Macrobius
Megaphoron
(WS Lind, 1995, writing 'fiction')I well remember the crowd that gathered for the execution, solemn but not sad, relieved rather that at last, after so many years of humiliation, of having to swallow every absurdity and pretend we liked it, the majority had taken back the culture. No more apologies for the truth. No more “Yes, buts” on upholding standards. Civilization had recovered its nerve.
And yet, Civilisation was not yours to destroy. Faustian Civilisation will return.
It has come to my attention that WS Lind's novel Victoria, while still available on Amazon Kindle for 10 USD, has lost its free version at the website (https://www.traditionalright.com/victoria/ no longer works ). Here's 2017
Starting with the execution of an Anglican Female Bishop was a promising start. We should try this in the future. DEATH TO THE PAN-HERESY OF ECUMENISM... ORTHODOXY OR DEATH! @Nikephoros II Phokas
'Christian' Heresy is the only true enemy of Christendom, whatever form it takes in our '21st' century, and however poorly named that century is.
well, CALL ME ISHAMAEL:
> The triumph of the Recovery was marked most clearly by the burning of the Episcopal bishop of Maine.
...
> The fact that the easy road was not taken, that Episcopalians turned to their difficult duty of trying and convicting, and the state upheld its unpleasant responsibility of setting torch to faggots, was what marked this as an act of Recovery.
...
>
But the Prince of This World whom she served gives his devotees neither an easy nor a dignified exit. She bawled, she babbled, she shrieked in Hellish tongues, she pissed and pooped herself. The pyre was lit at 12:01 PM on a cool, cloudless [[ I would have said, Childless. -M, ed. ]] August 18th, St. Helen’s day. The flames climbed fast; after all, they’d been waiting for her for a long time.
When it was over, none of us felt good about it. But we’d long since learned feelings were a poor guide. We’d done the right thing.
[[ Me: Cotton Mather did NOTHING WRONG. YOU are here to survive, not to feel good, and your 14-word children, Sons of Adam and Daughters of Eve... 'tenn ambar metta! Maran atha! ]]
St Helena and Constantine. FUCK YEAH. Roman Celts and Saxons have this.
On April 30, 1995, William S. Lind published an op ed in The Washington Post that foresaw a future breakup of the United States, driven by multiculturalism. The piece described not only America’s second civil war, but also a recovery of our traditional, Western, Christian culture. That cultural and moral recovery was led by a new country located in the northeast, which named itself Victoria because it had returned to Victorian values.
Mr. Lind’s op ed has since been turned into a book, Victoria: A Novel of Fourth Generation War, by “Thomas Hobbes,” the well-known theorist of the state and author of Leviathan.
Table of Contents
Book 1: Dissolution
Preface
The triumph of the Recovery was marked most clearly by the burning of the Episcopal bishop of Maine.
She was not a particularly bad bishop. She was in fact typical of Episcopal bishops of the first quarter of the 21st century: agnostic, compulsively political and radical, and given to placing a small idol of Isis on the altar when she said the Communion service. By 2055, when she was tried for heresy, convicted, and burned, she had outlived her era. By that time only a handful of Episcopalians still recognized female clergy, it would have been easy enough to let the old fool rant out her final years in obscurity.
The fact that the easy road was not taken, that Episcopalians turned to their difficult duty of trying and convicting, and the state upheld its unpleasant responsibility of setting torch to faggots, was what marked this as an act of Recovery. I well remember the crowd that gathered for the execution, solemn but not sad, relieved rather that at last, after so many years of humiliation, of having to swallow every absurdity and pretend we liked it, the majority had taken back the culture. No more apologies for the truth. No more “Yes, buts” on upholding standards. Civilization had recovered its nerve. The flames that soared above the lawn before the Maine State House were, as the bishopess herself might have said, liberating.
She could have saved herself, of course, right up until the torch was applied. All she had to do was announce she wasn’t a bishop, or a priest, since Christian tradition forbids a woman to be either. Or she could have confessed she wasn’t a Christian, in which case she could be bishopess, priestess, popess, whatever, in the service of her chosen demons. That would have just gotten her tossed over the border.
But the Prince of This World whom she served gives his devotees neither an easy nor a dignified exit. She bawled, she babbled, she shrieked in Hellish tongues, she pissed and pooped herself. The pyre was lit at 12:01 PM on a cool, cloudless August 18th, St. Helen’s day. The flames climbed fast; after all, they’d been waiting for her for a long time.
When it was over, none of us felt good about it. But we’d long since learned feelings were a poor guide. We’d done the right thing.
***
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Book 2: War
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
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