I Am a World-Historical IndividualJef Costello
Russian translation here
I realized the other night that I cannot remember a time in my life when I did not believe that I would make history. I have always had the unshakeable conviction that I am a man of destiny. (To be exact: a man of destiny, adventure, and romance.) In part, I have my mother to thank for this. Every so often, starting when I was very, very young, she would lean down, fix me with her dark brown eyes and say things like “You’re different,” “You’re special,” “You’re going to do something great when you grow up.”
I don’t often tell this to people, because it usually produces a response like, “Oh, all mothers say that to their children.” Well, I don’t know that that is true. All I know is that my mother said it like she really meant it, and I absorbed the message, and it became engrained in me. But I am a strange and paradoxical person, for I am also plagued by insecurity and self-doubt. The odd thing, however, is that in spite of this I have never really doubted what my mother told me.
My insecurities are — in the scheme of things — trivial hang ups (fear of rejection, fear of losing my looks, etc.), while my self-doubt usually has to do with my ability to cope with adversity. In fact, I have successfully coped with a great deal of adversity in my life. But you know how it is (yes, I’m talking to you): no matter how much empirical evidence piles up, it only seems to make the tiniest dents in one’s self-image.
But I can’t ever recall a moment in my life where I thought something like, “Maybe I really don’t have anything to say after all.” Or: “Maybe I’ll just die in obscurity. Maybe mother was wrong: maybe I’m just an average Joe.”
You see, I think my mother said these things with such deep conviction because she really did see something in me. She wasn’t stupid, and she wasn’t trying to “build up my self-esteem.” I came of age before all of that crap. And she sure as hell wasn’t just trying to be kind. That wasn’t in her nature.
Contrary to what you are probably thinking, I wasn’t overpraised. This is so for two reasons. (1) I actually did deserve the degree of praise I received. And (2) my mother was pretty hard on me when she thought I wasn’t living up to my potential. My failures weren’t swept aside with “There, there. One day you’ll show them what you’ve got inside you. Mother understands.” There was no false, exaggerated gushing over mediocre efforts. No, I was pretty much made to feel that I had great potential and that she expected me to actualize it — to really actualize it. My mother despised weak people, and those who failed to make anything of themselves.
I was a very, very, very sensitive child. I was introspective, but not moody (until I hit puberty). I had an extremely kind nature and could not bear to see suffering in others. I remember once my mother reading to me what I think was a Brothers Grimm story about a little girl who was bad to her mother and suffered hellish torments. (There was no agenda here, she read me every fairy tale so she was bound to get around to this one eventually.) I was so overcome by pity for the little girl — and, perhaps, remorse over how I could now and then be unkind to my own mother — that I began weeping, and my mother had to stop reading to me. I think I was about 14 at the time. No, I’m kidding: I was about 7. A couple of years later I was traumatized by a scene in a TV movie (A Girl Named Sooner, 1975) in which a girl kills her beloved pet bird. I wept so much I think my mother was quite disturbed by it.
I never lost this kindness and sensitivity, but hell is other kids. And the experiences I had with them caused me to develop a mean streak that has since co-existed with the sensitivity and sometimes threatened to bury it. As you have probably already guessed, the sensitivity went along with one hell of an imagination. And that was the thing that I was generally praised for the most. They also told me I was really smart — yet I struggled with math and science in school (I just hated those subjects; English and history were my favorites).
Very early on I noticed that I had a strong eccentric streak. I mean this in its literal sense: a tendency to move away from the center. I despised the conformity I saw in the kids around me. And I could always see through their phoniness and desperate desire to seem “grown up.” I wasn’t shy about sharing any of this either. The result was that after about age 8 I was, for the most part, ostracized. And the more they ostracized me the more I tried to provoke them. I knew that the reason they ostracized me was because they resented me for being superior.
Of course, over time I learned that there are an awful lot of really nice inferior people, that most people are inferior, and that if I didn’t want to be totally alone I needed to control my mouth and find some way to relate to them. But when I was very young I didn’t realize any of that. I felt a sense of contempt for others that was so overwhelming it became impossible for me to relate to others or to reach out to them. Eventually, those others included my entire family. Yes, even my mother. I essentially built myself a fortress of solitude.
I knew that I was smart and talented (hell, I had philosophical arguments with myself starting in the fourth grade). This wasn’t my assessment of my “potential”: I really did stuff. I painted and wrote poetry. I could always write really good. Once in the fifth grade another kid — being quite genuine and complimentary — said “How do you write like that?” Needless to say, this was an occasion for me to feel contempt. “It’s simple,” I said dismissively. “I just write like the people we’re reading.” And that is just what I did. I had an ability to (fairly successfully) imitate the styles of others. I could not understand why other kids couldn’t do this.
Very early on I perceived the lack of self-awareness in others; and their mechanicalness. Of course, I lacked a certain degree of self-awareness as well, and I was mechanical in my own way. But over time I have come to see this. My current problem is that I look at people my own age who seem never to have realized that they lack self-awareness, and I think “How can you be this way?” My contempt for others hasn’t diminished. And how could it? No one expects a good deal of self-awareness in a child. But when it’s lacking in a fifty year old man? What am I supposed to feel? Pity? Sorry. Not in my nature. What has happened, however, is that I have lowered my expectations of people. I have learned not to let my contempt boil over into anger. I have actually learned how to descend from Olympus and make friends with mortals. I have become kinder and more patient. But it is often still a struggle. And there is a strong streak in me that wants to lash out — to use my intellect like a weapon; to humiliate others; or just to say things to shock them and drive them away.
Before I forget, here’s story I know you’ll love. In the third grade, when the little wind-up children really ramped up the ostracism, we had a practice of bringing in records, which our teacher would play during lunch. Needless to say, these wastes of protoplasm would bring in their older siblings’ records. Anything that was “hot,” and seemed “grown up.” I can’t tell you how many times I suffered through “Kung Fu Fighting.”
Anyway, one day I decided to turn the tables and brought in my own favorite record: Conduct Your Own Orchestra: Child’s Introduction to Conducting. It featured the greatest hits of Beethoven, Brahms, Mozart, Wagner, etc. Words can’t express how pleased I was by the horrified protests of my fellow inmates. It was readily apparent to me how each was trying to outdo the others in protesting how much they hated this awful music. After a minute or two, bowing to public opinion, my teacher took the record off. She knew what was going on. She knew what I was up to.
Now, though I can’t remember a time when I didn’t feel supremely confident that I would do something great — that I had a destiny — I spent a very long time uncertain of just how that would play out. I accomplished quite a lot in my twenties and thirties. (Did I mention I had a literary agent by the time I was 20?) But I knew that none of it was what my mother meant when she said “you’ll do something great one day.” I achieved a fair amount of success in my profession, but when I started approaching 40 I had the inevitable crisis: just what is it I am supposed to be doing? When will I do that “great” thing mother always said I would do? And do I have enough time left? But my belief in destiny extends beyond simple confidence in myself: it actually involves the conviction that there is a World Spirit guiding things, and that it has plans for me. So I bided my time.
And then, just at a point when I had really begun to feel a real sense of urgency (“I must do something great now”) it found me. Or I found it. Or it put the two of us together. However you want to express it. I dedicated myself to the struggle to preserve my culture and my race. I don’t need to give my readers an argument for why this struggle is the struggle: if our culture and our race are lost, all is lost. On the scale of catastrophes, it is equivalent to the sun burning out. If that happened, all life on earth would end. If Western culture and the white race were to cease to exist, life would go on but what would be lost is the finest of mirrors nature has created for the purpose of beholding itself.
I’m a cosmotheist: our cosmic role is to be the self-consciousness of existence. Our role is to actualize God in the flesh. And all of the glories of our culture — which outshine those of all others — have been consciously or unconsciously created for this end.
This is the “great thing” my mother said I would do: saving the white race. I don’t think I’m going to do this singlehanded, of course. I am going to need a little help. And I suppose this is the reason I have decided to bare my soul and tell you all of this. If you’re one of these kids I spit at in school, chances are you’ve stopped reading by this point. But if any of this has struck a chord with you, then follow me. Follow us. If you have ever felt the call of destiny, and felt that you had something great that you must accomplish, look no further. There can be no greater task than this.
No excuses, please. You are going to die. And possibly sooner than you think. So I want you now to give up inwardly on the life you have led up to this point. I am not telling you to quit your job or divorce your wife or stop watching The Vampire Diaries. Outwardly, you need change hardly anything. Inwardly, however, you must detach yourself from the crap you have hitherto cared about and from now on care about one and only one thing: the survival of our culture and our race (yes, that includes your children — I hope).
I said no excuses. So that means that you must do this now. Not after you’ve done this that and the other thing. If you do not know what to do, wait. Or, for now, support those who do do something — especially those who actually have made the Movement their full-time job. You can also email me care of the editor of this site, who will forward your message. Tell me your situation, and I will do my best to advise you.
I said no excuses. So please, no negativity. If we think we’re not going to win then of course we won’t. If we think we’re doomed then of course we are. If there is no greater cause (there isn’t), and if our cause is just (it is), and if it is in principle winnable (it is), then we have a moral obligation not to entertain defeatist thoughts.
Besides, I can assure you that we are going to win. I am as confident of this as I am of “my destiny.” I have a hotline to the World Spirit, you see. There is a plan, and this present age of darkness is a part of it. There are men and women who will align themselves with the forces of darkness, and others who will align themselves with the light. It is those latter who will lead us out of our present predicament, even if they never live to see the fruits of their labors.
Join us. It’s really not a matter of “giving your life a purpose.” It’s more like becoming a god. You too can be a world-historical individual. Choose this — really choose this — before you leave this page. Or don’t come back here again, because I don’t want to see you.
That was magnificent!
Jef is seducing our special little snow flake egos into becoming White Nationalists…
Petronius, you are a precious, adorable angel.
Question for Jef and abyone else: Do you have children yourself? And if so how do you raise them in our values? How for example do you explain cosmotheism? On a more basic level, how do you support them through their schooling and counteract the negative influences they face?
You raise some very serious questions.
No, I don’t have children myself. And the thought of having them kind of horrifies me, partly because I have no idea how to deal with these sorts of problems. How do you teach your children the truth and protect them from lies, in a world that is almost nothing but lies? The thought of my daughter bringing Rufus home, or my son declaring he’s “transgendered,” or either my son or my daughter using the word “diversity” appalls me. I would have to disown them, that’s all there is to it. Perhaps someone with children can weigh in here.
Yes, Herman Melville used to go off on his children. Like other sensitive souls, he realized America was going very wrong. In one memorable rage, he couldn’t bear it when his young daughter came home from school and mentioned “profit” in the way bright children will when they learn a new word. In later life, she forbade people to even mention him in her presence.
But Bravo! Don’t feel too bad – some cells must specialize for the good of the body. You are a white blood cell repelling an infection – and one of the first to recognize it. Many more are coming. Your introversion is a great asset. We can’t deal with the Jews if we only see surfaces.
How should we inferiors worship You? should one bow towards New York at a certain time of day or night, and what prayers should be spoken? should we send you 10% of our income?
10% is a good beginning. Bowing is sufficient (complete prostration is un-Western). Also, once a day is fine. You may choose the time, but not before 10am (I usually sleep until then).
Fabulous post. Deeply inspiring.
Juleigh, thanks for the advice. I was homeschooled myself and feel that I missed out on some things academically and socially, but having said that I would regard it as a sound option. My wife feels differently though, and since it would be her at home doing it I can’t really force her.
She shares my views up to a point but I don’t force certain issues. There’s miscegenation in her immediate family and she’s very conflicted about it. All of which makes it hard for me to lay down the law. I guess I may be looking at a masculinity deficit here, but it strikes me that some things are certainly harder in practice than in theory!
Very early on I perceived the lack of self-awareness in others; and their mechanicalness.
There’s a Robert Heinlein short story called “They” about a man confined to a mental institution who is convinced that he is one of the few self-aware beings in the universe. Most other people, he believes, are soulless automatons, with nothing going on inside their heads, puppets for some unseen conspiracy. Ah, but our protagonist is aware, he understands that the world around him is a facade erected by other godlike beings to keep him deceived, so he is thus godlike himself.
Is he suffering from a paranoid delusion? Delusions of grandeur? Psychotic solipsism?
Nope, because as the story shakes out, it’s all true! He really is a godlike being, the world around him is so many false fronts, and the doctor with whom he plays chess is another godlike being keeping him distracted from his true destiny.
I suppose there is some sort of way to operationalize this. Like, what is it that causes people to become aware; more specifically, what is that would cause white people to become racially aware?
I mean, I have always been aware of the racial issue. Ever since I was a kid. It seemed so self-evident that you didn’t need to even rationalize it. I was pro-white South African regardless of all the anti-apartheid agitprop in the media and academia. White South Africans were my side, part of my reality. Who in their right minds would sell out their own side for some ideological slogans (OK, just about the entire political class in the Western world…).
As Winston Smith observes to himself in the Ministry of Truth, could the other Party members really believe the propaganda pouring from the telescreens? Were they really mindless entities capable only of shouting slogans and marching along in the war against Eurasia–or is it Eastasia? His answer: “yes!” And they would tear to pieces anyone who tried to make them aware.
But not always.
To take another literary allusion, some people take the Red Pill late in life, others have it in their DNA. You can look at movies like The Matrix and Fight Club and Truman Show and even David Lynch’s Dune as parables about heroes who tear down the facade and become aware. Then they can lead the Revolution.
Which is why, I believe, these movies have become iconic for our time–they resound with something in white people, something perhaps buried deep, something waiting for the right trigger to break free.
And become aware.
What’s the name of that Camus story where the guy is horrified when he realizes that he just let a girl drown and did nothing? He doesn’t feel bad either – except at contemplating what a monster he is. He redeems himself to himself because at least he is aware of being a monster! Truly the lower mind is a Hall of Mirrors, many of them distorting – a “fun” house.
I could easily envision torture being advocated as a way to make people more aware – just as totalitarians and medieval psychologists used pain to drive out bad thoughts. I’ll settle for Aristocracy as opposed to mass false awakenings of “Awareness”. The People need leaders with a true message – and new myths in the Jungian sense, not just lies.
Great article. I couldn’t help thinking about the Paul Simon song with these lyrics:
I’m a consecrated boy
Singer in a Sunday choir
Oh, my mama loves me, she loves me
She get down on her knees and hug me
Oh, she loves me like a rock
She rock me like the rock of ages
And she loves me
She love me, love me, love me, love me
Glad you have a great mom!
Jeff, in matters vegetable, animal and mineral, you are the very model of a modern world-historical individual.
Narcissists of the world unite!
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