If ten children are killed one day by a suicide trucker, we respond accordingly. Some of us jest for shock, some of us exhibit shock by not jesting or by avoiding discussions about trucks or children. Some of us pretend it didn't happen, ask for a moment of silence, et cetera. We may punish an acquaintance or a celebrity for expressing shock wrongly, and days or decades later, we may or may not remember what we'd decided about the person who'd done that at such a time.
Less specific; less contentious. We can make nature more impersonal. Say X firefighters were killed by Given Natural Disaster. No diversity hires nor smuggled records, just tragedy, and instead of birthing Y Africans, happy pseudo-goy billionaire who has otherwise not funded Y Africans establishes childhoods and career funding for firefighter-widows and -children, so without tie-ins to the past there's less to talk about this time. And it happened every day since hypothetical pre-industrial times based on our presumed and acceptable time-scale. So there's nothing apt, no climate change, no one to blame, just backdrafts and old buildings, and okay there's still someone to sort-of blame, there always is, why do we still allow this old construction and who owned it and who inspected it et cetera. There's always something, but assume the X firefighters are killed as blame-satisfaction-lessly as possible, they used their equipment properly and got out everyone who was there and had enough equipment and didn't go back in to rescue the Mayor's Pomeranian, they were just banal heroic oh god the news is talking about them (there's always something to complain about, but for god's sake try not to focus on that), so everyone is sort of mum about firefighters for a while and you can't blame the laws of physics so everyone stays relatively quiet for some quantity of days.
And at some point, like guns at schools, things go sort of back to normal. Maybe it's one year; maybe it's ten years; whatever. Everyone can discuss matters in polite company which might otherwise be off-limits if broached by polite people at a polite time and place.
And then society changes and it's inconceivably rude to talk about the public speeches before--irrelevant millions, say, in favor of backdrafts or suicide-trucking. Like it's not even something you're allowed to think about. You've seen that, right? You get remarried the day after you're widowed and the eyebrows cease raising, but something new becomes unmentionable. Whatever it is. What is the acceptable delay? A hundred days, a year, a hundred years, a thousand years, since the tragedy...when is it not funny or even tiresome any longer, just boring? Best forgotten? Best not focused on; talked about; contemplated? There are people on the internet, maybe, who talk about certain things you're not supposed to talk about elsewhere, but even they have their boundaries, particularly when profession or background or beliefs or sex or race come into play. So when is that point?
In The Forgotten Dead, this one reminded:
Even in the very short term--two millennia of somewhat-contiguous written records and extant building and bodily remains--the crimes of the last invasion are apparent. How dearly bought was, if nothing else, Ireland! The mutilated children of the bulk of the continent are so far forgotten that no one will ever knowingly dig up the ashes of their bones. As with Iraq to Columbia, though, evidence from Ireland provides sufficient justification to strip all assets from the whole of Europe's toxic banking and peerage ranks, and return every last little Macron and "of Wales" floater to the care of their southern owners.In Rapespawn Kult, this one also reminded:
[T]he reason Europeans fantasize about comparatively godlike peoples is because they, too, savaged and/or outbred a predecessor race/species whose achievements they could worship at, but not then duplicate nor maintain.Make it more personal. Your mother was killed, your granddaughter was raped, your great grandfather was betrayed and murdered. Forty years ago, four years ago, forty hours ago, now in front of your eyes. You're supposed to think things are different when time has passed, because time has passed. The doctors all say it's a sickness when you can't let time wash away the wounds. Have the bodies gone cold, yet? The time for vengeance, if it even solves anything, has passed. The opinion has been given. Professionally.
It is a sickness, a diagnosable sickness, to be unable to let go of something on a Terran time scale. Sure, there are insects that only live for twenty hours, so it might be several lifetimes of theirs before your grief begins to pass. Within some subdivision of your entire lengthy life, you should be able to let things go. What are you, a freak?
For about half a second after stubbing a toe, you're allowed to be really pissed. Then you're supposed to regain control. If you suddenly curse and shake a fist a year later, you're crazy, even if you stubbed your toe a year ago without shaking a fist and cursing. Wounds should be relative. You walk on eggshells with doctor-talk around the guy whose wife was killed by that sorta-unlicensed-but-cheaper plastic surgeon in Uruguay, even ten years later, and that's okay, although he really should get over it and remarry by now, since it's clearly insane to disbelieve in settling for the present since she'd want it to be the best it could be for you if she were still here. So it's relative: any human reaction must be shaped by, tempered by, a physical event, and flare-ups have to be staggered to ritual with diminishing returns, like anniversaries alone, with exceptions made for the vulnerably young or old.
Crying over a movie is okay, having lingering feelings from childhood is okay, but attempting to visceralize or anthropomorphize non-personal memories into any form of pendancy, of now-ness, is wrong, we all agree. Being angry about the past is wrong (barring rotating exceptions with permissible past-afflicted psychoanalyzed victim groups); even if you liken it to your current plight, frequent doses of now are necessary to avoid accusations of craziness. Ergo in the deceptive realm, there must be new tragedy as well as links to past tragedy, while in the realistic realm, there can be no affectation of past tragedy. So, if an Arab blows up or shoots or runs down a Nu Euro as a small part of taking over Europe, we're sort-of allowed to be affected for a short while, but we're not supposed to be affected by a different act of ravaging a few more years ago. E.g., an Arab kills a person in France, we're not supposed to be affected by it in particular, though outside media culture you're sort of allowed to. So the White kid run down in France can matter somewhere. When it becomes crazy on top of crazy, though, is when you feel in your gut the same sense of wrongness about people killed similarly, a thousand years ago, in a different takeover. This one might defend a presumed ethnic sub-group murdered a few months ago, but traces of ghost from, say, 700 A.D. are off limits. All the kiddies raped in Britain now matter to some people, versus all the kids who were raped in Britain a thousand years not mattering, to the same group of people. Tragicomic, to say the least, as not only the crust but the body of the sandwich is trimmed away, leaving only crumbs.
It's sweet, in a terrible and mocking way, to see one set of European rapespawn lamenting their own demise at the hands of others. Yes, there were more statues and rocket-ships in the meantime, and that stuff might vanish, or more probably, be derivitized into achievements that take centuries to retroclassify as "not all it could've been, actually." Because the ability to accurately conceive of opportunity costs relies upon a vision that is, when it still lingers, tainted. Which is to say, we don't know what Europe might've done in, say, seventeen hundred years without soulular universalism. Absent Jesus, Mars would be not a hotel-colony, but a mere ancient stepping-stone to something we probably can't imagine anymore, founded sometime around what we wouldn't then call the first millennia B.C. And by being here, we're responsible for that lack. Bitter pills. Jagged, even.
But still, this one empathizes, quite a bit, with the small echoes of unfairness contained in yet another ongoing loss. Call them sub-sub-minority telegenetic cognizati; call them whatever you like, but among our best hopes here is to imagine what could've (materially) been. (Strengthens the brain, maybe dangerously, but that's what they said.) So depending on your perspective, can you be as upset about this year's kiddos as yesteryear's? Probably not--but maybe you can still imagine what it would be like to have a memory, and a sense of time, minutely more strong to allow for such. Only a thread attached to the dragon's tail, but it's all you have. Imagine not just the comparative handful of kids being Paki-raped, who should of course not be forgotten (and what a social ordeal it is to even contemplate trying to remember them in the company of polite skulls), but being able to remember, without imagining, without forcing, without distending long-stunted temporal connections, a million Alpinic kids meeting the spreading Jenomics. We don't have the memory capacity, let alone the emotional, for such a meeting, but we can imagine its shadow. Are you so dull you can't care to the same degree as about watching it happen across the street? Almost certainly. Can't even imagine the people, now long dead, who could have felt what we call emotions that we're not now capable of manifesting? We like to pretend desensitization began with TV, but it didn't. Cry for the flesh that was cut away.
More useful, here, is the basic and the boring. What would your life be like if there had been no "Catholic church" forestalling thought, observation, and investigation, for let's say 1,700 years? What would geography, nations, races, look like without it?
(What if I had just ten more years? What if I could do it over again knowing what I know now? Rant at the stretcher. It'll listen?)
Another irony--so unprepared for death, yet in our deaths we can, maybe, still ask some of the relevant questions. Will we remember that, by right, they are not just ours? "Unprepared" means very little education, and god help you if you try to take a class, which they offer, and might yet force, on people--the beauty at the end is the "true" material in a way you didn't see until then. Not this one's speech, but maybe I just didn't learn what to ignore? Those last few instants are less corporate, if you will, than anything leading up to them. You've been taught, been controlled as to, how to perceive, but around there, you're a little more free. Use it? Huge tell if/when they try to destroy it by making it a subject of education.
Are philosophers genetically motivated to destroy from within? Which is to say, is international publisher-supported David Benator, knowing or unknowing, trying to magnify his racial opportunity cost by forestalling white births? A question of which he should at least be aware, but likely is not, nor is willing or wanting to be, particularly given his location. Teaching in Capetown, and using an otherwise ignorable, but not for the childfree life, New Yorker-pushed sinecure, to try to convince upper middle class, book-reading Nu Euros to avoid child-bearing to reduce the pain of life in the imaginarily-homogenous, science-illegalized western-world, seems rather an overreach, but not necessarily--he may only be prodigiously stupid, as ignorant as any modern, similar to your neighborhood Richard Dawkins-ish religious Bangist, wherein one has tested the pudding, meant primarily for the inmates, so often that one believes it. Or, also Dawkins-ish, the opportunity presents itself for self-at-the-expense-of-others, wherein the entire career and persona is so laughable as to be performed solely in jest, and where the world may burn so long as I party for my allotment (ergo the quite explicable disinclination to put philosophy into practice, common among all living nihilists, particularly reproducing ones). As this one said elsewhere:
Great thing to see--if we take [Dawkins] at face value, he's ludicrous, but if we see him as a revenue-generating media machine, he's brilliant. He's amassed wealth for his daughter to use in exploiting the next century, all by telling us that it's simultaneously right and wrong. The end result is a wasteland, but as long as his offspring privately schools itself, they'll emerge from that at the top of the game, producing more genes at the expense of others. Morality trumps politics, sic."Benator" is indicative because the framing of his New Yorker-ish "buy this from your nationally subsidized retailer amazon or just check it out from your local-subsidized depository" hit includes references to "the Great Hunger." What a crime that: as Irish slaves export a massive excess of calories to English tables, even to the point of throwing out too many potatoes (in England), they were certainly left hungry, but not because a god of random markets or random lives led them to it. More telling is the internationally focused traders who decided that those potatoes would be shipped to England and not eaten in Ireland, and that their counterparts in universities would pretend the massive, ongoing, actual Holocaust, with real mass graves and foretelling and tangible "was hungry and could for a while exhume corpses to prove it" recollection aplenty (contra pulley-esque oven stories that were historically recanted almost as if they were collective plot-notes), would be made to happen. As in all things, we see that it was planned, but experts tell us it was mostly random, possibly due to our own evils.
(This one tells us similarly, though in the sense of saying "you were so stupid that...", which is objectionable to all extant sides of the issue. Ironically--or perhaps not--"race realists" hate being told they were wrong since historical inception, but the most scathing critiques of why they were wrong include all or more of what they say they believe. The tools have already been there. What if every action were sin?)
Benator's effectiveness is mirrored in many funhouses, not the least of which is the New Yorker, but most telling here is the aforementioned "Famine" extermination campaign that paved the way, so effectively, for the twentieth century:
Benatar had selected a vegan restaurant for lunch, and we set out to walk there, along the Hudson. At the end of Vesey Street, we passed the Irish Hunger Memorial—a quarter acre of soil transplanted from Ireland, in 2001, to commemorate the millions who had died during the country’s Great Famine. At Benatar’s suggestion, we spent a few minutes exploring and reading the historical quotes displayed in the entryway. The famine lasted seven years; recalling it, one man wrote, “It dwells in my memory as one long night of sorrow.”To some degree, Nu Euro academics have been permitted, through the loophole of having Britain's colonial past receive partly honest, incompletely documented (who actually paid for and benefited from those ventures? the average man slaving in a factory or being roasted by natives, or the international trader who had had his friends move troops and create markets?) critique, to recognize that there was hunger and famine--but that it was on purpose, unnecessary, and done to exterminate, yet again, those pagan-ish Celt-remnants who yet persisted. In short, so to speak, those potatoes were there. Enough to feed the people. The Irish starved because they labored on farms where the produce was sent away. Even mainstream history has recollected that. Like Trump's border wall or the Great War, it's a giant turd in the punchbowl that everyone pretends, inconceivably, is not there. Another history may forget it, and in a certain span of time, so too may you. Nonetheless, right here, right now, we can recognize it. "The Irish," or whatever we want to call the wave of remnants murdered by throwing food in London alleys to rot rather than in begging Celtic gullets to be eaten, were murdered. Hidden in plain sight by the retro-proximity of "the Civil War," we formally know it. And yet.
Modernity is strength in the wrong direction, materially; the tendency of the Nu Euro to remember snatches of the immemorial truth, even where not currently beneficial against the latest horde, hampers his genetic efforts, and will for a long time. The newest invaders may be too impulsive, too reckless, too stupid, to invent fusion, but deep down, they've come to terms with their capacity in a way that Nu Euros haven't. They hate and envy what they can't create, exploiting it with a touch of ruin, raping you dead, but that is a slightly more honest crime. Your treachery, over thousands of years, is worse. Even the here-successful germ-plasm is unrepentant in its goals. It lies to you, kills you, and sells you successively less visceral pieces of a mythical elven past, always wrong by your standards but never by theirs.
How far can grief stretch? Take a hungry child, and watch their lashes as they try to gobble something secretly before it goes on the cart to the ships. Maybe just a corner of one peel that doesn't look too good anyway. Caught! The club until you spit it out in a bloody mouthful. Do it twice and get beaten outside to starve slowly while a thousand other preteens are eager to handle the picking for daily rations. Promise not to do it again but they're not even listening and then you realize you can't rise from the mud and something's coming to take you away.
A couple centuries later, do you forgive?
Whose decision is it? Is it even possible? Do you just throw dirt until you can't see it anymore? Villefort exhumes what he thinks is a body. Kiss the jagged remains of its mouth.