“The vain-glory which consisteth in the feigning or supposing of abilities in ourselves (which we know are not) is most incident to young men, and nourished by the histories or fictions of gallant persons; and is corrected oftentimes by age and employment.”
“Many times I’m asked, why the Bronze Age? Because it’s the heroic age you see in Iliad and Odyssey, yes, but don’t forget what hero really means.”
—Bronze Age Pervert
As Bronze Age Pervert continues to grow in popularity (as, I assure you, he most certainly will), the prisoners of our regime will inevitably turn to one another, blink, and ask: “Who are they?” With this question in mind I take up my current task: to tell you, reader, in a sketch, who we are and who I am.
In a word, we are a problem: a hated, wicked, confused, and tortured problem. I offer the following auto-vivisection in order to limn this problem. My audience is perhaps twofold. Those unfamiliar with the longings, demands, and cruelty of our souls will begin to fathom depths they’ve never imagined. Could others gain clarity about themselves—as if they’d fallen, suddenly, to their knees and been permitted to glimpse the divine, painful light of self-knowledge? Is self-knowledge today possible?A strange, questionable question to be sure. Even the question mark casts a long shadow. For far too long I thought it impossible to find the contours of that long shadow; instinct and habit look the same in the dark. I thought it folly even to risk posing the question on account of the boundless, terrible shadows of the formidable question mark. Do not blame me if you lose your way in the dark.
Allow me to juxtapose our souls with our regime. Our regime is grounded on a promise: that human beings are all equal, endowed with inalienable rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. These rights are, in turn, grounded not on a greatest good, but on a greatest evil, a summum malum: fear of violent death. Our souls, by contrast, reject this fear. We are those who make that promise (the promise to end fear itself) a problem. We are the “vainglorious.”
You forgot that we existed. You thought that the vainglorious were products of a “backwards consciousness,” the bastardized results of particular, homogeneous, closed societies. You sought, from the very beginning, to extinguish us. Are you at all surprised when we, having struck your idols with our hammers and heard their hollow ringing, reject your way of life?
Business, sports, pornography, video games, and travel. These are the “goods” you offer us and everyone to live for. In all healthy regimes these activities are rightly looked down on as contemptible, as symptoms of decline, a siren-song that leads only the weak astray. Can real men be satisfied with these paltry diversions that cloud our awareness that we have been denied a chance at experiencing the peaks of life? Other peoples look on your idol without understanding and hate it. Who can blame them? Do you not smell the rotting decadence in which you bathe yourselves and your families? Your valley of vice is an abyss.
We do not seek “recognition.” That is your way of life. We seek a regime that doesn’t wish to eliminate us. We seek a regime whose raison d’être isn’t our destruction. (Our destruction is indeed the sine qua non for your little happiness.) The fact that you ask us to live here in diaspora vindicates my thesis that you have never understood us. You have been grossly ignorant of that piece of nature we are.
Or have you? When we express our dissatisfaction, you call us sick and offer us poison. You can offer us no reason to live, but you imprison us with the numb pleasures of anti-depressants. Our sterilization starts early. You want us to be gentle, calm, malleable. When we don’t act effeminately, you “discover” that we suffer from attention deficient disorder and correct our “sick” spiritedness with Ritalin. It seems never to have occurred to you that the problem might reside in you and not in us. Did you sincerely expect us to coexist with you? We will no longer go voluntarily to the madhouse.
Some of us who survived the monotonous brutality of your “education,” turned inevitably to war and self-sacrifice. These botched-experiments came to believe that they could live a serious life by dedicating themselves to the cause of “freedom.” Only when we came face to face with our true enemy did we see the error of our ways. What exactly were we dying for? For you? For your “freedom”? Are we to lay down our lives so that you can go to Miley Cyrus concerts with your whorish daughters? So that you can smoke weed while watching Netflix? So that furries can attend conventions in their semen-stained costumes? So that mothers can chemically castrate their sons they wish to be girls? So that the people we protect can spit on the flag we die for and on the coffins of our fallen brothers? We thank you for the clarity and self-knowledge you have afforded us. We now seek our true good: the birthright of the vainglorious.
I close with a word about mainstream conservatism. In particular, I address Michael Anton’s critique of BAP, which is, for the moment, conservatism’s closest point of contact with us. Anton claims that BAP never addresses the question of the best regime and he (Anton) heralds the American regime (at its founding) as the best regime. When invoking any notion of the good, one must ask the question barely veiled beneath the surface: cui bono? To be succinct, Anton has not seen the good for what it is. He mistakes the good of the gentleman for the good of everyone. When he says that the American regime is the best, we ask, “Best for whom?” The answer is quite simple: from the beginning, at its peak, America was a regime for the benefit of shopkeepers. That is not best for us.
The choice is simple. Do we accept our natural longing for danger and beauty, cruelty and greatness, probity and virtue? Or do we accept the lie that the conventional idols propped up before us are true? Will we be men? Or will we be slaves? There is a great danger in choosing the former. For you cannot stomach honesty. If you had your envious, resentful way, you tarantulas with your gently suffocating despotism would softly flatten the souls of those who profess their vainglorious, piratical nature. Molon labe.
Are you still stumbling in the dark? Or do you feel the searing heat of the light of nature?—perhaps even of your nature?