by Roman McClay
Well, dear reader, dear bruder, you had just such a beast supine under your ear for years and yet you never bothered to listen to such subterranean proof-of-life; the orchestral thunder that rolled off the shore-fires of Orc, as the angels rose from the soil of the greatest country, land, forest, man ever built, and bowed to; the greatest tragedy it ever allowed.
You had the thousand hearts of a thousand-thousand men of exceptional character and artistic grandeur , those very and varied few with rare earth mettle who combined bodily strength and stature and mien and countenance alongside a diesel power of Heart and Brain, 1,000 foot-pounds of torque of Will ; men who had conscience, code, a fully operational limbic system and pre-frontal cortex, they had heart; they stood for the Heart!
They were magnanimous and lofty and felt loyal to those under their charge, they gave freely so much of what they engendered and produced and fashioned, that their excess, their run-off, a sluiceway of luxury of Love and Affection and Loyalty and they plotted star-maps of meaning and laid them out for you to follow them into the Chaos of Self, Culture and Nature, so that Order might be retrieved and brought back to the tribe.
The glow, the mere albedo they threw off had more lux than the direct light of all you lesser, younger stars; and yet you used that light to see fit to betray them.
You pulled their generous gauze of spirit apart into gossamer threads you then wove on your loom to contrive opaque sheet between them and you, between their heart and yours, their mind and yours. You sought to cover them up and shroud them; you asked them to lie still to still lie; and you surrounded them with the priests and priestesses of the congenitally mean; the low; the endogenously middlebrow. You told them to sit down and shut up and that they were no longer needed; that men, real Men, were no longer needed , you said.
You enjoined Men, these feral Beasts, you upbraided them and bullied them and said politely sometimes, but said every time, bloodlessly, with no heart, you said, fuck off .
You spoke with disrespect to the direct descendants of the Spartan Greek and Gaulic, Germanic, and Great men of Occidental Culture; the scions of the Highlanders beyond the Hadrian Wall that invented logic as controlled chaos, a rejoinder to the tyrannical order of corrupt precedent and contrivances of their English foils; Scots who were banished not merely to Australia as is often admitted to, but to New Zealand and here to America as commutation of their sentence for uprising and rebellion in 1745 e.v.
They were called, the ‘45ers , and Jacobites and they had refused to submit to a civil rule; they had only their land along the Ben Nevis and their Claymores, but they rightly viewed themselves as Rex-Mundi , as regal and untouchable by laws or men. Why? How? Because their lives had meaning, and they felt rich with it. They were rich, with it. These men were kings .
And these men were shipped off to the feral lands of the colonies to clear a swath for pragmatic men and to thus allow for the expansion of civilized, discursive, lying and polite corruption on the Isle. And when they arrived among the aboriginals or the Maori , or between and betwixt the American northern colonist and Comanche, they vowed to be shipped no more; that the new land and the new men would deal with them as they were; that they’d only be shipped off to heaven if need be -but nowhere else- they’d not be shipped off so that lesser men could do mere business at the expense of honor.
Thousands of years before, Herodotus relates a story of The Persian King, who when speaking of the Apollonian Greeks -who he considered effeminate and overly pragmatic- he said, “I will never submit to men who set up places in the center of the city in which to lie one another. ”
However, he was -in truth- unknowingly speaking to the Lacedaemonian , the Spartans who were combing their black hair & beards in preparation for noble battle; he had no idea that the Apollonian Greeks , that he knew of, were only, merely, one kind of Greek . He did not know that the other kind of Greek shared the martial aspect of Persians of that time and milieu . Xerxes didn’t know the Spartans had honor -and thus meaning- not mere commerce -like the Attic Greeks - as their way of life.
You see, I’ve traced the human genome along each high bough and deep root tendril of time and space. I know from whence you all come. I know which of you have four or more percentage of Neanderthal DNA, which of you share a gene carried on the Y gamete of Genghis Kahn , which of you have unalloyed chromosomes from the Northern, Afric or Asiatic lines. I know which of you have genes for high IQ and high testosterone, high limbic function along in-group/out-group markers, which of you have genes for pre-bicameral breakdown that lend themselves to brain structures that hear voices and feel the presence of the gods; and I know which of you are as Pascal said, “made such that they cannot believe .”
I can read the genome of each man I meet as quickly as you can size up their hair color or height as you shake their hand. I can tell instantly who I am dealing with at the genomic level and can assure you that among the great mass of men, the hoi polloi , there are genetically exceptional men with genomes, codes, who are like the secreted, silently kept tomes -transcribed by walled monks no doubt- penned by Lucretius and Caesar and the Bard . I can see their genes, as relics, vestigial narrative organs that contain the germ, like the Elgin Marbles , the Parthenon Marbles finally -in 2025e.v.- returned to the region from which they had been removed.
I see genes robust and among the surface dust of living man’s cavernous and carved and weathered corpus, not dissimilar to the artifacts of the Mongolian Steppe , the mare bones and bow strings preserved in the arid desert for centuries some -much of them- still below the surface; and some in the museums of the Western powers.
I see atavistic genomes spinning like pulsar stars inside modern men, beneath the stolid surface of their skin, not unlike the chalk cellared, high-shouldered ullage of 19th century vintages of Château Lafite Rothchild or the noble rot of the Sauternes Château d’Yquem ; like one of the original printings of The Whale -from 1851 e.v.- that sits today in a glass case, high in the Colorado mountains at 8,760 feet, in its original binding, leafed with the slight patina of brown and yellow foxing, with a fading, almost translucent inscription in pre-nuclear ink. That ink reveals it was one of the copies The Author himself kept first in Pittsfield and then in New York City, USA.
Like all these things held in situ , in preserve, in reverence, there is the museumed, cherished, insular -and hidden from humidity and decay and the touch of the unwashed masses- blueprint of grandeur inside the sepulchral bodies of Great Men; the ancient DNA bequeathed to us from the creative chaos of Mother Nature and wrought and disciplined, and handed down, by Father Culture himself.
DNA -I see- carried through men of the Asiatic, the Sumerian, Greco-Roman and the Northern European lines, from Spartan Kings to Genghis Kahn to Alexander and Caesar and up the Greek Swerve to the Giant Gaulics and the massive Odinic Nordics tall, muscular and filled with poetry brilliant and dangerous and meant to summon the gods. Chromosomes, I ferret out, buried like treasure along a flee trail as the mongrel hordes overwhelmed better men by sheer numbers alone; the same way millions of heartless parasites will subsume a great lion; the way bad and banal ideas subsume genius 99% of the time.
I dig at what was buried in the frozen crust of upper Scotland in the DNA of its Highlanders , entombed in the Magnus magma of our -of your- Scandinavian cousins, hidden from view and by vow in the borne, sworn, jealous gods of solitude scattered about on ships sailing west; seeds to be sewn in the new fecundity of Vinland and the antipodes where this Alpha Male DNA would draw succor and sagacity from the southern climes and push further west to the high-country of the continental divide.
I know you all. And I can tell you that it’s as true of men as it is with each bottle of a back vintage of a Bordeaux grand cru or a Burgundy like DRC: that with each one that gets opened and enjoyed, each remaining bottle of that vintage -maybe only a thousand cases were ever produced, or a mere hundred in Burgundy - with each loss, each death, each remaining man becomes that much more valuable
.
Just as that is true, as the grand mass of mediocre men, with diluted and alloyed DNA, continue to breed at rates like bacterial colonies or mosquitos, and as the old school alpha males and their reverent vessels of wives die off or refuse -or fail- to breed, the new generation of scion that carry this rare genetic purity become all that much more invaluable precisely due to their rarity. They are like seedbanks from which one could re-populate the world in the event of a cataclysm; a tectonic shift; a fire among the forests.
And what could be more cataclysmic than this infestation of mongrel hordes from the mediocre races; what is more suffocating than the inbreeding between higher and lower orders of men; what could burn all Greatness down faster than this mésalliance between pragmatic, artless men and the daughters of the Nephilim , the ancient gods?
Democracy of breeding first -the usurpation of the alpha male in majority offspring production- and second, the forced egalitarianism of the substandard populations produced from this anarchic breeding model, have both conspired to produce a highly wealthy and medically & technologically advanced, but morally backwards culture and ignoble post-genetic environment. This is Patient Zero; First Cause. But we must be thorough.
A Spartan or austere Norse culture likely could not have produced these advancements so quickly -or maybe at all- due to the innate primacy placed on honor and dignity by their martial mores . The neutering of the male into an efficient and intelligent -but ball-less- beta male has been the accident of nature and the tyranny of culture that gave us the technological and commercial platform to produce the next phase. It took a greedy, meaningless commitment to commerce to produce the capital necessary to build modernity. We should not pretend that our currently disgusting but highly useful culture has no value; as Nietzsche said, we should not desire that exceptional men rule tyrannically over even the ranking “of values. ”
No, that’s not what is being asserted, the fettering beta male and the taxing alpha female have a right to exist; they deserve dignity and a place within the garden’s wall. But they must exist proportionally and alongside the alpha male; he will no longer be pushed out to the periphery or be given similar rations, on parity with those with congenitally smaller appetites; he will no longer be fed the same caloric mean even though he has larger muscles and brain and heart to feed. No, the answer is, No , to that.
But because sexual selection is the domain -the wheelhouse- of the now civilized female, consequently, the still uncivilized alpha male has had a breeding problem for many, many centuries.
The amount of exceptional genetic material itself is dwindling. And further, that material, once instantiated in a human baby boy, is less and less likely to get the martial and noblesse oblige education he once would have received at the hand of the Mongolian Rex or the Viking chieftai n . We have twin pressures of the genetic and the post-genetic squeezing our alpha species toward extinction and if anyone is going to save it then it will require a similarly two-pronged approach.
One may ask, without embarrassment, how this kind of project could possibly be effected, made manifest, inside post-modern, first-world culture, within an emasculating machine as large and powerful as it is; with as much inertia as it currently has?
And one may also ask, hey, didn’t you say something about some men being able to perceive the truth better than others; and how because we’re a eusocial species there isn’t always a benefit to this that is easily conferred or noticed ?
Ah, I’m surprised you remembered that. Well, this is true, the ability of an individual -of a eusocial species- to discern reality better than the norm, to be able to tell the truth slightly more than the average fella, has a fatal flaw. One study done -and I’ve collated the meta-data myself and found similar results- shows that average men can only be effectively led by someone with no more than an IQ 1.2 standard deviations from the mean. That is to say, the best leaders have a 120-125 IQ; as the mean is always 100. A leader with an IQ higher than that -above the cognition of those under his command- actually sees his leadership effectiveness drop off precipitously.
Once a man is at three and four standard deviations from the mean -a 145-160 on the Wechsler scale which is represented by about 1% of the population- he is so intelligent, so sagacious, so able to discern the truth that he appears to himself as unjustly burdened by how stupid everyone is -and so he tends to behave peevishly, poorly- and secondly, he appears to others -due to this intelligence- as untrustworthy and dangerous. In effect, at this level of intelligence one becomes a cranky -and in the public’s timid eyes- an evil , genius. Neither side -neither leader nor the led- is happy with this vast lacuna between them.
And, if you are a great man, a man who has this cognitive ability -marked by pattern recognition- married to a bodily courage -brought about by size and strength and a devil-may-care desperado kind of character- you will find yourself saying out loud all the things best kept to oneself inside a social dynamic. Great men tend to say aloud what is unpopular to the crowd.
The internal pressure toward meaning , a pressure to be authentic and real, fills your sails with a natural wind and it will -at speeds unknown in the age-of-sail- overwhelm and outvote any internal anchor, any latent concern for the dangers of introducing these taboos of meaning into one’s tableau .
Frankly, you’ll tell the truth regardless of homme moyen’s ability to understand it, appreciate it, tolerate it, or shoulder it.
You will crush their mind and spirit with truths you perceive as mundane; and your grand truths will confound them so that they nearly go mad. And they’ll never stand for it. They will plot -in their beta male and alpha female manner- against you; surreptitiously and without honor; gregariously and without shame. They’ll organize a putsch with a toothy grin; a coup with a baboon smile.
Anyone who tells you that telling the world how you truly feel will win you friends is not merely wrong, they are your enemy.
No, your commitment to honesty is a map to ruin; a path to exile. Ask Coriolanus , ask our first parents in the Garden; ask all the archetypes of the Hero: His courage leads first to exile and death; only later is he allowed to rise. Maybe that rise is allowed like it was for The Author, nearly a hundred years after his magnum, pelagic, tragic opus of mad woe and true genius; maybe it’s just 17 years like for cicada buried by Nature and God; maybe it’s three days after lone Jesus is buried by crowded Rome. But Great men will be buried by the horde. It’s axiomatic; and thus, you’ve been warned.
This is why I said that an increase in reality perception ability was no guarantee of success inside a eusocial species. The smartest shark or wolf has an axiomatic advantage. But, a much, much smarter human? Any advantage is not obvious. The first thing he notices is how full-of-shit everyone is; at first himself very much included. The second felt thing is that he might explode if he doesn’t reveal his new secret to everyone. Man is eusocial, he wants to spread the things he knows to be true.
You must ask, but if he was so smart, he’d know not to tell the truth, right ? Ah, but this is the most salient point that the pragmatic man forgets every time: you cowards value survival and commerce above all; so, anything that puts those values in jeopardy is by definition: stupid , yes?
Nietzsche also said that just because something is unintelligible doesn’t make it unintelligent.
See, what if the uber-smart man realizes that all that survival-and-money shit is hollow and empty and not what life is about at all; what if he figured out that a real life, a true life, a meaningful life, a grand life is one marked by courage and truth and honor and that is the kind of life he wants to live even if it impoverishes or kills him; even -especially- if it kills you; you the pragmatic man?
What then pragmatic man? What if you engender the ire of this kind of man? How smart was that of you ? What if your fortune, your precious money and longevity were taken from you by a man who did it purely to prove his point? What if your phony and cloying and gregarious affect, your beau-geste, your glad-ha
nding and imbricate carapace of lies was ruled offensive and unethical and disgusting to him; the same way his vulgarity and impertinence and atavism was so unseemly to you?
What if he figured out that his vengeance against you and your kind was the whole point to life; his sapere vivere ; his Task ? What if he felt this so deeply in his DNA that no logic could reach it, no compromise could assuage it, no bullshit could stay his martial hand?
What if he was smart enough to figure out that your pragmatic life was disgusting and ugly and he couldn’t stand to look at for one moment longer; that your presence in his field of view was the sty in his eye that he couldn’t quite locate until now?
What if he figured out how wrong you were, pragmatic man ; that your ship was caught in a beam-sea; perpendicular to the waves of history, evolution; and yes, for now , he was indeed below you, as you insisted, in the anvil of the sea but he -with the roll of the sine waves of the ocean- was also above you, as he declaimed he would someday be? What if he saw the future whilst in the Mjolnirs of ecstatic air, the ball-peen of Neptune’s corposants and the sledge of the coup de foudre of Thor’s Hammer ? And what if he surmised that the way to prove it was to take everything from you, to remove you like the mote in his own irritated eye; even if to accomplish this he had to remove, too, the whole beam of his own eye? What if it was worth it to him to remove one of his own eyes just to fuck you up?
Anyway, enough of these golden warnings that you don’t understand anyway. Didn’t I tell you I was going to tell you a story of a man?
-Roman McClay
II. 2014 e.v .
“Daddy, tell us a story!” she said, and Alina nodded her tow-head in sympathetic valence to Sarah’s high-pitched request for a tale; her lips red from the wine and en bon point from her own Russo-genetics. Sarah -lithe and blond- danced around eager for his words to lay upon her soul. She loved his words.
He laughed and agreed to weave a myth or two for his girls.
