menopause?... Do you have puffs?... Take Abbé Jouvence's mice...

– Yet, tell me, they are frizzy?... And Palestine? It's not the cradle of the "Race"... That's it, he had just brought me up, he had just touched on the subject where I was cataleptic... I was once again becoming inexhaustible... voluble... incoercible...

– They are myopic! your Semites! panards!... stockings! they stink of nigger...is that correct?...did I mess around again?...I'll give you two breaths to answer...? Do they have the enormous nougats of having pooped in the sands, so much, so hard... and the bedouinages... in the sands... hunting dates, old camel urine... centuries and centuries?... Irrefutable!... These windmill sheets... the webbed panards, I say: Jews!... the smell! And so are the glasses!... Those old granulomas!... the aftermath... the seedy aftermath... Ah! Ah! I easily scored a point on the hunt for dates... I showed him right away, his "deckchair" ones, what amplitude there really was! for his short stature... There he was confounded... – It is the martyrdom of the beautiful yatters, that I insisted, to have the feet a little too "strong"... All the bootmakers of New York know it... They are not mistaken them on the breeds ...

“You are very cowardly overpowering them, Ferdinand, let him fight back immediately. You too come out of the savages... If you don't come out of the desert, you come out of the caves, it's much worse! It was even more fetid, much more disgusting... A desert is always clean... It's not dates that your stupid Aryan fathers were banging... It was catafouine of reindeer! real melt-in-your-mouth mousse! and [323] for the Winter balls of kneaded manure! kneaded! that's what your fathers used to send each other!... and then peat tallow, very rancid, well smoked... Real eaters of filthy things... That's what you're craving?...

– Here is a very textual portrait!... but it's not the same... not the same.. . – You too have a lot of straw in the train... What are you complaining about?... and not for so long!...

– In truth!... but not the same!... Everyone has their own smell! I say!... It's all there!... I don't force mine on the Jews.... They're the ones who come up to sniff me... I don't like their smell, that's all... I have the right... I'm home. I'm not going to Tel-Aviv... First of all, they're way too racist! in Tel Aviv! even more ferocious than Hitler! ... They are "exclusive" like no other! “But then, tell me, Mr. Blum? do you find him small?... bottom of the ass? Ah! Ah! Bisque!... Bisque!...

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He scored a point... – Mr. Blum Karfulkenstein the Bulgarian? what do you mean?... Ah! but he is another eraser! he is from Geneva and Lausanne!... He is an exception! He confirms the "bottom of the ass" rule... He is the double bottom of the ass!... He is the prince of the bottom of the ass!...

The hit was nil...

The conversation became sour... a little incisive... We talked casually... – I don't want to perish by the Jews! I prefer a cancer to me!. . not Jewish cancer!.. – No one is forcing you!...

- Whether! Yes!... They force me!... They are the Jews, who invented Patriotism, after the Crusades!... the Reformation! to piss off Christians... - You think?... - Positive! It was they who discovered everything... The Crusades and the Reformation, they succeeded very well, only Patriotism, I would like them to take it in the ass, it would do me a favor... - They were persecuted...

– It's them who persecute us... It's never us... They take revenge on things that don't exist!... We're the victims of martyrs!... We're the vamps! not them, lettuce, chilled with [324] lies, cuckolds, crumbling duped, under all the Jewish oppressions. Disguised, sly tyrannies, "Optimist" like among the Britons... crushing like in Russia... pedantic, shrewd, vinous and patriotic like among us... Kif!... The world does not work alone. .. I tell you... he can't walk on his own... Someone has to take care of him... command... The Jews are in charge... The world is commanded by the Jews, it is a hell for the Aryans... without abuse, literally a hell! with the flames! toads everywhere! eternal tortures... revolutions, wars, endless butcheries... one inside the other, and the Jews still at the bottom of all the music! meats... other preposterous massacres, to purulate! insatiable! always jobbers! voyeurs! bandagers! frantically... it's their life!... their reason for being... They crucify. There, I said everything, I think... the Jews. They crucify. There, I said everything, I think... the Jews. They crucify. There, I said everything, I think... the Jews.

"It's not much, Ferdinand!... – Ah! if one more little word, don't count for the next one that I move... I am an objector 700 for 100. The pacifist is no longer the Jew... it's me!... The military medal I I've had it since November 27, 1914... It brings me 200 Blum francs a year... (20 Swiss francs), I don't want another one... That will be Israel's medal the other one... . Then you understand... – It's not very lively, as a spirit, Ferdinand... for an Aryan you're quite heavy!...

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– I know, mate, your type, I know him, for the spirit it's Eddie Cantor... Marx Brothers... – Always chatter mobile guard!... We are the Salts of the earth!... You said it yourself! "Salt of the earth!..." That's the word that jumps out at me!... I wanted to get into his glottis... He had just provoked my most intractable temper again!...

– A!h! salt of the earth! ...Ah! Consistory! ...Ah! Wise of Sion!... Ah! stiff... Ah! grimace! Ah! so, she's unspeakable!... but a bunch of mole balls!... But you all stick to the can!... A Jew is 100 for 100 nerve!... Drum! ... Tambourine! Chopsticks! Bladder squirters! .. Have your loudspeaker snatched away... the Screen of emptiness! rotten balloons!... You are collapsing!... To vice! In print? Titans!... To "loyal work" as you say! in front of your frail [325] interior... Pheasants!... overblown fake fetishers!... not even loafers!... sponges!... real chiftirs, you take everything!... No more juice to suck: Nobody left!... Just as much you Jews! poor rough shit! all exhausted from the chromosome, all stringy!... it swells only by soaking well in the soup! like all croutons!... In the broth!... in our soup!... – You're going to be fooled, Ferdinand, in the path you're taking... You'll have the whole world against you, you vegetable face!... It won't always be easy to pass you off as unconscious... You're a kind of reasoning madman... People can't always know... They're wrong sometimes... They can be mistaken... You can upset people... Here! I, who wish you well... I never cheated on you Ferdinand... I never laid traps for you... I never told you "You can go"... that it was a trick?... isn't it?... Huh?... say it?... – Gutman! that's right!...

“Then I tell you, me nigger, Ferdinand, drop those dreadful remarks. come with us... you'll be happy... Are you native?... your racial brothers, as you call them, they shit on your trunk... – That's right Gutman... that's right, as much as the Jews... – Because you don't know how to take them... the Jews, if you knew how to approach them, they'd teach you how to succeed... you're just a dirty failure like you... hence, these imbecile bitterness , your pig's face... Take a look at the natives, the Jews never upset them... On the contrary, "There's joy!" let them sing... You understand aya delight "to be enroute!... You yell at them!... It's not a way!... It's you who upset them... You are humiliating them!... It's naughty!... Look how happy your "French people" are to have received the Romans so well... to have felt their cudgel so well... so well crawled under the pitchforks... so well oriented their loaves... so well slouched their endorsements. They are still congratulating themselves 18 centuries apart!.. The whole Sorbonne is jubilant!... They're making a big splash out of this marvelous enculade! They gleam just at the memory!... of having got off so well... with the surly centurions... of having pumped Caesar so well... of having with the hard yoke, so strangler, so ferocious, crawled all the way to Rome, hobbled worse than mules, crumbling under chains...

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under the chariots of arms... for having been scolded by the Roman populace... They are still guffawing all transfixed, all moved by this [326] retrospection... Ah! how perfectly well we've made ourselves look!... Ah! the big! enormous civilization!... One has the bottom burst forever... Ah! my popotas!... fiotas! fiotum!... They still caress their fingertips... with gratitude... distraught... Ah! the tender loaves!... Dum you declaim!... Roma!... Rosa! Rosa!... You pederum!... Rosa! Rosa! my Cicero!

Everything starts again and it's perfect!.. There you go! All! It's the cadence! It's round! It's the waves! with other pafs! The boom of youtre is low, I admit! in the animal series, but anyway, it's moving... Is it worth a dead Emperor's cock?... You don't agree?... – But if, but if... I was of the opinion...

– Since it is the destiny of the French to be bet in the course of the ages... since they pass from one century to another... from an Etruscan cock to a Moorish cock... on a polard of ritain... A sapling or a saxon youtre?... It doesn't make much difference! It's abusive to sulk... All the conquerors, they must, it's quite natural, put the conquered! it is the law of the liveliest Species!... If fact... If fact... – Take a look at all the cuties, the Aryans... it's easy to discern where they go their preferences... in the theater, in the cinema, in any living room... "premiere", cruise, haversack, tennis?... They all darken, notice, literally on the Jew, on the frizzy, on the "toucan". The frizzy is the King of the day... It goes up... The white goes down... It is he who has all the honors!... It is for him that we put ourselves in the expense. .. Cuties don't reason, they follow their instincts, their stomachs... The Jew is perfect for them, he has the future, he has the money... We don't need to teach them... They feel these natural things... They vibrate... They receive the waves... the Negro waves... It's the beautiful kid of today! the Jew! the Jew in all the movies, slightly frizzy, bottom of the pot, panard, a little myopic! Oh! how distinguished he is!... Especially in town!... Ah! How refined he looks!... with his pretty glasses!... Ah! He's not a madman, nor a peasant!...

– It's true, it's irrefutable, the Jews win on all sides. All the chicks at the Abyssinians! The race full the loaves! ... They have the basket in compote! they can't sit down anymore because they have the enjuicing fias... Ah! how hard they fuck...these curly ones!...Ah! how hot they are! volcanoes!... [327] They are true lovers' hearts! ... This good Philomene! You think like all niggers! Braquemards made men!

"They will come right into our arms... Cut the throats of our sons... our companions... To arms!..." He had the funny word Rouget de l'Isle!... sons and fathers with... but they bugger the companions... It's still a benefit... It's already much less awful... than with the "ferooooces soldiers!"... You can't pretend otherwise! You should recognize!... grateful!... They "put on" a little the laps, but it's for the joke!... for the good casualness... to assimilate even better...

If the Germans had won (if the Jews had wanted to, that is to say) the war of 14, well the French on the ground, they would have enjoyed it nicely! they would have taken their

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cushy foot with the Fritzes... The Pomeranian grenadiers, the white cuirassiers!... Ah! so those are good-looking guys!... It would have passed with enthusiasm, a real passionate marriage!... The French become everything you want when you think about it. . Basically, they become anyone... anything... They really want to become niggers... they don't ask for better... consider themselves pretty happy... It's just a very long succession, our history, since the Gauls, cruel enfourailleurs. Not a single king was French. Now in full decadence, you have to be hugged by larvae... be satisfied with what remains... The French are always so miserly, they are fattening very well all the same, all their pimps of power. Now that it's the turn of the youtres, their supreme triumph, they're going to end up stiff as passes... But the more we get screwed... the more we ask... And then we promise them the French , Tartar executioners!... It's not things to resist... But it's an allurement!... How would you like them to be retained?... But it's the priapic "bouquet" !... "Real real ones!" more than savages!... Pitiless torturers!... Not Abyssinian underscrapers!... But no!... But no!... Only overcalibrated tripe! in Auroch's horns! You see it from here! .. This trip to the Potosphere! Ah! how they will make us suffer! Ah! these ardents. Ah! my merry!... Ah! those madmen! Ah! my shy!... Afterwards we will have the Kyrgyz... It's on the program!... Ah! it's promised!... And then the Mongols!... even more hateful!... more restrained!... Who crunch the earth and the vermin... Ah! how they are going to cross us!... And then [328] others, even more Chinese! more yellow!... more green... Always more relentless in the pot... Ah! They start you! They're gutting us!... It's the Cross right in the ass!... The stranger they are... the crazier it is!... The more they dilate... the deeper they sink! It's the life of angels by the pot!... They kill us... That's how they say the French!... Gutman he had the last word... even more Chinese! more yellow!... more green... Always more relentless in the pot... Ah! They start you! They're gutting us!... It's the Cross right in the ass!... The stranger they are... the crazier it is!... The more they dilate... the deeper they sink! It's the life of angels by the pot!... They kill us... That's how they say the French!... Gutman he had the last word... even more Chinese! more yellow!... more green... Always more relentless in the pot... Ah! They start you! They're gutting us!... It's the Cross right in the ass!... The stranger they are... the crazier it is!... The more they dilate... the deeper they sink! It's the life of angels by the pot!... They kill us... That's how they say the French!... Gutman he had the last word...

– I knew a dying man, well, I'll make you understand everything... in my clientele, a boy who was leaving... young, an artist, and a man of the world... I saw many of them dying... but this one... When we gave him the thermometer, that we left him a little indwelling... it gave him back some sensations... it still made him stretch up... despite the fact that he was in a coma... He kept his habits... That's even how he ended up... in his mother's arms... That's to tell you, my dear lobster, that in matters of sentiment, reason never has a place... It never has either an end or a cease... It's a thing of life in death... Are you getting hold of me?

[329] Captain Dreyfus is much taller than Captain Bonaparte. He conquered France and he kept it. [330] Gutman is quite right: after all, all these vices disgust me... All this invasion of Abyssinians is no longer bearable. He was right Lipchitz: "The French who aren't happy, we'll get them out..." I'm going to get out... They won't tell me twice. Maybe in Ireland... They don't like the Jews in Ireland, nor the English. They jointly abominate them. It's the right disposition these days... the only one! But I can't leave like a flower... I don't want to be burdened by the Irish... I know what's going on... I need a little viaticum... Of course, this book will be sell... The critics are going to tear it off... I made the questions, the answers... So?... I believe that I have planned everything... She can shit as long as she will, the Critics... I conchiée much more in advance! Ah! I fuck it, it is the case to say it! This is the way! I will definitely have the last word! long and deep... it's

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the only way. I took all my precautions. But the criticism is not serious, it is incidental... What matters is the reader! He is the one to consider... to seduce. I know him as an average Frenchman, observant, objective, vindictive... He wants more than his cast... as soon as he's no longer a Jew... And I don't have his rating. 'love!... So I'm going to give it good weight. I will definitely spoil him. I'm going to add a few chapters... about ten... that represents a real volume... I'm going to do a little Baedecker... It's fashion, it's Cruises... It's likely to fascinate him... the genre "Magazine

[32] (pp. 331-340) [331] des Voyages"... Do you remember?... Ah! the beautifully illustrated!... shimmering and everything! entertaining as much as possible... lovely to read... amiable... picturesque... . dapper... I'm going to take up this principle... from the magic of "Michel Strogoff"... I want to finish this big and furious work with great courtesy... The tip of the hat... the panache... Great greeting... I beg you!... with my immense, disheveled pen, I brush the carpet... Great parable! I present to you my duties... Great bow... Great magic... I salute you! ... Your humble servant!... [332] We must first situate things, let me tell you a little bit about how superb Leningrad is... They weren't the ones who built it, the "Geupouists" in Stalin... They can even maintain it... It's beyond the communist forces... All the streets have collapsed, all the facades are falling to pieces... It's unfortunate... In its kind, it's the most beautiful city in the world... like Vienna... Stockholm... Amsterdam... hear me. How exactly to express all the beauty of the place... Just imagine... the Champs-Elysées... but then, four times wider, flooded with pale water... the Neva... It s still extends... still there... towards the livid open sea... the sky... the sea... even further... the estuary at the very end... to infinity... . the sea which rises towards us... towards the city... It holds the whole city in its hand the sea!... diaphanous, fantastic, tense... at arm's length... all along the banks. .. the whole city, an arm of strength... palaces... still other palaces... Hard rectangles... with domes... marbles... huge hard jewels... at the edge of the pallid water... On the left, a small all-black canal... which flows there... against the colossus of the Admiralty, gilded on all sides... loaded with a Fame, shimmering, while or... What a trumpet! right in the wall... How majestic!... What a fantastic giant? What theater for Cyclopes?... a hundred staggered sets, all more grandiose... towards the sea... But a treacherous breeze glides, peeps, pirouettes... a backstage breeze, gray, sly, so sad the along the quay... a winter breeze in the middle of summer... The water curls at the [333] edge, becomes cloudy, shivers against the stones... Withdrawn, defending the park, the long high delicate railing... the infinite lace forged... the enclosure of the high trees... the haughty chestnut trees... formidable monsters puffed up with branches... clouds of dreams taken back to the ground... already shedding their leaves in rust... Sad seconds... too light in the wind... that the puffs mistreat... ripple... litter the current... Further on, other frail footbridges, "with sighs", between the crevasses of the enormous Catherine Palace... then implacable at water level... with a single terrible reach... the Neva's tourniquet... its enormous iron bracelet. This bridge stretched over the pale arm, between its two accursed hinges: the palace of Alexander the Fool, leprous pink catafalque, crippled all over with baroque... and the Peter and Paul prison, squatting citadel, crushed on its walls, nailed to its island by the atrocious Basilica, necropolis of the Czars, all massacred. Cockade all in stones of

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prison, frozen, pierced by the terrible, sharp golden dagger, the church, the spire of a parish of murdered people.

The sky of the great North, even more glaucous, more diaphanous than the immense river, not much... one more shade, haggard... Still other steeples... twenty long golden pearls... weep of the sky... And then that of the Navy, ferocious, clumsy, rushes into the firmament... at the loss of the Avenue d'Octobre... Kazan the cathedral casts its shadow over twenty streets... a whole district, all wings spread on a cloud of colonnades... Opposite this mosque... monster in torture... the "Holy Blood"... twists... twists... chanterelles... cabochons. .. in pustules... all colors... thousand and thousand. Fantastic toad dead on its canal, motionless, below, all black, simmering...

at the edge of the garbage... A hunted nightmare which scatters as it can... From all the crevices it oozes... the enormous language of Asia lampante along the sewers... engulfs all the streams, porches, coops. It's Tatiana Famine's frightening, distraught mop... Miss Russia... Giant... as big as all the steppes, as big as the sixth in the world... and who agonizes her... It's not an error... I would like to make you understand, more closely, these things again... with less fantastic words...

Imagine a little bit... some "Quartier" of immense size... very disgusting... and all crowded with reservists... a formidable contingent... a whole army of mobsters in abominable condition... still dressed up in civilian clothes... in rags... all overwhelmed, ragged... emaciated... who would have spent ten years in the hard... under the benches eating rubbish... before reaching... that would arrive at the end of their life... all flabbergasted... from another world... what would they be waiting for to be equipped... by tinkering with little chores... from here... from there ... An immense rout in suspense... A vegetating catastrophe.

[335] Perhaps now, at this point in the story, I should shed some light... tell you in detail what happened... Nathalie, my police guide, suggested Distractions... Certainly, she said to me:

– If we went to the Islands?... (their Pre-Catelan). A very nice tennis match must take place... She was passionate about tennis, Nathalie, I wanted to make her happy.

- It's heard...

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Here we go... It wasn't extremely close to the islands in question. An hour by car... because of the traffic jams. All the sportsmen of Leningrad, all the families of "commissioners" in full force, full of the bleachers... And chatting... and chatting... It was about a tournament between Cochet and Koudriach, their champion. Already at the end of August, I assure you that they are shivering in Leningrad. The Baltic wind is severe, I can assure you... As chatter around, these young ladies from "good families", they had these cackles!... Not at all the public of the street... I won't say elegant... but already real comfort... pretty shoes... (at least 1,500 francs a pair), the elite in short... the bourgeoisie... I had the conversations... "Ah! what a trip, my dear friend, ah! if you had seen papa! he was furious, imagine!... We will not go to the Volga again!... One [336] people!... this year !... You have no idea, the loaded boats! to be shipwrecked! to sink all!... Nothing but laborers!... my friend!... Ah! what dreadful people!..." (textual). And say and exclaim! ...

The end of the match... Cochet won hands down... the absolutely sporting attendance on all the bleachers... unanimous applause... warm... warm...

We fall back, with Nathalie, towards the gate of the Park... in search of our car... the "Packard" 1920, which I rented for 300 francs an hour. I regret nothing, I repeat. I still have rubles left... in Russia... a small fortune... In the State coffers... I have plenty left for 30,000 francs. 20 pairs of shoes. As we get into the car, a well-mannered gentleman arrives... raises his cap... and with his most Jewish smile, asks me a little request... – Monsieur Céline, would you like to take us back to Leningrad?... let us enjoy... I am the head of the Intourist... with my friend... Are we indiscreet?... He was perfectly correct this little chef from the Intourist:

“Come on up... Please!... He sits down next to the driver... His buddy, he introduces him to me... he mumbles a name... the buddy is also a yurt... but then a yurt from another model... not a "little ghetto filtrate"... the "Satrape" model... the very imposing Pacha... the crossbred from Afghanistan... the beefy pankration of high class... ample and provided... hollowness, chest , slaughter... the "fifties"... brioche... Bourlaguet, foie gras... a Poincaré jacket... humbly khaki, ultra severe... all the "hardware " on the balcony, the "sun" enamel motifs, the orders plated on the breast... all of Lenin's "bananas". A little conjunctiva lemon... a little Boudah... and then quite unusual! mustaches, two well-cosmetic puffs... separated...

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it's an ordeal... Since Catherine, certainly, it's the same "hunchbacks" who pave the way... and I assure you that they are cruel... That's the real charm of this city... it remains a museum in its own right... Nothing can ever change it... You have to see the Russians at work. They are reminiscent of the regiment, to the hair... It will always be the same ruts... a little more hollow and then that's it... It's Asia... what... it's the Asia... All the cars, they will die of it... Barely a new building... since "Bolshevik 17"... the bare absolute necessary: The GPU... something else... it would have sworn. .. Why do it?... The other "opulent", this boudah tenor, now he starts talking between the bumps... Ah! but I find him to be cordial... and then even that he is witty and all... and that he is downright jovial... Finally here is a Russian who talks... what is funny... besides... and what has the look all unbuttoned... with pleasure!... what more! it's amazing!. What doesn't have a barrel in his ass!... doesn't seem to be scratching at all!... He seems to be thinking aloud... he's the first!... He speaks English like father and mother... We understand each other... It's weird, as I hear him, I seem to recognize his voice... It's not me who asks the questions, it's him which addresses... It makes me:

– Sir, do you like Russia?... – And you, dear Sir?... is she any good?... I'm not used to cunning, I'm quite simple by nature, I don't like mysteries... Since my impressions fascinate him, I'm going to share my thoughts with him immediately... which they are not very favorable... Nathalie curls up in the opposite corner... she kneels at me. Very harmless, to tell the truth, everything I proclaim... that I don't really like their cooking... (and cooking leaves me lukewarm), that I don't like sunflower oil... I I have the right to do so... What prison for prison they could do better... What a bad ordinary prison very badly kept... finally trivialities... that cucumbers are not digestible... that cockroaches full of crèches.. (I paid mine three hundred francs a night) there was no noticeable progress... That they all looked on the street at first sight, medically, their "regenerated" workers... from a terrible debacle of bells... appallingly anemic... chlorotic... flabby... a real retreat from Russia... stripped down to the ratamoelles... that it didn't surprise me at all... with their kind of diet... that myself with Nathalie, while blazing orgiastic sums, we managed to feed ourselves that with [338] very suspicious galtouses... to cut your whistle clean... such equivocal broths... such sure little aftertastes... incredible... If I spoke so much of bounty, I don't give a damn about it, it's because over there, isn't it, they proclaim themselves materialists, "everything for the face". Materialism is their glory... So I was making materialistic remarks... what were in the note... things that this handsome Bonzoid senator must have understood... It didn't anger him at my impertinence... to hear me with my sarcasm... sneering... He was dabbling with laughter in the back of the chest... It didn't seem to offend him. Nathalie couldn't get enough... When I was finally done doing like that, the beautiful spirit... He came back to the attack in another way... He asked about something else way... He was dabbling with laughter in the back of the sideboard... It didn't seem to offend him. Nathalie couldn't get enough... When I was finally done doing like that, the beautiful spirit... He came back to the attack in another way... He asked about something else way... He was dabbling with laughter in the back of the sideboard... It didn't seem to offend him. Nathalie couldn't get enough... When I was finally done doing like that, the beautiful spirit... He came back to the attack in another way... He asked about something else way...

– It seems that Monsieur Céline doesn't really like our hospitals?... It was there! This provocation was enough for me at the moment! ... a flash!... had unraveled my memory... I found myself there perfectly! I answered him suddenly:

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- But if! Mr. Borodin, what a heartbreaking error!... but I'm "enthusiastic"... about your hospitals! .. let's see!... you are, as far as I am concerned, very badly informed!... My turn, may I allow myself?... since we are in confidences... It's a new name , is it not, Borodin?... He was getting better and better...

– Over there, in Dartmoor, on the moor, when you were making little bags... your name was?... – And you, over there, Monsieur Céline, in Hercules Street... is that correct?... when you were taking English lessons, at the yellow canteen "Au Courage"... under the big bridge ... Am I wrong?... Waterloo... Waterloo over the Bridge!... the station of the dead... Ah! Ah! Ah!... You are a son of "Dora"... Top there!... Top! Top! ... – You are another one!... it must be confessed loud and proud!

We tightened the ladle in force... it was no longer worth trying... He had grown enormously and yellowed... I had known him to be very thin and very pale...

– And that excellent Yubelblat... huh?... still myopic?... still a reader in mind?...

[339] Ah! he evoked an era. It was fun as a Yubelblat souvenir! ... – He served me well in Antwerp, you know Mr. Céline... – Yubelblat?... – I stayed with him for three months.. in his cellar my friend... in his cellar! ... Not a rat in his cellar! ... I guarantee you... But what cats!... my God!... All the cats of Antwerp!... What cats!...

- So true?... - So true!... - In the cellar?...

– Like Romanoff!... – 17?...

– How old are you, Céline?... "Gently driver!" He commands now... "Easy... go around!... I have to talk to my friend, the "Gentleman" again... Still "Ferdinand the migraine"?... Ah! we don't get together every day!... "enthusiastic"!... Again he went off to laugh. – Yubelblat... either, by the way!... He had indeed promised, this dear fellow, to come by once... yet again... to give me a little surprise... a little visit... in

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true comrade... like that without ceremony... for his return from Beijing... He had promised... He goes there less and less, doesn't he in Beijing?... Isn't that not?... It seems to me!...

“I don’t know much about it anymore, Mr. Borodin...

– This Yubelblat is whimsical... you know?... unpredictable in truth!... He preferred to take this dirty boat again... He no longer likes the "Trans-Siberian". Ah! Ah! Ah! ... (He crawled his bun). What a trip... Terrible detour!... The Red Sea really!... A very disgraceful trip indeed...

We were both in awe of it, so funny was this whole detour to Yubelblat... - And you then? Monsieur Céline?... You don't like Russia?... Not at all... But you at least like our great theatre?... You are as refined as a Lord, Monsieur Céline... not only for hospitals... Ah! Ah! Ah!... You are as refined as a duke... A grand duke!... Monsieur Céline!... We see you a lot in the foyer of the dance... Am I better informed?... Nathalie had nothing to say... She looked far... very far... the street. She was small, very small...

[340] – Would you mind, Mr. Céline, that I ask you a question? A really personal question?... A real question from a friend... a bit brutal... - I'm listening to you.

– In case of war which side would you be on?... With us? Or with Germany?... Monsieur Céline?...

The little yurt of the Intourist, on the front seat, it uncoupled to hear better... "I would wait... I would see... Monsieur Borodin... I would applaud like in tennis... to the most skilful... to the most tenacious... to the most corsair... to the strongest!" I would be interested...

– But we are the strongest! Dear Sir!... All the experts will tell you!... – The experts are sometimes wrong... The Gods are very wrong... We have examples... At these clear words, he changes his countenance... immediate anger seizes him... He jumps... He stammers... He fidgets... He can no longer hold on to the seat... He is fired up to hear such babbling!... An ugly Chinese rage... - Oh! friend!... friend!... let him suffocate... You say such imbecile things... – Driver! driver!... So take a little tour through Houqué! ... You don't know, Monsieur Céline, Houqué?... Houqué! Doesn't that mean anything to you?... You don't know?... Whoa! that? No?... No one ever spoke to you about Hou! qué!... We go with my

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friend, show you Houqué!... Pass the driver, very slowly... there...–Here... in front... look at Céline... these houses so low... so squat... you see well closed... This is the district of Peter the Great! here Mr Celine! ... I'll show it to you... That's where he led to have fun... to educate himself a little the people who were talking a little askew... who didn't want to talk... who answered the questions badly... They made so much noise, these people, such loud noises!... when they were having fun with Pierre, when they started talking again... when they found their words... Such a din of the lungs! Monsieur Céline... from the throat... Hou! qué!... like that!... Hou...! qué!... like that! so loud!... that we heard more than their cries! across the neighborhood... across the whole Neva... to Peter and Paul... This is still the name given to this district. Houqué!... Take a good look, Monsieur Céline, at all these dwellings... so squat... so deep... well closed!... Ah! It's a really beautiful

[33] (pp. 341-350)

[341] district!... We will never do better!... You see a little from the outside... But then inside!... A very great tsar Peter I!... a very great tsar , Mr Celine!...

The car was still slowing... at a walk... We had plenty of time to go through all the streets... to visit in detail... in detours the old "Houqué"... Like that always in joking...about the devices the Tsar used...to liven up confidences...to bring confidence...affection. – Confidence, Monsieur Céline!... confidence!... Yet we had to get it over with... get back to the hotel... We still went to the theater with Nathalie.

He knew, Borodin, still many other stories, excellent! really splendid anecdotes about Peter I... We were in front of our door... He didn't hold it against me at all... We couldn't leave each other... - Lets go! Lets go! Come up to see me... without fail! Hold on tomorrow!...at the Astoria!...The three of us will dine with Nathalie...in my room...without ceremony...like friends!...Wouldn't we?... .in comrades?... I will tell you extraordinary adventures! "facts"!... Only "facts"! On China! And then come to Moscow... Over there, we have even more curious things to look at!... to show you! Which I will show you myself! ... Why stay in Leningrad? ... So come! ... Trust!

– Can I visit the Kremlin?... - Whatever you want, Céline... - Real thing?... - I spit!...

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– The cellars too?...

– All the cellars!... Another good subject for laughs!... We were fidgeting about it on the sidewalk... funny!...

– Can I bring my interpreter?... – Of course!... Of course!... of course!... – Thoroughly? the Kremlin?...

– Deep!... – Promise?... – I promise!...

– Just a word over the phone! and I'll get you caught! [342] Ah! what will you think... quite exaggerated... This boy is exaggerating!... Come on! These Bolsheviks, these "bombs between the teeth"... are not so disastrous!... They have not crushed everything all the same!... reduced everything to infamous powder!... Ah! You take me on the spot!... Ah! The remark is relevant!... So look, their theaters!... admirably preserved!... very exact! much better than their museums!... which present I don't know what aspect of a flea market, of "seizure-warrant"... But their theaters! in full splendor!... Incomparable!... dazzling!... The interior above all!... The buildings, the edifice... always a bit barracks... colossi... a bit "boches" ... But inside! rooms! ... What prestigious finery! What transportation!... The most beautiful theater in the world? But the "Marinsky"! without a doubt!... No possible rivalry!... He alone is worth the whole trip!... He must count in the two thousand places... It's the kind of Grand-Gaumont... Roxy. .. for the breadth... But what a style!... What an admirable, unique success!... what a delight! ... In the mammoth style... perfection... light... it couldn't be better... light mammoth... gracefully airy... decorated all in sky blue, pastel silver spun. .. So many balconies, so many rings.. fringes of azure... in baskets... The chandelier, a nebula of stars... a suspended rain... crystalline... all scintillating... Everything the floor, all the rows in lemon trees... netting of branches in faded tones... turned wood, velvet on pastel... a scattering of palettes... poetry in the seats!... The miracle [343] even! Operas in Paris, Milan, New York, London!... delirium of Turkish baths!... pastries disgorged from a dead Grangousier!... That would really be comparing Mont Saint-Michel to the Sacré-Coeur, our great oriental washbasin... To convince you, you may go to Leningrad yourself... check... (Absolutely gracious advertisement). I could still with a little space... It would be very easy... jabber descriptively... but time?... Depicting you as best I can... so many other prodigious perspectives... evoking to the extent of my futile gifts, all the majesty of these imperial residences... their "baroque "also...their comical...and other castles...always more grandiose...in front of the sea...many other magnificent bursts of sculpture and grace...And then the esplanade of the Winter Palace... This velodrome for elephants... where one could lose, without knowing it, two brigades!... between two

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reviews!... two charges!... And then all around, on the periphery, a whole crushed, lazy, lying, fan-shaped skyscraper... with a hundred thousand little holes, skylights and sluices... the Offices of the Tsar.

[344] I speak to you about "Marinski" with such enthusiasm... I see you coming... always suspicious... I confess!... Hold on!... With Nathalie, we attended all the evenings ... We admired everything, the whole repertoire... and the "Queen of Spades"... six times... "Queen of Spades" melodic old bitch... Sprite witch, gamy overmantel... Empress of the souls... "Spike"! waits deep in the Russian heart "Lady"! the time of the charnel festivities... "Queen of Spades", unacknowledged, unacknowledgeable mass... charm of all murders... deaf flame of massacre, rebellious, at the bottom of a world in ashes... A day, the timid flame will rise... will spring higher!... so high!... much higher than the highest golden steeple! ... The waiting flame... flickers... shivers... cradles... in a torrent [345] of arpeggios... suffocate the audience... all these Russians... strangle... "Tré cartas"!... Accursed crowd!... Pale Russians!... tricksters !... conspired!... Let no one come out!... Your destiny is about to strike! One night! in a whirlwind of chords... The madman up there will pull out your card... "Tré cartas"! The officer at the Queen's game... Who's moving?... From the old hell... all the demons in tow tails, leaping, springing, fidgeting... all the joys, regrets, remorse, embrace, capers of all hatreds... from all the chasms it arises... Sarabande!... From the orchestra all on fire... all the souls and the tortures snatch the violins... Misfortune haunts ... scoundrel... roars!... opens his lair... The old woman collapses... She didn't say anything... the Queen of Spades had everything to say! ... Could say anything!... Yet she weighed nothing... less than a flake of wool... less than a capsizing bird... less than a lost soul... less than a sigh of Destiny... His body in this fall made not the slightest noise... on the immense stage, a crumpled little monster, all in curls... The music is heavier... much heavier than this little rustling of fabrics... A dead, yellowed, silky leaf... falls trembling on the world. A type. all in papillottes... The music is heavier... much heavier than this little rustling of fabrics... A dead and yellowed, silky leaf... falls down trembling on the world. A type. all in papillottes... The music is heavier... much heavier than this little rustling of fabrics... A dead and yellowed, silky leaf... falls down trembling on the world. A type. [346] The Leningrad "Soviets" occupy the Tsar's lodge... Workers in the background, in Sunday clothes. In the front row, the Jews with glasses... a few shaggy... of the "Bakounin tradition"... Veteran political prisoners. All the Martyrology Brichanteaux. O perilous parody! ... This challenge! ... On the other balconies, the provincials, huddled together, massed... Engineers... bureaucrats... finally the Stakhanovists... the noisiest, loudest, hysterical of the Regime... in whole rows, feverish... ... doped... exhibitionists... not very well liked, it seems, by the others... average spectators... All the balconies, all the perimeters, flowerbeds, parquet floors, crowded, compact... here and there, a few groups of little Jewish students, white caps with red bands... little French Jews...

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decorations!... ornaments!... What a wealth also of talents!... We must say everything!... And what a number!... An army of "subjects"!... Let us rectify! wealth of "average" talents!... but what passion! What a brilliant scene! What a life!... senseless!... Troop certainly very well fed. I did not spare Nathalie any evening of these magic... Nathalie, preferred to everything, the "Queen of Spades"... Each one his weaknesses, his spells... mine dance... Long live the dance! ... The "Fountains of Batchichara"!... What a battle!... A melee... of demons! [347] winged, carried away, springing... from all the racks towards the hangers... And what a massacre! crossed by lightning and thunder to make the theater crumble!... 400 devils, acrobats, butchers. Not an artist who does not catch fire in this terrible blaze of music, who is not completely consumed in this madness of flames! For the "Swans" same prestigious words of enchantment... with all the graces...

However declining... much less happy... a fever which simmers... insipid... the retreat towards Reason... grimaces... the "lost illusions"... at enormous expense!. .. We're on the turnip! well lost!... In all of the "Seasons", a lot of ovens in short! already!... Directory terribly strewn with exorbitant wrecks... How many stampedes!... their record is overwhelming!... How many directors shot?... for real?... How many captains are not not come back!... The fault?... Everyone! to no one!... mine!... yours!... Ballet means enchantment. Here is the most ardent, the most generous, the most human kind of all!... Who dares it?... The soul declines and wearies... Verve is no longer sustained by a madness of together. No more creator at the heart of all these poems... How to overwhelm them?... They have gone towards Reason... Reason makes them feel good... They only speak Reason... reasonably... a series of cracked bells... Here they are, all crumbling with reason... Too bad! ... The most irremediable, the most infamous catastrophes are not those in which our houses crumble, they are those which decimate our fairy tales... They seem doomed the Russians to their Music... denied by their past. .. "dying of thirst near the fountain"... Their "success"?... It takes Mordieu! to populate these gigantic naves! and the places are not given!... It is necessary!... So?... The old dadas! stupidly! Their "Carmen"... their "Manon"... their "Onegin"... the inevitable "Lady"... "Ruslan and Ludmila"... Back to the artists?... Among the dancers: two admirable subjects... Lyricism, high technique, tragedy, true poets... Women? excellent workers, very gifted... nothing more... except for one ballerina – Oulianova... But their outfits? Divinity!... Organs of human movement. Swarms of dolphins [348] to fill the whole sky... Their "Pas de quatre"? quivering comets... The shimmering springs of the Dream... the surroundings of the Mirage!... Every evening at the Marinski! What delights! twice and thrice all the programs!... In the end, I didn't want it anymore. The idea came back to me... the obsession... It seemed to me that myself, in spite of everything... Ah! how wicked counselor pride is!... How tenfold, a hundredfold it multiplies all stupidity. Trying my luck?... Who risks nothing... My poems?... if they were to go, these Russians, to fall in love with them?... You never know?... Failure in Paris... maybe success in Russia... One of my "bears"?... Both maybe be? I would give my soul as a bonus... Let's hurry!... it's starting to escape me...

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– Nathalie, my dear child, would you like me to telephone the Director?... if he wants to see me?... hear me for a few minutes... I have a whole plot in my pocket! [349] I am the eager, the gallant Ferdinand, the whirlwind of ladies! Day concluded... presentation of my poem to the director. There were well about thirty of them in this huge living room... if I count, scattered around an oval table... of prodigious size... Artists... musicians... administrators... secretaries... to m wait... What a setting!... imperial!... to measure!... living room very well preserved in its Alexander period juice... for us "Tilsit"... Perfect dark mahogany furniture. .. dusty hangings... mothballed... carpets peeled... to the weft... sowing of bees on a daffodil background... The director a sly Jew, perfectly amiable and hostile... His political secretary... . a bloated all in silence... all in small notes... bristling with pencils... Various composers... some old virtuosos with "moumoutes", mute extras of the interview... high characters... . masks of "full effect" by Dullin... on my right the Vaganova... slender spared from the great cataclysm... on the defensive... distant... supreme supporter of a tradition that is failing. Star pale, plastered, tense, watched... on the lookout...

In this meeting, everyone watches each other...smiling...After brief introductions...the floor is given to me...

I throw myself into the story right away... the "Birth of a Fairy"... They all understand me perfectly... but none of them bat an eyelid... perfectly inert, atones. I provide all the animation... I came back up!... the whole show!... I give myself!... I mime... I exert myself thoroughly... how I snort! voluble!... evokes [350] so much and more! cavalcade!... I surpass myself!... I am theatre, orchestra, dancers! all the "sets" at once... me alone!... I make the egg!... I hop, I spring out of my chair!... I personify the whole "Birth of a Fairy "... All the joy, the sadness, the melancholy... I am everywhere!... I imitate the violins... the orchestra... the lively waves... and here are the "adages". .. no one is holding me back, they remain these petris, welded to their table, "jurors of assizes". I lunge... develop... other starters!... the quadrilles!... I spring up at the other end... bounce... goat!... multiplied, all in arabesques, at around these enigmas!... I escape possessed! innumerable... I am still soaring... Ah! and then net! stop!... arched... swirl!... chaining, leaving again... tumbling... in the twists and turns of the plot... underlining in passing a thousand graces of the theme... in half-points... . in releves .. Very good!... two arabesques!... In the aerial humming of a waltz... two more "whipped"... very outside... I escape... intrigue ... steals from me... volte!... come... In attitude! I sting!... Sarabande... I land in big "fifth"! within reach of the manager...

Finally I have "decided" them!... the ice is broken!... These bonzes are unfreezing... Murmurs!... approvals!... clamours!... and people compliment me!... They cajole me!... They celebrate me!... Vidi! Here! Here! It is very obvious! ... What a gift! ... what a boom! ... The mind! ... The flight!... Taglione!... They are in heaven!... It is visible! But

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Suddenly everything is silent, everyone shrivels up... The director, their chafouin claps his hands, commands silence, he is going to speak...

"Dear Sir, all this is obviously very pleasant, certainly very welcome... and I congratulate you... But please read me again... please... very slowly, certain passages... and then everything the booklet do you want?..."

Ah! He wanted nothing better than to put on such a show by a foreign author... of such importance!... Very eager... But not quite on this theme... If I wanted to take into account... According to another poetry... less outdated... less frivolous... less "archaic"... a less dreamy formula... some more realistic, more impetuous structure... which would lend itself much more to the chords of modern music... to the harmonic resources of the counter-tone... a little brutal, even violent... The Russians love violence. Did I not know?... They need it!... They demand it!... A few battles!... Riots!... Why not?... [34] (pp. 351-360)

[351] Murders!... ample massacres well done... Perhaps in addition I could foresee in my story, some passages in dialogues... Ah! that would be innovative!... dialogue!... dancing words!... One dancer per word... per letter! In pays neuf, "shock" shows!... And then other advice... avoid like cholera... like thirty-six thousand plagues!... Escape!... Ah! no more Evasion!... no more Romanticism!... no more tearful Elegies!... no more fidgeting in mythological Parnassus! Finished! ... The Ballets must make "think"! like all the other shows!... and think "sozial"!

To move... certainly!... to charm... but to charm "sozial" isn't it? The more the poem is successful... the more it is z sozial"!...

"Here, dear Monsieur Céline, is the point of reality that we must always reach, the "sozial" in the heart of the crowd... The "sozial" in charm and in music... Danced poem! vigorous! moving! tragic! bloody rioter!... liberator!... Here is the breath!... here is the theme!... and "sozial" above all!... Here is the line!... the order!... Artist the one who understands us! Here are the works awaited by the Ballets Russes du "Plan". And no more, never again! these perfidious anemias! these melodious languishings!... Shameful cheating, dear Monsieur Céline, of Devenir "sozial "!... Perhaps around 1906... around 1912 these annoyances could still be defended... but nowadays... ugh!..."

I held my ears very low... I admit it... on my stool... Little sensitive to ridicule, in no way upset, I only felt a very sincere sorrow at this failure... On the threshold from the Temple I collapsed... I got sacked, by perfect connoisseurs, like a shabby petticoat... I would have cried... All then, in front of my crestfallen mien, changed at the moment of tone... Recovery at full steam!...

- But no! But no! Mr Celine! This is misunderstanding us! Hope! Hope! on the contrary! Dear Mr. Celine! High hopes! These are there,

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friendly words! We are counting on you for next season! Come back to see us next spring!... We will always be so happy to welcome you!... always ready to hear from you, I assure you... infinitely favorable... I can't tell you better... The little headmaster was now more encouraging than all the others...

"Do not forget us... Come back!... Bring us from Paris [352] another manuscript... in the note... We know your admirable gifts!... It will be really sublime! We know it !... ". All in chorus: "We know it! Nothing is lost! Quite the contrary! We will immediately study it all together!... We will put it on, of course! And like this!... And like that!.. . "

I am quick to perk up... a little compliment is enough for me... I wander like a strychnine... I am paralyzed... I find myself instantly ready... for the most repulsive performances... in a wink... For a bit, I was going to start all over again! They calmed me down gently...happily...We were only talking about next year! We had become so amiable, so extremely friendly... that it was a kind of fairyland... They saw my character well... The way that I regain my confidence... While sipping the tea... the petits fours... the cigarettes and cigars... And here they are all enveloped in such thick smoke, massed on the edge of the table, that I could no longer see them... They speak to me very loudly, in the clouds ... their locomotive language... Arracho! ...Harracho! ...Harracho! ... arro! .. . Harrou! ... more and more violently... to take everything away!... It couldn't be a conspiracy... The little Jew, he kept explaining to me, again, always, the themes of the dance of the 'Avenir!... head in hands... he monologued: "You understand me, dear Monsieur Céline... a more vigorous invoice... "sozial"... That's the word!... not too historical! ... not too topical either... But nevertheless very modern... and above all that makes you think!... " "sozial"... That's the word!... not too historical! ... not too topical either... But nevertheless very modern... and above all that makes you think!... " "sozial"... That's the word!... not too historical! ... not too topical either... But nevertheless very modern... and above all that makes you think!... "

At this moment the political secretary was seized with fits... he was coughing hard... enough to choke... in his pencils... The interview was to end... We parted, delighted...

In a flurry, I stormed back to the door...flitting...unrestrained with zeal...through endless corridors...miles of mazes...at every turn...every drum...a guardhouse on alert... This marvelous opera, in the intimacy: a fortress!... a citadel in a trance!... all the labyrinths tracked down!... on the defensive!... all the guts in alert... the attempt is on the prowl... Eyes follow you from the depths of all the shadows, spy on you... Hurry into the street!... Ah! joy, delirium carries me away!... I barely touch the sidewalks... in full swing... breath of joy!... admirably resolved!... The spirit possesses me.. .

"Dine! Paradine! Burst! Bloat! Belly god!... 487 million! cosacologists! Quid? Quid? Quod? In [353] all the cankers of Slavia! Balkan! Viscous! Ratagan! of cucumbers!... gloomy! rotous! of ratamerde! I couldn't care less... I couldn't care less! Gigantically! I'm flying! Volgaronoff!... mongomolous Tartaronesques!... Stakhanoviciants!... Culodovitch!...

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Four hundred thousand versts myriameters... of steppes of condachiures, of skins of Zebis-Laridon!... Ventre Poultre! I scratch all the Vesuvius!... Deluges!... fungus of margachiante!... For your very dirty pots fiotted with entzarinavés!... Stabiline! Vorokpuppies! Surplus Discomfited!... Transberia!... "That's how I talk to myself in enthusiasm!... And then, moreover, resolute, admirably decided! brazed! to all the most supreme prudence!... Never do anything more to mumble... to insinuate... the most whispered sigh... that can be misunderstood... Viciously interpreted... pejorative!... Ah! not at all!... Ah! mistake!... Palinodies!... Full of unbridled praise, I'll be dripping!...Soviet friendly?...Phenomenal!...deuce!...In love to the boiling point!...from my socks that don't hold up to my hair growing back... Hosanna!... Ah! how I want to sing them!... credissimo!... The sublime "realizations"!... Vocalize them on twenty and a hundred other scales... Dominus! ... break my ropes... make my bronchial tubes burst... And explode for them!... And then the opponents, those snotty brats rancid dunces, I'll stun them on the spot!.. To the "doubtful vile", it is sworn! I will answer just like the other! with all my hollowness: "Everything is going very well! Very strong! very far! more and more better!... fortissime!..." I will go and fight in the courts of all Paris, with Popaul... There will be two of us!... I will devote myself body and soul to the "quadricentenal" plan... I want to inflame, overturn with "soziology" the entire southern and western suburbs... Seine-et-Oise as far as Conflans. .. maybe Pontoise... Nathalie already kept me spellbound, provided me with the rudiments... never missed an opportunity to cross swords... dialectical controversy!... the "materialist"... brutal and without mercy... I'll arrive at Popaul's place full of casuistry!... full on! for any rivalry!... I stockpiled all the invincible arguments during my walk... My mouth was full of slogans... I rehearsed in my room (the so expensive one)... the Seine-et-Oise as far as Conflans... perhaps Pontoise... Already Nathalie kept me spellbound, provided me with the rudiments... never missed an opportunity to cross swords... dialectical controversy! ...the "materialist"...brutal and merciless...I will arrive at Popaul's place full of casuistry!...full! for any rivalry!... I stockpiled all the invincible arguments during my walk... My mouth was full of slogans... I rehearsed in my room (the so expensive one)... the Seine-et-Oise as far as Conflans... perhaps Pontoise... Already Nathalie kept me spellbound, provided me with the rudiments... never missed an opportunity to cross swords... dialectical controversy! ...the "materialist"...brutal and merciless...I will arrive at Popaul's place full of casuistry!...full! for any rivalry!... I stockpiled all the invincible arguments during my walk... My mouth was full of slogans... I rehearsed in my room (the so expensive one)...

"They don't have a nail missing!" I will affirm it... to begin with the journalists... frowned... stubborn... eyebrows... a real [354] beef of Contradicteur!... I will study myself in the mirror... " Not a stirrup leather... not a little knout!... not a halter too short!... Not a grindstone too light!... It's marvelous what they can grind! and grind... Ah !... Sold! that I will instantly assail the slightest detractor mucosa!... I won't let him find his glottis!... Oversold!... Panting!... Smoking tabetic!... Gonocolosis! Gravel! Cowardly hole of despicable!... Voluntary cancerous! Lesbian Caiman!... Here! Not a nail that is not absolutely straight! I repeat! Deeply!... Listen to me!... unalterably!... riveted! ... loyal to all the USSR! at all doors of every prison from the icy Vladivostock to the still most atrociously frigid Esthonic Sea!... Guess salophages! Stand for forbidden! Precisely! fanatics, beware! henceforth!... disruptive to toads!... Not a sheep! all along the tender pastures of the forty-eight unfavorable republics! colors!... From the Protection of the Kalmouks to the Bidjean Reserve! Fixed! From Gourgoulie to Tartarêve! Ah! Of the same! faithfully... Rest!... As I talk! in any Sokose! those proud parcels of Paradise!... Not a cow without its train!... Not a wheel without its thirty-two bicycles!... Célerifères!... Not a horn without Korku! Not a single bottle without a drunk! ... Not a scab without a stomach!... Not a boor without astrakhan!... Not a placard without Stalin!... Not a post without its Trotzky! Not a parade without traitors! No happiness without Stalin! Not a single traitor without a placard! Not a single run without a banner! Not a single Stalin without a traitor! No paradise without a snake! Not a Stalin without a photo! No happiness without an executioner! Photo! Poto! My-pick-pick! Tirolo!" This is how

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I'll talk!... when we've come to an agreement! at the exact moment! on all the delicate things...

[355] I could take a walk, I had time, every morning, before Nathalie arrived...

all the unsaleable pathos of the very old village haberdashery... as we still found in France around 1910 during the "manoeuvres"... I remember... But over there it's the latest thing... All these unwatchable rogatons, this overpriced dump, is their essential supplies, the Soviet-monster production of the giant cooperatives... In Monrovia, Liberia, they get their supplies of cotton and hardware from John Holt, in Liverpool , I assure you that it can be defended... It's not comparable!... It's an extremely loyal article. "Came" for "came" of trafficking, there are limits in banditry... I too, I traded with the savages... In Bikobimbo, under a hut, in the depths of Cameroon. I tampered with tons of them... I had no competition either... But I would never have dared... I would have blushed. [356] When I say that their stuff to the Soviets is poor junk, I know what I'm talking about. I went to all their shops, on the main streets, with Nathalie... It's unbelievable how filthy the kind they exhibit... It takes genius for a person to manage to dress themselves... It's their fabrics have so much tow that they don't hold the seam... And that's not cheap! You have to know!... You need rubles in the wheelbarrow to pay for very mediocre... a few fluffy coupons!... In the end, it's easy to drain the sweat and the blood of the people, the beloved Soviets is the worst, the most intractable of bosses, the most diabolical, the most relentless of suckers!... The most destructive pests... . I say diabolical, because they have, in addition to others, ideas of super carrion. They make their people pertinently die... their "redeemed" people, of all this preposterous misery, by pure calculation and system... Premeditated scheming. They know very well what they are doing!... Debraining, starving, annihilating, crushing, the beloved people!... kneading them ever more! down to the last scraps of vertebrae, down to the most intimate fibers! soak him in anguish, let him disgorge it!... have him infinitely in his grip like a dishcloth all consenting to any destiny... The Jewish orgasm, the great contracture of delirious Negro bastards, to conch us all in death, more degraded, better trampled, more filthy, abject putrid, than all the nightmares of all the toads in Sabbat. And then shove us into the latrines when we've been pumped out, tortured in millions of ways... Our charming fatality! As for the croque in Leningrad, it's even worse than the dressing if possible... Their butcher shops, almost all in the basement, below the street, at the bottom, caves under the buildings... well stinky... The people in the stream stay... they wait their turn... the "tail" massed in front of the curtain of flies... dense... undulating... all blue... they chatter the people ... He

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buzzes with the flies... He struggles against the swarm of flies... between the flies... One after another, the concierge, the gossip in boots, the muffled-up "baba", the little girl with glasses, dive into the vault... burst the flag of the flies... spin through the tunnel... Return to the triumphal days... In the fist their little piece of fat! The flies swoop on it right away... the people with it... all that fiddles, stings, snores... in the swarm... It's a cloud, a melee around the gossip in boots.

[357] When I came back from my excursions, I always took a quick look at the "Vox" offices... if I saw anything... The building opposite the hotel... the "Bon accueil aux Etrangers"... I'm quite curious by nature. Those offices that opened so late, never much before noon, intrigued me. One morning, like that, casting a glance in this half-light... I hear music... I listen to... a piano... I sit down on the steps... It was very well played ... I want to get a closer look... I go all around the lazarette... I go down the steps... in the basement I find a door... a small passage... I want to see the person a bit... I know the piano, I played piano before, a little bit myself... It always bothers me... Here I am in the house... All these strictly empty offices echo well... I arrive on the first floor... it comes from that side... A screen... I stop... on the tip of the feet, I make the detour. Now I see her as the pianist... She's the little old woman, I know her well... She's the "grandmother", she's the one talking French in this "Bon accueil"... She even makes sentences, she polishes... she talks precious... She's the one who gives me the information for the visits I want... I hide in a corner of the room... I don't do no noise... I listen very attentively... She had never spoken to me about it, that she touched the piano wonderfully about it... Never... It was too self-effacing. I held it against him... We were, however, good friends...

There, on my chair, I didn't flinch... listening to him... I heard everything... a perfect execution... first almost all the "Preludes" and then Haydn, the "fifth". .. I'm not saying Haydn to take a genre. In addition to my personal gifts, I dated a pianist for years... She earned her living on Chopin and Haydn... To tell you that I know the works... and sensitive to the quality... Eh well, I affirm it as I think it, the grandmother was an artist...

After a while, I left, as I had come, on tiptoe. The next day first, I didn't want to talk to her about this indiscreet hearing... and then I'm talkative enough to get myself hung... I risked a few allusions... finally I congratulated her... that 'she touched the ivory as a virtuoso... and even infinitely better!... Without teasing, without tinsel, without puffs of pedals... She understood by my words that I knew how to appreciate... and then that given my refinement I was quite capable of a real conversation... By speaking very softly, lower, she brought me up to date a little... "I am "new" in this country, you understand me, Mr. Céline ?... "New" not by age, alas!... But by the date of my return... I remained absent for twenty years!...

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here I am... They don't like me very much, Monsieur Céline... I must stay, however... It's over! ... You have to!... They don't want me as a musician... But they don't want me to leave... I'm too old for the piano... they tell me... But above all my absence for so many years... seems suspicious to them... Fortunately, I speak several foreign languages... that saves me... earns me this little job... I don't want to complain, Monsieur Céline, but really I'm not happy... You see, right? I arrive at the office before time, well before the others, because of the piano... They have a piano here... At home, there is no way... of course... no piano... We are three old people living together in a small room... It's already very good... If you only knew... [359] The day before I left, I found her grandmother embarrassed, anxious, with something else to confide in me... She whispered:

"Mr. Céline, you will forgive me... May I allow myself to ask you... Oh! a small question... can be very indiscreet... Oh! I am not sure... if I should?. .. Well, you won't answer me if I'm annoying... Ah, Monsieur Céline, I'm not very happy... But there are a lot of people, aren't there, Monsieur Céline, who aren't very happy? happy?...However, what do you think?...in your opinion, Monsieur Céline?...A person in this world, absolutely without family...without any ties...who is no longer useful to anyone ... Old... invalid already... unhappy, more loved by no one... who has to endure many miseries, many affronts... doesn't she have the right to your opinion?... . very sincere?... bluntly, I beg you, to take his life?...".

Ah! I only jumped!... at these words... what a start!...

"Whoa! Madame! here is the real blasphemy!... How! Great shame and remorse! Ah! I don't listen to you anymore!... Such a project! so wild! senseless! sinister!... You capitulate Madame?. .. in front of some arrogance of thin imbecile bureaucrats... I find you at all extreme, for some silly teasing... Pfoui!... A few pranks of woodlice... Disconcerting! Madam, disconcerting!... in truth. ... A perfect talent like yours must return to the concerts!... Here is the imperious duty! Ask to be heard! Madame!... And you will triumph!... All these people of Bolshevism, on the whole, I the tuners aren't very friendly... They may be a bit cruel... a bit rude... a bit sneaky... a bit sadistic... a bit lazy... a bit drunk. .. a bit of a thief... a bit of a coward... a bit of a liar...a little filthy... I grant you!... One wonders by which end it would be better to hang them?... But the bottom is not bad!... as soon as you reflect! ...". The grandmother, like all Russians, was her passion for reflection. We thought together... passionately...

"You see, I cheerfully concluded, you see! I can assure you, Madame, I can bet you, one hundred thousand rubles! not long unknown!... Ah! no!... You will come back to the public, Madame! I predict it!... I see [360] that from here!... And in all the big towns of the Russia of the "Plan"! You will go everywhere, triumphant, awaited, acclaimed, desired!..requested!..."

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– Do you think so, Monsieur Céline?... They are so wary of us, of all those who come back... of those who know foreign countries... At this moment Nathalie entered... you had to be quiet.

- Goodbye, Madame, goodbye! I'll be back! absolutely! I swore, two or three times. [35] (pp. 361-370) [361] And then there you go...

her mother had said to her like that, very kindly: "Nathalie, my little girl, wait for me, my little darling... Be very good... I'm going to go downstairs to see what's going on ... I'll come up right away with the coal...". Her mother had never come back, she had never come back... It was the Bolsheviks who had brought her up, Nathalie, in a colony, first near the city, a little later, far to the north. .. And then afterwards, in caravans... Several years like that... all across Russia... She recounted the fears, and also the laughter of little children... All the peregrinations! ... For years... the entire boarding school was evacuated when the enemy [362] troops returned. The "rebels" first the Kolchak... and then the Wrangel... and then again the Denikin. .. Each time, it was an adventure through the steppes... it lasted for months and months... all the little foundlings... You have to admit, the Bolsheviks, they had done everything possible, to that they don't all die like flies... all along the tracks... Sometimes, it was so cold, that the little dead ones became as hard as small logs... No one could dig the earth. .. We couldn't bury them. They were thrown from the cart, it was forbidden to get off. She had clearly seen, Nathalie, the whole civil war... and then the Kaoulaks rotten with gold!... She had danced with them... messed up... shot dozens and dozens... And then the deprivations, still, always, other deprivations... biennial, ten-year, three-year, "quinquennales"... the torrents of boasting... now she was guiding... She had learned French, German, English, all by herself... It passed through her fingers, at the "Intourist ", the most curious Hurons of La Boule... and then an infinite number of Jews (95 percent)... She was discreet, secretive, Nathalie, she had an iron character, I liked her, with her little clever nose, all impertinent. I never hid from her, for a single minute, everything I thought... She must have made some good reports... Physically, she was cute, a Baltic, solid, firm, a blonde, muscles like her character , soaked. I wanted to take her to Paris. Pay him for this little trip. The Soviet didn't want to... She wasn't late at all, she was even postage-paid, not the torrents of boasting... now she was guiding... She had learned French, German, English, all by herself... He passed through her fingers, at the "Intourist", the most curious Huron de la Boule... and then infinitely many Jews (95 percent)... She was discreet, secretive, Nathalie, she had an iron character, I really liked her, with her clever little nose, quite impertinent. I never hid from her, for a single minute, everything I thought... She must have made some good reports... Physically, she was cute, a Baltic, solid, firm, a blonde, muscles like her character , soaked. I wanted to take her to Paris. Pay him for this little trip. The Soviet didn't want to... She wasn't late at all, she was even postage-paid, not the torrents of boasting... now she was guiding... She had learned French, German, English, all by herself... He passed through her fingers, at the "Intourist", the most curious Huron de la Boule... and then infinitely many Jews (95 percent)... She was discreet, secretive, Nathalie, she had an iron character, I really liked her, with her clever little nose, quite impertinent. I never hid from her, for a single minute, everything I thought... She must have made some good reports... Physically, she was cute, a Baltic, solid, firm, a blonde, muscles like her character , soaked. I wanted to take her to Paris. Pay him for this little trip. The Soviet didn't want to... She wasn't late at all, she was even postage-paid, not She had learned French, German, English, on her own... The most curious Hurons of La Boule passed through her fingers at the "Intourist"... and then infinitely many Jews (95 for 100)... She was discreet, secretive, Nathalie, she had an iron character, I liked her, with her clever little nose, quite impertinent. I never hid from her, for a single minute, everything I thought... She must have made some good reports... Physically, she was cute, a Baltic, solid, firm, a blonde, muscles like her character , soaked. I wanted to take her to Paris. Pay him for this little trip. The Soviet didn't want to... She wasn't late at all, she was even postage-paid, not She had learned French, German, English, on her own... The most curious Hurons of La Boule passed through her fingers at the "Intourist"... and then infinitely many Jews (95 for 100)... She was discreet, secretive, Nathalie, she had an iron character, I liked her, with her clever little nose, quite impertinent. I never hid from her, for a single minute, everything I thought... She must have made some good reports... Physically, she was cute, a Baltic, solid, firm, a blonde, muscles like her character , soaked. I wanted to take her to Paris. Pay him for this little trip. The Soviet didn't want to... She wasn't late at all, she was even postage-paid, not at the "Intourist", the most curious Huron from La Boule... and then infinitely many Jews (95 percent)... She was discreet, secretive, Nathalie, she was an iron character, I loved her well, with her nifty little nose, all sassy. I never hid from her, for a single minute, everything I thought... She must have made some good reports... Physically, she was cute, a Baltic, solid, firm, a blonde, muscles like her character , soaked. I wanted to take her to Paris. Pay him for this little trip. The Soviet didn't want to... She wasn't late at all, she was even postage-paid, not at the "Intourist", the most curious Huron from La Boule... and then infinitely many Jews (95 percent)... She was discreet, secretive, Nathalie, she was an iron character, I loved her well, with her nifty little nose, all sassy. I never hid from her, for a single minute, everything I thought... She must have made some good reports... Physically, she was cute, a Baltic, solid, firm, a blonde, muscles like her character , soaked. I wanted to take her to Paris. Pay him for this little trip. The Soviet didn't want to... She wasn't late at all, she was even postage-paid, not with her nifty little nose, all impertinent. I never hid from her, for a single minute, everything I thought... She must have made some good reports... Physically, she was cute, a Baltic, solid, firm, a blonde, muscles like her character , soaked. I wanted to take her to Paris. Pay him for this little trip. The Soviet didn't want to... She wasn't late at all, she was even postage-paid, not with her nifty little nose, all impertinent. I never hid from her, for a single minute, everything I thought... She must have made some good reports... Physically, she was cute, a Baltic, solid, firm, a blonde, muscles like her character , soaked. I wanted to take her to Paris. Pay him for this little trip. The Soviet didn't want to... She wasn't late at all, she was even postage-paid, not

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jealous at all, nor petty, she understood anything... She was stubborn only at one point, but then miraculously, on the question of Communism... She became frankly impossible, infernal, on Communism... She would have bumped into me, here, to teach me the basics of things... and how to behave... the real contradiction!... I was shrinking. He passed these flashes through the periwinkle "irises"... which were cleavers... We bumped into each other only once, but terrible, with Nathalie... It was on our way back from Tzarkoi, the last castle of the Tsar... So we were in the car... we were going quite well.. .that road is not bad... When I then remark to him... on reflection... that I did not find in very good taste... this visit... to the victims... this exhibition of ghosts... embellished with comments, a thousand antics... This offhand, surly [363] enumeration... relentless, small quirks... bad taste... ridiculous "Romanoff" manias... apropos their amulets, rosaries, chamber pots... She wouldn't admit... She thought it was perfectly right, Nathalie. I insisted. Despite everything, it is from there, from these few rooms, that they all left in chorus, for their destiny, the Romanoffs... for their butchery in the cellar... We might consider... be careful... No! I thought that was in bad taste! Even much worse in bad taste, a hundred times worse than all the Romanoffs together... A real very bad oddity of filthy filthy Jews... It didn't please me at all to see the assassins making jokes like that. .. in the manger of their victims... Suddenly I found myself a Czarist... Because they were indeed murdered, mother, father, five children... never judged, murdered well and truly, massacred, absolutely without defense in the cellar of Siberia... after what transbahutages!... months!... with this haemophiliac kid... between all these sadistic and drunk guards, and the Judeo-Tartar commissioners... Finally the great laugh.. . We realize... The intimacy of the dead... the worst bitches, before they die... it's nobody's business anymore... It's not always up to the murderers to come and puke on their graves... Revolution?... Of course!. .. Certainly! Why not?... But bad taste is bad taste... The bad taste of the Jew, the bridle on his neck, is the massacre of the white man, his torture. It is the torture of the white and the deep instinct of the Jew, the deep instinct of the Negro. First of all, all the revolutionary saturnalia stink of the Negro, full goat, the Jew and the Asian... Marat... Kerensky... Behanzin,... the Euphrates... Voodoo... the magic equatorial... slaves to sharks... Santo Domingo... it's the same horror that arises... All that is the same sauce in the background... it oozes from the same barrel... . before crounir... it's nobody's business anymore... It's not always up to the assassins to come and puke on their graves... Revolution?... Of course!... Certainly! Why not?... But bad taste is bad taste... The bad taste of the Jew, the bridle on his neck, is the massacre of the white man, his torture. It is the torture of the white and the deep instinct of the Jew, the deep instinct of the Negro. First of all, all the revolutionary saturnalia stink of the Negro, full goat, the Jew and the Asian... Marat... Kerensky... Behanzin,... the Euphrates... Voodoo... the magic equatorial... slaves to sharks... Santo Domingo... it's the same horror that arises... All that is the same sauce in the background... it oozes from the same barrel... . before crounir... it's nobody's business anymore... It's not always up to the assassins to come and puke on their graves... Revolution?... Of course!... Certainly! Why not?... But bad taste is bad taste... The bad taste of the Jew, the bridle on his neck, is the massacre of the white man, his torture. It is the torture of the white and the deep instinct of the Jew, the deep instinct of the Negro. First of all, all the revolutionary saturnalia stink of the Negro, full goat, the Jew and the Asian... Marat... Kerensky... Behanzin,... the Euphrates... Voodoo... the magic equatorial... slaves to sharks... Santo Domingo... it's the same horror that arises... All that is the same sauce in the background... it oozes from the same barrel... . It's not always up to the assassins to come and puke on their graves... Revolution?... Of course!... Certainly! Why not?... But bad taste is bad taste... The bad taste of the Jew, the bridle on his neck, is the massacre of the white man, his torture. It is the torture of the white and the deep instinct of the Jew, the deep instinct of the Negro. First of all, all the revolutionary saturnalia stink of the Negro, full goat, the Jew and the Asian... Marat... Kerensky... Behanzin,... the Euphrates... Voodoo... the magic equatorial... slaves to sharks... Santo Domingo... it's the same horror that arises... All that is the same sauce in the background... it oozes from the same barrel... . It's not always up to the assassins to come and puke on their graves... Revolution?... Of course!... Certainly! Why not?... But bad taste is bad taste... The bad taste of the Jew, the bridle on his neck, is the massacre of the white man, his torture. It is the torture of the white and the deep instinct of the Jew, the deep instinct of the Negro. First of all, all the revolutionary saturnalia stink of the Negro, full goat, the Jew and the Asian... Marat... Kerensky... Behanzin,... the Euphrates... Voodoo... the magic equatorial... slaves to sharks... Santo Domingo... it's the same horror that arises... All that is the same sauce in the

background... it oozes from the same barrel... . The bad taste of the Jew, the bridle on his neck, is the massacre of the white man, his torture. It is the torture of the white and the deep instinct of the Jew, the deep instinct of the Negro. First

“Why?... Why?... how she jumped up again... She didn't want to understand, the meat... The Tsar, he was without pity!... him!... for the poor people! ... He killed!... shot!... deported!... miles and miles of innocent people!...

“The Bolsheviks took him for a walk for weeks, all over Siberia. They finally whacked him in the cellar, with all his crap! with a butt!... So he paid!... Now we can leave him alone... let him sleep... – The people must be able to learn!... educate themselves!... Let them see with their own eyes, how stupid the Czars were... [364] bourgeois... narrow-minded... tasteless ... without greatness... What they did with all the money! the Romanoffs! millions upon millions of rubles they extorted from the poor people... The blood of the people!... amulets!... With all the blood of the people they bought amulets!

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– It's still not a reason... They paid... It's over!... She was insulting, the bitch!... I got on fire... I'm stubborn like thirty-six buffaloes, when a chick stands up to me... – You are all murderers! that I insulted her...even worse than murderers, you are all sacrilegious vampiric rapists!...You now shit on corpses, you are so perverted...You no longer look human...Why do you don't make them in wax?... like at the Tussauds? with gaping wounds?... and teeming worms?... Ah! but she resisted, terrible. She didn't want to admit at all... the arrogant little bastard... she was bouncing around in the car... She was screaming... "The Czarina was worse than him!... even worse... A thousand times more !... cruel I tell you!... A heart of stone!... She! the vampire!... a thousand times more horrible than the whole Revolution. She never thought of the people!... Never of all the sufferings! of her poor people! who came to beg her!... To all that he endured through her!... Never!... She had never suffered!...

“The Czarina?... but dizzy with horror! but waterspout of garbage! But she had had five children! Do you know what five children is? When you've had your ass wide open like her! five times in a row, then you can talk! ... Then you will have entrails! of suffering! of suffering!... Purin! That is to say if I was furious... It was his fault! I wanted to kick her out of the car!... I didn't feel like it anymore! of brutality! I became all Russian!...

The driver had to slow down... he stops... he intervenes, he separates us... we were squinting... She didn't want to get back up! she was stubborn... she clawed all the way back to Leningrad. I didn't see her for two days. I thought I would never see her again... And then, lo and behold, she came back... It had already been forgotten!... We weren't resentful... It made me happy to see her again. I really liked Nathalie. I had only one confidence from her, I speak a real confidence... when I [365] spoke to her about revolution... I told her that soon, we too in France would have it, the beautiful communism... that we had all the Jews already... that it was ripening nicely... when she would come to Paris... that it would be allowed then...

- Oh! you know, Mr. Céline... that's not how the revolution is... To make a revolution, you need two very essential things... First of all, the people must starve... and then he must have weapons... all the weapons... Without that... nothing to do!... First of all there would have to be a war at home... a very long war... and then disasters... that you all starve... only after... after the civil war... after the foreign war... after the disasters... Doubts came to him... She never spoke to me like that again... She was always in defense... in attitude, more or less... Never herself... I esteemed her... I would have brought her back in Paris... She was a perfect secret secretary.

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[366] I have ideas about absolute monarchy, moreover, I got them from an anarchist, whom I once knew in London, an authentic anarchist – a Bulgarian

– a pachyderm for weight. He had two professions, he combined, piano tuner and then chemist-dyer. I listened to him religiously. It was called "Borokrom". I was just a little young man not very emancipated at the time. I admired him enormously. I was easy to mystify... “I wasted my life, as you see me, Ferdinand, he always told me. I would have liked to be, me, the King, you see, of an immense, powerful Kingdom... And then that all my subjects, you hear me, all of them! without any exception, they would all have hated me to death! They would have thought only of that... to kill me... to resolve... week and Sunday... that would have woken them with a start, such an idea... They would have hatched, plotted without interruption against my days... Every time I would have left my magnificent castle, in my grand gala carriage... something like terrible bombs would have fallen on my face! Rains! my friend, showers! deluges of the most terrible grenades!... "fulminants" of all calibers... I would never have survived except by a miracle... by the effect of a whole subtle arrangement, a whole combination of prodigious circumstances... at once... absolutely pitiless... [367] without words... without mercy... I would have ruled this hateful mass even more hatefully and absolutely solitary! by the threat, the executions, the outrage and the perpetual challenge!... In the shelter of my formidable citadel, I would have imagined without respite other insults, other forfeitures, other outrages! Again! always more abominable! to upset my odious subjects! Other ways to make me ever more abject, more demonic, more implacable! more unpopular! So I would have definitely fascinated them. I would never have had one of those gestures of clemency, of favour, of abandonment which discredit a tyrant in you better than a hundred thousand hangings. I would have hanged, myself, only the tender, the understanding, the pitiful... the evangelicals... the beneficent of all kinds... I would have organized huge competitions of roses and rose beds... for whip them all and then all to death... in front of the entire populace... I would have perjured myself endlessly, without limit, without respite... except to inflict other vexations on my subjects... to oppress them, to sack them more, in every sense and way. Hate for hate! and without limit!... my royal motto. I would have lived all alone, camped on the income of my immense Treasury, entrenched in my grand gala carriages... I would have held them, my abominable subjects, anguished, panting, attentive to my slightest gestures, always on the lookout, under the influence of a new iniquity, and this throughout the duration of my reign. Never a single day would have passed without some horrible denial of justice, some atrocious royal misdeed... the quartering of a just man, the scalding of an innocent... Ah! this despicable people! do you see it? still feverish, delirious with fragile, fleeting hopes of reducing myself very soon to mush, to bloody mash under the wreckage of my magnificent carriage? My reign would have been in this way, I am certain, exceptionally successful, the happiest indeed of all reigns, in all history – without war, without revolution, without famine, without bankruptcy. These calamities indeed afflict the peoples only because they are very long in advance desired, brought about, premeditated, thought out, simmered, by all the rumination of the masses... the sadistic, ruinous idleness of the peoples. My super-hateful subjects would never have had the time to think about this nonsense, these catastrophes! I would have occupied them far too much with my inexhaustible discoveries, my infernal nasties!...

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clots, in marmalade of [368] viscera. I would have made, me their monarch, the agreement of all the hatreds of my Kingdom, I would have centralized, magnetized, fanaticized on my own royal person. Here is the only royal way, Ferdinand, to truly reign! govern! Ah! Ferdinand! my life would have been something else then! a marvelously useful destiny... while now, you see, I speak... I waste myself as best I can...

[369] Nathalie won easily in the controversy... the doctrine... To be honest, I didn't exist... She had taken all the courses in "Materialist Dialectics". Like the priests, she had all the questions, all the answers at the tip of her finger.

– What are the capitalists doing?... – They exploit the unfortunate people, they speculate, they monopolize!... – What do they do with their capital?...

– They agitate again and again... they monopolize raw materials... they create scarcity... – What are they doing with their fortune? Do they sleep every night in three beds?... Do they have fourteen mistresses?... Do they drive around in eighteen cars at a time?... Do they live in twenty-two houses?... they seventeen times a day?... the most gamey dishes? What do they ultimately do with all this terrible money? that they extort from the crushed, bent, moaning people?

Ah! Nathalie didn't mind these little tricks. – They indulge all their whims... This is what she had found... Suddenly, I possessed her... I took back all the advantage. She was stuck, clumsy, on the question of "whim"... Whim for her, it was a word... Nothing more! She had never seen its "whims"... the whims of capitalists... She was quite incapable of defining me, of giving me a good example of whim... I put her in a box with her [370] "whim "... I made her angry... One day all the same, at the end, she asked "thumb"... It intrigued her that I told her what a "whim" really was. I looked for a good example, so that she would know from now on, when she would talk to tourists:

– Well, I said, listen to me, I'm going to free you, my darling. I was very young at the time, it took place in Nice, around 1910, I was doing the delivery for the season at a very famous jeweler, Mr. Ben Corème... boulevard Masséna... I had absolutely the confidence of my boss, Ben Corème, "the jeweler of elegant women" and of "Grands Cercles and the Casino". My parents, so poor, but so fundamentally honest, had sworn on their lives that I would never do wrong a penny... that I could be entrusted with treasures. In fact, I was often entrusted with it – it was not words. Mr. Ben Corème had immediately put me to the test... and then only saw me to entrust me with his tiaras, his most wonderful adornments, his necklaces of several meters...

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But I was never to show myself... never to enter the shop! It was I who watched the hands of the customers... It was my order... to spy on the slightest furtive gestures... especially the furtive gestures... The fists!... Not taking your eyes off the fists!... never... That's it... It's tricky for a salesman, when you think about it, to observe hands like that... He can't do everything... He has to stay, he, everything smiles. He must put on a pretty heart above the pedestal table... all considerate... all casual... He mustn't squint at the handles... It's no way... I was the squint. .. the lynx... I knew all the customers... They didn't know me... I knew all the thieves. In the It was I who watched the hands of the customers... It was my order... to spy on the slightest furtive gestures... especially the furtive gestures... The fists!... Not taking your eyes off the fists!... never... That's it... It's tricky for a salesman, when you think about it, to observe hands like that... He can't do everything... He has to stay, he, everything smiles. He must put on a pretty heart above the pedestal table... all considerate... all casual... He mustn't squint at the handles... It's no way... I was the squint. .. the lynx... I knew all the customers... They didn't know me... I knew all the thieves. In the It was I who watched the hands of the customers... It was my order... to spy on the slightest furtive gestures... especially the furtive gestures... The fists!... Not taking your eyes off the fists!... never... That's it... It's tricky for a salesman, when you think about it, to observe hands like that... He can't do everything... He has to stay, he, everything smiles. He must put on a pretty heart above the pedestal table... all considerate... all casual... He mustn't squint at the handles... It's no way... I was the squint. .. the lynx... I knew all the customers... They didn't know me... I knew all the thieves. In the Don't take your eyes off the handles!... never... That's it... It's tricky for a salesman, when you're thinking, to observe hands like that... He can't do everything... He has to stay, him, all smiles. He must put on a pretty heart above the pedestal table... all considerate... all casual... He mustn't squint at the handles... It's no way... I was the squint. .. the lynx... I knew all the customers... They didn't know me... I knew all the thieves. In the Don't take your eyes off the handles!... never... That's it... It's tricky for a salesman, when you're thinking, to observe hands like that... He can't do everything... He has to stay, him, all smiles. He must put on a pretty heart above the pedestal table... all considerate... all casual... He mustn't squint at the handles... It's no way... I was the squint. .. the lynx... I knew all the customers... They didn't know me... I knew all the thieves. In the I was the buzzer... the lynx... I knew all the customers... They didn't know me... I knew all the thieves. In the I was the buzzer... the lynx... I knew all the customers... They didn't know me... I knew all the thieves. In the

[36] (pp. 371-379) [371] Italians and the Slavs there were perverts... especially among the women... the Russians, the most posh aristocrats... there were funny ones among... bitchy rascals!... teasing! ... It was their vice of estoufarès a little finery... Ah! the "headlines" were death... I was blundering... I saw it coming... At the moment... Pssss!... when it slipped into the sleeve. I "knock-knock-knock"! three knocks on my door... It was agreed with Ben Corème... It always worked out very well, never a scandal.

I mustn't whine, there was pleasure in my role... compensation... when the clients were beautiful... seated... rustling... I took terrible chips, I looked at the legs. I was hypnotized... Ah! the cast of the thighs... Ah! how well I jerked off... Ah! those divine fists! Ah! I can admit that on all the Queens of the time I cut myself stale... standing up, in the back of the shop, on duty for Mr. Corème. I had a beautiful puberty, fantastic ass rages. That didn't prevent me from being honest and from impeccable vigilance... For all this confidence, this mountaineering in deliveries, this preventive lynxery and then the cleaning of the shop (opening and closing with the waiter), I earned 55 francs per month... With pourliches,

We had in the clientele a great wonderful character, not a thief at all that one, on the contrary, a real prodigal, the Tsar's own uncle, the Very Grand Duke Nicolas Nicolaievitch. He's easy to remember, if only from the height... he was at least two meters tall. It is he, this immense one, who has ultimately lost the war and the Russian armies. Ah! I could have told them already in 1910 that he was going to lose everything... He never knew what he wanted...

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shop... he was in a hurry, he had to bend down to get through the door, the frame. He bumps into himself... He wasn't happy... He sits down. He feels...

– Say, he does, Ben Corème, I would like a present for a lady. I need a strap... Quickly we bring him the objects... whole trays... there were fortunes... It was not fake at Corème... He looks... he looks, Grand Nicolas... He fiddles ... he examines... He couldn't make up his mind... He gets up, he raises his two meters.. He goes to leave... "Goodbye"! Bing!... He bumps into the top of the door... It makes him bounce inside... He assists himself... He feels his head again. He was in pain...

– Ah! here, give me all that Corème!... With full fists, then, he mows down all the bracelets on the table... He fills his overcoat with them... fills his pockets...

– There!... he's doing... Now show me the cigarette holders! We pass all the choice before his eyes... He remains dumbfounded in front of a moment... all the gold boxes... the "set" diamonds... after he opens them all... he closes them dry. .. he enjoys making them smack... Ploc!... Ploc!... Ploc!... Ploc!.. Ploc!... Then it annoys him.. He swipes the whole assortment ... two... three dozen... He forces everything into his pockets in addition to the bracelets... He gets up... He heads for the door... "Sire! Sire! !...". Ben Corème he jumped... The Grand Duke bows... with a smile... he passes... But there, on the threshold, he changes his mind... he pivots... abruptly turns around ... He's about to go back into the shop... Bamm!... he bangs himself in the doorframe!

– Coreme! Corème!... You will send your note to Saint-Petersburg! to my nephew... He will choose over there... him!... over there!... It will be better!... It will be much better!... That's caprice!... Nathalie... That's genuine caprice!... or else I know more about it... You have to remember, Nathalie, this good example of caprice...

Poor Nicolas Nicolaievitch, the whims still continue as far as his memory is concerned... By the effect of circumstances, its great Palace on the Neva, it has since 18 become "The Institute for the Brain", the Study of Psychic Phenomena.

It's fortuitous, but it's a hit. – You see how funny life goes by... and how small the world is, even for the great Nicolas Nicolaievitch, who didn't have a head at all... It made Nathalie laugh... this little story, but moderately, she thought I was going to start over, like for Tsarkoi-Selo... repay me for a crisis... She thought I was devious.

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[373] Basically, these three repeated words are enough: time is passing... that is enough for everything...

Nothing escapes time... except a few small echoes... more and more muted... more and more rare... What does it matter?...

I have received a few letters from Russia... from Nathalie... I never answer the letters... A long silence... and then a last little message...

Dear Mr Celine, Don't believe me dead or gone... I was very ill only during those months and I couldn't write to you. This happened! I'm cured, only I'm not as strong as before... Winter is over, it's spring here too, with the sun I was waiting for... with so much impatience. But I still feel very weak and a bit sad. You don't write anymore... Have you forgotten me already?... We have visitors from you now in Leningrad and we expect a lot of them for the June holidays. Are you also going to come one day?... It will be delightful. I would like to hear from you and I will give you the address of my house.

My best feelings. Natalie. So there... I don't trust ghosts... They are everywhere... I don't want to travel anymore... it's too dangerous... I want to stay here to see... see everything... I want to spend ghost here, in my hole... in my den... I will do to them all... Wow! rouh!... Hou!... rouh!... They will die of fear... They pissed me off enough when I was alive... It will be my turn...

And then this ballet?... It was ready... I was quite happy with it... Still about ghosts... I intended it for Leningrad... And then there you go!... Circumstances... pity... so much the worse!... I am going to read you the beginning of this long entertainment... a trifle! Everything?... I would bore you... Is it a very plausible epic?... a very ponderable intention?... No!... Simply a little leap between death and existence... exactly to our measure... here is who dances exactly between death and existence... it distracts... takes you away!... Are you following me?... A little light and agreement... The Dream carries us away... But Music?... Ah! Here is all my anguish... I fall all entangled!... Music!... wings of the Dance! out of music

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everything crumbles and crawls... Music edifice of the Dream!... I am once again fried... If you heard talk, by chance, in your relations... of a rather fragile musician... who does not ask only to do well... Please... a little sign... I will make conditions for him... between death and existence... a light situation... We will surely be able to get along. ..

[375]

VAN BAGADEN

Grand Ballet Mime and some words

These events take place in Antwerp, around 1830. The scene represents the interior of a huge hangar. A whole people of porters, dockers, customs officers, busy themselves, hawking, transshipping, skinning, gutting... parcels... fabrics... silks... cotton... seeds... freighters of all kinds... They go... they come from one door to the other... In the back of the shed, between partitions... high, very high heaps of bulk goods... piled up... Tea... .coffee...spices...drapers...campeche...woodwork...bamboo...sugar cane... workers... graceful... mischievous... as much as possible!... They pass... and come back... winged... shimmering... flirtatious... among these heavy, sweaty, laborious teams. .. are busy... come and go... The perfumers! ... They prepare, pour the perfumes... in bottles... with a thousand delicacies... the perfumes of Arabia... of the Indies... of the Orient... Great fear of being jostled... .with their precious bottles...little cries of excitement!...of dread!...frilly! Sniff all [376] first, the essences of the bottles... delights! Little ecstasies!... They quarrel about the perfumes... the storage of the bottles... They occupy with their shelves and their vials... carboys... their counters... a whole side of the shed... . an aviary... always chirping... all agitated... The "cigar girls" other flirtatious, occupy the entire opposite corner... also waste a lot of time in small rides... come and go... jabber ... cackle... little savage interlude... He leaves as he came, the negro... with a leap! ...

You will notice from the start that one of the perfumers is more graceful, more playful than all the others... more flirtatious than all... dapper as possible... the first dancer... Mitje. In a corner, in an angle of this hangar, a reduced... The spectator will see the interior of this hut: the Office of the Shipowner... separated from the general crush of the big hangar by an enormous screen. In the closet, the ship-owner Van Bagaden... shriveled as possible... in the depths of a formidable armchair, very dry, podagra and quintessential... Van Bagaden! He can no longer move from his armchair... barely move... He never leaves his armchair again, this small room... It is there that he lives, consecrates, swears, plagues, sleeps, threatens, eats , spits yellow, and keeps all his gold... the gold that comes to him through

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a hundred boats... Shipowner on all the seas of the world!... Thus we see Van Bagaden, tyrant of the seas and of navigators, in his lair. He wears a large black turban around his head which protects him from drafts... He is wrapped in thick wool. Only the head emerges from all these bandages... He does not stop cursing, swearing, vituperating his clerk, the unfortunate Peter... This one, always with him, perched high on his stool of [377] accountant , keeps lining up numbers... adding up... enormous registers... The whole desk is cluttered with these monstrous registers... The very old Van Bagaden, enraged, threatening, tough mummy , damn! Peter, to his liking, never goes fast enough... in his accounts... Van Bagaden, with his big cane, hits the floor... He fidgets in his armchair... He never stops... Peter jumps with every stroke of the cane... The noise of the din, the hustle and bustle of the hangar... Van Bagaden is fed up with it... So his workers are having fun instead of working !... He hears the little girls, the laughter of the workers, the joyous cries. He no longer has any authority! He's too old! All those little scoundrels taunt him! escape him!... He can no longer make himself obeyed! Damnation!... He wants to get out of his chair!... He falls back... And each time he hits the floor in anger... with his terrible cane... the little workers, far to be moved, and the guys with the chores, all these people in labor, make fun and chant! at the pace! cane!... Despair of old Van Bagaden challenged!... ridiculous!... (The mice are dancing, the old cat can no longer move... ) The little perfumers, mischievous, come and take a look at the screen... and then run away, all sulky... especially the coquette Mitje, the most lively, the most mischievous... of all this cheeky swarm... Peter, the faithful clerk, is tied to his huge ledgers by a chain... and then still held to his stool by a solid fitting... Peter is the whipping boy of the terrible old tyrant Bagaden... He jumps up, Peter, in terror, with his stool... every time the old man's cane hits the floor. He starts again all his additions... . and then held still to his stool by a sturdy fitting...Peter is the scapegoat of the terrible old tyrant Bagaden...He jumps, Peter, in terror, with his stool...every time the old man's cane knocks floor. He starts again all his additions... . and then held still to his stool by a sturdy fitting...Peter is the scapegoat of the terrible old tyrant Bagaden...He jumps, Peter, in terror, with his stool...every time the old man's cane knocks floor. He starts again all his additions...

A long-distance captain enters the hangar, splits, crosses the groups... He comes to warn old Bagaden... In his ear, he whispers a few words... Old Bagaden knocks... bumps... the floor at top speed... Peter jumps... Bagaden hands Peter a small key... Peter opens the door. the padlock of his hindrance. He can get off his stool... He comes out of the hangar with the captain... Great interest in the hangar... Great excitement... Great chatter... Comments... We are waiting...

After a while Peter returns, dragging behind him in a heavy net, captive in this net, an enormous mass... a prodigious heap of pearls... a formidable necklace... a fantastic jewel... while pearls... each as big as an orange... [378] Peter refuses to be helped to drag this magnificent burden to the feet of his master Van Bagaden... The dance is interrupted... The whole crowd in the shed... laborers, sailors, workers, workers... comment admiringly on the arrival of this new treasure. Van Bagaden, don't wince. He makes his chair move a little... He makes Peter open the very deep chest which is just behind him. Peter closes with great care, in this small cave, the extraordinary jewel... and then climbs back on his stool,

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captain comes back... whispering another piece of news in old Van Bagaden's ear... Exactly the same thing starts all over again. Peter returns this time laden with caskets and saddlebags... other jewels, doubloons... precious stones... rubies... giant emeralds... All this again is triple locked, same ceremony, behind the old Bagaden... Interrupted for a little while... all the traffic in the hangar, the peddling of heavy loads... resumes furiously...

On the quay... from the distance... the echoes of a very martial brass band now reach us... a brass band which approaches... it passes. We see her pass in front of the great door...wide open...In the background...soldiers...bourgeois...sailors...in open broadside...Gay boys...drunkards...a crowd in full effervescence... joyful... unleashed... Huge floating flags which pass... above the crowd... Imaged banners... and then a very tiny "saint" on a palanquin... .and then huge cardboard giants...carried away by the crowd...in a spree!...Old Bagaden, nailed to his little room...plague...enraged...against all this new bacchanalia , this din... which breaks!...

What a passion for having fun possesses everyone!... Van Bagaden, he never had fun! ... Joy horrifies him, and the gross farandoles of this scoundrel more than all the rest! ... He rises a little from his armchair, at the cost of what efforts!... what suffering!... what agony!... Finally he perceives a little... What horror! all these delirious puppets... He hurries Peter quickly... towards this new crowd!... This insulting saraband!... "Call back to work, immediately... to order! all this scoundrel! ... Take my cane! So! Peter!... stick!... knock out all these hoodlums!... Obey me!"... [379] But the party now rises... swells... submerges the whole quay... all the space!... all the echoes!...

Poor Peter, all distraught, with his stick, struggles all alone against all this crowd... against all this joy, this madness... the immense farandole..........

END

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