Douglas Mercer
December 26 2023
Proving once again the journey from White race pride to a pie in the sky belief about the magical properties of a dead Jew is fraught with bitter peril the story of Joseph Pearce is sad one. Apparently this uber moron deems himself to having been riding shotgun with Satan because he once loved the White race dearly. According to him Beelzebub himself was looming large in his life when he was an Aryan among the Aryans and he had the fighting spirit for his people. It was the devil who made him love and worship his race and from the bowels of hell slyly exhorted him never to give up and never give in and never give an inch in the battle against race aliens and Jews. His current brain melting fairy tale is that it was Lucifer-slash-Mephistopheles who gave him his tuition when the august majesty of the Europeans was upper most in his mind; but then one day he “woke up” (that is, fell into an ideological coma) and says he saw the light of that dead Jew; he was in a race with the devil he says but he emerged victorious by his lights; now he eschews Whiteness as sure as any dark hued critical race theorist or Afro Latina in the faculty lounge; that is he’s gone over to the dark side and is a mealy mouthed Catholic Integralist: he used for foam at the mouth in vehemence for his blood kin; now he lays supine before the majesty of a phantasmal Hebrew; if there is a more sorry spectacle than this I for one have never seen it.
“Pearce, as many who have read his work or seen him speak might testify, can give one the impression of a soft-handed, tweed-sporting, Oxford don who has spent the better part of his life among the dusty pages of a library, with his remaining hours spent drinking afternoon tea and sipping scotch in the evening. Perhaps those with the knack of identifying an Englishman’s town of birth by his accent would not be fooled, but for most of us on this side of the pond, his blood seems practically blue. It turns out, however, that his blood is really more well, orange.”
His blood has been drained. He is a bloodless and deracinated bleeding-heart Catholic who believes against all empirical and extant evidence in the saving God of the Jews. His blood once ran hot for we White people but now it has grown distant and cold in the service of an alien God and an alien ideology. His tale of fall from the true belief in ourselves to belief in a scum ideology is in itself instructive and salutary if looking at a pile of shit covered in rank disease and buzzing and swarming with infected flies and knowing you have to hightail it out of there can be said to be instructive and salutary. In one interview he said that his old self saw the wisdom of Enoch Powell in that the aliens were moving in and changing the neighborhoods, changing of course being a genteel euphemism for running roughshod over, desecrating, destroying and violating. But now his new and “better” self spouts faux and reprehensible wisdom and says that the aliens taking over our homes are just the just comeuppance for us conquering the world and taking over their lands; he describes this process as “moral symmetry” and of course the chickens coming home to roost. A black man raped your wife? A Paki locked up your daughter, chained her to a radiator and sold her on the open market like a piece of kebab or fresh meat? Just suck it up White man and consider it ethical retribution and the arc of the universe bending towards sweet justice. How do you solve a problem like Joseph Pearce? It is one of those questions that answer itself.
“In his autobiography, Race with the Devil: My Journey from Racial Hatred to Rational Love the donnish impression of Pearce quickly goes up in smoke. The book dispels almost instantly any stuffy image one may have ever entertained of the prolific author. Who knew the young Joe Pearce was a skinhead bulldog? Yes, you read those words right—a skinhead and a bulldog anxious for the fight. Pearce likens his early childhood in rural England to Tolkien’s Shire: innocent, idyllic, peaceful. But due to the negative influence of the adults in his life, by the time he was 15, racial politics had completely dominated his life. Before he was the world's foremost Catholic biographer, Joseph Pearce was a leader of the National Front, a British-nationalist, white-supremacist group.”
He’s got the tweeds on alright and he smokes the oversized pipe in his book lined study and he can regale with you some apt quote from the S & M aficionado named C.S. Lewis. He used be a street fighting man and was more than ready to be a stalwart for his race and bust some heads for them if need be. He used to idolize Adolf Hitler but he thanks his lucky stars every day that those dark days are long past. He says he used to be full of hate for his brothers and sisters of all the races but now he loves them all as they are all the children of a loving God. When he thinks of those “dark” days of his younger self he is in cold horror and he shudders a quiet shudder as shivers run up and down him. How close a passageway it was when he miraculously escaped his brush with hate! How close he came to being cast forever into the darkest pit of hell! There but for the grace of that loving if fictional God goes he. If not for the miracle of a treacly grace he would still be using his talented pen in the defense of White people in their present hour of maximum peril, terrible thought. Without the shining ray of the very mind of Jesus Christ upon him he would still be toiling in the vineyards of Whiteness as a writer and polemicist of rare vehemence. He would still be cast in the outer darkness of naming the Jew and highlighting the onslaught of White Genocide. Thank you Jesus, thank you Jesus he says over and over in his prayers at night for rescuing him from the dark night of his soul, so that he might escape the clutches of such a fate, a fate which would be worse than death. He has found rational love which has caused him to lose his mind and laid him meek, low, humble. He has now become his very own beau ideal: a mind numbingly stupid mental child in thrall to easily disprovable fairy tales.
“Before he was the world's foremost Catholic biographer, Joseph Pearce was a leader of the National Front, a British-nationalist, white-supremacist group. Before he published books highlighting and celebrating the great Catholic cultural tradition, he disseminated literature extolling the virtues of the white race, and calling for the banishment of all non-white from Britain. Pearce and his cohorts were at the center of the racial and nationalist tensions-often violent-that swirled around London in the late-1970s and early 80s.”
I don’t think I’m being arch when it occurs to me that being the world’s foremost Catholic biographer is more than a bit akin to being the skinniest kid at fat camp, that is neither no great shakes nor nothing to write home to mother about. Before he was doing real and valuable work praising our race to the skies and singing paeans to our people with the flames of the written word; he was calling for a White nation as the community of the people and recommending that all of the dark skinned be sent packing. That is a legacy, that is a life work, of that you can be sure. That would be something to be proud of and if done with enough assiduousness and fire would be a deed a dead man would love to have done. And what did he overthrow this for? Why, he found that fool Chesterton, and that weak kneed anti-Semite Belloc, that trumped up writer CS Lewis who paid whores to beat him, and Tolkien who denied he was celebrating Whiteness and when called on excoriated Hitler. These are the four horsemen of idiocy, the Catholic pansies who put a Jew ahead of their own people and led too many of us down the garden path to death in the name of the “four loves” whatever those are. No, that transition is akin to being put out to pasture or simply ground up and served for dinner.
“Race with the Devil is one man's incredible journey to Christ, but it also much more. It is a testament to God's hand active among us and the infinite grace that Christ pours out on his people, showing that we can all turn-or return-to Christ and his Church. His first stint in prison merely annealed his white, Anglocentric bigotry. But his second incarceration was different, because by that time he had discovered authors who challenged his racist worldview. Many of the steps stand out, such as the moment he found himself in prison again at the age of 24, grasping a rosary someone had given him in court and trying to pray despite not knowing a single prayer.”
Incredible indeed as in unbelievable and that no one should give it credence. These Christians they are such gulls and dupes and monumental retards that they would just about believe anything don’t you think? There is that bridge you could sell them on the Bonneville Salt Flats and surely at whatever price they would be eager, willing and wide eyed and drooling at the prospect. You have to remember that both the “active hand of God” and the “infinite grace of Christ” are just high-sounding rhetorical flourishes which have no correspondence in reality and are the nutritional equivalent of an empty calorie candy bar and hit the ears of the verbally sensitive like a blatant gong which reverberates painfully. He went up on one of those overwrought Race Relations beefs which is the moral equivalent of burning heretics at the stake; apparently he stayed strong on his first stay in prison but in the second he was reduced to a blubbering mass of amorphous weakness and was reportedly found curled in a fetal ball in his cell weeping like a woman. He was rendered bereft of reason and was known to have clutched at magical catholic tchotchkes or baubles or doo dads believing them to have supernatural properties capable of curing a soul. That a once strong White man should have come to such a pass and such a state and that he could later parlay such an embarrassing experience into a real live speech that rapt men prone to silly religiosity would attend with bated breath really beggars belief. But what he was peddling was much more and “thrilling” than the sign of the cross, he was giving them that stock thing, the prison experience when having been cast down by the Lord into the hands of a merciless state the epiphanic moment happened and the scales fell from his eyes and he saw the grace they falsely claim is abounding. They say St. Paul had his about the risen lord, that Gandhi had his about the evil of White man and Martin Luther King was so moved by being in jail that he wrote a letter which made it all the way into anti-White textbooks. But when Joseph Pearce had his he was well on his way to being a contributor to First Things and being given carte blanche to bloviate to cattle about the things that Catholics should know first and foremost is that they should never defend their race even when the tide of alien humanity reaches flood levels, all the creeks rise, and the gods appear unwilling. When he was in that cell it was the dark night of his soul but from his own telling he came through it with herculean effort and promised to cast aspersions on his own people at the drop of a Jew’s tiny hat. The rosary was henceforth his pacifier and it strokes and soothes him in his harried and mindless state. He once used cold reason to live now he has rational love to commit moral suicide.
“I was undermining my own most dearly held prejudices. I realize now what I had no way of realizing then, that it was the combination of Chesterton’s eminently rational mind and his transparently virtuous heart that had captured and captivated me. It was the charm of goodness, the presence of goodness, the light of sanctity shining forth in the darkness, the life of love that can kill all hatred.”
The Catholic Press loves this guy, they call it an amazing conversion story and say that Joseph Pearce was a “hard case.” But it also goes to show, they say, that the grace of God is a wily thing and you never know who it will land on, that is you never know what pile of shit the flies will infect. He was once a martyr for his people; while in prison the words “free Joseph Pearce” were brazenly emblazoned as graffiti on walls, bridges, building and overpasses. All the White world would have done anything for him then, he was one of us, one of our kind and one of our kin, and should the call have arrived any one of us would have sweat blood or bullets for him. Safe to say for our dedication we were not repaid in kind; it is said that his father was a racist and an admirer of National Socialism but he too in his dotage fell prey to the dogma of Christ’s slumbers; Pearce has written about how Chesterton saved him from anti-Semitism as if that was something which one must be saved from and not something which should be taught in the little grades. In that fool Augustine’s Confessions they say it is the little moments of grace which made the difference as if it was not the metaphorical brain damage which sent him reeling into a fantasy land of make-believe. You can look up Joseph Pearce online and it won’t take you long to hear him spout a dozen absurd things before breakfast. You can hear him say how his former cohort now are calling for compulsory remigration and he takes them to task for wanting to frog march the foreigner out; you can see him too lament how his friends used the book The Selfish Gene as a justification for racism and how they saw the book as backing up the notion that one would love more closely persons with genetic similarities (all it most true); he calls The Camp Of The Saints racist and The Turner Diaries a "nasty novel"; indeed if you can stand the tedium and the horror you can see him warble about any number of subjects in a wrongheaded way; but to save you some time all you need to know about him is that he made the “incredible” journey from the National Front to the Catholic font, from love of his own, to the love all human kind, and the trek from strong and sane aggression to a weak willed and sundering and surrendering love; and has made quite a nice living off the transformation being feted by Catholic journalists and the various Hooray Harrys of the Christian microphone. That is he was once a bulldog and is now a lap dog, he was once a hero and is now a traitor, he thinks his past was pernicious but one look at him is enough to know that his present is unspeakable; so as our gods abide no strange incense nor hear any bootless cries pay no mind nor respect to him because our kind never gives homage to the dead.
A Traitor Brushes Off Hate
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Douglas Mercer
- Posts: 10963
- Joined: Tue Mar 28, 2023 7:29 pm
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Douglas Mercer
- Posts: 10963
- Joined: Tue Mar 28, 2023 7:29 pm
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Douglas Mercer
- Posts: 10963
- Joined: Tue Mar 28, 2023 7:29 pm
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Douglas Mercer
- Posts: 10963
- Joined: Tue Mar 28, 2023 7:29 pm
