The Center for Literate Values ~ Defending the Western tradition of responsible individualism, disciplined freedom, tasteful creativity, common sense, and faith in a supreme moral being.
P R A E S I D I U M
A Common-Sense Journal of Literary and Cultural Analysis
12.2 (Spring 2012)
courtesy of artrenewal.org
Rules for Revolutionaries
J. S. Moseby
The abomination of the masses…
Do not imagine that our making common cause with a multitude of barking fools is anything more than a temporary expedient. Left to their own inclinations, these mongrel masses would swamp mankind the way a swarm of panic-stricken third-class passengers would swamp all of a ship’s lifeboats as she went down. Nobody would survive. Even if one boat miraculously managed to stay afloat, the ocean would be lapping at its gunwales, and the human overflow standing one atop another would surely send the whole delicately balancing rig to the bottom the first time an effort was made to pass around food or water.
The masses have all the qualities of animals in the wild. Though their component members think only of themselves, none of them is a true individual. It is their stomachs, rather, that cause them sometimes to balk at the vast herd’s motion, to strike out after a green patch that the migrating mob has overlooked—and a stomach is a degrading organ that draws a man away from the light of day rather than awakening him from his biology’s long animal slumber. They do not even content themselves, these swarms and droves, with wanting only what they need. They want more and more, and always more—sometimes simply because the crude pleasures of gluttony spur them on, but just as often because the more “spiritual” goad of envy makes them furious at the thought that someone may end up with a bit more than they. Even on the rare occasions, you see, when they do use their minds, they abuse them. Their “reasoning”, such as it is, pushes them to obstruct the common good because it has made the dullest and most selfish of calculations.
Naturally, you know that when I write of the stomach, I mean, more than the palate, the libidinous desire to copulate. How many children do the stupidest members of any human society generate? In every instance, it is more than the most intelligent can muster—usually more by three- or four-fold. The intelligent person rises above his carnal lusts without effort as he becomes absorbed in more ambitious projects. Sleep overtakes him as he makes his plans for the next day’s counterpunch or coup de grace. He is a warrior preoccupied with winning his battles. No particular abstinence is needed to keep him from breeding like a rat: his active will simply runs to other things in the normal flow of events. But the stupid masses, Lawrence, are held captive before the prospect of another coupling and rutting the way a child can think only of a fresh-baked, freshly iced cake set on the table right before his eyes. They squirt-squirt-squirt, bringing stupid little imprints of themselves into the world, one after another, one per year, until all of them at last starve in a famine or freeze in the cold or slaughter each other in riots. To have to share a species with them is the most loathsome thing in the world to me. No—there are no words to describe my hatred of them!
But the revolutionary deals with their kind later. He need do little more than allow them to deal with themselves, really, like a horde of lemmings. Have you ever witnessed a mouse plague? Of course not—not in your time, in your part of the world. You are so insulated by bourgeois mediation. Water runs slower down the same slope in bourgeois capitalism. Everything is mixed with molasses, sweetened and decelerated. Thoughts scarcely move, and an explosion that might incinerate a city and clear the way for change becomes the occasion of a little bucket brigade that keeps the charred wood standing, keeps the cinders smoldering dully and harmlessly. But a plague of mice, my boy—they eat and couple and reproduce and eat, multiplying as you watch like a living illustration of exponential growth. They eat the grain, and then they eat the burlap sacks that held the grain, and then they eat the barn that held the burlap sacks. And then, when there is nothing else left, they eat themselves. The healthy eat the sick, the young eat the old, the parents eat the babies. They devour the very nurslings they brought into the world as a result of their constant frenzied excretions. And then, at last, they die. Die out completely. Not one left. Anywhere. For the time being, at least, they have eaten all that can possibly be eaten, and the bigger males have dug their teeth into the smaller females deeper and faster than they could worm their hose into them. Ants and crows pick the tiny corpses clean, only bones are left, and the dust bowl created where fields once grew grain entirely buries the puny skeletons the first time a breeze kicks up.
The trick will be, in our context, to make sure that the masses stay extinct once they render themselves so. But always remember never to tip your hand. You are to appear to love the masses until the final moment. Lead them, egg them on. They are the hammer, dull and heavy, with which we shall drive the capitalists into the ground. We have no more potent weapon, at this point.
The revolutionary and the true aristocrat…
It may occur to you that the aristocrat of pre-capitalist, feudal society once spoke of the masses with such contempt as I have spoken. You are a bright boy: I’m sure it will have occurred to you. And you would be right to make the association. The true revolutionary is an aristocrat of the spirit. His vision elevates him far above the level of the herd. I wrote above of sharing a species with the rank and file—of what an indignity it is. Perhaps, though, we do not really share a species. We are superior to them in the same sense as we are superior to dumb beasts of the field. Who is to say, at present, if there may be some genetic cause for this difference? There almost certainly is. A million years ago, one group fed and grazed in a fertile plain whose generosity never taxed the wits of its occupants. Survival was as easy as sticking out one’s paw to collect fruit from the nearest bough. The Christians and the Jews, those worshipers of the herd—those lovers and cultivators of the dull, the average, the ordinary, who have made an intricate orthodoxy out of stupid conformity—would call this group the children of Eden, and the fertile plain the Garden. Meanwhile, in a much more hostile climate, another group was forced to use its wits in order to survive. Food was scarce, and most of it was meat. The killing required tools, and using the tools required moral fortitude. Energies had to be concentrated: use more than your day’s allotment of calories in frivolous activity, and you freeze to death on the glacier. Children were brought up one at a time, born one every three or four years—not splattered all over an abundant, forgiving landscape in nine-month cycles as carelessly as seeds scattered in animal feces.
From those eons and eons of adaptation, different races emerged, some characterized by superior intelligence, some bred only to feed and breed again and feed some more. How could a genetic basis for superior and inferior beings not be hidden in so many thousands of generations of evolution? And why, then, consider oneself as sharing the same species with the herd?
Of course, the typical aristocrat in feudal times was a pretty stupid creature himself. Deprived of the necessity of competing, his genetic gifts languished and atrophied. His vassals were born and bred to servitude, having no capacity to climb higher. For his part, he became trained to a kind of servitude—their kind—having no reason to engage his high capacities. So he, too, fed himself to the bursting point, and acquired gout from sitting on his royal arse all the livelong day, and wallowed into the skirts of every serving girl who brought him his mead while Milady was in the next room. Such a degenerate bunch could only turn backward, concerned about nothing more than preserving a system that had assured them of so many privileges on the basis of so little effort. And the Christians now told the masses that God had willed it so!
All the same, Lawrence, the loathsome aristocrat is something of a bourgeois myth. The capitalist money-rats had to produce an image of a class that took everything and did nothing—and, as with all myths, there was some truth to this one. But it may have been equally true, in specific cases, that lords and barons were indeed of a superior race. They were the first victims of the bourgeoisie, who had to eat away at the very notion of superiority in order to clear the way for their own puny mediocrity. Slightly less poor than average had to be made to seem wealthy, slightly less threadbare than average had to be made to seem regally clad, slightly less ugly than average had to be made to seem exquisitely beautiful. The tasteless hyperbole of the marketer was born, as everything of any real quality or inspiration was brought down.
The revolutionary is the new aristocrat. He is the superior species, the scion of the higher race who has not been muted and dulled by circumstance. In the world of tomorrow, he will not exploit the masses to feed his torpid indolence, for he knows that this is the shortcut to reducing himself and his heirs to the state of the cattle he so detests. He will breed the masses right out of existence, rather, and create a world where the only survivors are superior, and where they must continue to excel in order to survive. He will move on to populate the stars because one pitiful planet is not sufficient challenge to his genius.
Isn’t it amusing that the minions of the bourgeoisie—their degraded intelligentsia—celebrate that Scandinavian ice queen Ayn Rand as one of their chief luminaries and her unreadable tomes as nuggets of their literary Golden Age! She was really one of us, you know, only just a shade too degenerate to recognize it! Her detestation of Christianity, her contempt of sentimental slop like charity, her cult of the superior, her glorification of the ambitious self… there is nothing in the essential Ayn Rand that doesn’t look ahead progressively to social and racial ascent through suppression of the mass and the average. Her stupidity lies entirely in her naïve belief that the Superman can step forward and clear the way all by himself. No, no, no! He must turn the masses against the bourgeoisie before he can rise to the top, and then he must turn them against themselves. But the idiocy of her works is highly useful. Just as the bourgeoisie created the myth of the oppressive aristocrat to clear a path for their own mediocrity, so they will accomplish an effective self-annihilation by investing in the Rand myth of the isolated Superman.
Always remember: nothing removes obstacles more quickly from our advance than the bourgeois individual’s Christmas-stocking belief that he will triumph through hard work and fair play. The sooner this pathetic creature gets himself killed, the sooner we can bring the masses to that critical state where they place all the real power in our own hands.
Creating class unrest…
Of course, the real issue at hand, Lawrence—the only one of any importance in the struggle as it proceeds right now—is the mastery of the masses. How to lead them to that point where they annihilate the bourgeoisie? The necessary transition, fortunately, is also in large measure a natural one. It is well under way, and does not require much direction from us. As the capitalists create an arrogant elite of wealthy fools, and as their system of corrupt competition (based not on intelligence, courage, or any other virtue, but precisely on the willingness to tell any lie and sacrifice any innocent) hurls more competitors onto the ash heap, resentment builds and builds. The bright young bourgeois who has certain scruples observes that he does not have the right endorsements, the needed favoritism: the banks will not give him loans because he cannot elicit a nod from the right quarter, and the media will not give his business free advertising because he isn’t married to some editor’s daughter. His only recourse is to labor away in a demeaning position for a demeaning wage without any hope of advancement, year after year—which is no hope at all. He can sell televisions or carpets on the floor of some big showroom, watching his fellow hucksters turn ever younger than he is and always, always sell more contemptible trash than he does with their greater enthusiasm.
If this man doesn’t eventually blow his brains out or become an alcoholic, he will be one of us. On coffee breaks and in card games, he will release some of his bottled fury with his superior wit and greater eloquence, and the drones around him will marvel. His discontent will spread slowly but steadily, like an infectious disease. And there will be plenty to listen. Not everyone, after all, is a slick talker who can sell sand in the desert. Other workers observe the type of person who gets promoted. They see clearly the kind of “gift” that allows a certain few to get ahead… and it disgusts them. They may truly not have the gift of lying gab, and whatever genius goes with or underlies it; but they flatter themselves that they are held back only by a sense of shame—a natural revulsion at telling the poor customer anything and everything in order to make a sale. Thus, as the “hard workers” are promoted ever higher and even reach management positions, their despicable personality has made them nothing but enemies along the way. They are very easy to detest.
With their own repellent attributes firing up the “successful” feverishly from one side of the equation and our disgruntled ne’er-do-wells fuming at a slow burn from the other, the mass of workers in the middle acquires the conviction that it is being “screwed”. These wretched, untalented men and women hate what they must do every day, and they particularly hate that the salary for whose sake they do it all can never approach the level of luxury they see among promoted scoundrels, even though the minimum wage is forever being raised. (Some on our side appreciate the exquisite cleverness of this ploy: as wages rise, industries merely elevate wholesale prices, so that the extra dollars in salary never translate into more purchasing power. Yet most legislators who vote for these increases are no less idiotic than the lackeys for industry who vote against them. Why would a capitalist mouthpiece oppose something that quiets the stupid labor force without substantially diminishing profits?)
So things stand, at any rate, if they are allowed to do no more than run their own course. It is a volatile situation even without the intrusion of a revolutionary with a plan. It can reach brief equilibrium in any one of several ways—but only brief. The situation is always destined to deteriorate once again. Democracy moves inexorably toward autocracy. When the bourgeoisie historically ushered in—through its lies and bribes and back-stabbing—the age of “mediocracy”, it of course had to bestow more political power upon the masses, if only to sustain the appearance that it was fighting for genuine equality. The masses being stupid (or no better than naïve, in their very best moments), they thereupon settled into the mood of constant discontent which I have just described. And now they have the vote! Whom will their collective discontent catapult into power, do you think? Someone who promises to take “just” revenge upon the slick-talking shysters who always get promoted over them—someone who promises to take back their “just” share from the stuffy bankers who refused them loans and the fat-cat editors who wouldn’t cover their failed business’s grand opening.
That person must be you, Lawrence. Otherwise, it could be just about any fool who has nothing more than the gift of inciting mobs. It might be a tall man with a deep voice who knows what to do with a bullhorn. Or it might be a famous athlete whose name is already a household word, or an actor whose face has played the part of the people’s champion in a lame TV serial. Such a person probably has no vision at all. As you well know, athletes and actors probably have smaller brainpans even than car salesmen. A person like this could linger in public office for years, contributing nothing more to the real advance of the human race than what his dead weight throws against the strains of a dying bourgeoisie.
So you must get the start of him. It won’t be easy, because—by definition—you, as a superior man, cannot relate as well to the stupid masses as one of their own. You are not naturally stupid, and stupidity is a very difficult thing to learn how to mimic. Stupid people enjoy a kind of natural cunning which alerts them to the presence of someone who only pretends to be as dull as they. I have known a few to pull it off—only a very few. And you can scarcely be just what you are, either. Though the masses always claim that they value honesty in a candidate and deplore feint, the only thing that saves them from a whopping lie in this is the degree of their stupidity, which is so extreme that they cannot perceive how much they have misstated their inclination. No, it is not a fraud that they detest: it is a transparent fraud. The man who pulls it off gets a free pass. (Of course, being idiots, they cannot be said to perceive the difference here, either.)
The one thing they hate more than a transparent fraud, however, is an intellect. They associate the two—fraudulence and intelligence—in order to convince themselves that their hatred is just: the intelligent man deserves contempt because he is surely plotting some fraud. Much deeper down, they truly hate intelligence because something in them can dimly recognize it as the ground of their permanent, fated inferiority. Superiority is the one thing they can never forgive. That’s why so many of them naturally gravitate to Christianity, the cult of the average that mortifies all intelligence as a sin.
And, in a paradoxical reverse motion, it is also why elected representatives can always curry favor with them by doling out free education generously. The masses also associate intelligence with time spent in school: again, a kind of self-flattery or self-excuse, as if bright people were not innately superior but only the beneficiaries of wealth and privilege. Our universities have now dumbed down to the level of the sixth grade half a century ago, but political trend continues to open the Ivory Tower’s doors wide to every pedestrian who wants to wander in.
Grooming yourself for power…
I have been avoiding any positive recommendation of how you might prepare yourself to be a leader because I cannot enter upon this subject with great confidence. It is, on the contrary, the most disheartening aspect of a very complex subject for me. Obviously, I have failed to be the kind of leader that I would describe, just as Machiavelli would have failed to measure up to his model of the Prince (I’ve no doubt) if he had had all the necessary social and political advantages. I can think, and I can write what I think… but who will be the man to execute what I write? My own loathing of the masses is so great that I would never be able to dissemble it publicly to the extent required. But then, I am old, and I have grown into my higher awareness of things only after a long life of being misled. It may be that you, with your greater energy and youth, can fit yourself to the task more nimbly. You are also far more of an extrovert than I ever was. This is an asset of incalculable value.
Remain in the public eye, then. Keep going to parties and soirees. Join fraternities. If you ever feel tempted to give it all up as a lot of empty, time-wasting folly, resist the temptation. It is indeed empty—but your acquired facility to move about in the hollow places where people live will prove anything but a waste of time.
Develop a taste for sporting events, especially those that draw large crowds in arenas where your physical presence will be highly visible. Buy items with “your team’s” logo and display them—coffee mugs, sweatshirts, bumper-stickers. Learn how to talk the jargon of balls-and-strikes or fourth-and-long around the water cooler. Be one of the boys.
As for the girls… be very careful. Do not have affairs with every pretty face—pick your partners discreetly. Share your bed only with women devoted to the movement. You and I know, of course, that “the movement” is one thing to dilettantes and another to insiders. I do not know of a single female intelligence—not one that I have ever met, throughout my sixty-and-more years of life—capable of reading all that I have written above without shock. Perhaps it is the maternal side in women, nourished by hormones… but they bring a sophomoric, warm-fuzzy, soft-squishy, quasi-Christian understanding to vital issues which leaves me emotionally nauseous and intellectually appalled. They want everyone to be happy like a group of toddlers on a day care’s playground: they have an insurmountably bourgeois affection for the average. The rare exception might be, once again, the stunning Ayn Rand species of Iron Bitch, who is actually turned on by displays of ruthlessness, and even sadism. (I have always been convinced that the most fundamental drive behind Rand’s insufferable corporate-toreador romances was a desire to sleep with a ruthless man every time she met one. Hampered by bourgeois values, especially since her stupid but doting readership was entirely bourgeois, she had no recourse but to fantasize.)
But then, you know, the Ayn Rand type, although she is really one of us—infinitely more so than the hen-and-her-chicks socialist day-care worker—is a really bad bet. She may in fact be the one type who could read my manuscript and be aroused by it; but her arousal would be sexual as well as intellectual (if there is any distinction in women like this), and she might just find something orgasmic about betraying you to the other side one fine day. Betrayal is a favorite and ever-reliable turn-on for this bizarre sub-species.
So stick with the abject Party slave who thinks she is opening her heart to the movement every time she opens her legs. No such creature will ever accuse you of sexual harassment, even if her incorrigible insipidity draws a smack from your hand every once in a while (not recommended, by the way). Now, this type would run to all the media and chirp like a little blonde canary if she perceived that you had gone over to the other side… but that won’t be happening in your case. I know that a great drawback here is that such women are just not very savory in bed, for the most part. One of their motives for demanding the abolition of private property is probably that they want all men to regard them as open for business. They are tired little wallflowers, and their vapid ideological prattle—as flat and cliché as the owner’s manual in your car’s glove compartment—sometimes seems to be the only sort of oral communication they’re capable of. Most of them like to drink, and when they drink, they tend either to shut up entirely or babble so stupidly that you can sustain a conversation with another person right over their silly, slumping necks. So if it’s conversation you want between lays, have a male comrade handy. Maybe the two of you can share her.
It goes without saying that the little Baptist church-goers, with their primped hair and glistening red lips and teasing cleavages (often displayed even in church, where the fishing for husbands is especially good), look like a wedding cake beside our stale doughnuts. But you must absolutely not give in. The risk here is not so much sexual harassment charges and other types of scandal that can ruin a bid for public office. That risk is really far greater with your professional woman—and most professional women have no real politics at all (I mean, high-powered professionals: executives, owners, chairpersons, etc.). No, the succulent morsel from Sunday school is more likely to land you in a jackpot with some local solid citizen. Getting the daughter pregnant of the man who owns the biggest Lincoln-Ford-Mercury dealership in five counties (and Baptist girls will get pregnant on you awfully fast) is no way to launch yourself into local politics. You could be done before you start, and all because you couldn’t discipline yourself—because you had to act like a hound running after a bitch in heat.
Actually, this subject leads directly into another: race relations. You are a white man. That makes you better genetic stock than the swarms that were chasing antelope in loincloths while Edison was inventing the light bulb. But it also makes you a little harder for sizable contingents of the masses to vote for. You need to appear to love the “people of color”. I don’t say to get along with or to support: I say LOVE. You need to show them that you would touch their kind physically without flinching—that you would throw yourself into their arms without hesitation. What better way than to marry one of them?
The advantages of this are manifold. First, of course, is what I have just said: you will be perceived as utterly lacking in any trace of bigotry by one of the very few measures that no one would ever think to question.
Second, you would no longer have to worry about the possible negative consequences of indulging your sexual drive. You can have some every night, and no one will ever be able to say worse of you than that you are a devoted husband. You might even have several children, which will further endear you to the herd; and while you’re at it, you might join one of the many Christian churches that are no more than social clubs, and whose ministers in fact frequently back many of our initiatives in pompous vanity and blind stupidity.
And you know, Lawrence, you need not necessarily worry about compromising your gene pool. Certain individuals among the darker races can be found who possess exceptional intelligence. These will also likely be very receptive to your suit, as they would like nothing better than a chance to select a mate who isn’t apt to beat them, give them venereal disease, become a substance-abuser, or end up in jail (or, most likely, all of the above). And I will tell you one further thing on the sly: it may be no more than my personal opinion in such matters, but I think impartial observation will corroborate it in the judgment of most males. It is far more possible to find women among these races who have all the physical qualities that strongly attract a man than it is among white women. Blonde hair and blue eyes… to be sure, you can only get those from one source. But how important are they in the panoply of other attributes? On the whole, what white women have in clubs, dark women have in spades.
Building power by raising money
Championing the masses publicly will give you a certain amount of free power—a considerable amount. But first you have to put yourself before the masses, which takes money. Again, mine is a poor example to follow. I have a contempt for people proficient at raising funds which grows on the same branch of my psychic family tree as the contempt I feel for prostitutes. I’m happy enough that both exist, but my happiness is not in the least overshadowed when one of their kind is found floating face-down in the river.
As with sex… whatever you do, don’t make the obvious mistakes. Don’t sign on for any straightforward quid-pro-quos. Don’t let anyone acquire that kind of leverage over you unless you have something aimed at his jugular of equal or greater power to damn. Of course, the real risk is not in someone’s being able to say, “I bought the award of that contract from him. I donated so much to his campaign that he owed me.” A man who would say that would instantly lose the ability to exploit the influence he had so expensively bought. But such donations are a matter of public record now, and your opponents can beat you over the head with them. The supporters of the capitalists do not mind voting for influence-peddlers: they assume that they ARE voting for someone who can be bought, at least potentially. Why else would they vote for him? But your constituency, in its virtuous stupidity, clings to the romance that you are pure. You have to appear to be of the people and for the people at all times.
What I meant to write, then, is that you must not give a quid-quo-pro out where somebody may see it. Do not leave tracks. Be sure that your donors understand the waiting game involved—the very long wait. Over the short haul, they must even expect that you will tongue-lash them publicly and demand that they make public apologies, make public restitution. The masses are never able to understand that a candidate who raises huge sums from drug companies is likely to be the very one, as an elected official, who saddles drug companies with fines and forces them into acts of public charity. Reality is like a cartoon, to the masses: good guys and bad guys, white hats and black hats. They certainly haven’t comprehended yet (and if not now, when?) that raising the cost of business for companies drives the small ones under, which delights the large ones and makes of them even more reliable donors. Eventually the captains of these mega-corporations will have to surrender titular power to the state—to you; but they grasp with remarkable clarity that you cannot really run their business—that they will remain on top, at least in their special sphere. It will all be merely a matter of juggling nomenclature. You will have the power when all elections are suspended indefinitely, and they will have a monopoly on whatever market they service. If you decide that you want to take certain ones of them out of circulation for some reason at a later date… well, that’s an entirely different question, and it can always be managed by a level head.
Poor, stupid Ayn Rand! She thought that bourgeois mediocrats would take over government while a few Knights Templar of the corporate world would wage war against them almost single-handedly, manning their own assembly lines! What an incredibly stupid prognostication! Stupid, but useful. So let the bourgeoisie believe that the giants of industry are champions in shining armor! It only furthers our end.
Occasionally you will encounter a species of capitalist who has made so many times over the maximum amount of loot he ever dreamed of that he has now dedicated himself to purchasing sainthood, as well. He will siphon money to you even without any quiet conversations in expensive restaurants about the ruinous effects of a new tax on his competition. He can no longer imagine not having enough money, and so he no longer gives any thought to preserving what he has. Rather, he wants to be your brother. He perceives a kind of kinship with you—a strange and gradual convergence of your two lifelines. He realizes that the endgame is not about his personal wealth, or the nation’s wealth, or his power, or your power, but the next upward lurch of the human race—the lunge to something superior that evolutionists now recognize as characteristic of all past advances. He is ready to step into a space capsule with you, even if every penny of his acquired wealth is to be used for rocket fuel. He is beginning truly to understand.
If you ever meet a man like that, do not allow him to drift away from your circle of acquaintance. Don’t compromise yourself with overzealous behavior; but do not rule out the possibility that he may in fact become your brother in the movement.
For the rest, Lawrence, you will have to make so many squalid little collections long before any corporate titan comes forward with his resources—oh, so many times, over and over, in anticipation of that day of liberation! I can only repeat that you must be careful. Don’t compromise yourself. Don’t leave trails. Don’t take the easy way. The best sources of this nature, I think, are the ones that launder their money through public charities. Who knows? A church organization may be just the thing for you in the early going. Church-related groups dole out millions and millions to causes that advance our movement—God bless the pious little idiots at their helm! Look for foundations, too, that champion minorities. Something to do with the education of black children, for instance, would be ideal. Tell your filthy-rich well-wishers to give to such a fund, and then apply for a grant to study the effects of industrial waste on children in the ghetto. You might even set up your own tax-exempt study-group or think-tank. Put a couple of medical doctors on the board, and send them a check every year. The person at the actual office can be a janitor, as long as he wears a white coat.
Precipitating the final crisis… and solution
As we have already noted, things will carry themselves forward into chaos through fully natural influences and effects quite nicely. Since it is man’s destiny to become a superman, Mother Nature will supply help every step of the way (though in that passive-aggressive manner typical of women, and especially of controlling bitches like her). Whatever you do, don’t get in the way. Take the Hippocratic Oath: first do no harm. Allow the masses to simmer away. Allow the captains of industry to sort themselves out: the mouthy fools who hustled and fast-talked their way up from the bottom’s scum, and the “players” who are willing to lose big money for several hands on the very good odds of finally carrying away a huge pot. The former will raise the crowd’s temperature to a fever pitch by spouting off stupidly about their own virtue, which they always highly recommend to others—about their hard work and stick-to-it-iveness and whatever other idiotic phrases they use in their homilies. The latter, as I have outlined above, will without any solicitation from you gather round in the shadows to view the coming cataclysm. All you have to do is say the right things at the right moments. Just give the stew a stir once in a while. Sponsor new workplace regulations for the good of the common man that will drive small companies into bankruptcy. Then extend unemployment benefits, and chatter publicly about a brave new initiative to create public-sector jobs. Stress that the screaming, howling opposition consists only of fat cats who already have more than they could spend in a lifetime. You can always author a new bill to raise the Minimum Wage.
We know that bourgeois regimes have used war very effectively in the past to stifle our movement. Kaiser Bill managed to wipe out labor unrest by—quite literally—wiping out his common laborers in the trenches. Do not lurch toward this tactic: its gains tend to be short-term. History shows that it did not turn out well for the Kaiser! People eventually tire of having their sons killed, and their animosity is directed at the party in power, naturally. During a stage when you still need the popular vote, there are far better means of ushering in the last great crisis.
Perhaps the least explored of these—because, before now, it has never really been possible—is a managed pandemic. The technology exists not only to isolate and culture a deadly virus, but to do so inexpensively and under almost perfect secrecy. You could have vials of stuff in a refrigerator in the back of your Center for the Protection of Ghetto Children from Industrial Wastes office. You could have some idiot with a B.S. in Biology or Chemistry culture enough stuff to wipe out New York, Chicago, LA, and every major city in between. You could filter the stuff—taking the utmost care to cover your tracks—to a foreign terrorist organization, which would then deliver it to the targets free of charge. After the death of perhaps fifty million, and with the remaining millions in utter panic, you could THEN mobilize for your war. And this, you notice, would not be some desultory war whose purpose was vaguely understood by the masses and whose casualties were sure to make it unpopular very soon; this would be an effort to which every man in the streets would commit himself body and soul, in terror and fury. Such a war could pile up millions of dead and still leave you, as its spirited proponent, the most popular man in the country. You could no doubt get yourself elected president just by rattling your saber.
Demographic areas that seemed lukewarm about supporting you could be dosed with the virus as needed. One of the truly delightful peripeties of the current time is that you could easily enlist a dark, bearded man in robe and sandals who would be seen by dozens of security cameras before shattering his beaker in a crowded mall; and of course, he wouldn’t be around afterward for questioning. The suicidal idiot on foot may be the most useful delivery system yet.
Ideally, you would want to have an antidote for the virus ready before its first release upon the public. In the months leading up to the “catastrophe”, you could noisily spend taxpayer dollars preparing the antidote on what you claimed was information collected by your own sources. The other side—the “fiscal responsibility” devotees—would shut down the serum’s manufacture before more than a small fraction of the populace could be covered, for the operation would be fabulously costly and its need very dubious (at that time). Then, once the crisis is unleashed, there is not enough serum to protect the masses, your adversaries are responsible for the deficiency, you yourself will be inoculated as a key public servant, and your almost supernatural foresight will make you the people’s choice in the next election cycle (although you will naturally claim that your intelligence should have been available to anybody of minimal competence).
Once you have the reins of power firmly in your grasp, the game is all but won. All of the nation’s resources will be poured into creating a military machine, and all of its civil and political rights will be susceptible to suspension. You can throw as much cannon fodder into the furnace of war as you think necessary. The real objective at this point is to be building a domestic security force answerable only to you. Its organization will be rigidly hierarchical, its component troops will be superiorly trained and equipped, and its duties will be very flexibly defined and highly confidential. With such a force at your beck and call, you may proceed to cancel elections indefinitely and to incarcerate all resistance on charges of sedition. Check, and checkmate.
Again, this is only one of perhaps two dozen plausible, workable scenarios. Adapt to situations as they evolve and choose the best option under the given conditions. But this one, other things being equal, seems to me to enjoy more advantages than any other.
I have a dream
We seldom discuss the coming utopia, we few who see it coming. This is primarily for two reasons, I think. The first is because the practical business of getting from the desert where we are to the Promised Land (a land we have promised to ourselves) completely preoccupies our attention. This is entirely understandable. The second reason is because, as progressive beings, we know that our utopia will never acquire a static form—that it will continue to evolve as long as our species resists degeneration. This conceptual parameter, or limit to our ability to conceive, is also completely understandable.
Nevertheless, I think we should devote more time than we do to the attempt at imagining our objective. It will sustain us in times of hardship and doubt. Let us review some of the basics of that utopia from time to time, therefore—perhaps every evening before bedtime, like a good little Christian boy saying his prayers.
The superior race will be purged of cattle. Through the liberal circulation of porn and contraception, we will teach the masses to channel their insatiable sexual drive into sterile avenues. There should be no need of enforced castration or some other Nazi-esque tactic: we can bring them where we want them the way lab rats are guided from one part of the cage to another—with sugar water. The full legalization of all varieties of abortion is already working in our favor. We need now only add prostitution to the slate of options—government-funded and licensed, eventually. Mass man will soon be going only to the luscious dream-whores that we make available to him, and these we can equip with the technology of infertility as part of their licensure.
For the rest of us, we will breed carefully and selectively so as to send only the best representatives of our species into the future. Very soon, this process will probably be best managed in a laboratory, where genes can be enhanced or modified without any sort of natural hit-and-miss complicating the issue. Reproduction can also be radically decelerated as we technologically equip our bodies to fight off aging and disease. You may not see these days yourself, Lawrence—and I certainly will not; but your grandchildren will likely live three hundred years, and their children a thousand.
The superior race will of course go to other solar systems and find other habitable planets, or planets that they can make habitable. We will no longer worry about being vaporized by the Sun’s explosion, or about losing our power grid to a storm of solar flares. Eventually we will create our own sun and our own planets from scratch. And then we will create several of them.
It is an inexhaustible source of amusement to me to see how even the stupid masses have just enough of the divine spark within them to warm to such visions. They line up like sheep for the shearing to give away their money for a share of Hollywood-engineered space travel. They do not notice that the denizens of these sci-fi space ships are never intellectual pedestrians, are never pregnant, and are never shown as aging even after transits of thousands of light years. Or perhaps they notice it dully at some level, and that divine spark which has not quite been smothered in them responds the way a dog bays at the moon. Maybe they know that such is their destiny—but what they do not know is that the likes of they themselves must get out of the way.
* * *
I collect and sell antiques for a living. I live in an old university town, so I have both a steady stock of suppliers and a steady stream of customers. Business isn’t great, but it pays the bills… and I enjoy it.
The really disturbing document that I posted above was sitting on the floor of one of my climate-controlled storage rooms. I had kept several desks in there, and my guess is that the papers (they were neatly contained in a manila envelope) were hiding on the underside of one of those. I say hiding, because my clients and I both go through all the drawers of any such item very thoroughly before the piece is transported to my shop. This envelope had to have been squirreled away somewhere that the casual eye wouldn’t chance to run across.
The papers disturbed me so much that I thought about calling the police—but that would have been absurd. The cops are really fine fellows, most of them, but I don’t know a one who wouldn’t think I was crazy for wasting his time in such a way.
Then I thought about burning them. I had taken them home. I had a fire going the other night in the fireplace, and I swear I darn near reached for the envelope.
And then I thought about trying harder to figure out just where they came from. I narrowed it down to three possibilities. Nobody on my client list is named “Lawrence” (first or last name). Nobody has a son or a deceased or ex-husband by that name (I discreetly checked). But it’s not as though I ever had a million pieces in that storage room. I only started using it two years ago.
So, using other factors than the name, I narrowed my possibilities down to three.
One is a college professor. I tossed him in because there are so many crackpot professors around nowadays. Call it professional profiling. Sorry if it’s politically incorrect.
The other is a very pleasant family whose marriage is interracial. The wife is a really beautiful, charming woman, and in a town like this, nobody cares beyond that. But you’ve read that passage in the papers.
The last (and not least—I have no reason for prioritizing the three the way I have) is our mayor. His politics are what the hacks call populist, and he seems to be ambitious, judging by some remarks I’ve heard about him. But then, all of our politicians around here fit that same description.
All three of these men are between thirty-five and forty-five. As far as I can tell, all three are nice people, or at least decent people. I think you would describe them all three as outgoing.
And why wouldn’t they be? None of them is the guy who wrote this Satanic thing. One of them must be Lawrence, but Lawrence only received the papers. He didn’t write them.
But if one of them really is Lawrence, then why doesn’t he call himself Lawrence? Why would he be disguising himself? And why would he hide the papers, unless they were something that he took seriously and didn’t want others to find? Why didn’t he burn them?
Of course, you would think that someone who was that edgy about the papers being discovered wouldn’t absent-mindedly ship them out of the house to an antique dealer. Maybe one of the desks had a previous owner, not very long ago.
Anyway, I typed up the trashy thing word for word and put it on the Internet so that someone might be able to tell me where it comes from. If I find out, I’m not sure what I’ll do. Maybe look the author up and make sure he doesn’t reproduce any little space men.
But you have to admit, it’s kind of unnerving to think about how much you don’t know about the people all around you, and especially the people you elect to govern you. They could be anything. One of them could be growing little colonies of anthrax in a refrigerator in his garage, just for us. He could just be waiting for the right moment.
A frequent contributor to these pages for years, John Moseby has for the first time in this issue sought a setting more or less within of the academic world of his routine existence–yet the result preserves the dark surrealism that he prefers. In the Ivory Tower, he claims, the quotidian and the grotesque meet and breed.