It was a Friday night when I stepped off the L train into Williamsburg. I lit a cigarette and scanned the scene. The streets were crawling with hippies, hipsters, SWPLs, and bugmen, each one on their way to a reefer party or a “free love” orgy or a found film festival or whatever the hell degenerates do on nights like this. Williamsburg is one of the whitest places in New York City, but I didn’t feel any more at home among these freaks than I do in Harlem. (more…)
Let’s Have a Sequel Already! Marty Phillips’ Let Them Look West
Let Them Look West
Jackalope Hill: 2021
Economics. Christian theology. State-level politics. Journalism. Wyoming History. One will learn a lot about each of these topics when reading Let Them Look West by Marty Phillips. But the novel is so much more than all this. (more…)
Budapest: Terror House Press, 2021
When I heard that Terror House Press was republishing Guttersnipe by Canadian author Jay Black, I could not resist pre-ordering a copy. (more…)
The de la Poer Madness: Before and After Lovecraft’s “Rats in the Walls”
Robert M. Price, ed.
The Exham Cycle
Selma, North Carolina: Exham Priory, 2020
The de la Poer madness was so singular, opening up new lines of inquiry into the much-debated question of ancestral memory, that no men of the psychological sciences could in good conscience fail to try to resolve it. (more…)
Politicians, Guns, & Money: The Profane Memoirs of a Justified Con Man
Stephen Paul Foster
Toward the Bad I Kept on Turning: A Confessional Novel
Independently published, 2020
“My cynicism I carefully dissembled.”
“The sapience of a post-modern philosopher attached to the commentary of a Chicago mayor, I think, would bring a perfect understanding of where late-20th-century America was headed.” (more…)
“You Owe Them Everything!” A Review of Spencer Quinn’s Charity’s Blade
I have both the pleasure of informing Counter-Currents readers of an upcoming novel authored by Mr. Spencer Quinn and of reviewing this latest addition to white nationalist-friendly fiction. When critiquing an author (especially for the first time), I like to get a sense of his Weltanschauung by reading and synthesizing some of his other works in conjunction with the monograph in question. Thus, I will also refer throughout to a few of his salient articles. (more…)
Oh, what strange freaks one’s thoughts are guilty of when one is starving.
— Knut Hamsun, Hunger
Back in my misspent youth, I took a seminar on creative writing. One of the instructors gave the class a piece of advice which I never heeded. She said that if you want to be good enough at writing to make a living at it, don’t be good at anything else. (more…)
Google threw up no results and that surprised him. She had been ambitious, determined to become a famous actress, but he had not heard anything about her since she disappeared. Disappeared? That seemed a hard word . . . The Internet told him nothing, or rather by telling him nothing, it told him that in that respect she had failed. (more…)
The Red Pill: A Novel
Nashville/New York: Bombardier Books, 2019
“We weren’t conducive. We got together and hypered each other into a frenzy. His wife left for a younger woman; he couldn’t make love. Eventually he was hospitalized for being such a nerd.” — The Big Chill
Translated by Guillaume Durocher
Translator’s Note: I discovered these reflections nestled between some pornographic scenes in Michel Houellebecq’s recently published novel, Sérotonine (Paris: Flammarion, 2019), pp. 70-72.
It is perhaps necessary at this point to provide a few clarifications on love, largely aimed at women, because women don’t really understand what love is for men. (more…)
The eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month had passed, and Elsa Bauer could not sleep while the wind howled about the hilltop farm, running cold, malevolent fingers down her big stone chimney, the old beech’s branches rustling against the slate and glass like a cacophony from a demonic symphony. (more…)
Now in Audio Version!
Meeting to Some Purpose:
The Second International Colin Wilson Conference
As I have written about previously for Counter-Currents (as well as in a considerably revised and expanded version of this same essay that was included in North American New Right, vol. 2), the English philosopher, novelist, and compiler of eclectic knowledge of all kinds, Colin Wilson (1932-2013), is one of the most unjustly forgotten writers of our time. (more…)
An Advocate’s Progress:
Quinn Replaces Michener, A Review of White Like You
Spencer J. Quinn
White Like You
San Francisco: Counter-Currents Publishing, 2018
James A. Michener, a popular writer of my grandparents’ generation, didn’t publish his first book until he was 39, and this was after he had served as an officer in the US Navy in the Second World War. It seems one needs about four decades of life experience in order to write a decent book. (more…)
They were walking past a Fernwood gym one day while out shopping when Shannon uncharacteristically sighed, “I’ve put on so much weight this year. If only I had time to get to the gym!”
Nick responded by getting overly excited: “Hey, why not? Maybe we could go together.”
“Together? You do know that’s a women-only gym!” (more…)
I’m reviewing this book not because I think it’s an important one for the Dissident Right, but because knowing about it will be instructive. Kurt Schlichter’s People’s Republic is, in essence, a cowardly novel masquerading as a brave one. Yet, compared to the state of popular literature in the West, it’s still pretty brave. (more…)
My father was a killer, and a thief.
He’d search for signs of weakness in public, and he’d prey upon them. He’d scan the aisles of grocery stores and parking lots, searching for the weak and unaware.
Anyone walking with a limp, or paying too little attention to where they were going, was at risk of attending an involuntary seminar on the original meaning of “biohacking.” (more…)
One of the problems with getting interested in Jews is that they are, well, verbose. Digging into primary texts can become a sandtrap for spare time. Marcel Proust is notoriously dense, Ayn Rand is unending, Bill Kristol is incredibly repetitive, Philip Roth absurdly prolific, and so on. Really plumbing the Jewish mind through their own fiction is, quite frankly, a timesuck. (more…)
They were sleeping apart after Yusuf had yet again failed to stand up to his parents, who still refused to acknowledge their son’s de facto relationship with her. Maureen had just overheard heard him yet again tactfully and without remonstration decline to be set up with someone more to their liking, who would make him a “good wife.” They would sleep apart that night.
Her bed was a raft out in a pitch black sea reminiscent of an illustration in a book of nursery rhymes from when she was a child. (more…)
That day he awoke in the fifth-floor walk-up he still wasn’t used to. The coffee he made was enough of a treat that he didn’t mind getting out of bed, and his legs felt younger than the rest of him, carrying him down all those stairs and back up more stairs to the train. When the sun flicked in the swiftly moving windows, he noticed he didn’t hate his job much this time. It felt reasonable to be going there. (more…)
Why did I agree to become involved? As I look back now I can see no clear decision or conscious choice, just a hapless falling into circumstance. If I had refused to entertain the stupid idea from the beginning would that have absolved me from the knowledge that was to come to me? Or was I already destined to find it no matter what I willed or thought? (more…)
Their lunch breaks overlapping, as often happened, Ted was hovering around while Jenna and her friend Dina — these days heavily involved with the campus group that called itself “The Nonviolent Gender Alliance” — discussed whether Jenna might be persuaded to come along too, and if so, who she would bring. (more…)
He changed to a walk from an easy jog and his breathing eased. The back road was unlit and not often traveled this late at night, which suited him just fine. In one hand he carried a quart can; jammed inside was an inexpensive sash brush, its bristles ragged and handle sticky. (more…)
Inspired by the Haiku by Holly Aglialoro, USA
“A fragrant lilac beckons me to approach it and quiet my mind”
— Holly Aglialoro, USA
The mist rose from the wintry torrent as the water, superheated by the hot spring at his feet, received the plunging glacial runoff from the mountain above. The roar was deafening. (more…)
This story is based on a “creepypasta” entitled “Channel 67” published in a collection edited by Gregory West and Hayley Wicker. Like most such urban legends, the story sounded familiar to me when I read it, although I have not been able to find any other closely similar versions online. (more…)
I see them crowd on crowd they walk the earth
Dry, leafless trees no Autumn wind laid bare;
And in their nakedness find cause for mirth,
And all unclad would winter’s rudeness dare;
No sap doth through their clattering branches flow,
Whence springing leaves and blossoms bright appear;
Their hearts the living God have ceased to know,
Who gives the springtime to th’expectant year;
They mimic life, as if from him to steal
His glow of health to paint the livid cheek; (more…)
The bend in the river was leafy and green with old trees that hung their thick branches out and over. The shadows were almost black at some parts on the banks, spreading gradually to grey green, then dappling away into nothing by the middle of the water. The sunlight sparkled gold and white on the dark waters. (more…)
Roger sat in the gaming room of his local pub with a dwindling reserve of chips in his cup. The feeling of sinking deeper into the irredeemable with every coin inserted gave him an odd thrill, even though fundamentally he knew it was stupid. That was the point. And it made a fantasy come to life in his mind: If he kept losing he could always go home to his flat, pack a bag or two, jump in the car and just drive–just say goodbye to everything and maybe get a job picking fruit, cash in hand. Forget the credit card companies and live off the grid somewhere. (more…)
Chapter five of a novel, Heidegger in Chicago (a comedy of errors).
The Plaza Hotel in Manhattan was just as Heidegger remembered it. (more…)
Counter-Currents Radio Podcast No. 109
Tito Perdue Reads “Good Things in Tiny Places”Counter-Currents RadioCounter-Currents Radio Podcast No. 109
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