Why I Write
Bocca della Verita

918 words

Orwell once wrote that “intellectual honesty is a crime in any totalitarian country; but even in England it is not exactly profitable to speak and write the truth.”

I come downstairs, drop the stylus on my crackling vinyl of Furtwängler conducting Wagner’s Parsifal Prelude, spread Oxford marmalade on warm toast, and lift my eyes to stare at the stone crowned mountains out my window. Then, as part of my weekend ritual, I stir my tea and begin to open a copy of The Sunday Times.

There, I am confronted with headlines about two white do-gooder jail reformers with post-doctoral credentials being stabbed to death on London Bridge by the apparently de-radicalized ISIS fanatic, Usman Khan, who was supposedly a role model for their cause.

I read about the Cambridge-educated son of shadow Home Secretary, Diane Abbott, yet another beneficiary of affirmative action, being arrested for spitting on and biting two police officers in a rabid attack outside the Foreign & Commonwealth Office in London.

I’m informed of Mohammad being declared, yet again, the most popular boy’s name in Britain, those named Nala quadrupling in number, and Simba (apparently from The Lion King) appearing in the top 100 for the first time.

I hear from Rabbi Herschel Gluck and Detective Superintendent Adam Ghaboos from the Metropolitan Police, who roundly condemn an alleged anti-Semitic attack in Amhurst Park, near a popular Stamford Hill synagogue, without mentioning the Islamic views of the perpetrators who apparently shouted “Kill the dirty fucking Jews!”

I ponder the record number of illegals who had stolen five boats in Northern France to cross the English Channel — followed by the ubiquitous linked advert for International Child Aid sporting an image of a starving African teenage bride with a drooling infant hanging on her hip just begging for our help.

I shake my head and move on to the culture section where I am treated to a front page depicting Francesca Hayward, a mixed-race dancer who is playing a white cat in the Andrew Lloyd Webber musical adaption of T. S. Eliot’s Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats (1939). She is quoted as saying: “The bottom line is, I’m playing a cat. I’m a cat that’s white. Let’s not read anything into it.”

There are reviews of the film The Nightingale, which depicts British redcoats raping and committing heinous crimes against the indigenous aboriginal population of Van Diemen’s Land (now Tasmania) in the 1820s, and the BBC’s adaption of Jane Austen’s Sanditon with negroes playing prominent parts in the cast.

There is an analysis of a new stage production of the C. S. Lewis children’s classic The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe with four black children playing the Pevensie quartet and a Rastafarian starring as Aslan; the announcement of a musical titled And Juliet with the leading role played by negress; and overly sympathetic diatribes about the merits of Ulrich Baer’s What Snowflakes Get Right — Free Speech, Truth and Equality on Campus (2019) and a second supporting the thesis put forward in Angela Saini’s book Superior — The Return of Race Science (2019) which argues that the idea that humans exist in different races and that “race” is deeply embedded is untrue and that the people who peddle such information are “racist quacks.” I take a sip of the Darjeeling from bone china and perform my well-practiced impersonation of a mallard duck from the local canal.

Reaching for my keyboard, I know only too well that I am outnumbered and outgunned. But that simply spurs me to further action. I begin to type like some kind of frenetic political pianist once again.

For I can clearly recall as a seven-year-old fair-haired and innocent child plunging my fist into the cold smooth orifice of the ancient carving commemorating either the Forest God Faunus or the Sea God Oceanus, now known as the Mouth of Truth, in the entrance way to Santa Maria Cosmedin in the Ripa district of Rome. I withdrew my thin pale hand with all five fingers still perfectly intact.

There is no doubt in my mind that we are in the midst of Gramsci’s long declared — but still poorly understood — Culture War, and those who speak the truth will be the first to be ostracized, persecuted and strung up on meat hooks like Mussolini and Petacci in the Piazzale Loreto before a sinister and depraved multicultural crowd braying for blood. A chaotic mob stirred to self-righteous anger by the high priests of political correctness who would willingly sacrifice your virginal daughters on the altar of equality & diversity, as they do all over Europe at this very time, in order to fulfill their mission — casting a death shroud over the West — shoveling dank soil on the fresh graves of our babies — perpetuating the lies that we can so readily dispute and contest using the evidence of our very own eyes. So I count myself among those holding on to the hope that as Arthur Schopenhauer says — “All truth passes through three stages. First, it is ridiculed. Second, it is violently opposed. Third, it is accepted as being self-evident.”

And I am more than willing to stand once more before the carved face of the Bocca della Verita to be tested as to the veracity of my opinions and the accuracy of what I write and say. Will our opponents also be willing to undergo such a commission? I very much doubt it. As Nietzsche once wrote — “Sometimes people don’t want to hear the truth because they don’t want their illusions destroyed.”