Author: Alexander Dugin
Translator: Jafe Arnold
The introduction to Russkaiia Veshch [“Russian Thing”] Vol. I (Moscow: Arktogeia, 2001).
Along the roads of lies
We have been very cruelly deceived for a very long time. We are deceived in everything. We have been cheated big time. And this did not just start yesterday…
The world, the reality, the country, and the humanity which scholarly, cultural, and political authorities describe did not and does not exist. All things in our apocalyptic world have been tampered with, as if we look at everything though a hypnotic haze arranged by malicious conspirators and skillfully hypnotic rascals in service of the Prince of this World.
We have just crossed the threshold of the millennium, but we think about toothpaste and phone bills. It is rather sad that we, through the fog of indifference, feel that the Homeland, Russia, is somewhere near, that the thick broth of our national surrounding is poured around us…but what Homeland? Where is the Homeland? Where is she from and where is she going? In what time does she live? We don’t even think about this. Indeed, we cannot even think properly. After all, all the systems of coordinates have been shot down, the structures of contemplating the world have been twisted, and croaking pinko priests spoil the endeavor with the scraps of narcissistic maxims and completely spoiled morals.
Russia is not only losing its place in history. She is also losing consciousness of history. Russia is not only lost in space. It is losing awareness of space.
In the face of the millennium, we are naked with gaping mouths, glazed-over eyes, and a stupid purse in our hands. The soul of Russians is in a cast…
The Black and Golden Millennium
The unidirectional time which irreversibly flows from the past to the future that we were taught for so many years by the preachers of “progress” cannot be found in nature. Time has a special quality associated in complex ways with eternity and it can flow in both directions. This is a basic religious fact: the prophets see what there is, what was, and what will be. All three modalities of sacred history coexist and are present in being. For ordinary people, they open sequentially and unfold in a certain order. But exceptional personalities can have quite different relations with the mysterious elements of time. These exceptional people perceive eternity as a fact, as a reality of experience. The rest must believe in eternity, believe in the eternal essence of being that which was, is, and will be. Those who claim that what exists is only an ephemeral instance, only a fleeting moment “here and now”, and that the rest is just the imagination – these people are puppets of the Antichrist. Their place is in the brutal fires of hell.
In what chapter of sacred time does Russia breathe today? In what historical period are we living?
The answer is disappointing. (Or is everything more subtle?). We live totally close to the end.
We are approaching the end following the natural roads of degradation. Progress doesn’t exist. Only regress exists. We have moved further away from the primordial, deified world. Technological prostheses struggle to make up for the lost spiritual essence, but they cannot. Rather, they only exacerbate the fall and bring nearer the final catastrophe. Technological development is evil and the external expression of active spiritual decline.
The resources of the golden age were exhausted long ago. The silver age is far behind us. The bronze age of heroes ended. And even the iron age of dark industry is closed. The millennium is painted black. Finis Mundi. Black Millennium.
This is a general diagnosis of humanity, but it concerns us first and foremost. Why?
Because we were the last chosen ones, and our gold, salvational world mission ended only yesterday…Or maybe it hasn’t even ended…
The sacred civilizations of the ancient world gradually went down the path of global degradation from the gold age to Babylonian dust and the sands of oblivion measured by threads of thousands of years. At the edge of the abyss, peering into the abyss of hell, ancient humanity was supported by the gracious sacrifice of the Son. Before the final chord, when the spiral of regression approached the final line, the Son of God revealed the true path to the last children of the last century.
Orthodoxy appeared as a New History in an incredible, salvational perspective which reflected all the preceding epochs. In two thousands Christian years, we relived at an accelerated pace the endless centuries of past epochs stretching back many thousands of years, plus blissful eons when no one considered years or centuries…and once again from the golden age to the iron age. The golden age of Constantine and the Ecumenical Councils. The Silver age of Byzantium. The bronze age of Moscow the Third Rome. And the iron age of modern, total apostasy. The last point was the Russian schism. Then the darkness enveloped everything. Babylon is here.
Russia lived through the silver age of Orthodoxy on the periphery, although sunnily and with dignity, promising with Metropolitan Hilarion a great future. In the bronze age of Orthodoxy, Moscow became the central subject. Muscovite Rus, the country, and its people, that is, we (or “not only us?” or “only not us”?) had been destined to this end for centuries. Outside of Rus, there was no salvation, the spiritual energy of ages was drawn to us, and the rays of eternity shined upon the Homeland. And eternity, just as with the ancients, the prophets, the patriarchs, and the saints, sowed us into the god-bearing people. Russians entered the holiest of times, the heart of which, where there is simply no time.
But Muscovite Rus fell and the iron Antichrist came for real and to stay, now already everywhere.
We slowly slipped (in the Romanov way with Frenchmen at the head) into historical nothing. The place of the amputated dimension ached. The Old Believers, Russian sects, and charming strangers of all kinds howled out of insane, bronze pain. The soul of Russians ached as voluntary bodies crackle in fire, and the citizens of Secret Russia, full of and frantic with the highest hope and with the passports of the celestial chancellery, fell into a maelstrom. The iron age was agony – this was the last Russian testament from Habakkuk to Stalin.
In October, great suffering came from under the bushel and drowned our vast lands in blood. The Reds. It was much worse and much better at the same time. The deep spirit was unleashed. How it rushed about and swung its poisonous tail – morally judging this is not up to us. Those who know the essence of the point of such prefer not to open their mouths. There are things which are so deep that they are beyond moral evaluation. If you dip your finger into it, you will never be the same.
The Reds attempted to construct an optimistic fortress out of emptiness and longing and transform the pain and misery of the iron age into the triumph of sunny creation. In their own way, they interpreted the mystery of the cross of Nika.
Perhaps we will never truly understand the Soviet stage in the sacred history of mankind. On the one hand, its scribes spread nonsense about progress, reductionism, banality, atheism, the myth of apes, amoebae, bacteria, and plans, nonsense about the equality of people, contempt for the past, historicist ephemerality, etc. But through the grimaces of Soviet idiocy amazing features of another thought stood out and expressed themselves, let themselves be known, haunted from underneath the layers of frozen silence and constantly shaking, sliding, and flowing into a stupor.
This was the difficult, daunting thought of the End. But also of the Beginning. The thought of pain and sorrow, the impossible joy and inevitable anguish.
The Reds wanted to shoot and hug at the same time. They strove to be external just as much as they were internal. They were just as childish as they wanted to appear wise and old.
The Soviet eon was the last chord of the iron age.
Here is the subtlety: we were the last subjects of the bronze stage in the sacred history of Christianity. In a certain and often paradoxical sense, we remained true to this mission in the next, iron age. Our iron age was exemplary. We opposed the vulgarities of liberal degeneracy with the bloody drama of Bolshevism. The Twelve poem. We opposed the rest of humanity’s quiet slip out of reality with the paradoxes of merciful genocide and the machine-gun rattle of the solar Chevengur.
But now this is in the past. Although it all still exists here and now. These are our bodies born from the loins of the natural born killers of October, the bright paladins of pain. These are our streets, our missiles, our hair, the trajectory of our thoughts and carnal inclinations. The holiness of bronze Muscovite Rus and the rebellion of the red dragon out from underneath the lower boundaries of banality soaked the seed from which we, the Russian people of the millennium, hatched. There is no escape!
But now? Let them tell us what is now! Is it really just the end? Oblivion? Are we to be led into the leaded, empty labyrinths of the world market and planetary management?
Not. Not only. We have just misunderstood the End.
The end, the Eschaton, is total restoration. For us Orthodox, there is even something more, much, much more than total restoration. It is Marriage – Marriage beyond. Promised, continually delayed, exhausted, wounded, worn out and bruised by others, we are tired of waiting. Our Marriage. A wedding without measure. The groom is Fire. “Fire, reload.”
Now it will be resolved – which virgins are to sleep, and which are to stay vigil. Some will light a candle, others will snore in slumber.
The five maidens of Rus. Five, regenerated, inner feelings. Five organs of our national perception sharpened by extreme pain, suffering, and compassion, burn marks, shopping fairs, and the NKVD.
On the verge of the Great Midnight. On the edge of the millennium. Rus. Half asleep, half awake. (Where will you find yourself?)
So that it will finally happen! So that it will finally burst! So that the guts of the heavens will be ripped out! So that the winepress of wrath will be clamped on the bastard generation X of the apocalypse! So that we and they will be devoured! Everyone! Some will emerge from the other side. Some will drown. It doesn’t matter! Burning! Burning! Like Elijah – some will have a chariot, some a brake…Burn, sure, clearly burn [Gori, yasno, yasno gori]…
The terrible angels are so close, so close. Their group has already arrived, now they’re getting out of black, chrome cars…
Forward – the End, but what can be sweeter and more bitter than this meeting…
“Wann endet die Zeit? Gott weiss es. Gott alein weiss es” (“When will time end? God knows. God alone knows”).
Now about space. Where does the Homeland lie? Where is Russia’s place?
Each point in space is different from another. Their order, their content, their meaning were predefined ages ago. In being, nothing is equal to itself or something else. Reality is open to the rays of the spirit which is present everywhere and fills everything. And this light dimension gives each point a sacred quality. Tout se tient. There is nothing coincidental.
Space lives by its pulse. Each point of space has its own laws and regulations, constants and processes. Modern physics is a dead science. It just doesn’t know this. Physics is from the iron age, physics is of the spiritual Antichrist. It (like the rest of purely modern science) deals with the dead, quantitative world which doesn’t exist. It aids the murder of living, sacred being, asserting sinister, primitive fables about its nature. Not man, but space descended from the apes. People are from Light. Oh, what kind of ape can that be?!
The Russian space comes from the bear, the boar, and the apple. This is how the lands of the North-East of Eurasia were called in sacred geography. The land of the boar, and later of the bear. Varahi. Or the “apple country” – Jambudvipa. Paradise exists in the East among some people, in the North for others. The Nordic, Eurasian paradise. Hence the magic apples of Hesperides, the Tree of Knowledge or the rejuvenating apples of the Scandinavian myths. Hence the special, piercing metaphysical taste of the Russian Antonovka. In lost Russian fables, the apple in magical regions of the North aids good lads and beautiful maiden.
World history, in its spacial-symbolic sense, went from North to South and from East to West. It departed from its origins. It went “from”, but not “to”. It squandered eternity, extending along the plane of time. The life-giving, heavenly quality was squandered as dark mechanisms of quantity were appealed to, until quality finally disappeared among the rippling mass of capital. Is it a coincidence that the current hegemonic rulers and financial and material bosses huddled together in the West? Did they entrench themselves there?
No. This is the law of space. Capital wins where the sun dies. These reptiles even have the Sochi climate at our attitude, while in our country, beaches are covered in snow. Our space is not valuable in a touristic sense and is not attractive for capital simply because this is the space of paradise, and someone drove them so out long ago, that even their memory has been erased. They built the city on the hill, exterminated the the red-skinned savages, opened saloons and taverns, began to trade, imported black living goods, multiplied, and leased out and respected human rights.
Rus, albeit iron and falling, albeit Babylon, is a thousand times closer to heaven than non-Rus – even today with its scorched face, ink-smeared cheeks, tattered strands, insolent, unkept look and breasts seized by criminals.
We know “the place of the skull, where Adam was ” [byst mesto lobnoe]…We are being brought to sacrificial slaughter as a burnt offering to the “new world order,” but this is redemptive suffering.
Fighting the West, we are battling against our own death.
We are the heavenly hail of Eurasia, the witness to the apocalypse, the one denouncing the fortress of apostasy infatuated with its impunity of the humanitarian Antichrist.
On the threshold of the millennium, Russia stretches out over the coordinates of the lost paradise. It is closed to us, but there are cracks through which the Russian heart’s fire scorches and flashes.
The heavenly Jerusalem – this is our Russia. It merges with the bear-shaped contours of our expanses as the fabric of history is being thinned down to cigarette paper. And the towers of twelve edges coincide with the distant outposts of our border guards abandoned at the last frontiers, staring into the night of unintelligible and aggressive peoples scattering around and harboring a sheep’s hatred.
The government of the New Jerusalem. The parliament of the righteous shining forth like a sun. The Ministry of Internal Affairs of punishing angelic hordes. The Archangel Michael on a stallion in apples.
By staying in place, we end up ahead of all…
Being true to the earth, being true to our land. There is none other like it.
On the threshold of the Millennium, on the brink of death and resurrection, death and rebirth. On the verge of the eternal question of eternity, being, and oblivion.
Senseless and merciless.
© Jafe Arnold – All Rights Reserved. No reproduction without expressed permission.