Douglas Mercer
January 13 2025
I continue to write, at constant sacrifice of my own convenience and peace; to write, in the hope that I may possibly contribute a little to the formation of such a nucleus that will be able to act intelligently when the time comes — if it ever does—Revilo Oliver
Revilo Oliver (note the palindrome) was born near Corpus Christi, Texas in 1908—but soon moved to California where he went to Pomona College and studied Sanskrit from a Hindu Missionary. He then got his PhD from the University of Illinois studying under Oldfather. From Sanskrit he translated The Little Clay Cart, a ten act drama of an ancient playwright. He was a great scholar and was fluent in ten languages but it is his torrentially eloquent prose in the cause of the Aryan race for which he is remembered and for which we revere him. Impossibly erudite he had the mind and the manner of a Renaissance prince but when it came to invective he was as lacerating and merciless as a cold blooded assassin.
“We realize that the public schools have been for many years a vast brainwashing and brain-contaminating machine that has worked, on the whole, with great efficiency. It’s a machine to which we send our children to have their minds filled with grotesque and debasing superstitions; to have their instincts of integrity and honor leached from their souls; to be incited to premature debauchery and perversion; to be imbued with thoughtless irresponsibility; and to be prepared for addiction to mind-destroying drugs and an existence below the animal level. The public schools have indeed been the most powerful single engine of subversion that our enemies have used upon us.”
This is the locus classicus of free for all no holds barred vicious rhetoric; Oliver himself took some time to untether himself and his language from every last shibboleth. After the war he assumed as a matter of course that the Jewish crimes that led to the great conflagration would redound on their worthless heads; he was surprised that this did not come to pass. And when William F Buckley was looking for a University Scholar to add prestige to his fledgling National Review Oliver was an obvious choice. And for a time Oliver churned out Whittaker Chambreqsque essays about the Soviet threat. But in what is perhaps a kind of rite of passage for racial nationalists in this period he (like Rockwell did) became slowly disillusioned with the milksop conservatism which tried to pass itself off as a vigorous defense of the country. As always the sticking point was Jews. Oliver came to see (well in advance of many others) that for all of Buckley’s reputed tenacity he was little more than a noblesse oblige deracinated Brahmin and liberal and, what was much worse, a creature of the Jews and his magazine a wholly owned subsidiary of the International Criminal Tribe. Not a word could be said about Jewish perfidy in those “hallowed” pages and if one is not going to speak the plain truth plainly and with unstinting vigor one will never succeed. He was also one of the charter members of The John Birch Society but soon he discovered that Robert Welch was a liar and a fraud and that organization too had a phobia of confronting the Jewish Octopus and so once again Oliver set himself free from the cowards and craven time servers who only posed as saviors but in truth were just time servers of the system.
Being a free voice free of all inhibiting encumbrances has its cardinal advantages. To be able to speak without reservation of the “Jewish Plague,” a phrase which made the likes of Buckley scurry blindly like rats when the lights comes on, liberates explosive energies, and no one’s words were more explosive that Oliver. Seemingly unhinged his long and sinuous sentences were nothing of the sort. With words he was able to harness both lightning and thunder all while maintaining the serenely balanced grace of perfect rhetoric and grammar.
“And instead of quietly abandoning the absurd hoax about the six million, which was devised to pep up the Aryan cattle they stampeded into Europe in 1941, and which has netted them many billions of dollars from the swindled Germans and much more from the rest of the world, they are demanding that the lie be forcibly injected into the mind of every American child. That is certain to increase resentment, as is, for example, their recent attempt to murder a man in Chicago, which, when he was merely grievously injured, they explained by claiming they had mistaken him for a man they intended to murder, it being assumed that since the victim was merely an Aryan dog, that explanation should be sufficient comfort for the other dogs.”
Upon reading a paragraph such as this all one can do is stand up and yell bravo! And cry out for more. Indeed, subsequent to his break with the Right Wing sycophants, lackeys and toadies Oliver’s free spirit and unquenchable power with the pen soared and roamed and with a butcher’s grace demolished and leveled citadel after citadel of supposed truth. With a surgeon’s precision and a berserk fury he elegantly slashed his way through the received wisdom of the age until there was nothing left of it but bleeding tatters and soiled rags. So powerful and voracious is his style, honed by a mind fine tuned to pure excellence, that reading him is like being swept away by a whirlwind only to find oneself landing upright on one’s feet marveling at how the reposed measure was kept. He was also the most eloquent anti-Christian since Nietzsche and continually showed our Aryan race that the path that we must follow must be ours and our alone.
And then just like George Lincoln Rockwell the thread of his fate (and ours of course) led him on the path another immortal culture hero, William Pierce. Oliver had kept a hand in political matters, moving ever-rightward as he lent his name and oratorical persuasiveness to the National Youth Alliance and then its successor, the National Alliance of Dr. William Pierce. His meeting with Pierce in a way is the hinge of our history. By far two of the greatest minds of the time they began to collaborate and what came of it was an epochal text which continues to awe the world. Some say that Oliver wrote an obscure text called The John Franklin Letters, others say he did not. This was a fictional book of first person narration which depicted an underground group of White racial nationalists combating a tyrannical America government; a government which acquiesces in being placed on indefinite administrative penalty by a World Government due to its alleged racist past. In the book chief among America’s supposed sin is its historic psychological genocide against the Negro Race. It was with this book in mind that Oliver gave Pierce the greatest literary advice of the 20th century. Pierce had begun writing his seminal essays on our racial situation but he was frustrated that his message was not getting out. Oliver told him that well-crafted essays were fine in their place but that the audience he wanted to reach, young men searching a leader and searching for order, were not likely to read such; but what these men, the kind who might pick up Soldier Of Fortune, would read was a densely packed novel full of action and adventure and drama and blood. And thus was born The Turner Diaries, a novel so “notorious” that at the least provocation the Jews will parade it around the public square like Public Enemy Number One. In fact it is that; for so stirring and prophetical is it that it’s the kind of book that will shake the world for a lot more than seven days.
As for Oliver finally in the 1980s he collected some of his essays in a book titled American Decline. In this work he patiently outlines the precipitous fall from glory our country experienced in the first half of the 20th Century. As such it an important historical document. One could read tomes of academic dry rot called history pertaining to this period and not come one scintilla closer to the truth. But Oliver with his unerring and unflinching gimlet eye for accuracy lays bare the long years of treachery and deceit, the sorry tale of the gaggle of criminals who led us down the twisting garden path to our present state of misery. In retrospect he is easily the greatest writer of prose of the last century; his powerful words are stark and startling and bristle with an eternal energy that lights the mind on fire. But even more important than this distinctive manner of expressing himself is the fact that he was able to pierce forever the fog and veil of lies that cloud the minds of the millions; and show us the truth, the truth in all of its unremitting horror; and what is more give hope to that small nucleus he spoke of, and arm them with the knowledge to act swiftly and decisively when the time comes---as surely it will.
In closing I will quote the great Kevin Alfred Strom’s powerful tribute to Oliver, a tribute to a great man and what is more, a friend:
“Often have I been filled with regret when death has come to someone I have loved. That regret is that there were still things left unsaid, things that needed to be said before the end, but which were not said. That is not the case between me and Revilo Oliver. I was able to tell him how much I loved him, how much he had affected my life, how much he had inspired me and thousands like me, and how, as long as I drew breath, the Cause for which he lived would continue. I promised him that his written works and his works of the spoken word would live in the hearts and minds of more and more men and women of our race, and that his contribution would never be forgotten. Revilo Oliver had no biological children. We, who had the rare privilege of knowing him and learning from him, and who now must carry on in a universe suddenly without him, are his spiritual children. We must strive to reverence Truth as he did.”
