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573. Splitting apart (XII)

I was disinvited from a wedding because the groom, a wiry German academic, let his fiancée read my blog. She was a PhD student, a feminist, and a Jew from LA—so she was somewhat upset about what I had written. Really, it was a shit-test, as they say, to see if her groom would stand up to her and still invite the antiChrist to his wedding—or whether he was going to be p*ssywhipped by a gurl who studied the American heiresses that dissolute English aristocrats, such as the Churchills, married when they ran out of money (who really runs Britain…heiress race…?).

You see, the humanitarian and generous interpretation as regards their wedding was that it was a touching reconciliation between Teuton and Hebrew—that was the sentimental day side, fit to print in The Guardian. Night side: the irresistible tingle that comes when you are r*ped by the savage Aryan beast—a move to irritate the men in your tribe, especially daddy.

The German said to me: “Look, we all have these thoughts about women but it’s when it’s there, written down—fixed.” This was his Germanic aspect, I think—the German passion for paperwork and documents. “Ah zo, he haz ein dokument.” Now everything is different, one moment you were on the way to the selection—on the way to the chimneys—but now you have a document. The German’s eyes glint, happiness is documentation; the particulars do not matter, we have it in writing. If you have a letterhead too then *chef’s kiss* you can waltz anywhere you want. “Isn’t it inconsistent not to kill these people just because they’ve a document but these people don’t? They’re the same people.” “Hans, shhh, ze dokument. Zey have ze dokument. Zis iz conziztensy.”

To have it written down—in stone, as with the Ten Commandments—objectifies the situation. McLuhan said that the written word objectifies, television subjectifies; and this is why it disturbs to have it in writing. “Ah-ha, we have it in writing, in his own hand,” crows the barrister. Nailed the bastard. This is why we fear to have it written down; if we just say it somehow we can wiggle out and round it—we can lie better. “Only joking. What I really meant, you misunderstood me…” You can get away with that if you only speak it, but when you write it down everything changes—and this is why we hate our voices to be recorded, we can fool ourselves as to what we are in our little subjective shell; but the voice recording tells us what we are objectively, it pins us down like a butterfly and destroys our illusions about ourselves.

People are credulous, ready to believe—especially the written word. I once jotted on Twitter: “Goals 2018-2019: 1. Earn £100K 2. Sleep with 12 women etc...”. A moment’s caprice, yet people said to me in person, “Wow, so ambitious. How will you do all that in a year?”. On forums triumphant anons posted my list and noted: “This is what the alt-right wants.” (Sneer)—not that I called myself alt-right, but that was the devil-word and their case to build, good little lawyers that they were, that year. For me it is all words on a screen and you are a dupe to believe; yet we see it written and we believe. “Document”: it means teaching, admonition, law, to make right, evidence—to document it is to write the law. “Open new document”.

The illiterate are free from this insanity; the literate are sick believers who believe it because it is written and think themselves clever. The word, as Burroughs said, may be a virus: “In the beginning there was the Word.” What if the Word is a parasite, a memetic organism that rides our brains? Stripped-down selected word machine. What if it uses us to build some-thing for it—no wine at the wedding for those who serve the letter, not the spirit, of the law.


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