Lamentations, I

Not everyone is meant to lead, and not everyone sees wisdom in participating in mass movements. Generally I sympathize with the broad aims of the Alt-Right, even if I sometimes cringe at certain aesthetic choices, lack of discipline, poor quality control and questionable leadership. I am naturally very skeptical that rebooting the United States as an explicitly White ethno-state will resolve the issue of quality among our people and the auto-cannibalistic nature of democracy and republicanism. That said, the United States America circa 1780 is vastly preferable to Brazil 2.0 circa 2040, and while most people aren't ready to do more than flirt with truly reactionary ideas, at least a great many of our people (particularly the young) are showing that they retain not just signs of life, but also good instincts.

My desire to participate in the brick and mortar of the Alt-Right has mellowed somewhat with the passing of a few years. Largely this is because I am older, more cautious, and in a relationship with a young woman who hears wedding bells and the cries of newborn babies in the not too distant future. Sometimes when I'm out in public a cute girl in a sundress will smile at me as I pass and I will remember what it was like to be free to chase and seduce and taste from the immaculate cup of female beauty in all of its glory. I'll think of Roissy, he or his doppelganger nudging me in the spirited way men encourage one another to take risks for the greatness and the glory. And tempting though it always is - it never grows any less so! - I decline the invitation. Sorry, you know as well as anyone that I relish the thrill of the hunt, but those days belong to yesterday. It is never, ever, that I am not tempted. If I never grew out of libertarianism, if I never stumbled across Northman's Neoreaction Aggregator, how different things would have been! I would have moved to the city by now, and perhaps I would have mitigated my natural disgust at the emptiness of a place so paradoxically crowded by eternally sipping from the cup of beauty and youth. Alas, Providence has strange designs that though I struggle to make explicit sense of, nonetheless compel me to don the hauberk and mail and take up the banner of a life spent in search of a redoubt of permanence in a growing sea of chaos and decay. The Crusade for Order, an immortal civilization steeped in glory and mystery, a losing battle that will none the less send my fiery soul to the doors of Valhalla when I've drawn my last breath.

I am not outrageously old yet - younger than most Neoreactionaries, but too old to pass on this last mission. It is time, my instincts tell me, and for the most part my instincts do not lie. In an age of unrestrained hedonism and few thoughts beyond tonight's party, I am unlikely to find a woman in the earliest of her twenties so eager to start a family. It is not, ever, that I don't want every beautiful woman that I ever see. What compels me to tap out is a theory of expected value: When the cost of failure is infinite, probabilities no longer matter. I am not so perfect that I can afford to live like a fratboy forever. A desperate call from an aging ex looking to for safe harbor against the raging storm of time is a sobering reminder. Sorry, you'll have to look elsewhere. Then the old arguments come back, tainted with the taste of some sour, sour grapes.

So many of us are lost before we even realize it. None of these people even know what a map looks like, let alone to look for one to see if they're heading in a safe direction. I can't save them. I've barely saved myself from the worst of my impulses. But I would, if I could I would save them all. I can't though. Not to be all sour grapes myself, but it's probably for the best. The garden of my people is wildly, wildly overgrown. I tack to the opposite of the Alt-Right when thinking of White birthrates. Quality is vastly preferable to quantity, and the practically nonexistent birthrate among White progressives is better news than most believe. We are living in a misbegotten age that is the direct result of a wild overbreeding program, and that the worst and weakest of our own kind have abandoned family formation will certainly be a boon for us in the generations yet to come. This is the natural consequence of our own hubris: naturam expelles furca, tamen usque recurret. The same sort of biologically induced peril will soon come to Africa (and probably Europe, should they never close their borders). Everything has a cost, especially things that cannot be monetized.