From "The Best of Attack! and National Vanguard" tabloid, page 132 by
William L. Pierce, titled "Street Impressions, Washington D.C.":
Noise and exhaust fumes and dog feces on the curb. The thumping, screeching beat of
alien music from an open shop. Crumpled bins with garbage overflowing on the street. Everywhere
ugliness--and nowhere so much as in the swarming masses on the sidewalks. The business-suited jews
with their cigars and newspapers, and the under-shirted blacks with afro-brushes in their back pockets. A
hundred faces in each block, and perhaps thirty of them kindred to mine. The rest ugly and alien, swart and
frizzy, with flat noses and muddy eyes. Ugliest of all, the almost-Whites: these mongrel spawn of East and
South with North outnumber the rest. Democracy!
Cities, I suppose, have always been noisy and dirty and ugly. I remember them thus as a child--but not
this noisy; not this dirty. Above all, not this ugly! The crowds once were White, or nearly so. With clear eyes
and bright faces they walked or strolled or bustled along the streets; no waddling, no loose-jointed bopping
along. What a transformation has been wrought in a few decades! Where have these swarming masses been
breeding, to spew forth their dark millions upon our streets? Equality!
Two queers, arm-in-arm, flaunting it. No one seems to notice. Three young blacks, laughing and spewing
obscenities in their squeaky, husky voices as they dodge through the pedestrians in horseplay. No one seems
to notice. And in that doorway, a girl of my Race holding the hand of a negro. No one seems to notice. Here on
the busy thoroughfare the sparkling glass of the jewelry store adjoins the painted-over window of the pornography
shop. On the side street, a stripped hulk of an automobile provides a lounging spot for a black teenager. Next to the
porn shop a fast-food walk-up window sends its smell of hot grease out into the crowd. Behind the streaked, dirty
window are dark faces: not black faces, nor White either, but the faces one sees nowadays in every restaurant, faces
from the Mediterranean, from the Far East, from Persia, from god-knows-where. How long has it been since I've seen
a White waiter or a White short-order cook? But no one seems to notice!
If only it were a simple problem of black and White, of my kinsmen against theirs! But the filth of the city spreads
over all in it, pulls all into a common tangle, blurs distinctions. Some blacks learn to act like Whites; some Whites begin
acting like blacks. And everywhere the almost-Whites, the not-really-blacks, the Race-less ones! Are their ugly faces the
faces of the future? Some would have it so. And yet I can remember when the mongrels were seen as seldom as the
blacks, when the Whites all acted like Whites and owned the sidewalks, when waiters and cooks were White--even the
bums on the street corners. Then there was not such hardness and indifference in all the faces, no hidden fear of everyone
else on the streets. It was a quieter, cleaner, friendlier, less ugly time. I shudder to think of the blood which will be spilled
on this street and a thousand others before things can be set right again. Brotherhood!
Ahead, a street vendor and her trays of trinkets. Flowered dress and springy, black hair. jewess? Gypsy? Two young
negresses in short-shorts and halters coming toward me, one with orange hair, the bizarre result of a peroxide treatment.
In the pack of honking traffic at the intersection, a small convertible with three swarthy young men, shirts open to the navel,
hairy chests, flashing teeth, dark eyes, tight black ringlets, animated conversation. Teheran? Tel Aviv? Naples? A sleek Cadillac
limousine with uniformed black chauffeur and government plates stopped at the light. Slumped in air-conditioned comfort in
the backseat a round, pink face and bald head. There's the trouble! How I wish it were time for the shooting to start! And then,
ten yards away, a lovely vision, a bright Northern jewel, fresh and untouched by the filth all around. I smile. She smiles, looks
down, is gone. America, America!
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