La Dolce Vita Does Not Include Lots of Niggers
by Douglas Wright
29 August 2005
Trips abroad are good for renewed perspective on America's multiracial mess, and mine to Italy was no exception. The boot-shaped peninsula that gave us the Roman Empire, Renaissance and other White achievements of renown has lessons to teach, and your racialist journalist took the ones he could.
First, the obvious: Italy is blessedly light on blacks. In New York City, where I live, this human pestilence is a horrifying 25 percent of the population. So I'm sensitive to even slight drops in the nigger-count. In two weeks and three big cities, I saw maybe 30 of them. Granted, one nigger is one too many, but it's interesting to note the calming effects of significantly fewer shirted simians.
My preconception of Italy was that it is a bit racially compromised: more so than France (where I have been, and yes, I saw the black Algerians), a little less so than, say, Portugal (where I have not been). I didn't see too much evidence of this, though I went no further south than Rome, which is probably where you'd have to venture to see both this and Italy's immigrant problem. I also stuck mostly to tourist sites, which may well be set apart from Italian slums. I saw not more than two dozen gypsies, known formally as the Roma people (see the introduction to Kevin MacDonald's A People That Shall Dwell Alone for an interesting rundown -- they're basically low-caste Indians who ventured into Europe to make pests of themselves). The tourist books warn of "pickpockets" and other scams, but neglect to mention that these vermin are responsible for most, if not all, of it. Ah, political correctness: keeping us all safe. As I stood on a Roman subway platform, a White Roman woman warned of the gypsy woman and her brood standing behind me and my backpack, dressed in colorful wraps. Guess she didn't get the SPLC memo on the racially-sensitive way to warn of an impending criminal incident.
Blacks I saw in Italy consisted of the tar-black Africans selling fake Gucci bags on the streetcorner (it's beyond me how anyone can train their eyes on these creatures for more than two seconds and come to the conclusion that they'd make a good fit for civilized society) and a few well-dressed American-looking blacks. This, of course, does not stop the seemingly ubiquitous black idolatry of the West. At a bar in the Trastevere, a bohemian neighborhood in Rome, you'll be surrounded by funky paintings of blacks and black music, but mercifully, no blacks. A top drink on the menu is a "Bronx," which I gather follows the black idolatry theme. Chuck any of these smartly-dressed modern Romans into the real Bronx and see what happens to their image of the cool American minority.
The only Asians I saw were tourists. I couldn't help but chuckle as they moved to and fro, like a flock of pigeons, dutifully filming Boticelli's and Raphael's works: none of these yellow-skins, respectable as they are, will ever match White artistic genius. Asians are good for decorating the framing. White men paint the painting.
Most Italians that I saw were dark-haired, brown or green-eyed, and had skin ranging from white to caramel. The vast majority were what I consider White. But whatever pollution the Italian gene pool may or may not suffer from, the Italy I saw was decidedly more racially homogenous than the United States. This was a good thing. It meant safety: I don't know what the Italian crime rate is, but nowhere in Rome, Florence or Venice did I feel as unsafe as I do just stepping outside my apartment in New York City. It made for rhythm. And harmony. Italy is aesthetically coordinated in a way that pleases the senses. I often got annoyed at the dollhouse quality of the little espresso cups, the little Coke bottles and the ridiculously little cars. But that's a style, anyway, something America doesn't quite have.
I wouldn't want to live in Italy, mostly because I don't speak Italian. But I suppose I could hang on there. A friendly "buon giorno," and they perk right up and try to help. In the States, it wouldn't matter if I laid a stack of twenties in front of the bloated sour negress behind the service counter: I'd be greeted with a hostile sneer. It's funny. I communicated better with non-English speaking White Italians than I often do with "English"-speaking blacks and Hispanics. That says something to me about human relations. Race is more important than language.
I have read that about 30,000 Jews live in Italy. Again, that's 30,000 too much, but it sounds like yids aren't choking it off. Probably because the Italian military is of little use to them. Why harness that rustbucket when you could harness ours, and have Gentile salute-snappers pull the one Arab leader to defy you out of a hutch-hole in Tikrit?
Italy (only declared a nation in the 19th century -- before that, a collection of kingdoms and duchies that lived in perpetual fear of France) once kept tabs on its Jews. In Florence and Venice, the Jewish moneylenders were capped at a given interest rate. They were also, I believe, kept from owning land. As a result, in Venice at least, there weren't many complaints about them. Centuries before, the Romans ruled. After my visit to the Arch of Titus, I got the vague sense that Romans didn't take no shit from the yidn. But later reading revealed that the Romans were actually quite solicitous of the Jews, even taking pains not to include images of the emperor on coins minted in Judea. Emperors, in a pattern that has repeated itself throughout Western history, found the Jews to be effective tax farmers and other intermediaries because they had no racial loyalty to the locals, only themselves. When will we learn?
Mussolini is still popular, at least as a print on boxer shorts, in Italy. I don't think it's all in jest. I saw posters, picture books and other trinkets all over dedicated the World War II fascist leader who, along with Hitler, recognized the Jewish threat to Europe. I did not, regrettably, find a bottle of the Hitler-label wine. I've heard that it's not too bad.
As I stepped off the flight home, a friendly-enough Asian man in a uniform stamped my passport. "Welcome home," he said. I looked around at the strutting blacks and shrunken Hispanics and wondered if it was.