Switzerland is the unconscious of Europe; she is a hidden land, the place where everything primal about the European experience goes to dwell. She is a mountain land, just like the fabled city of Shambhala in Buddhist lore; a place surrounded by high, white mountains that keep the profane on the outside. Accordingly, Switzerland is a very pleasant place to live; she is a country where everything just works and is trustworthy and reliable. It is a kind of utopia, just like Shambhala. For the rightist, Switzerland is a sort of equivalent to Cuba: the perfect instantiation of their ideals. She is a place of solid currency (gold in the vaults) backed by solid citizens (each trained in the army and with his own weapon). The Swiss sensibility is remarkably reactionary, with women only fully gaining the right to vote there in the 1970s; yet it is also truly anarchic, with policies decided by referenda and local assemblies—little room is given for an expert managerial class to emerge.
The opposite to Switzerland, the conscious attempt at European unity, is found in the other tiny state of Belgium. Whereas Switzerland organically combines Italians, Germans, and the French into a single organism, Belgium awkwardly tries to shove Frenchmen and Dutchmen together, with both loathing each other—along with, in recent, years a generous dusting of Arabs and Africans. Brussels is the seat of the conscious efforts at European unity, the EU, and she is an ugly and squalid city: a city of piss, chips with mayo, and child sex traffic. In short, she sums up the conscious efforts at European integration: her suburbs, filled with non-Europeans, are training grounds for terror attacks on the rest of Europe. As with the Swiss, the Belgiums like their chocolate: yet they seem to do it all to excess, as their obese public officials demonstrate. There was, once, another Belgium—an imperial Belgium—the Belgium of Tintin and Catholicism: Tintin, the boy adventurer who also climbed the Tibetan peaks, and trained to do so in Switzerland. Yet this Belgium is faded; and every year the false project of European unity advances, erasing the old Belgium as it does so.
Switzerland, naturally, as Europe’s unconscious, was the home of the depth psychologist C.G. Jung. From here, as a doctor, sworn to treat all, he kept the channels of communication open, speaking to the Chilean National Socialist leader, Serrano, and the director of the OSS, Dulles, alike. He probed the collective unconscious of European man because he was Swiss; he entered a familiar dwelling place. He understood that though Switzerland is very clean on the outside, she can only be so because she buries her scat—her dirt, her gold—in deep vaults. Money is always filthy; the filthy lucre. The Swiss have to be very clean because they spend so much time dealing with money in their banks: they are burying the world’s ordure in their vaults. Accordingly, the Swiss are a secret people; as René Guénon observed, in modernity we fear secrets: the democratic mob cannot stand secrets and mystery, though it enjoys lies; but the Swiss understand, whether through Protonmail or their numbered bank accounts, the value of secrecy. Similarly, the Swiss are one of the few countries to allow legal euthanasia: they know the noble concept of dignity, against the principle of life at any cost.
The creator of the Xenomorph in the Alien film series, H.R. Giger, was also a Swiss. A pale and unhealthy Swiss; he looked into the repressed psyche and found biomechanical sexual violence. His ribbed architecture is an exploration of the driving force beneath Europe, the deadly phallic energy that sleeps beneath the mountain: the dragon. Patricia Highsmith, bull-dyke author of tales that celebrated a psychopath, Tom Ripley, also retired to Switzerland with her giant, hermaphroditic, snails. From there she trolled American newspapers with anti-Jewish letters written under a pseudonym; she was a Texan, and, being in Switzerland, knew freedom when she saw it.