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Women

Updated: Jun 4



In a broad sense, men are responsible for most of the suffering in the world. It is men who stamp people to death in the street and develop napalm and kidnap people for ransom—if a woman undertakes these actions it is an exception that proves the rule, and there is often a man behind her if she does so. The raw pain mankind makes is a male production, but this does not mean that women are soft and innocent maternal caregivers, though more men than you would suspect think this is so—even aside from those ideologists who make the promotion of female innocence an intellectual point of pride. Indeed, I often see stories of powerful men who go completely to pieces at the first hint of female malevolence, though I would have taken them for indifferent and indomitable types otherwise.


The operative figure for female malevolence is Lady Macbeth: the plotter, the fanatic, and the poisoner—in the metaphorical and, sometimes, literal sense. Women are akin to the cat; they have a preference for seduction and torture, and we often call a malevolent woman “catty” for this reason: these are creatures that play with what they capture. Men are more like the frank dog; they bite and bark, everything is in the open—a punch to the face, not a claw mark to be seen. Men put animals out of their misery, women nurse animals even when death would be preferable—hence the difference between care and torture is often blurred in the case of women.


Yet no woman is really “evil”, just as no woman is really a liar: women lie and commit cruelty, but they have no real concept of what they do. A woman is like a force of nature, the sea or a forest fire; there is no moral component, there is just a force: in the case of woman, a force that seeks to reproduce and find the strongest mate to do so. Women will lie and tell the truth with indifference—sometimes they are perceptive, at other moments delusional—yet it is always “real” for them; the man flinches with shame to lie, a woman lies smoothly because she does not understand what “lie” and “truth” really mean. It is the same with morality: women have no sense of morality or ethics; they just copy—for this reason the Buddha said women have no souls, until his weaker disciples convinced him to say otherwise. It is impossible to really hold women responsible for what they say and do, not because they are pure and innocent as sentimentalists believe but because women comprehend their actions as a wave comprehends the rocks it smashes against—not at all.


Women are characterised by ressentiment; for example, I knew a girl who churned out mass erotic fiction, of the Mills and Boon type, aimed at black women: the typical plot was that the black protagonist would steal a wealthy and powerful white man away from his white lover or wife—usually with her losing her baby to abortion or miscarriage. These highly popular books give an indication as to the psycho-sexual forces that drive women; petty and sadistic, with a particular pleasure in humiliation caused to others—a certain vindictiveness that most men balk at. The racial particularities in this case are not so important, similar variations cross to women in all races.


Primitive societies are alert to the figure of the witch; the witches’ coven, the tempters of Macbeth, remains a danger—a danger more rational societies have forgotten. Women are more fanatical, vindictive, and sadistic than men—hence the old caution “a woman scorned”, although women are physically and materially weaker than men they make up for this by a relentlessness that men tend to lack; once a woman is an enemy, she will not be bargained with. Pop songs directed at women often make much of this—“Make me your Aphrodite / Make me your one and only / But don't make me your enemy, your enemy, your enemy,” goes a Katy Perry lyric. This is a warning to men; basically, women know men have greater independence of action and could leave them or even menace them physically; but a woman’s counterstrike to male independence is that she can become an implacable enemy—“my psycho ex-” or “the bitch who won’t let me see my son.” Whereas men tend to negotiate with enemies, sooner or later—or at least leave them alone, if they seem too well-entrenched—women will go on and on without restraint.


This is what gives the feminine religions of Christianity, Judaism, and, in particular, Islam—it honours the feminine crescent Moon—their fanatical character. Women are nominally oppressed in Islam—confined to purdah in conservative Muslim societies—but, per the paradoxical reversal of opposites, the occult harem exercises enormous power over the males; in fact, the browbeaten Muslim husband is a familiar figure—and his counterpart is the catamite, the young Muslim boy on whom Muslim males (and Western sex tourists like Foucault and William S. Burroughs) slake their pent-up sexual desires. In an odd sense, the ambitions of Western feminists to “liberate” Muslim women would diffuse their considerable occult influence; and, indeed, as Muslims know, would destabilise and destroy the religion.


There is a womanish aspect to the Muslim terrorist, the fanatic who refuses to yield under any circumstances; it is this fanatical character—also present in Christianity and Judaism, though to a lesser extent—that saw the tolerant and masculine pagans extirpated; today, it is found in the political left, the secular continuation of Christianity—the fanatic desire to pull down statues, the desire for purity and acceptance by the mob. Pilate washed his hands of Jesus—an aristocrat indifferent to doctrinal squabbles of the mob, so long as the rites were observed—but the fanatics that came after Jesus were obsessed with purity in a womanish way, their first converts were the wealthy women of Rome; just as today’s most enthusiastic “woke” ideologues are wealthy white women keen for a hint of self-righteousness and the exotic.


Women primarily use speech to convey emotion, whereas men use speech to convey information; and so it seems to most men that women speak too much and about nothing, yet for the woman her speech is all a means to convey how she feels; it is all meta-communication, the ostensive subject is a blind. Men who take women literally think that women talk too much; men who follow the subtext know exactly what she is really saying. It is impossible to deal rationally with a woman, because what you talk about with a woman is never the face value of her words; whereas with men the face value of words usually conveys what is intended. The female mode of communication is an ongoing emotive demand for attention; and so it is analogous to the political left, whose ever-changing rhetorical demands mirror the feminine attitude—even among male activists. The feminine talks, the masculine acts; and this divide is represented in our political factions; everyone hears what the left has to say, while the right, the silent majority, continues to act.


It used to be said that a woman’s silence was golden; it was part of her virtue and pride. In the modern world, women are encouraged to speak all the time—and they do so at length, usually adding confusion to an otherwise straightforward situation. The political left, always a purveyor of half-truths, says white women are overprivileged: there is a certain truth to this, white women are certainly a section of the population that is over-catered for; a group whose views and concerns are given an extensive hearing. However, the main victims of this situation are not ethnic minorities but rather white men who—due to ideological confusion—have decided to facilitate the inane babble of their womenfolk, much to the detriment of global peace and sanity. Who does not long—please extend this metaphor very broadly—for men to confine themselves to the drawing room with brandy and cigars while the women play cards in the dining room? “No, please go on. That’s very interesting, darling.”


Let us move from the general feminine to the particular. Here is an example of female malevolence from my own observations. Take a man, successful in a corporate role, a senior executive at a multinational firm. A prosperous man, careful with his money; he works in a technical role—he is, perhaps, a little on the autistic spectrum. He grew up in a country where divorce, abortion, and teenage pregnancy were unheard of—or, as far as they happened, were freakish incidents not typical for the mainstream. He married under the old compact, same as his parents and grandparents before him; he married in the Church of England, though, as with his parents and grandparents, this was an observed formality—a tradition, not a strongly held faith. In the 1980s, he sends his wife—a nurse—to a new university, because she is interested in a degree and he is enlightened; perhaps it will help—if she eventually works again after pregnancy—to raise their income.


The man is what certain sectors of the Internet call a “beta male”, probably the majority of male society in the West; he is not, in short, Mr. Darcy or Mr. Flashman—he is not a cad, not a dangerous mercenary with the hint of rape about him. He is no charmer. He is the decent suburban dad who is affable, agreeable, and conscientious; he follows the general rules of society: under communism he would read Pravda, perhaps he would never join the Party, but he would never be dissident; in Tehran he would work on missiles for the government, even if he had no personal belief in Allah; in Nazi Germany, he would give the Hitler salute without a blink. He is the backbone, in other words.


Today, he raises no objection to feminism or gay rights. On the BBC and in The Times, these values are more or less normative—just what educated people, his colleagues, agree with. He has no desire to stick out at work, even if he disagrees; he is, after all, a technician—he never got on with history at school, he prefers the certainty of mathematics; he prefers forces and speed. This is what it takes to get ahead, this is how it is—it makes little difference to how to design an aircraft wing or help to construct a bridge. If it makes no money, why does it matter? Just words. Just ideas. To question these matters overtly? Why, that would be selfish really—besides, he just wants to make money and get on. Keep your head down, and don’t do anything to upset the neighbours or your colleagues.


Yet at university—and in women’s magazines, Cosmopolitan and so on—his wife is informed about Marxist interpretations of literature and is given feminist books to read. It is not so much Marxism or feminism itself; she does not really understand these concepts, though she imbibes the basics. She is a woman and she reacts to what the high-status lecturer and glossy magazines tell her. She begins to feel she wants more; she is primed to seek the highest status man she can find, the optimum mate. The guidance system never sleeps—not for articles in conservative magazines or laws or customs—and, at the same time, her sister gets a divorce; her sister has no children; her sister is a woman, she starts to wheedle and suggest, envious insinuation to create doubts…he holds back money, abusive really…do you remember that time he tried to fix the hairdryer? He wanted to murder you.


This is quite sincerely believed, for women spend a fair chunk of time in the imagination of how they will be raped and murdered; and for a woman the words “murder”, “stab”, “knife”, and “have sex” all mean the same thing, so when a woman talks to you about how her ex wanted to “kill” her, it is difficult to tell what she means—usually she simply means he wanted to have sex with her, for women sex is violence; not that this is a bad thing, so far as they are concerned—their eyes glaze and go distant at the prospect of knives…This, of course, explains why women spend so much time engrossed in murder mysteries; the gruesome murder serials are analogous to sex, whereas the lighter serials—such as Murder, She Wrote—provide an imagined version of the female game of covert social assassination; every woman is preoccupied with the question of which of her “friends” is in the process of covert sabotage of her reputation.


And so, to return to my case study, the divorce comes about. The husband is relegated to the spare bedroom and then the house is sold. He treats it in a rational way; he has done everything, accommodated her education—accommodated so much, and yet…why? He tries to negotiate; he tries to be reasonable. At this point, his wife holds him in contempt; she wants to be tied up and raped—her self-importance swelled by the university, her sister, and the women’s magazines is immense. Instead, she gets gentle words and corporate negotiation tactics; an anaemic marriage guidance counsellor destroys the last vestiges of the erotic through negotiation; if it is a woman, she does it intentionally—I have met many wealthy women who pass their days destroying marriages as marriage guidance counsellors…remember those erotic novels, to be a “helpful” counsellor is the white girl version.


In the worst case scenario, he cried. “He cried,” she says; and I have heard women talk about men who cry—they say the word cry with absolute contempt and disgust. He cried. Absolute disgust. Better to beat her black and blue than cry. A woman I knew after a break-up, not as a partner but as a housemate: “You looked like you were about to cry all the time.” She said this with a mix of disgust and pleasure—of course, she half wanted to fuck me, too. Oh well. Yet, you get the picture: this is not your mother; and, actually, your mother did not care too much if you hurt yourself. “He hasn’t said a word all the time he’s been ill,” she says with proud countenance. Assessment for weakness; three days to recover from your wounds on the savannah, if it sounds like you are not going to make it she is off—you are a liability now. You better not cry out, you better die quietly with women on watch; she will not put you out of your of your misery, she will nurse you to death. Do you understand why God is a man now?


At the solicitor’s office, there are many kindly “professionals”, eyes aglow for a protracted case. “Oh, that’s your husband’s position. How interesting. A senior role….of course, yes, the way he behaves is abusive, we quite agree.” This is what the law is for, after all, to protect the innocent. “You think he has money in Switzerland?” Of course, he is a difficult enough man in his way; pushy, in a polite way—he had to be to rise so high. As with all men in large corporations, he has trained himself to be silent, to sabotage, to manipulate. The working-class thugs nut each other in the face—our man watches rugby, he plays rugby; he could do that, he is intelligent enough not to. He manipulates; he has become passive aggressive—yet for all his skill in passive aggressive corporate manipulation, for all his dead heart, he cannot outflank a woman in these arts. He does not know it yet, however. He is about to be schooled.


He will contest certain aspects of the proceedings; the lawyers are delighted at the prospect of a protracted legal case—£150 for a stern letter, a reasonable rate; of course, after the settlement we can close this account quite easily…and so begins the war of position, perhaps, in fact, coordinated with a rival law firm in an emergent strategy that maximises the length of the proceedings. “It should be straightforward but with these two firms it just drags on and on…we just can’t work out why.”


From a biological perspective, woman is not designed to be cut adrift from her husband or male protector. What happened to a mother and her child in the archaic environment when the husband died? Another male would come along, kill her children, and take her. I once said to a single mother I dated: “I would marry you, but I’d have to kill your children.” She smiled and laughed with genuine delight and said: “Please!” And, if you check the statistics, this is what happens—by deniable accident, of course—all the time. The woman does not exactly love her child unconditionally; she half loves it but half holds it in contempt, especially once her husband is gone—it is a liability for improved mating opportunities and its helplessness reminds her of her useless husband. So the woman holds the child in half contempt; she half flirts with the child, half resents it: “You’re just like your father!” This is a rebuke and it is said with withering contempt—punishment for wrong actions—do not be your father; and for a boy that advice is fatal.


In this case, the mother is an anorexic—actually, she picks up a job in mental health and her colleagues keep her away from the anorexic patients; they never tell her why. With her husband gone, she begins to spend his cash in an aimless way. Women have no long-term goal, no strategy—the very name derives from “generalship”; and there was never a female general, not really. “When I’m stronger, it will be better,” she says for years and years; she will spend it all and never understand why she has none—easy prey for credit card companies and payday loans.


Every few years she enrols in a new training scheme, it looks high status—so she does it, all she accrues is more debt. I once dealt with the pension fund for a fire brigade union; the wives were always very surprised at how much the husband had put away, always on the quiet. “Oooh, he never said a word,” they are sort of delighted, now he is dead, to be provided for; but they are also resentful that he cheated them out of so many enjoyable treats when young. Gullible liberal sociologists believe gnarled working-class housewives when they say their husband spends it all at the boozer. Quite the contrary, he has, for the most part, whipped it out of his wife’s reach before she spends it on nonsense.


Meanwhile, back with my model pair, the mother feeds the child until it is obese. The thinner she gets, the fatter the child becomes. It is the anorexia…and it is vindictiveness. When the man clamps down on the money in the divorce case, the child is fed more. The father’s bitchy sister-in-law, a member of the English upper-middle class—a collection of the globe’s premier spoilt cunts—sends the boy a Christmas present, clothes with the brand name Ton Sur Ton. She went to a Swiss finishing school; it is a pun, “ton on ton”—your child is a fat bastard, he puts on ton after ton. But the former nurse, from a working-class family, does not understand and dresses the child in the clothes—complete acquiescence with some random cunt’s attack. Really, when these godless bitches have a knife held to their cunt by rabid blacks in a South African safari lodge—as happened to one such specimen I knew—I cannot say I am sorry; they live empty godless lives of vindictive spite…yet, of course, she enjoyed the knife. Tant pis.


My case study falls in love with her boss, a charismatic Scottish psychiatrist; and, though he is married, drags the child on stalking expeditions to find his home. The child does not understand; it seems like a fun game—somewhat transgressive. He is lucky in some ways; years later I meet a girl who still had tears in her eyes when she describes how, as a ten-year-old, she listened to a man fuck her mother in the next bedroom over. “My Dad, he used to work on aircraft engines, so he moved to Luton, but he never really saw anyone again. I think he missed Mum.” Ah, the affable engineering type—very reliable, very decent—very competent and responsible, as conservative pundits say with glassy eyes. “Do you know how much they pay me to spew this bullshit?” The model man.


You see now how children end up with their genitals removed. Not every mother is anorexic, but every mother catches the high-status social inanities of the time. Women are mimetic, women are mirrors. A decade ago it was OCD; and before that schoolgirls became simultaneously anorexic or lesbian—or maybe lesbian anorexics. Whatever. It passes off; except, this time, the effects are more permanent—the balls are chopped off and there is no return from that exercise. Yet, it is clear, from every media outlet, that transsexualism is high status; and doctors are not so clever, they go along with that mad bitch in the office—they work by checklist, anyway. And so this is what drives the current craze for transsexuality, at least in part, it is a case of vindictive women whose inertial systems guide them towards revenge and, in part, an appeal to the ex-husband: when are you going to beat me? I mean, I have actually cut your son’s testicles off—and…no reaction. We are very rational people; very kind, very considerate…we are not Muslim fundamentalists. Oh no. We are rational and kind people—totally normal people.


You have to understand that without male control women harm themselves, their children, or things around them. I once tidied a garage for a pair of female relatives; it took about a month of fires and trips to the tip. Within a year, one of the sisters deliberately piled up debris so that all the work was destroyed. She did it to get my attention; she had no children and no lovers for years, I was the senior male so she started to test me by destroying what I had done. Would I beat her? I was not going to beat her; firstly, she had been deranged by years of these mating dances and relished being beaten and then screaming to everyone that she had been abused; secondly, I obviously had no sexual interest in my female relative.


But it only hurt her; it was her own garage, it made her own life more difficult. Yet you see in this the malevolence and spitefulness of women: a man would never do such a thing, except as a grave provocation—even so they would be embarrassed to attack someone in such a pointless way. For women, this is normal behaviour; it is a mixture of self-harm and maximal damage to other people. It is the plea for attention, to be owned: there is no rational calculation here, there is no plan for the future. All women behave in this way; if not controlled, they default to destruction of themselves, their children, and their material environment. The political left is analogous in its behaviour; it destroys and smashes itself and others in the hope that the alpha males will assert order and discipline them. “He who bites the hand that feeds will lick the boot that kicks him…”


I once slapped a girlfriend and choked her after she slapped me. For a while I felt terrible guilt, useful guilt because she slapped me for looking at pornography and it made me quit; but it was only later that I realised that, in fact, she hit me first and, in the second place, she enjoyed it. “Oh, you know Sarah. She’s my friend who got drunk with the lads from the rugby club and then one guy dragged her into a bush... Ha, ha, ha.” It really do be like that.


With a woman, it is futile to work hard and win promotions: you have to make it quite clear that you are prepared to beat and rape her, nothing less is adequate—C.G. Jung made a similar observation, he had a feeling that for some women nothing less than a beating or rape would suffice; and he was a pretty mild-mannered guy, I think we can all agree. Unfortunately, given certain legal statutes and our deformed social norms, this is a risky proposition; so people live in the dead zone. She pushes and pushes and the hand never arrives, perhaps the anti-depressants arrive. We are all so nice here, so lovely—women always put “lovely” in their corporate emails. It is not lovely without the slap; wherever they write the email from, it is not lovely either—no slap. The man who aims at competence is quite oblivious to this situation; it seems, frankly, a little distasteful to him; his mother was nothing like that, so he thinks. So I thought too, until a girl took my hand and guided it to her throat. Please.


As for stepfamilies, even in the adult world this is a fatal proposition. I know a girl who acted like her stepmother and stepfather were 100% genuine real parents: “These are my parents, and these are my parents,” she said it with such false pride, to make it true. And I felt a tautness in my heart every time she spoke her strained lies. Her stepfather left her as a teenager to take drugs and tool around some suburb in Sydney with his son—yes, he was responsible. He was a pilot; responsible job, but the operative question was how much he wanted to fuck his stepdaughter, not so much—he did not care if she lived or died. Another man I saw engage late in life with his father’s stepfamily; the stepbrother, a very senior corporate type, offered him replacement contact lens solution; my man came away with his eyes burning; for two days he could not open his eyes at all, complete photophobia. Whatever it was it was not contact lens solution—an attempt to blind him. Yes, yes; even people with post-graduate degrees in physics and respectable jobs do it. It ticks over as an unconscious process. The desire to kill and maim the genetic interloper.


Don’t you understand the family is a system, an organic system…when it detects a threat it liquidates the threat by any means necessary. A threat to resources; they can tell by the smell, you are not the same genetic material: Kill. Kill. Kill. You cannot just pull families apart and weld them together any old how like a car; the family is holistic. The system ticks on, it watches you when you enter the house; and it is a complete system, formed over millions of years—the dramas between the brother who once jammed his sister’s head through the stair rails and her husband—it ticks on. You can feel the system sometimes, feel it as it assesses you, your position—will it kill or ignore (hint: probably kill)? Sometimes I want to run from these houses and scream and scream: “We are in Hell! We are in Hell!” Better, perhaps, to drink or take drugs like my colleagues; better to end up on ten types of anxiety medicine and the bottle—he never seems to get better, we try…


The middle classes are the worst; they know better than to leave bruises—far too smart for that. “You’re paranoid! You’re mentally ill! Perhaps you should see a doctor…a psychologist…We’re very concerned about you.” Why do these people never get better in therapy?…I will tell you why…No, no we prefer not to know; we prefer not to find out. The middle class and above are always dangerous to deal with; they left their marshmallows for hours, they know how to delay gratification. They know how to make it look like the argument blew over and then, on some lonely cliff top, they deliver the shove. “He’s terribly upset, he was going to spend his life with her…” Remember that it is only the low-IQ criminals the police catch, and the police are none too bright themselves. They only catch the meth addict who flips and beats his partner to death with an ashtray, each bit of glass studded into her head as a post-mortem crown.


I mean, just look at Jimmy Savile; he was extremely intelligent and he flew safe and true because he knew just how far to push each incident and how to make everything deniable, or flippable onto the person he engaged with. He also knew how to build up social credit, through charity work, that meant people rationalised out any suspicious action: “Well, I don’t exactly like him, but that’s Jimmy being Jimmy, and there are millions of pounds on the line for charity if he goes down.” Consequence of utilitarian thought: people with absolute spiritual commitments cancel financial calculations—hardly any such people exist today, we do the math…


Above all, the middle class enjoy the slow deniable torture, it is a feminine class—they carry on at the level of meta-communication—they know well enough that they absolutely want to avoid jail, but they have enough intelligence to prod, in covert ways, in the hope their opponent will lose their temper and lash out. The instigator can then run around and claim that they are the victims: “It’s abuse! Abuse! I’m being abused! Call the police!” Real victims are ashamed, they never make a parade; the only people we see in the abuse parade are the slick extrovert manipulators.


I return to my man—versed in Stoicism, Zen, and residual Christianity—he valiantly, though nearly blinded, tried to “make it work” with his stepfamily; repression and denial can do wonders—even push a man into suicidal action. His stepmother learns, either through feminine intuition or careful analysis of the father’s talk, that a certain pizza restaurant was where he went with his ex-wife and child. So she makes sure that her stepson and his father will join her there; she insinuates and talks about the restaurant all the time, how the father takes her and her grandchildren there. The idea is to ruin the son’s memory of the place, to blot out—kill the childhood. Absolute malevolence, the female way. Men, you see, would not proceed through psychological torture. It does not occur to the man, but this is what lies behind it all. She watches carefully to make sure that the scalpel goes into the psyche, to make sure the happy memories are completely soiled.


Yet it is the men who are responsible for this animated abortion—this cruel parody of humanity, this absence of tenderness—it was men like John Stuart Mill, a man who wanted to marry another man’s wife, who found rational reasons for it; and weak men who saw a chance to bend their stronger brethren low with talk about the cruelty of “beatings” and “marital rape”. And so we live in their wasteland—men and women are the same, of course, every publication and program agrees; and yet the destruction ticks on and the lies tick on, because our mass media is so well-developed that the truth cannot be seen and is only visible in the Bible and the Qur’an—yet these books are not read at all, not properly.


This situation recalls Heidegger’s observation that people in modernity are so lost that they do not even know they have lost God; it is not even that they are atheist and in opposition to the divine, they have no notion or conceptualisation of what they have lost—they are post-God, post-divine. With regards to female malevolence, people are so lost they cannot see what is right in front of them—the torture and debilitation of hundreds of thousands of children. We are in Hell—no doubt; but at least we have some neat technology and plenty of money, eh? Fuck you.

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