I am A Man of Letters. I’ve been reading lately, and I have found some words I would like to share. Today, selections from “Toward the Creative Nothing” by Renzo Novatore. Novatore was born in 1890, and died in 1922. He was an illegalist. “Toward the Creative Nothing” was first published in 1921.
With the triumph of democratic civilization the spiritual mob was glorified. With its fierce anti-individualism (democracy being incapable of understanding such a thing), it trampled all the heroic beauty of the anti-collectivist and creative “I.”
The bourgeois toads and the proletarian frogs clasped each others’ hands in a common spiritual baseness, piously receiving communion from the lead cup containing the slimy liquor of the very social lies that democracy handed to each of them.
And the song that bourgeois and proletarian raised at their spiritual communion was a common and noisy “Hurrah!” to the victorious and triumphant Goose.
And while the “Hurrah!’s” burst forth high and frenzied, she – democracy – pressed the plebeian cap on her forehead, proclaiming – grim and savage irony – the equal rights of Man!
It was then that the Eagle, in his prudent awareness, beat his titanic wings more swiftly, soaring – disgusted by the trivial performance – toward the peak of meditation.
Thus, the democratic Goose remained queen of the world aid lady of all things, imperial mistress and sovereign.
But since something waiting above her laughed, she – by means of socialism, her only true son – moved to hurl a stone and a word, into the low swampy realm where the toads and frogs croaked, to raise a materialistic fistfight in order to make it pass through a titanic war to superb ideas and to spirituality. And in the marshes, the fistfight happened. It happened in such a plebeian manner as to spray mud so high that it stained the stars.
Thus, everything was contaminated with democracy.
Even that which was best here.
Even that which was worst here.
In the reign of democracy, the struggles that were opened between capital and labor were stunted struggles, impotent ghosts of war, deprived of all content of high spirituality and of brave revolutionary greatness, unable to create a different concept of life, stronger and more beautiful.
Bourgeois and proletarian, though clashing over questions of class, of power and of the belly, still always remained united in common hatred against the great vagabonds of the spirit, against the solitaries of the idea. Against all those stricken by thought, against all those transfigured by a superior beauty.
With democratic civilization, Christ has triumphed.
In addition to paradise in heaven, “the poor in spirit” had democracy on Earth.
If the triumph has not yet been completed, socialism will complete it. In its theoretical conception, it has already announced itself for a long time. It aims to “level” all human worth.
Listen, oh youthful spirits!
The war against the human individual was begun by Christ in the name of god, was developed by democracy in the name of society and threatens to complete itself in socialism in the name of humanity.
If we do not know in time how to destroy these three absurd as well as dangerous phantoms, the individual will be inexorably lost.
It is necessary that the revolt of the “I” expands itself, broadens itself, generalizes itself!
We, the forerunners of the time, have already lit the beacons!
We have lit the torches of thought.
We have brandished the ax of action.
And we have smashed.
And we have unhinged.
But our individual “crimes” must be the fatal announcement of a great social storm.
The great and dreadful storm that will smash all the structures of the conventional lies, that will unhinge the walls of all hypocrisy, that will reduce the old world to a heap of ruins and smoking rubble!
Because it is from these ruins of god, of society, of family and of humanity that the new human mind could be born flourishing and festive. That new human mind which, on the rubble of all the past, will sing the birth of the liberated man: the free and great “I.” […]
When the bourgeoisie had knelt to the right of socialism in the sacred temple of democracy, they serenely stretched out in the bed of expectation to sleep their absurd sleep of peace. But the proletarians, who had lost their happy innocence by drinking the socialist poison, shouted from the left side, upsetting he tranquil sleep of the idiotic, criminal bourgeoisie.
In the meantime, on the higher mountains of thought, the vagabonds of the idea overcame nausea, announcing that something like the roaring laughter of Zarathustra had echoed sinisterly.
The wind of the spirit, similar to a hurricane, would have had to penetrate the human mind and raise it impetuously in the whirlwind of ideas in order to overwhelm all the old values from the darkness of time, raising the life of the sublimated instinct again in the sun with the new thought.
But, awakening, the bourgeois toads understood that some incomprehensible thing cried out in the heights, threatening their base existence. Yes: they understood that a thing arrived from the heights like a rock, a roar, a menace.
They understood that the satanic voices of frenzied forerunners of time announced a furious tempest that, arising from the renewed will of a few solitaries, exploded in the entrails of society to raze it to the ground.
But they have not understood (and will never understand this until they have been crushed) that what passed over the world was the powerful wing of a free life in the beating of which was the death of the “bourgeois man” and of the “proletarian man,” because all people could have been “unique” and “universal” at the same time.
And this was the reason why all the bourgeoisie of the world rang their bells, made from false idealistic metal, in mass, calling themselves to a great assembly. […]
Fascism is an obstacle much too ephemeral and impotent to hinder the course of human thought that burst beyond every damn and overflows beyond every boundary, stirring action on its way.
Fascism is impotent because it is brute force.
It is matter without spirit; it is night without dawn.
Fascism is the other face of socialism.
Both of them are bodies without minds.
Socialism is the material force that, acting as the shadow of a dogma, resolves and dissolves in a spiritual “no.”
Fascism is a consumptive of the spiritual “no” that aims – wretch – at a material “yes.”
Both lack willful quality.
They are the bores of time; the temporizers of the deed!
They are reactionary and conservative.
They are crystallized fossils that the strong-willed dynamism of history that passes will sweep away together.
Because, in the willful field of moral and spiritual values, the two enemies are equal.
And it is well known that when fascism is born, socialism alone is its direct accomplice and responsible father.
Because, if when the nation, if when the state, if when democratic Italy, if when bourgeois society trembled in pain and agony in the knotty and powerful hands of the “proletariat” in revolt, socialism had not basely hindered the tragic deadly hold – losing the lamps of reason in front of its wide-opened eyes – certainly fascism would never even have been born, let alone lived.
But the awkward colossus-without-mind is then allowed to take hold for fear that the vagabonds of the idea would push the movement of revolt beyond the appointed mark in a most vulgar game of sullen conservative pity and false human love.
Thus, bourgeois Italy, instead of dying, brought forth…
It brought forth fascism!
Because fascism is the stunted and deformed creature born of the impotent love of socialism for the bourgeoisie.
One of them is the father, and the other the mother. But neither wants the responsibility for it.
Perhaps they find it a child much too monstrous.
And this is the reason they call it a “bastard!”
And it gets revenge.
Already wretched enough for being born this way, it rebels against the father and insults the mother…
And perhaps it has reason…
But we, we bring all this out for history.
For history and for truth, not for ourselves.
For us fascism is a poisonous mushroom planted quite well in the rotten heart of society; that is enough for us.
Only the great vagabonds of the idea can, and must, be the luminous spiritual fulcrum of the tempestuous revolution, which advances in gloom upon the world.
Blood requires blood.
That is ancient history!
It can turn back no more.
To attempt to turn back, as socialism does, would be a useless and vain crime.
We must leap into the abyss.
We must answer the voice of the dead.
Of those dead who have fallen with immense stars of gold in their eyes.
It is necessary to cultivate the soil.
To free the blood from underground.
Because it wants to rise to the stars.
Thank you for listening. For more information about the words I have read, please visit A Man of Letters. amoletters.com.
Until I return, I am… A Man of Letters.