Now it didn't even take a war for the West to lose everything. Lose yourself, and thus, losing everything, fall into the war.
A week's headlines from the Hungarian press: Macron would send NATO troops to Ukraine, according to experts, this would drag NATO into the war. Macron insists that Western soldiers could also go to Ukraine, he says that a "strategic leap" is needed. The German-Russian wiretapping scandal may have unforeseeable consequences. A man was beaten as he was leaving a synagogue in Paris, shouting "filthy Jew". A merciless scandal broke out due to the leaked conversation of German officers who were discussing the chances of an attack on Crimea. The Russians would be very interested in why German officers discussed blowing up the Crimean bridge.
Polish Defense Minister: The security situation in Europe is extremely dangerous. Tempers boil over after Olaf Scholz's declaration of war. They are trying to silence a right-wing politician in Italy. NATO is practicing on the Russian border: they are preparing to storm the northern territories. The German-French relationship is strained to the point of breaking due to Ukraine. The Romanian army marches to Székelyland. Russian-Ukrainian war: truth was the first victim. A stabbing against an Orthodox Jew in Zurich was motivated by Islamists. The Italian antifa in action: they tried to silence a right-wing politician.
You don't have to be afraid to blow up the Crimean bridge, it will be good.
No, it's not 1938, it's not 1939, it's not even 1914. It's 2024. Spring. March. And the soldiers won't be home by the time the leaves fall. After all, they haven't even left. Maybe they won't go away. What would they go for? They die before they warm up. We all die.
It's spring. March. Thirty-six years ago at this time, we founded Fidesz. Only our illusions were greater than our naivety. We believed in everything beyond Lajta, beyond the Óperencias sea - Óperencia: Ober Enns, beyond Enns. In the west. Our thirty-six years: the age of losing illusions. And here we are now, without illusions, clinging with ten nails to our faith in ourselves and our truth.
We are left with this. And that's not enough. We've been wandering for thirty-six years, home from the West. Like Odysseus from Troy to Ithaca. And at home? "Thin-headed dwarfs".
They would leave me a little bit / Christ Street, I would break myself.
But they won't. They don't care, because they don't have any. But they don't even have hubris. Pumpkin Jankók. We are ourselves, we are left to ourselves. Tisza stood like this in the Crown Council and said, alone: if there is a war, "we can win nothing, but we can lose everything". They just laughed. By the time the leaves fall, the soldiers will be home.
Now it didn't even take a war for the West to lose everything. Lose yourself. And so, having lost everything, he fainted into the war.
They say the big thing. And even bigger. They bid against each other. Meanwhile, they can't even decide whether they are boys or girls. They underwent surgery. From human to homunculus. The West sawed off even the branch of nothingness under itself, sits on the ground, devours, empties, lies. He feels deeply sorry for himself. His horizon, his horizon: his navel. Power: consumption. His intellect: brain dead. His elite: lost. The bald eagle fights the bear, but the eagle is only kept moving by the inertial force of its fall. It is still clawing, it is attacking with its beak, but there is no real power in it. Prosperity drained him of his strength. He killed Mark Twain, Jack London, country, sweet home Alabama is not PC, nothing is PC, words are either nothing or the opposite of themselves, woke and cancel culture have blossomed from the once proud oppressed, and at the very beginning of the line is an old stupid tomboy , and talks to the dead.
And the western half of Europe has decided, strongly, that it will be exactly the same. He has a sense of guilt and surrenders, while here and there the barbarians, the strong, unshakable in their faith and identity, flood in and want revenge. And they have their revenge.
It doesn't cost them any special effort. After all, there is no opponent anymore.
The civilization that began with cathedrals will end with the hermeticism of schizophrenia.
Cioran wrote, the anointed priest of nihilism, and added:
it took us a long time to get from the caves to the salons. Will it take the same amount of time to make the return trip, or will we rush through it in one go?
Yes. In a beat.
"How much globalization can one take? Rüdiger Safranski asked the question recently. Here's the answer: nothing. But we scream, while doing the vitus dance, that "more, more, more, more, more, this is not enough!". Life expectancy in the United States is 76.1 years. 78.45 years in Cuba. GDP per capita in the United States is $62,000. In Cuba: $7,300. We won…
Der springt noch auf, - sounded above me. / Blood mixed with mud dried on my ears.
Come on. There is neither Der springt noch auf nor blood nor mud here. The dry, runny sauce of the double cheeseburger is enough. It dries on the edges of the mouth. And no one jumps up here for a long time. Fentanyl, heroin, zombies on the edge of metropolises, who would jump? Well, in the middle and eastern part of Europe. Everything here is westernized, but life still flickers.
Dostoyevsky writes:
All through the eighteenth century we did nothing but work to change our image. We took care of the European taste, indulged in eating all kinds of strange delicacies, tried not to frown. […] And if we haven't moved forward or backward from this point for two full centuries, then it seems that this long period of loitering has been imposed on us by fate. Although we cannot call it a shift, the fact that our self-contempt grew more and more, especially when we started to understand Europe a little more thoroughly. […] And the more we neglected our national identity for their sake, the more they despised us. We flattered them, we proved our "European" views and convictions with oaths, and they didn't even listen to us from above, at most they remarked with a teaching smile - as if they wanted to get rid of the other person quickly - that we actually "misunderstood" everything.
Today is no different. It's more like the same. And if we rebel, turn around, return to ourselves, the instructive smile disappears and gives way to a threatening snarl. This menacing snarl is the key to our survival.
A thousand years of wars have consolidated the West; the "psychology" of a single century pushed him to the edge of the abyss
Cioran writes. Could this realization make the dwarfs of today's West roar and cry for war? I do not think so. Unfortunately, I don't think so. Even if it were, because then there would be something heroic about it all. Ridiculous, weak, stupid - but heroism, even if it's snotty and pitiful. But that's not even the case, this West doesn't even have that much left. This current war cry is caused by the white-headed bald eagle, it shouts from the throat of the West. It just doesn't whine anymore, at most when it beeps.
Our thirty-six years: the age of losing illusions. And here we are now, without illusions, clinging with ten nails to our faith in ourselves and our truth. We are left with this. And that's not enough. Home from the west. Behind the ramparts of the nation. Clutching old Toldi's testament under our arms:
I would make a final order: but why? / No, yes: about what. And if there was none: to whom. / I leave no heir... only a faithful servant: / I tie that to your heart – and the Hungarian people.” / "Love the Hungarian, but don't carve him down," he said, / "His strength, form, rough bark: / Because what's the use of a smooth one, if it's carved well? / Uncarved wood is harder to break.
That's it. What else could it be? After all, the last of the Mohicans are slowly wandering away, forever.
