Текст книги "The spirit of the nation (СИ)"

Автор книги: Марат Нигматулин

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About the moral revolution.

 

Cattle die,

Friends die,

And the same with you;

But I know of something that never dies

And that's a dead person's deeds.

 

– «Hávamál». 

 

You know, among our Russian left years, we have already established a deeply misguided idea of what the revolution is. That is why, as we are sure, we should discuss the matter below.

 

We are, as it is not difficult to guess, in our understanding of the revolution following New Left, albeit bringing some of our proportions to a certain percentage of judgment. Some of the share of the senses will appear quite large, while other deeds will find it small. To deal with this matter, none of us will be deciding at the moment.

 

You must know clearly and always remember that the real, true revolution has no relations with all the stupid tombs that are circulated relatively to her by any bourgeois prisoners. Remember, the revolution is always the real holiday of the oppressed. And this implies some features, not too pleasant for nitches intellectuals. 

 

Yes, we are not afraid to say the obvious. And it is obvious that the revolution is first of all a mass, unfettered bloody terror of rebellious mobiles. Terror directed against the oppressed and the oppressors who have lost power. These are gloomy torture casemates, dirty concrete floors of which on the most ankles are filled with deathblood enemies of the people. This is an unprecedented scale of rampant ideological fanaticism, a time of brutal massacres of undesirables. In fact, the revolution is one polar Bartholomew's night, which started once and lasted without any interruption for many years, and sometimes even decades. Under the cover of this eerie darkness, which gave birth to freaks and monsters, fanaticism with a sword and a torch in it's hands sweeps across the country like the searing winds of the desert. He sweeps away everything that only comes across from him on the way, does not stop at nothing, until there is nothing left, decidedly nothing but just wild fanaticism. 

 

Revolution is one big heretical empire of evil, a realm of endless nightmare for yesterday's oppressors, now universally deposed, thrown not even to the level of animals, up to the right to the position of dirt underfoot. Yes, in the era of the revolution, the life of some malicious insect is much more expensive than the existence of a million bourgeois and ordinary people. 

 

It's the right thing to do. As Abbie Hoffman once explained: «Remember calling a police pig, you insult a cute hoofed animal!». Of course, we understand that calling police pigs is a long revolutionary tradition dating back to the American rebels of the sixties of the last century. However, we are much nicer than the Russian name of these insignificances. A policeman for our compatriot is not even a pig. It's garbage! So if the American or British cop is a person, not a person, and an animal, then for a Russian guardian, the law is not a living thing. It's what garbage. Dirt beneath your feet.

 

Good attitude! Full dehumanization of the enemy.

 

But let's get back to business. Revolution Is not just one righteous anger.

 

This is, of course, a celebration of the oppressed. Marx talked about it. But here we must remember what is the essence of this holiday. Celebrations, as you know, are often very different. Celebration can have a very peaceful, calm and civilized character, and can take the form of unprecedented rampage. Now, the revolution is just the last case. 

 

Yes, a real revolt – it is the hell’s smoke and total hookup! This is when an unruly mob of radical bulls seizes power, and then begins to turn away all that you want to it's gloomy collective unconscious. The revolution is Freudian Id, bursting from the depths of the collective mind of people, and then completely enslaved their carriers, making them obsessed with sex and destruction by vandals. 

 

Revolution is not only about freedom, equality and brotherhood. This is also innumerable hordes of zombies marching through the streets of cities, chanting that there are urine cannibalistic slogans. 

 

And yes, regarding our use of the term «bull». There's nothing offensive about that. We believe that you are a bull. But there's nothing wrong with that. After all, we are also a bull. And in general, quite shy. If the Nazis and liberals call us a bull, so do we.

 

However, the revolution is not only thrash, carbon monoxide and sodomy. It is also a carnival of unlimited power rising over the angry crowd of mighty leaders, heroes and the like saviors of the nation, the fatherland and the world. Yes, indeed, revolution is a time of incredible. In French – les Incroyables. It is a time of strong people who are ready to get to the very root in everything, to reveal the true mechanisms of the work of this world, and then to reveal the learned truth of the entire universe. Revolution is the era of prometheus power. 

 

The ruler of the revolutionary era, the true leader of the people – only his own kind gives the impression of a pagan god descended to the earth.

 

Look at Lenin! Direct your eyes to his portrait. He's a real god! God, that's all! It's a real idol! Ancient Greek idol! An idol in the true, original sense of the word!  That's what Yahweh says: «Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image.». It is also clear why he told his admirers to act in this way. Afraid! He was afraid of such idols as Lenin!

 

It's long time to communist: «Lenin is our God!». Declare thunderstorms and priors without an equivocs!

 

The truth, only one dead God, is limited to us. The Revolutions are required by the gods alive. A portrait of one of these gods we'll try to draw you now. Here we are, of course, introducing some real person, but rather an image of how our understanding could be the revolutionary ruler of Russia's future. The Great Russia without officials, the politicians and all the educated schopsmen from the High School of Economics.

 

So imagine something next. Sie, as we think, is a very revolutionary scene.

 

Heavy oak doors will dissolve with a squeak. Behind them opens a long semi-dark hall, the glass roof of which is held with the help of a mighty colonnade. Pulling in the nostrils cold and fresh air of the hall, only slightly diluted by the smell of soot, you go on a soft carpet of scarlet velvet. Behind your back are the subtle steps. The slightly shuffling gait of two aging cavalry officers. It is much easier to recognize in the tense silence of the hall a slight shaking of the ephesus of Cossack checkers, fixed on the belts of your escorts. To the right and left of you a little gleam from the darkness polished to a mirrored brilliance pink marble, which are lined here and the floor, and the walls, and the most columns. Each of the latter is fixed on the torch. The flames shudder before your eyes from the sharp gusts of the draught walking here. You raise your eyes to the top, but through thick glass, among themselves fortified with heavy metal structures, – you can only see a small piece of gray, like a lead bullet, the autumn sky of Moscow. Outside at this time there is a downpour. If you listen a little, you can easily guess the thud of drumming on the glass raindrops. It is well discernible in the dead silence of the hall, disturbed only by the crackling of gradual burning torches, rare gusts of wind and your quiet, almost indistinguishable steps. You get to the very end of the room. There, surrounded by two soldiers of honor guard, overshadowed by clouds of incense smoke, exuded by the fimiam placed on the nearby triplets, on a huge-sized throne of pure gold, the smooth and shining surface of which is careless sheltered with ermine mantle in the name of keeping warm, – the ruler sits. 

 

He's a tough gray-haired man in his fifties. A mighty body, a stern face, a piercing look. He's like Julius Caesar or anyone else. 

 

One glance alone makes it clear that in front of you is not some nitzy intellectual, – but a real collective farmer.  The sight of it unmistakably indicates that this man half of his life ploughed skinny loam, while the other half devoted entirely to military campaigns. He grew up in a small village in the middle of the vast expanse of the Russian plain. Since childhood, his environment was poverty, hard work, drunkenness and hopelessness. This is a real Slavic Indian, the son of a prostitute, all his life walking barefoot on the raw land and never used to wear boots. God knows how many years ago he gave up peasant labor, formed a guerrilla group and went on the warpath. Now this man has become the ruler of one-sixth of the entire hard surface of our planet. 

 

So, before you – a true general of the revolution, a living embodiment of the people. 

 

When you find yourself in the presence of such a person, you will immediately want to fall on his knees in front of him. You will immediately experience an acute desire to cringe, snare and servite. 

 

Now you may be able to at least imagine what it is , a real leader. In short, he is a man who wants to be deified, as soon as you notice him. This, however, does not allow to understand properly – in what is able to embody this monstrous, truly inexhaustible charisma of the leader of the revolution, the real ruler of the people. Now we will try to correct this flaw. 

 

Below we offer a description of the scene, which in our opinion is able to very well convey the very essence of not only the revolutionary dictatorship, but also the revolutionary era in general. So, imagine this. 

 

Christians are thrown into the arena of a giant amphitheater only to be eaten there under the hooting of the crowd of wild animals. Tigers and bears tear the unfortunate to pieces, and the crowd in the stands just in hysterics beats with joy. From his lodge, the one who started all this action is watching through the polished emerald. Terrible tyrant, bloody satrap, mad dictator. Part-time – a talented poet, outstanding actor and brilliant musician. And yes, of course, to everything else, – also a sexual giant. He calmly looks through the stone of Aphrodite as forest monsters eat the creators of the charity cafe «Japheth’s». And he, the organizer of this monstrous hekatomba, is remarkable, just wonderful in it'sbeauty. He is the embodiment of a drunken unbridled mobile, a beast-like trash that is full of only hatred for everything in the world and monstrous, never disappearing desire to kill all in a row, to destroy everything that comes under his arm, to rampage always and everywhere, not knowing the measure, not target. He is a true star of the people. He is the son of a fat prostitute. 

 

This, we think, is a very revolutionary scene. 

 

However, it would be good to name at least one such picture, not generated by someone's consciousness as an ideal, but a real, which had a place to be in reality. We can easily name such a scene. 

 

As Curzio Malaparte recalled well his own meeting with the leader of the Croatian Ustashis, the head of Ante Pavelic. Listen only: «While he spoke, I gazed at a wicker basket on the Poglavnik's desk. The lid was raised and the basket seemed to be filled with mussels, or shelled oysters, as they are occasionally displayed in the windows of Fortnum and Mason in Piccadilly in London. Casertano looked at me and winked: «Wouldn't you like a good oyster stew?». «Are they Dalmatian oysters?» – I asked the Poglavnik. Ante Pavelic removed the lid from the basket and revealed the mussels, that slimy and jelly-like mass, and he said smiling, with that tired good-natured smile of his: «It is a present from my loyal Ustashis. Forty pounds of human eyes.».

 

That is why we say that every truly revolutionary leader must put on his desk a wicker basket filled with the eyes of the enemies of the people. 

 

Yes, more. As for the star of the people. That's how Emperor Caligula liked to call himself. 

 

The latter, however, is not a revolutionary at all. He's just a great ruler. Therefore, another example would be more appropriate here. LevZinkovsky would be very good for us here. Yes, remember, the revolutionary era is a time when the authorities are seizing personalities like this last one. Moreover, the respected comrade Zadov with his monstrous, as well as his own cruelty overshadowed many rulers of Ancient Rome. 

 

Yes, they are the leaders of the popular revolt. All of them are like Zinkovsky. Such at the same time show us and examples of the recklessness of heroism, and monstrous cruelty, and also do not cease to shine in the bright sparks of their own genius. Such are always obsessed with great passions: here and the desire to save humanity, and the irresistible thirst for unlimited power. In short, it is not people almost. More like real living gods. 

 

 Those are the revolutionary leaders.

 

What are the rulers of the reactionary age? Sickening, insignificant people! Real degenerates.

 

That is the Honorius emperor, willing to take care of only your own rooster, but throwing at the fates of the Eternal City.This is Nikolas the Second, this is most of the modern rulers.

 

Truly, look at Nikolas the Second! What a disorder! The man was headed by one of the world's largest empires, while the only poison for him was shooting at the crows and cats. He got a brilliant education, and yet he worshipped the candid charlatans like Rasputin's fungus. He was an abluciate ruler. The will was automatically becoming law. And while he spent his life shaking from horror at one thought, the spouse would know about his novel affair with a worthless Polish ballerina.