This is so sad, but not for the reasons ankle-biters think. A Frenchmanlet (you’ll understand the appellation in a minute), lost his wife, a fetching White woman, to the Muslim murderers in Paris, and now raises his infant son alone. He has what he imagines is a dispiriting message for his wife’s killers.
Dear beta males afraid to hate,
CH has a message for you that I hope will stir as many hearts as your message has lulled to sleep:
There is no virtue in denying your hatred of those that would kill you and yours. Cowardly shirking mincing mewling faggot shitlibs think your high-mindedness and your determination, or stupidity, to “not cast a distrustful eye to your fellow [Muslim] citizens” is the stuff of true heroism.
But it’s not. Hate is the yang to love’s yin. Your refusal to allow a healthy hate to course through you, and enliven your spirit to action, is surrender. It is retreat from a vital emotion that, when welcomed as circumstances require, will motivate a man to protect his family, his friends, his countrymen.
Maybe that’s the cause of your descent into hollow calls for impassive stoicism in the face of grave threat from outsiders.
There are no White countrymen with a sense of shared heritage worth preserving in the West anymore. Diversity™ saw to that. And there are no White families anymore. Diversity™ is seeing to that, as well, as native birth rates plummet in reaction to the loss of public space. We have our friends, but they disappear behind blue screens and shut-in lives enabled by internet delivery services. So what is there to protect, besides one’s moral posturing? If all you have is desolate ego validation from faceless, deracinated defeatists on social media, then it follows naturally to throw the memory of your pretty wife under the bus for the reward of the one thing that matters anymore in your shattering world… your grandiloquent moral rectitude.
Necessity is the mother of rationalization.
Refusing to hate murderous aliens in your midst who laugh at your haughty self-righteousness as they draw the knife across your throat is not noble
not morally superior.
It is the payment of meekness for comfort. Of weak-minded shibboleth for solace. Of saccharine platitude for avoidance of conflict.
White European Man, this is, if you’ll pardon the pun, your Darkest Hour. If there is a light at the end of this tunnel, it recedes to a pinpoint, flickering and threatening to extinguish… or to explode suddenly at its densest gravitational collapse, like a supernova, flooding your eyes and your conscience with the true nature of the war being waged against you.
La haine est aussi naturel que l’amour.
PA explores an angle that has bothered me, too. What was this Frenchmanlet’s wife doing at a death metal disco? Without him, presumably?
I don’t know anything about that man’s marriage but I can say with confidence that most Western men have never known the love of a woman because most Western women’s capacity for love is strangled early and often. In this case, his wife, an ageing mother, died at a disco. How do you love a woman who does not submit herself to you?
Did that French man ever sit on his couch sipping his favorite poison, while she curled up on the floor and snuggled up to his feet? Do you miss a woman who never showed you, with every gram of her devotion, that you own her fully?
If she did that, how would you mourn a woman like that? Would you go mad with sorrow? Would you coldly plot something that would land you in hell except for God’s mercy in this particular case?
She is gone. I don’t know what his wife was like and how he felt about her before she died. But he has a small child, to whom he can’t explain that mama is never coming back.
A wife and mother in her 30s spending her leisure time head-banging at da club, while beta hubby and infant child wait for her at home, is a powerful symbol of Western White decline. The message has to get out, otherwise White women will head-bang their way into race oblivion, and ultimately fulfill the White race cuckoldry fantasies of the degenerate reptile mafia.
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