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  1. #411
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    Quote Originally Posted by palesye
    ...my favourite Juenger's book
    is "In Stahlgewittern" (Storms of Steel).
    what is the subject-matter?

    what did you learn from the book.

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    Quote Originally Posted by lei.talk
    what is the subject-matter?

    what did you learn from the book.
    "In Stahlgewittern" is Jünger´s WW1 diary. Very callous narrative and contrary to most other famous WW1 literature absolutely non-apologetic.

    The author, Ernst Jünger (1895-1998), was a German volunteer and became one of the most decorated stormtroop commanders of WW1. The book was reconstructed from his war-diary and describes the relentless bloodbath without the whining undertone wich usually is found in WW1 literature.

    I didn´t find a complete English online edition but here is an excerpt:
    " I had the suffocating sensation of unreality when my eyes fixed themselves on a human form, streaming with blood, whose leg was hanging from his body at a strange angle and who was letting out a continuous stream of hoarse cries for help as if death still had him by the throat. We dragged him to a house outside which hung the flag of the Red Cross.
    What happened at that moment? The war had shown its claws and thrown aside its good-natured mask. How mysterious it all was, how impersonal! We hardly thought about the enemy, that enigmatic and evil being somewhere beyond the horizon. This episode, which was entirely new for us, had such a violent impact on our minds that we had to make a distinct effort to grasp the concept. It was like the appearance of a ghost in the middle of the afternoon. "
    Ernst Jünger was wounded 14 times during frontline combat:
    5 bullets
    2 grenade slivers
    1 shrapnell-ball
    4 handgrenade slivers
    2 bullet slivers

    His comment: "In this war, where already more rooms than single humans came under fire, I still managed to get eleven of this shots personally aimed at me."
    Tolerance is a proof of distrust in one's own ideals. Friedrich Nietzsche


  3. #413
    Senior Member Wissen ist Macht's Avatar
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    Almost finished with Rosenberg's "Mythus des 20. Jahrhunderts" (the middle-part about architecture gave me the creeps and I really had to motivate myself to continue reading...), also reading "Oedipus" by Sophocles and "Der Angriff" by Dr. Goebbels.

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    Quote Originally Posted by Wissen ist Macht
    Almost finished with Rosenberg's "Mythus des 20. Jahrhunderts" (the middle-part about architecture gave me the creeps and I really had to motivate myself to continue reading...),
    Haha, we all had to!
    Tolerance is a proof of distrust in one's own ideals. Friedrich Nietzsche


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    Egils Saga Skallagrímssonar

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    I read this book this afternoon while sitting out in the yard:



    The subtitle means "my life as a brothel manager". It's the supposedly true story of a Finn who managed a Finnish-owned whorehouse on Spain's Costa del Sol in 1999-2001.

    Pleasant junk food for the brain.

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    Thats an original choice of litterature!

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    A Distant Thunder4:

    http://distant-thunder.kicks-ass.org/

    In the past couple of months we’d already had a couple of close calls, and so we followed the drill when we pulled into the lot at Fulton’s Market on Second Street about two in the afternoon on a clear and sunny day, although it was quite cold. Sullivan and Jones went into the store, I back-in parked at the far end of the lot with the engine turned off (an alert cop always knows to take a second look at anyone sitting in a car with the engine running) and I put my baseball cap on backwards while I held a computer game conspicuously in my hand, which I pretended to be playing while I scanned the lot. Johnny circled the area in a wide, leisurely patrol pattern about six blocks around. Maybe five minutes had gone by since the two Volunteers went into the store, I figured they’d be in the checkout line by now, and I was watching the doors for them to emerge when I saw the Washington State Patrol cruiser slide into the lot. Then another. Then a third unit rolled in at the far entrance to the lot down on my right. No blue lights, no sirens. This looked bad. We were well inside the city limits, it was DPD jurisdiction and the state troopers shouldn’t even be here. I dropped down below the wheel of my own Taurus as one of the squad cars went by, and after a few seconds I peeped over the dashboard. They were moving into place to block both entrances and exits near the frontage of the supermarket, and I saw a huge figure get out of one of the patrol cars wearing a Smokey the Bear hat. Even at a distance I could tell it was my old buddy Sergeant Leon Sorels. Journeys end in lovers meeting, I thought madly to myself, knowing that I was within seconds of watching two of my comrades die.

    Now it was my time. The moment when I would decide what kind of man I was and what kind of man I would be. I understood this, and at the same time I was damned near crapping in my pants, I thanked God for giving me the awareness of that moment, for it is granted to few human beings to know when it happens. Usually we don’t recognize our defining moment until it’s long past, no matter how we handle it. But I’d been thinking about it a lot over the past few months, and I knew. We had all been briefed on General Order Number Eight, the "feets don’t fail me now" order which stated that whenever we were confronted with overwhelming force we were to un-ass the area pronto and live to fight another day. By now I counted four patrol cars in the lot, two troopers per car opening their doors and stepping out, some with riot helmets and shotguns and flak jackets, and I had to assume that more were coming, which I am sure fit anyone’s reasonable definition of overwhelming force. I had a good rep with the crew as a cool and steady hand, I had General Order Number Eight to cover my ass, and while Sully and Jonesy were comrades they were not from our particular unit, strangers in a sense, barely on speaking terms. I recalled Red’s little pep talk the night we whacked Officer Des Farrow about how my purpose was not to be a hero engaging in private duels with the enemy, I was a political soldier trying to achieve a political objective, the mission came first, and the media’s schoolyard taunts of cowardice were neither here nor there.

    There was just one problem with that. Running away and leaving your comrades alone and on foot to face down an enemy ambush on their own happens really to be cowardice.

    I was sure the Wingfields would be so glad to get me back in one piece that no one would judge me if I yelled a number eight into the cell phone, abandoned the Taurus and had Johnny pick me up a few blocks away. But how would I myself judge the face I saw in the mirror every day? I had already decided in my own mind that my brave talk at Chowder Society meetings and under the trees behind the Wingfield house with Rooney about being willing to give up my own life for my new country wasn’t going to be just talk to impress her. I meant it in my heart. I was sure I meant it when I said it, anyway, and I knew I’d damned well better prove to Rooney that I meant it. Well, now my bluff was being called, and I had about five more seconds to do something that would give that boy and girl in the store some kind of fighting chance, and which would inevitably turn the attention of eight well trained and heavily armed mercenaries right on me. No cover of night, no catching them off guard, just me and them with our respective weapons in our hands. Oh, crap.

    Before I could even make a conscious decision, I was just doing it. I picked up the cell phone and spoke, "Hey, Albert. I got three orders coming up off the grill and I’ll pull them if I can, but I may need you to pull three."

    "Okay, Carl," replied Pilafski. John later told me my voice was calm. I must be a calm hysteric, then, because I was half out of my mind with fear and pumping adrenalin. I felt down into a gym bag on the seat beside me, beneath the sweaty shorts and socks and towels my hand came on the cold metal of my gun for the day. I pulled out a stainless steel .357 Magnum revolver with a six inch barrel and a plastic black Pachmayr grip that through some perverse destiny fit nice and solidly into my small palm. It was John Hunt’s old Colt, thank God, not that chintzy Brazilian Taurus, and I knew it was loaded with some of Carter’s hand-made devastator rounds with a cap in the tip of each slug, so there was a chance I could pierce the state troopers’ Kevlar. The gun was heavy and yet it hefted well. I had one cylindrical speedloader with another six cartridges and some loose rounds in my shirt pocket; I could see one of the troopers leaning over the roof of his squad car with a 40-mm grenade launcher ready to fire tear gas or even a shot round, and another had an M-16 out. This ambush looked a bit impromptu. Probably somebody in the store had gotten suspicious and called 911 and the state police responded, since I’m sure word had already gotten around that the Dundee cops had been compromised by me and Carter’s little heart-to-heart talk with Greg on New Year’s Eve.

    I was about to dial Sully’s cell number to warn them when I saw the two of them pass in front of the window of the market, their arms full of brown paper bags of groceries. Ma always asked us to bring her the paper bags instead of the plastic ones because they made good garbage bags. There was no more time. The two Volunteers would be walking through the door in about three seconds. There was only one thing for me to do. Through some miracle the cops didn’t know that Shane Ryan was around, but it was time for me to introduce ‘em to the boy. I slid out of the car, snuck around to the right passenger side of the Taurus where I’d have a little bit more metal and upholstery between myself and incoming bullets, and then I crouched down and leveled a two-handed firing stance on the hood, keeping as low a profile as I could, and I aimed the .357 right at Leon Sorels’ broad back about thirty yards away where he stood in a similar position with his own weapon pointed at the automatic door of the supermarket. The doors opened and Comrade Sullivan and Comrade Jones stepped out and froze when they saw the reception committee. On this occasion at least, possibly because there were potential witnesses around, Sergeant Sorels went through the procedural motions by bellowing "Police! Drop your..!" at which point I shot him in the back, as unchivalrously as Red Morehouse could have wished.

    And missed.

    Okay, so I was scared pea green and I wasn’t exactly Davy Crockett. But I sure as hell startled Sorels. My bullet plowed into the top doorjamb of his squad car with a pop and a spark and must have showered him with some debris, because he bellowed something I sure wouldn’t want to go down as my last mortal words on earth, and his hand jerked up as he fired his 9-mil automatic. One of the other cops yelled "They’re behind us!" and damned if I didn’t hear fear in his voice as well, and that broke the spell. Okay, everybody’s got guns and everybody is scared and so let’s take it from there. I can deal with that. Sorels whirled and I put my next bullet square in his chest. Rather to my amazement I was firing single-action, actually cocking the weapon and aiming rather than closing my eyes and blasting away on double-action. Carter Wingfield proved himself to be a damned good arms instructor on that cold winter afternoon. Sorels was wearing one of the newest super-vests with that odd woven-steel fabric in it. I had one myself later on and they feel like you’re wearing a snakeskin. They’re light and flexible and impenetrable to anything short of a 50-cal. exploder, and they can even stop those from about four hundred yards on out. At a hundred feet or so that vest stopped a .357 Magnum devastator, but the kinetic force of it slammed Sorels back into his own car and sent him sliding unconscious to the ground. The other cops whirled about, confused and looking to see where the shots were coming from, and I was able to get off a third shot at a ducking trooper before they started shooting back at me, shattering the windshield of the Taurus and spraying powdered glass up in my face. By then Sully was down behind a stack of firewood for sale pumping shots out of a .45 automatic, and I saw Jonesy leaning down like she was trying to pick something up off the ground. But she wasn’t trying to pick something up; she was rolling something. I jumped back behind another car and fired again, trying to keep count of six in my mind of, and then there was a mighty bang and a state patrol car did the hootchy-kootchy and exploded into flames.

    Jonesy was the kind of girl who carried hand grenades in her purse.

    Having discovered that they had bitten off a wee bit more than they could chew, the state troopers hollered and scattered, a couple of them with their pants on fire. I decided it was time for me to do the same. I’d done my bit, I hadn’t dodged the bullet in any sense of the word, I hadn’t fallen back on General Order Number Eight, and I was somewhat proud of myself. I started running down Second Street. Behind the store a Mexican in a grocery apron was standing there gawking at all the noise, holding a crate of leafy produce of some kind, an expression of slack astonishment on his face. Since he had no business being in my country I shot him on general principles, and ran on. As I reached the corner of Second and Main I saw the pickup truck with Johnny Pill driving turn the corner, and the other two running Volunteers piled into the cab. Fortunately it was one of these big tanks yuppies used to get their dumb-ass jock sons in college as a status symbol, so there was plenty of room for three up front, but not four. In a heartbeat, I was up on the running board and over into the back bed, lying flat, and then we were off, fast at first and then slowing down as we eased onto the interstate. We passed Fulton’s market as the sirens wailed in the distance, and as I lay on my back I made a note in my mind of the telephone number on their wall. While I enjoyed my bumpy reclining ride I took out my cell phone and called them up. "Is this the manager?" I asked. I could hear screaming and shouting and police radios in the background.

    "Uh, this is the assistant manager," mumbled the guy on the other end, who appeared to be in shock. "We just had a…what can I..?"

    "You can quit hiring wetbacks," I said.

    "What?"

    "I’m the guy who just plugged that spic of yours out back," I yelled over the sound of traffic on the interstate, lying on the bed of the pickup. "You will, let me repeat that, you will get rid of all of your non-white employees, and you will, let me repeat that, you will hire white Americans to replace them. Because if you don’t, asshole, you are going to see me in person. You just saw what we did in your parking lot, right?"

    "Bah…bah…bah…" babbled the idiot.

    "Next time I come in there I’d better not see one black or brown or yellow face. Otherwise you and me are going to have a quiet word of prayer, boy," I said in my best Carter Wingfield imitation. Then I hung up.

    The one thing that we understood from the start was that we had to hit ZOG where it hurt, in their wallets. Red Morehouse was right when he said that the generals never surrender in a colonial war, it’s always the accountants who convince the occupying power to throw in the towel. The rich businessmen who owned that supermarket chain could not have cared less about a single madrugadore warehouse hand; there were umpteen thousand more where he came from. But they understood that getting their stores shot up and their employees murdered on a regular basis was very bad for their bottom line, and already some far-seeing men among the Northwest business community were beginning to wrap their minds around the possibility that the mighty United States could not protect them from the NVA. Or at least couldn’t protect their bottom line. Profit came first, always, and when faced with a combined threat of falling profits and a bullet in the face, the Northwest’s economic ruling élite saw the light very quickly. For some odd reason, after we went waltzing Matilda in the parking lot that day with Sorels and his oafs and got away with it, all seventeen stores of the Fulton’s Market grocery chain throughout western Washington subsequently developed a remarkably non-diverse hiring policy. They never had a single visible non-white employee for the rest of the War of Independence. Wonder why that was? The NAACP and the Hispanic American Council tried to sue them, but the NVA shot the lawyers, which put an end to that lark and reinforced the point I first made that day in Dundee. I might also add that this policy paid them dividends in the future. Fulton’s is now the largest grocery chain in the Northwest American Republic, and every store has a large Tricolor flying prominently from the roof.
    http://northwestfront.org/

    ......naturally the best man could give them the best children. Because of that these chosen Freyr priests had several wives. - Varg Vikernes

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    Quote Originally Posted by Zyklop
    Quote Originally Posted by Wissen ist Macht
    Almost finished with Rosenberg's "Mythus des 20. Jahrhunderts" (the middle-part about architecture gave me the creeps and I really had to motivate myself to continue reading...),
    Haha, we all had to!
    Nah, I find reflections about architecture as cultural expression of blood and spirit always very stimulating. You guys have to read that chapter in Spengler's "Decline of the West" on different cultural spirits corresponding to different kinds of mathematics ("Vom Sinn der Zahlen")--then you'll breathe a sigh of relief when the glance turns back to Gothic cathedrals and Doric temples.
    Man ſei Held oder Heiliger. In der Mitte liegt nicht die Weisheit, ſondern die Alltäglichkeit.

    SPENGLER

  10. #420
    Senior Member Wissen ist Macht's Avatar
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    Quote Originally Posted by Nordgau
    Nah, I find reflections about architecture as cultural expression of blood and spirit always very stimulating. You guys have to read that chapter in Spengler's "Decline of the West" on different cultural spirits corresponding to different kinds of mathematics ("Vom Sinn der Zahlen")--then you'll breathe a sigh of relief when the glance turns back to Gothic cathedrals and Doric temples.
    OK
    It is not that I don't like his writings about architecture, they were just a bit too "architectural" for my likings. The best thing of the book is the third part anyways IMHO.

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