On Jack Kerouac
A threatened man has two choices: stand or flee. White man, which will you do? Which is
the right one? In these times I can respect either choice; they are that complicated. And
complexity is our worst enemy.
The complexity besetting White civilization is contrived and it is paralyzing Whites. It
may be the best weapon, because it may leave the infrastructure (I use the term broadly)
intact for the parasites among us, after the war for White survival has run its course. No,
we didn't fight, we ran and left everything behind.
Now then: stand or flee? If you stand in a "democracy" beset by a mud mob you will lose in
the end. Knowing this or realizing it later, you end up fleeing anyway. The mob will vote
you out of your property and dignity, White man, and take your women. Bet on it. So let's
talk about fleeing, just for intellectual exercise.
There was a man, an author, who may be the champion evader: Jack Kerouac. He failed in the
end, but to his credit he never played "the game," as I call it: the middle-class consumer
treadmill. He missed the pension plans and inflation figures and the commuter freeway (50
years' worth of them), the hemorrhoid commercials and the property-tax man. He also missed
the comfort of an established home, a family, reliable friends, and the security of children
who, grown, might have respected and cared for him. But he made his choice and he stuck to
it with a sort of valor. And in this he was very White.
I first read Kerouac at a time when I was failing, or had failed. I was middle class and
attempting to do what people in this class are expected to do: claw my way up the consumer
ladder. House in the suburbs, two cars, 2.3 kids, 401K plan, etc. I couldn't do it because
the process felt like death. I drank my way out of it -- perhaps because I didn't have the
courage just to see the fact plainly and accept it. But natural law washed me out, and I
found myself reading Kerouac. How I came onto him I don't remember.
A bit of history: from the late 1940s and lasting about a decade was a "movement" called
the "Beat" movement. It is better described as a phenomenon of ostentatious dropouts.
Some were bold and some were phony, in the sense that they had problems and used this
"movement" to cover them, in effect feeding off the energy of the genuine. But they wanted
no part of the military-industrial-consumerist America that sprouted like a mushroom on the
decayed remains of Old America, which FDR and his pack of Jews and White Communists had
murdered by the contrived catastrophe called the Second World War. The Beats wrote poetry
and drank wine and took dope and read Lao Tsu and Dostoyevsky and other "mystical" writers
for clues on how to reach "beatitude," or, as Kerouac sometimes called it, satori (roughly
epiphany in Japanese). These guys and girls were genuine in this sense of seeking
detachment -- but inevitably the mass media hijacked their lifestyle by publicizing it.
Kerouac wrote that the real Beat movement lasted only about three years, and was dead by
1949 or so. And that hijacking was another impetus to the genuine to keep moving. And so
the "road" allegory emerged as their defining trait. And it was Kerouac, perhaps the most
skilled novelist amongst them, who brought out what would become his most famous novel, On
the Road, in 1956. It is the defining novel of the movement, and even if you don't
like shirkers and faggots and Jews, it is an interesting tale of escape and search. And as
far as a worthy inspiration, it does merit your attention because The Man never caught up
* * *
Kerouac was an artist because his work stays with you and takes on a life within you.
Inside you it does not yield to your dislikes. If you really dislike a work of art you
won't stick with it; you will put it down and take a walk. Like the work of any strong
artist Kerouac's writing holds because it is the product of a peculiar sort of vitality, a
force seeking its proper environment via satori.
Kerouac was a degenerate. He was a drunk and he abandoned his wife and a little girl who
was probably his biological product. Several times he had sex with men -- but according to
the fags who knew him he wasn't really "gay." I think the lost boy in him, or his self-loathing,
pushed him into the sex -- a sort of affirmation that he was degraded and had lost the path
to Salvation and deserved punishment. (Just as I am convinced that many so-called "gays"
today are lost or, unbelievably, doing it to be hip.) He refused to hold a job down longer
than what earned him a few paychecks, enough to hit the road again.
Kerouac, a French-Canadian, was born in 1922 in Lowell, Massachusetts. He was a good
running back and won a football scholarship to Columbia University. He dropped out on the
eve of the War To Save Communism. To serve in U.S. forces was not his goal. Already his
complex nature, composed of "word drunkenness" and a tilt toward the mystical, with other
traits common to young men and imaginative people (a low threshold of boredom, a capricious
and vague discontent) was culling him from anything like a common path in life. The U.S.
Merchant Marine discharged him in mid-war as unfit for military life; this, and a few
appointments as a railroad employee, were the only responsible jobs he held. The rest were
of the pettiest sort, such as what only dim-bulb White teenagers and mestizos take now.
The remainder of his life he spent as a drunken poet-novelist, crashing here and there with
friends and in the weeds of railroad sidings and seedy hotels. In the 1950s book
commissions brought him some money, which apparently he quickly spent. All the while his
drinking went on and it killed him in his mother's living room in Florida in 1969. He was
47 years old.
But he was honest. He never stole, even when he was desperately broke and hungry, and he
couldn't bear to deceive or act cruelly. His Catholicism was an invisible hand: he feared
it and he never could shake it. Maybe his charismatic mix of Catholicism and Buddhism kept
him above the seedy hustling that many of his fellow Beats engaged in. And all the way,
all the time, he was writing: poetry, novels, eccentric travelogues (he listed "solipsism"
as one of his traits on his resume), and essays. It is natural to classify Kerouac a loser
and a detriment to the White race. Should we take his work seriously, then? In his own
high time he was popular with young, intelligent people, and discontents. He caught flak
from the so-called literati -- I mean the book critics -- many of whom dismissed his work
as puerile and ostentatious. I have read some of these critiques and can agree with them.
Even the Jewess Dorothy Parker was not impressed (she one of the kikepapers' premier
reviewers), despite the corrosive effects his work had on the sober and responsible
instincts in young people which the Old America carefully nurtured. Her review of On
The Road went something like, "Interesting trip, but nothing to write home about."
Yet, his work sticks with you as a way to flick ZOG the finger and leave it to gnaw its own
guts out. Here was a White man with a mind of his own and who did not fear to take his own
Kerouac's insatiable need for movement, to push on -- was it all evasion, or was it the
White man's gene? What you choose here determines Kerouac's worthiness as a model, or even
a source of methods useful for White Nationalists. I use him in the second purpose; I see
in him ways to achieve "invisibility" -- or, better, a way to make yourself useless to ZOG.
If Kerouac was young in our time he would have been on the same path. But the acute pitch
at which he pursued invisibility, satori, came out of the climate of his times. And
that climate is with us now -- though its surface is quite different. Kerouac and the
Beats were running. Western Civilization was dying. The Great War, and the War To Save
Communism, and the Korean War, indicated a self-destructive instinct that no one could
neutralize. The hand of Zionism and international business, though apparent to some, were
not apparent to the masses -- nor are they now.
In the decades since, with the death-rattle getting louder and the cancer completing its
course, Western Civilization has had to face the honking battalions of Jews bulling their
way into our intellectual life. We have seen the ascendancy and infestation by Jews in all
the White man's intellectual fields. All Jews are held out by the Jew media as "brilliant"
or superlative otherwise. (One should ask where they've been. Save the half-Jew Spinoza
no powerful kike mind appears on history's timeline until Marx. Is "brilliancy" a matter
of publicity?) The takeover of Western cultural institutions and channels by Jews is
relevant to Kerouac and the Beat movement because, unfortunately, the kike media made, and
then deliberately un-made, the Beats. It recognized the Beats to be a weapon against White
America -- the remnants of the Old and against the resurgence of healthy White instincts --
and the Jews who owned the publishing houses, magazines, newspapers, and visual studios
deployed them into the consciousness of middle America. This is not to overrate Middle
America, of course, as open to intellectual movements, but it was the frivolous aspects of
the Beats that the media sold. That is natural; it is more fun to chase women and
hitch-hike and drink wine and smoke dope than it is to engage in serious philosophy and
cleanse your spirit of viciousness. The Beat phenomenon had been peddled, then, and the
alert among it knew it; thereafter, like any notorious people, they became self-conscious.
And this self-consciousness induced a predisposition to look for approval: from the
government, from the media, from the fashion industry. The invasion and co-opting of
personal identity, it might be said, commenced in the mid-1950s, and the Beats became its
unwilling catalyst. This was all good for business, of course -- all kinds of business.
And in this puerilization of American society it was easy for Big Brother to slip in. The
consumerist bog called America became entranced by the shell-game called "battling
Communism" by the Zionist-Big Business-Big Government alliance. We have of course sunk far
deeper into that bog since. Kerouac understood -- even if he did not articulate his
understanding -- that being an "American" had becomed an impossible muddle, and a scam. He
avoided it not as a strong White man could have, and should, but his instincts were sound.
View Kerouac as only a degenerate and you'll obscure his radical rejection of ZOG USA.
So, one cannot resist ZOG without a countering ideology. Which, for the White man who now
as never before has little in his head but fatal materialism and the stench of democratic
propaganda? What is a clean, strong White man or woman? It may rest on something very
simple: the power of imagination and creativity, which are infinitely flexible. Kerouac's
writing is often electric, and crackles with a sense of adventure that compares, sometimes,
with Jack London's. And White people need inspiration. It could be had from Kerouac; and,
having practiced it in his or her own way, the reader, having successfully evaded ZOG, can
imagine additional ways. Nothing succeeds like success, as the cliche says.
By the mid-1960s the kids, snufflers, renegade priests and other doubters protesting the
Vietnam War didn't know much about Kerouac. By then the Beats had been allowed to expire
as a destructive tool by the media. The issues of Kennedy's Catholicism, then the "Cuban
Missile Crisis," the JFK assassination, and Vietnam, all had served to rattle America into
deeper insensibility. The Vietnam War inflicted lesions on American society which are
fairly obvious and which have not yet reached their fruition -- and I use this word in the
sense which our media masters intended. The federal treasury, the armed forces, the
Congresss, were damaged; and even the definitions of the worlds, or concepts, patriotism
and duty, right, justice, national interest, etc., have become fuzzy -- which our
kikemasters intended. The outrageous and filthy strategy of favoring the enemy in media
coverage can lead the thoughtful White man to no conclusion other than that the media-masters
wanted to divide American society. It can be said, then, that the fact the peaceful Beats
were cut loose, and the images of a jungle war replaced it, as the chief diversion for
America, marked a watershed in Jew strategy to dominate the world. It leapt, in effect,
from art to machine. We can imagine where Whites are headed in this progression. Only
Whites count because Whites are civilization. The proof of this lies in the fact that
non-Whites follow and imitate Whites. Neutralize the ability of the general stock of
Whites to generate a core population of imaginative, productive White people and nearly the
entire population of the earth will sink into savagery.
As always a Man on a White Horse will rescue -- who shall rescue Whites? Only the super
leader could salvage and organize that healthy residuum of Whites. About 20 percent of
those people who are wholly genetically White are healthy and intelligent enough to revolt,
and defeat the Jew-Big Business-White Liberal power structure now planning to erase them.
There are many thousands of Whites possessing the qualities necessary to sway and
organize the White residuum. But these are not ready, nor are the leaders. The time is
not right. The White herd is not frightened -- yet. The great meltdown is drawing nearer,
however. I wonder what Kerouac would say or do now. He might bend his word-drunkenness to
propaganda or oratory against ZOG. I think he would see the cause. He didn't care much
for Jews, although he kept company with Jews in his clique. Leaving aside Kerouac's good
traits and bad, the White Nationalist should keep in mind: Kerouac beat ZOG. ZOG thought
it had used him, but Kerouac never went anyplace he didn't want to go.