/lit/ - Literature

>>12374117
"Lost at sea The Eternal Anglo is a Saxon without resources. Here the wound of the executioner's axe strikes as the broad axe against nature—but hewn as a cult for nature itself. The wilderness lives on as the thanatotheology of poetics, an industrialism without need of a proletariat, a syncretism of the Heathen sacrificed to His Christianity.
The Eternal Anglo has no sense of nation, thus there can be neither nationalism nor anti-Angloism. Here, within, this tide of the German Ideology insulates Him as a moat swirling into a landbridge of the dead. The carrion of foreign forces hold up the broken stride of Pals battalions, but continue to shudder as if their march strode on in time.
As His forces die - off somewhere in European wars - He sees Himself ever more as the Wound Man. He cuts his biology out of himself as the plagued organ of the smaller continent which can never be encircled. Victory comes as the pestilence of His soul is flung over the walls of continents—at once reconciling the paradox of the state of nature and the social contract with its triumph.
Now the Eternal Anglo chucks his own body over the castle walls; but only because he prefers to be on the receiving end of the pestilence of the soul.
Pyrrhic Victory is the imperial cult of The Eternal Anglo. His siege of the soul has sacked biology to the extent that His physiognomy of speech - that strangely anti-biological speech of the Queen living on through the jaundiced breath of the peasantry - arises from outside of the body, from outside life itself even; just as His state had risen outside of itself. He is a spectral soldier, apart from the crumpets and crumple of his teeth.
And here the dead voices of German folk singers are kept alive within the tone-deaf monarchism of The Eternal Anglo. Only death may sing alone.
Like the crumpets and their aristocratic strumpets, His teeth wander the fields of oceans without need. His spectral being is the occlusion of that which may never close in a bite. But beyond all theologies of power he has managed to capture something within the crude asymmetry of His jaw. The hole which does not resent. The hole which does not grow. The hole which lives beyond any spirit of attack. The hole which marches forward with neither heroism nor sacrifice nor the cheers of victory, only the endless passivity of forwardness. Against the Earth-March of the Germans He dry-heaves a quaint little garden into a desert.
Only rubble may grow Victory Gardens."