An American Wrestles With God by Benjamin De Casseres


LIKE all children, I was born without a belief in or a knowledge of God.
A four-year-old may astound the world by suddenly improvising a melody on the piano, reciting Pindar in the orig­inal, doing lightning calculations, or writ­ing a passable poem, but that same child will look at you in a perfectly idiotic manner when you ask it, “Do you believe in God?”—unless it has been coached. Child evangelists—the most revolting of human abortions—are all made, not born. They are the machine products of evangelistic parents. There is no such thing as a spontaneous religious prodigy. It is always a hideous mutilation of child­hood. No such being ever made its appear­ance in a family that was non-religious. Of any real knowledge of God, of course, it has none.
Thus the child is born, and generally continues until puberty, an atheist, or, at least, an indifferentist. It plays, it makes believe. It plays at being papa and mamma, but it never plays at being God, or the devil, or Jesus, or Mary. It may have a tremendous imagination. It may be in­ventive. It may listen by the hour to fairy tales and tales of adventure; but it never imagines God or gods. It looks on Sunday-school or church as a bore, or as a rendez­vous for meeting other girls and boys, or as a place to dress up. It looks on its prayers at night as a branch of play, or, again, as a bore.
It is only at puberty that the idea, the feeling of God takes form—with sex, death, good and evil. And even then, with the vast majority of boys and girls, God is the last and least important of concepts.
The parental notion of the Creator, along with the bag and baggage of the standard creed, is accepted, and then dismissed as something to be used, like the wall fire-extinguisher, only in case of emergency. The interest that a few children, before puberty, show in God is only part and parcel of their intense curiosity. They are merely curious, not religious—and often unconsciously satiric.
“Now I lay me down to sleep. . . . If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take. Amen.” This was my earliest contact with God. I said it every night for years, following the words as my mother pronounced them. They hadn’t the slightest meaning to me. There was even a trace of aversion in me when I hopped into bed and awaited the mean­ingless formula. My head was full of the game of prisoner’s base, or pussy, that I had played in the afternoon, or of Captain Mayne Reid or my real God, Oliver Optic. The prayer finished, I resumed my thoughts about the street boys or the characters in Optic’s book, more real at that time then ever God was to Plotinus. I had no curi­osity at any time, as I remember, about the meaning or the words of the prayer. It was a duty, like the weekly dose of rhubarb and magnesia.
I remember only one other contact with God until I was fourteen years old. “Re­member,” said my mother one day, apro­pos of what I do not now recall, “that God can see you everywhere—no matter where you are.”
“Do you mean to say, mother,” I asked, “that God can see me if I stand under Schimmel’s awning on the corner?”
I now recall the peal of laughter that I heard from her with far more pleasure than I got from my first lesson in the om­nipresence of God.
I went to a Jewish Sunday-school (Sat­urday morning), where we were read to out of the Old Testament with explana­tions, based on the stories, of the good­ness (!) of Jehovah. These readings and lectures left no more impression on me than the Einstein theory on a flea. The class, when it got loose, never spoke of the matter, but went straight to marbles and pussy.
The boys and girls that I played with up until my twelfth year were, as I an­alyze them now, either vapid or cruel. They were all obscene, either actively or passively, including myself. All of us coming of middle-class, ultra-respectable, church-going people, we inherited our instinct for the obscene. We had in us the germs of sexual perversion, pyromania, greediness, theft, cowardice, all forms of cruelty and exhibitionism. Those that were passive in regard to these matters we regarded as milksops—they were not part of our gang. The most popular girl among us was almost hermaphroditic. She spat, fought like a boy, took a chew of tobacco with us, and was always in our stone-fights. I, with the rest of the boys, had my sling-shot with which to kill sparrows. I tortured mice, and used to help pull the rope on the cattle at the slaughter-house, and watch the men cut the throats of the cows and bulls, delight­ing in seeing the blood gush forth and the dying struggles of the animals. This was the “divine innocence” of our childhood —and maybe it was just that that Jesus meant when He said we must be as little children to enter the Kingdom of Heaven. I do not know.
But the point is this: As a boy, I, along with the others, took my inherited “wick­ednesses” naturally and with glee. But there was one name never mentioned in all those years either by myself or my pals, male or female, and that was the name of
God. Those golden days were deliciously atheistic. Nor did we ever hear of the Devil, or if we did, the word had no meaning. So it remains, to me, the most curious and significant of my backward.. looking experiences that the belief in God, the consciousness of God, is not inherited, is not instinctive, although every other psychic attribute—including kindness and good-fellowship—is in the blood and nerves of every child.


So there was no inkling, no herald, of the great adventure that was to befall me—the adventure of my soul with the idea of God—until puberty, which came in my fifteenth year. My interest in the uni­verse awoke when I began to blush and stammer before girls. From my twelfth year to my fifteenth I accepted God and the inspiration of the Old Testament with­out any thought about the matter. I had been told that they were facts, like the Boston Tea Party, the assassination of Lincoln, and the belief that a strip of bacon around the throat would cure a sore throat.
But tumescence begot in me revery, a sense of mystery, a vague uneasiness, soli­tude, apprehensions, glamour, question­ings. I fell in love. I began to pity street beggars. I read the newspapers and pon­dered. What made me walk? Look! I could stop walking whenever I willed! I peeped through a street telescope at the moon, and nearly fainted at the over­whelming power of my first cosmic emo­tion. I did not know what I was doing for an hour afterwards. Space! the Infinite! a world hanging in space unsupported!—what was anything? What were we all? What was this thing I was living on? Something expanded tremendously in me. I reeled like a drunken boy through the streets. The hush of a mighty awe fell upon my soul. Human beings whirled before me like ghosts. My girl-love be­came an ethereal being. I walked on air.
An immense tear—a stupendous tear, an unburst tear—seemed to keep my heart from beating.
God! That word dropped into my brain like a bomb. That word now became the Word. Sex-ache and God-ache took pos­session of me simultaneously with a de­moniacal fury. All this took place within a period of an hour after looking through a street telescope for a nickel. That night was the first broken night’s rest in my life, a healthy, regular life until then. The next day I went through my work in a cigar-store in a trance. The Moon, the Universe, Space, Time, Women, Life, Will —it was a witches’ dance, an initiation, a dreadfully beautiful Awakening. It was the Footprint on the sand. I had discovered the presence of the Being Who was des­tined to become my Friday, Whom I was to hate, deny, curse, love, cajole, thump, dismiss, call back, slay, resurrect.
That was my first adventure with the World Spirit, with the Presence; the be­ginning of a prolonged and eternal parley, of a perpetual love-hate duel between my­self and God.
Thenceforward nothing was of any ulti­mate importance, nothing was worth while, compared to the existence or non­existence of God. All turned on that question. Until that was established, all that was, is or could be was meaningless. I was embarked on the Sublime Adven­ture. I was looked on askance—above all, by my parents. “You can never know .. . Do not think about such things . . . You will go crazy.” But the mystical bud had opened in my brain, and no power, pa­rental, economic or religious, could pre­vent the unfolding of that marvelous flower with its changing perfumes—that monstrous poppy which breeds ecstatic poisons, kills with rapturous swoons, emaciates and dilates simultaneously: God.
I now no longer believed in the Old Testament. The New Testament I had not yet opened. I bought a booklet at the Friendship Liberal League’s clubrooms which pointed out one hundred and forty-four contradictions in the Old Testament. I marked them out carefully in an old second-hand Bible that I picked up on the stalls of Leary’s Old Book Store. I showed them to my father. “We should not inquire into such things.” He feared what I now knew—that God had not actually written the Old Testament. I had the pleasant thrill of fear in this adventure. Had any one adventured there before? I asked myself timidly, knowing nothing of the Higher Criticism. “While I do not believe in the inspiration of the Bible, I do believe in a God,” I murmured to my­self over and over in my lonely meditative walks in Fairmount Park. I was afraid to let go of God—a good God, a merciful God.
But how reconcile this belief with that singing, blind boy that an elderly man led down Eighth street every day? His sweet face, twisted in pain, nearly made me faint with pity. He was the symbol of earthly injustice, an enormous question-mark, a challenge to my belief. I hurried by him as though I were guilty of some­thing I could not define. The problem of Evil thundered with iron knuckles on the door of my belief in a good and merciful Father. Maybe the Devil ruled the world! —I swept that aside as monstrous. l feared the personal consequences of such a belief. I might be paralyzed or blinded if I accepted it.
Then came the great event which seemed to be manufactured for me. On May 31, 1889, the dam above Johnstown, Pa., broke and the waters carried away the town of Johnstown and drowned five thou­sand whirling, plunging, struggling men, women and children. As everything that has ever happened to me, mentally or physically, since puberty is related pri­marily and fundamentally to the two questions, Is there or is there not a God? and if there is, How does anything I am experiencing modify my conception of Him?, the Johnstown flood and its heart-wrenching details acted with the same power on my imagination and nerves as Voltaire said the destruction of Lisbon by an earthquake in 1754 had acted on him—”from that moment I disbelieved in the goodness of God.”
I read all the pathetic details of the brutal “act of God” in the Philadelphia papers. I saw each day the wagons going up and down the streets collecting bed­ding, clothing and money. I saw at night in my dreams the children wrenched from the arms of their mothers, families ob­literated in an hour, and the horrors of death as the waters receded. In my in­flamed imagination I could hear the prayers and curses of thousands.
The thundering waters of the Cone­maugh washed away forever my belief in a good, merciful, humanized God. My rage knew no bounds. I hurled oath after oath at Him. I consigned Him and His universe to Hell. I declared everlasting war on the Author of the universe. Luci­fer, Cain and the Devil looked like saints to me now. I did not turn atheist (I have never been an atheist). I turned God-hater. I was anti-God. The Creative Power was evil! God was more real than He had ever been. But He must be destroyed! Atheists were cowards, just as cowardly as those who affirmed a smiling, benefi­cent, all-merciful God. I would destroy the belief in a good God and take up the war against Him where Lucifer and the revolting angels had dropped it—for dropped it they had; one could see that, I thought, by the way prayers still went up from the churches and synagogues.
Prayers instead of anathemas! I in­stinctively felt that if I turned atheist my evolution would cease. I might as well turn Catholic. There was too much fight in me to let God go. I had never believed in free will; therefore I had no bone to pick with man. He was a victim. I wept over his ills, his fate. To the degree that I pitied man I cursed God. I shouted my challenges and questions into the spaces. I came to understand the legends of Prometheus and Christ. I felt the need of world-sacrifice. I felt like stopping people in the street and telling them the Truth —they muss know who I was and what I was here for!
The blind boy was individual evil. He was Man. Johnstown was History, natural and racial. My adventure by 1890 had come to attain cosmic proportions. I was a black pessimist, furiously anti-God. Death was a fact. Immortality, like free will, was the ruse of priests to let God out of a bad theological hole. I nearly fainted more than once at the sight of thousands on the street who lived in mortal error. They walked and talked and acted as if they were going to live for eternity! How to tell them that the grave was the end, that the universe itself would come to an end, that all was futile?


The stars began to obsess me as the moon had. I studied astronomy. I knew the names of all the stars. My own nothingness in endless space fed my instinct for suicide. Why exist if I was nothing? I wrote mourn­fully pessimistic poems on the transitori­ness of life. And always came back to God, incessantly, like a cat returning to watch a mouse-hole.
I began to read. I literally ate up books —the Baron d’Holbach’s “System of Na­ture,” which satisfied my prejudices but did not satisfy my intellect or my meta­physical mysticism; Huxley, Spencer, Dar­win, Ecclesiastes, the Greek tragedies, Byron, Locke, Omar Khayyam, Tom Paine, Bradlaugh, Saltus’ “The Philos­ophy of Disenchantment,” which had a powerful effect on me; von Hartmann, Schopenhauer, Büchner, Buckle, Gibbon, Berkeley, Tyndall, Lyall, all the theolog­ical writers I could find in the old Mer­cantile Library at Tenth and Chestnut streets, George Henry Lewes, Shelley, Humboldt, Wallace, Haeckel, Voltaire—
History, physics, philosophy, meta­physics, poetry, astronomy, fiction—I was looking for a point to assault God, to argue Him out of His universes, to find a weapon to drive through His heart and liberate Man in an eternal sleep. Men at that time were talking about the mystery of the Northwest Passage, the mystery of the Poles. Baby talk! Here was a boy walking among them—in Fairmount Park —meditating the dethronement of God!
I went into the gallery of the Park Theatre at Broad street and Fairmount avenue one night to hear Robert G. In­gersoll lecture on Voltaire. Pleasing, elo­quent, true, and worth the quarter I paid. But an agnostic! Pah! Agnosticism was a liberalized form of atheism. “I do not know!” Why, God was the one thing I did know! His works, his methods, his existence were staring you in the face, Mr. Ingersoll! God exists-écrasez l’infame’, I hurled back at Ingersoll.
The core of the matter was that I had not yet outgrown the God of the Old Testament. My rage was the rage of Jeho­vah Himself, the rage of King David, the rage of Isaiah and Jeremiah. It was pity and mental torture sublimated to a de­vastating anger.
At war with God, looking on man as something that had better be annihilated, the frustrated religious forces in me then transferred their need of worship and love to Nature. At sixteen I became panaleptic. It came at about the time of my moon intoxication and increased in madness as my rage against God increased. It actually took the place of sex-rapture. I regarded girls as nuisances, toys, snares of God, a way of damnation. (This attitude to­ward the female has never quite worn off.)
I made every foot of Fairmount Park my own. I watched the waning and the coming of seasons as one watches the sleep­ing and waking of his mistress. I rolled in the grass in ecstatic frenzy. I kissed the trees, I almost swooned in the breezes, I lay on the ground staring for hours into the blue of heaven until I was near to bursting with mad pleasure, all of which had strange sex-implications which trou­bled my then chaste soul, but which now cause me an ironic grin. The great event of my life then was Springtime, a hal­lowed miracle. I did not at that time confound God and Nature. But I think it was this early Nature-worship that was the germ in me of that supreme conscious­ness of Beauty and Power, unstained by ethical conceptions, that finally swallowed the old God in me and incorporated him in a transcendent apotheosis of xsthetic amorality.
From 1890 until the turn of the century my life was occupied with four things—God, books, alcohol and suicide. The three latter were all roads to the first, modes of noosing Him, underground pas­sages to His throne, where I intended to confront Him and demand in the name of all things that had lived and died since the beginning of Space and Time the Why?
I now discovered Pascal and Descartes, and through them returned to Ptolemy’s egocentric universe. The stars may not revolve around the earth, but they did revolve around me, for if, as Pascal or Descartes said, the universe is a circle with its circumference nowhere and its centre everywhere, then each one of us is the centre of the universe. Each being is then the measure of all things. I did not revolve around the sun and the stars; they revolved around me!
Following Pascal and Descartes came Emerson and Whitman to confirm my egocentricity in trumpet tones. They lifted me to the pinnacle of extreme in­dividualism. They dared me to dare all things. They dared me to confront God. They gave me back my dignity as a unique being. But while accepting their doctrine of the almighty ego, I rejected—my bitter, militant, ethical sensibility rejected—their smug acceptance of things and the essential goodness of the Oversoul. Egoity, dilated to cosmic proportions, superposed itself on a raging hatred of the temporal order, its futility and imbecility.
It was about 1903 or 1904 that there was a fissure in my brain, a sinister slit in my consciousness. A face, humorous, satanic, ferocious, floated up from the depths of that fissure. It was the Spirit of Tragic Humor. I lost Thee, my Enemy, my Friend, my Torturer and my Consoler, in the bil­lows of my laughter. As my consciousness and my brain halved, I saw myself for the first time as a ridiculous little witling, and God, if I thought of Him at all at that time, as a Scaramouch, a roguish blue­behinded ape. Lucifer died that Narcissus might be born. I guffawed with God, with the gods, for I felt also at this time my monotheism dissolving into polytheism. I forgot Heaven and discovered Olympus. I was a gay Narcissus. I looked into the lake of my mind and saw a clown-face. I found the exquisite uses of my flesh. God incarnated as a bawdy Eros. He winked at me out of the ale-pot. I still thundered at times against Him, but I felt I was cursing a phantom. The sense of evil, the sense of sin, vanished.
Spinoza until then had been but a name. I knew his philosophy only by hearsay, in second-hand expositions. I began to read him. I began to meditate on panthe­ism, on a God who was the spirit of evil as well as the spirit of good, a God who was Power and Beauty unallied to man­made ethical attributes. I heard the first notes of a transcendental symphony, or, rather, the beginning of a titanic struggle between two opposing and equally power­ful forces such as Wagner put into the Overture to “Tannhäuser”
Now the Great Adventure was in full march again! Spinoza and King David were face to face at Armageddon—and Arma­geddon was in my soul. The Psalmist of Hate and Humility faced the serene etern­ist of Amsterdam. I passed from bitter curses to ecstatic swoonings. I rocked Heaven with my shrapnel, and recouped my strength by rendering up my soul to the Impersonal Spirit. I celebrated both of my brain armies in a passionate prose-poem to Spinoza and his God.
Then came 1914. Dead was the God of Spinoza in me, dead the God of the ale-pot and the bawdy Eros, during those four years of planetary cannibalism. The spirit of King David and his immortal barbaric God possessed the world, pos­sessed me, and I hurled anathema upon anathema at Him, reversing the smug at­titude of David, but preserving his passion and his rant.
This bearded old Jehovah of the Jews, this marvellous creation of the Old Testa­ment poets, would not walk out of my soul. In my Great Adventure He remains my sword of Excalibur. He is the greatest and truest of man’s anthropomorphic crea­tions. He is the very garment and texture of Reality. He is Mars, the Serpent, the Instinct of Self-Preservation, Big Brother with a club and sling-shot. He was not born of closet speculations and theological subtleties, but of direct contact with reality.
He mirrors the Earth we live upon and its sublime victim—Man. He was built of blood, thunder, lightnings, fear, flood, famine, pest, hate, murder, life, death, war and covetousness: an epitome of the adventures of the human race on the planet Earth. He was (and is) the perfect mirror of life in all its cruelty, irony, humility, hypocrisy, implacability and amoralism. No Spinoza, no Nietzsche, no Christ can dynamite Him out of His heavens, be­cause those heavens that lock in Jehovah —the old storm-god of the Midianites­are locked forever in our hearts and brains. He is practical, pragmatic, the literal I Am of every-day life. He is mud-and­blood humanity. He is the Errinye of personal vengeance. Christ may have a Second Advent; Jehovah’s Second Advents are perpetual. Flatten Him out to a philo­sophical abstraction in times of peace and prosperity, He will round to form, gather up His lightnings and His siege-guns when Death stalks the world. Jehovah, in a word, is not a God but the Superman.
So during the World War I hated Him and I loved Him. I used to fling anathemas at Him. He became confusedly identified with the God of Spinoza, and both lapsed into Satan.


In 1918 admiration was born like sweet lullaby music out of the fantasia of hate, despair and disillusion. I again heard the Pan-phallic pipes of Greek polytheism. God was laughing at me—impotent sun-midge of a day! I took the God of Spinoza and the God of King David and Hellenized Them. I renounced homogeneous unity for heterogeneous diversity. I carved gods out of God. I paraphrased the saying of Goethe, that the meaning of Life is life itself, into The meaning of God is earth-spirits, air-spirits, water-spirits, flower-spirits, star-spirits, individual daemons, familiars. The bright, etheric face of Shel­ley rose out of the wreck of Spinoza and King David. I was in the clutch of mate­rial ecstasy. A mystical atheist!
But polytheism was, after all, only a Merlin garden that I had stumbled on and loitered in with half-closed eyes and wide-open nostrils on my way to the Bright Tower. I am primarily a creature of intellect, and not of sentiment. The heart is the cloudy crucible of all prob­lems. The brain is the clarifier. Too long had I been imprisoned in the crucible.
Near my fiftieth year the ascension to the eyries of the brain began in earnest. Liberty dwells on mountain-tops. There one has unobstructed vision, preternatural sight, a sudden revaluation of values. My brain is the mountain-top of my soul. I myself had the Bright Tower within me all these years, obscured and weed-hidden until now by my emotional judgments, by my “common humanity,” by my un­conscious craving for “salvation”—sal­vation of my own blowsy ego. All great, enduring revelations come from Intellect, the cold, clarified visions of Artists and Ironists. And I saluted Goethe, Nietzsche and Jules de Gaultier.
So at last! Artist and Ironist!—that is God! Supreme, innominable, immanent bainter, poet, musician, satirist, roman-:et, mathematician—that is God! He is an ethereal Beethoven and Shakespeare, a Rodin and Cervantes, a Euclid and Ein­stein, an Aristophanes and Aeschylus, a Wagner and Dostoievsky, an Aphrodite and Zeus. God is all of these—and myself!
God has nothing to do with human beings except as characters in an eternal serial, an eternal dream-tale, an eternal fabulous drama. Good and evil are art-motives. God is superhuman, unhuman, inhuman. He dreams scenarios, of which we are the puppets. Our agonies and prayers are situations. He is Spinoza’s God, the Eternal Return of Nietzsche, the Oversoul of Emerson, the Unknowable of Spencer, the Mephistopheles of Goethe. He is All—omniscient, omnipotent, omni­present, eternal creator, eternal playboy, eternal incarnation; the great dramaturge.
Arriving at this truth, I was released. I, with the rest of the species, am part of the music, drama, farce and mathe­matics of the Supreme Artist. And when I utter sadly “Such is life!” because of my disillusions, defeats and strangled de­sires I say, “But such is God, too!” For God is Life.
But Why? my brain still asks at times; and then again I am Lucifer organizing the revolting angels against Heaven, Prometheus launching curses at Zeus, and a King David raining death and destruction on Life. Why? Is the tragic farce, the music, the artistry worth while?
And a veiled sigh comes to me from the depths of myself; a veiled sigh, or is it a veiled laugh?—and I hear a voice:
“I have assigned to man the sublime role of Why? for an Eternity. Why? is the master-key to my art. That word Why? is the name of all My dreams, tragedies and farces on all the stars. It is the real name of every being I have ever made. It is the name of every sun I have ever created. It is the name of every picture I have ever painted. In the Legend of Life Why? is my eternal Hamlet.”
So I am thus, like all living things, identified with God in all His manifesta­tions, in all forms and on all planes—a Tantalus of Eternity.


The following short story was written by Madison Grant as “The Major.” It was published in “Hank: His Lies and His Yarns”, privately printed (probably by the Boone and Crockett Club) in 1937. 


“MAJOR,” said Hank at their camp up Lost Horse Cañon, “I have been thinking all day ’bout them sheep down in the Bitterroot Valley. They do smell something dreadful, don’t they? They ought to be vermin but they ain’t, because they do say in the East there are people that eat sheep, which they call mutton.”

“What has that to do with sheep being vermin?” asked the Major.”Why you sure know, Major, what a vermin is?”

“No,” says the Major, “I don’t.”

“Vermin,” says Hank, “is anything you can’t eat, so sheep ain’t vermin, though they ought to be.”

“Hank, why are you so down on sheep? I know that all cattle-men and hunters detest the brutes, but why are you so especially bitter? Yesterday I was afraid you were going to shoot the shepherd of the flock we rode through.”

Then Hank said, “That Greaser shepherd, he sure ought to be shut. He’s vermin
all right. Well, Major, I tell you why I hate sheep; because they robbed me of my religion.”

“What, robbed you of your religion, Hank?”

“They sure have, I ain’t no Christian no more. I can’t belong to no religion what uses a blatting imbecile of a lamb for a symbol. And they say Christ was a shepherd. I’ve seen pictures of him carrying a lamb. Just look at them half-breed shepherds we saw yesterday. No, I ain’t no Christian, I ain’t.”

“Well, Hank, the sheep and shepherd question has nothing to do with Christianity. They are symbolical. But if you are not a Christian, what are you? You have got to be something, are you an Atheist or a Deist or an Agnostic or a Moslem? You must be something.”

“Well,” said Hank after an embarrassed pause, “I suppose I am a Dunkard.”

Stay Down Here EP005 – Girls in Graves, Book Cartels, Fenris Wolf, Dirty Reader

Now in 1080p! Shot inside my office, it’s visually the most “vlog-like” episode yet, but I don’t take the easy way out… lots of additional graphics and effects. The transition videos are a little longer than normal, but the longest one tells you exactly what point to skip to if you don’t want to watch the saucy sword-swallower.

UA Direct, direct link:
Den of Iniquity Tribute T-shirt:
“The Girl In the Grave”:
H.L. Mencken Speaks!:
Stochastic Kitten:
Material Support:

Feel free to comment and make constructive critiques and (realistic) suggestions.

In the basement of the Black House, Anton Szandor LaVey created the total environment that he felt most at ease in: a seedy dive bar populated by the down and out. But those who populated it were literally his creations, as they were all meticulously crafted artificial humanoids.
In the back wall he had a backlit sign reading “Den of Iniquity”, and this new shirt is based on the lettering of that sign. This faux-souvenir lists the address of the former home of the Church of Satan beneath the logo. A subtle tribute to a man who created his own world.
Available exclusively through ASP Apparel:

More tweets… recycle much?



Atheism +

Tejaratchi is HI-Larious

A selected series of tweets….

Absence of evidence…

I really am on the verge of turning comments off on all my videos. I’m not going to blog about all the reasons. You’re welcome to look up the many, many bloggers who have made that choice or have at least considered it deeply.
I did just that on my “What does Satanism mean to you?” video, and elsewhere on the internet someone accused me of “being afraid” and “like Christians”. This comment was among dozens of the most childish, bitchy, and malicious other comments on a website that seems to specialize in posting videos and making fun of them.
Oh yes, I see my error, certainly I’m crazy for not wanting all of that attached to my short film.

I’m prompted to write THIS post because of a series of exchanges on another video by a YouTube user who posts his own videos discussing Satanism, and he seems to be a member of some pseudo-Satanic group. I’ll be deleting his comments for the obvious reasons below (they don’t contribute anything to the discussion for one), but also so that none of his videos receive traffic from click-troughs on his comments. I’ve already allowed him to take up too much of my time, but I won’t take up any of yours with this preface.

I put what I felt are the relevant sections in bold, for maximum skimmability.


Thread A:

also, i might ask…. why would i give the CoS a dime of my money, let alone 200 dollars for a red piece of paper with black ink on it, and nothing more? what does being a “member” benefit me or anyone else? what benefit is the CoS to anyone, other than the money collectors? smells like bullshit to me. ive nothing to give any organization that seemingly has nothing to give in return. what could they do for me that i cannot easily do for myself? in fact, is there any justification for the money?
(name withheld) 2 days ago

You decide for yourself why you would or would not give the CoS a dime or $200.
If the CoS were mere “money collectors”, they’d probably have an annual membership, instead of one-time lifetime membership. The fact that they aren’t “selling you the blades” may clue you to the fact their main purpose is NOT generating cash.
Either way, I’m not a recruiter, I don’t recall ever requesting or suggesting anyone join. That’s a personal choice that can be made for any number of reasons.
UnderworldAmusements in reply to (name withheld) 2 days ago

Fair enough… but being the one to question as I am, I found it to be only apropos. I made note tht you didnt suggest that anyone join… in fact, you denote that you frankly do not care. Just because they are not asking for annual dues does not prove to me that they are not merely money collectors… if anything, it only clues me in to the fact that they are poorer at it than they could be. Mediocre “money collectors” at best. So tell me, what does the CoS have to offer? It’s relevant.
(name withheld) in reply to UnderworldAmusements 1 day ago

“Just because they are not asking for annual dues… that they are poorer at it than they could be.”
It does not logically, automatically follow though. You’re free to interpret it that way if you choose.
“So tell me, what does the CoS have to offer? It’s relevant.”
It may be relevant to you to want the answer, but it’s not relevant to me to convince you or to spend time detailing my thoughts on it. When it comes up, I encourage people to decide for themselves, as I’ve done above.
UnderworldAmusements in reply to (name withheld) 1 day ago

I ran out of space on the above post, and likely will again, but it seems as if you avoid my question. Is is indeed relevant to me to want the answer… I can buy red cardboard, lamination paper, and black ink for far less than $200. If you are a spokesman,should you not have the answers to my questions? It only stand to reason that you would. I dont want convincing, merely enlightenment. Just as my postulation suggests, a lack of an answer indicates a deception or lack of an answer at best.
(name withheld) in reply to UnderworldAmusements 1 day ago

My answer could not be more clear: “Decide for yourself.”
As a representative it is NOT an obligation to answer any and all questions.
I have given you a) the only answer to that question I will give and b) my reason for giving it.
If that’s not enough, ask someone else.
UnderworldAmusements in reply to (name withheld) 1 day ago

Fair enough… it seems as if we’ve reached an impasse then. I’m not much of one for beating a dead horse, and recognize circular logic and a waste of time when i see it. You answer reveals much, and nothing all at the same time. Thank you for your unintended clarification and verification.

my comments:
This person is the ultimate “dead horse beater”, contrary to his last post. In all probability, he has already answered the question for himself before asking it. He merely wants to argue about it. I didn’t give him anything except the advice to think for himself, so he implies I am either deceptive or unable to answer. Those are both possible, certainly… but you’d think the PROBABLE answer is that I have decided to not ever try to “sell memberships”. Not only is it a concept that’s antithetical to Satanism, but I DON’T CARE. I made my choice without anyone selling me on it, if this person is incapable of doing the same I DON’T WANT HIM TO JOIN.

If he looks up the definition of “circular logic”, he’ll fail to find any in my end of the discussion. I would highly recommend he poke around the “logical fallacies” definitions and examples, because he commits so very many of them in such a short time.

Thread B:

you know, i might have made it further than 10 minutes into the presentation if you werent so busy practically yelling in a condescending manner… not that there was anything here that i probably didnt know or understand already, but your delivery leaves much to be desired. it’s abt as palatable as a mouth full of hornets, and just as enjoyable to the ear. irritating, at best. i imagine other intelligent and capable people feel the same way.
(name withheld) 2 days ago

Different people will listen to and enjoy different styles of presentation. My video is not for everyone, but if you read other comments here, you might discover your opinion is far from universal. This lecture has been viewed over 10,000 times.
UnderworldAmusements in reply to (name withheld)  2 days ago

This may be so, but so far I see merely 189 likes to the 22 dislikes. Shall we then say that 12,428 people frankly could care less either way, or perhaps they even shut it off just as I did? Fair argument, no? :-) You are correct though… “different strokes for different folks”, or so they say. Some people will sit and listen to this delivery style, abrasive as it is, and enjoy it no less. I do not mean this in offense of course… I am just being real. I do admire your direction, though.
(name withheld)  in reply to UnderworldAmusements 1 day ago

“Fair argument, no?”
Not if you understand how YouTube works and the behavior of YouTube users. If you understand those things, you’d know if would be a terrible argument to make.
UnderworldAmusements in reply to (name withheld)  1 day ago

You can’t very well tell what these individuals think of your video though, now can you? All it takes is one well circulated post/spammed email to have anyone and everyone that clicks on this link count towards that total. You cant gauge or quantify their thoughts on the matter, bc they didnt even take the time to so much as click a simple button indicating they liked or disliked it. Lex parsimoniae would most likely suggest that frankly they didnt give a fuck. :-) (devil’s advocate)
(name withheld)  in reply to UnderworldAmusements 1 day ago

Every comment you make has gigantic leaps of logic unfounded by any evidence. You’re not “being real” or “devil’s advocate”, you’re being a niggling shit-disturber.
UnderworldAmusements in reply to (name withheld)  1 day ago

my comments:

Oh how I loath the phrase “I’m just being real.” That’s what reality show actors say to excuse their irrational asshole behavior. And, no, you’re not being a “devil’s advocate” because a REAL “devil’s advocate” wouldn’t us logical fallacies in such a slipshod manner. He reveals he is either deeply ignorant of the dynamic between views/likes or he’s being intentionally credulous to try to “win” an argument.

Here’s my “keeping it real” moment: This pretentious queeny asshole has around a half-dozen videos with a few dozens views AT BEST. He’d rather think that I got 10,000+ views from some fictitious spam e-mail than a) building an audience for a few years and b) producing content people would want to watch.

I have the data, I know where the views are coming from. I also know that 10,000 views is not a lot on YouTube, but I’d bet dollars-to-baphomets it’s more than he’ll ever get. YouTube provides all kinds of metrics to discover whether people like your video or not, but someone with two dozen views may not get that kind of insight, so he might remain ignorant of those very real ways to guage interest.
Remember, just “keeping it real”!

BOOK NERD :: Birthday Books 2012

I gathered and stacked up most of the books that I’ve purchased in the month and a half leading up to my birthday and took a photo.. well, a few photos, and did a rough stitching together in photoshop.

If you’re curious what I’m curious about these days, this gives you a good idea.

Actually, now that I’m looking at the photo, I see a number of titles left out… oh well.

Fenris Wolf #5 – Coming Soon

Very pleased that a transcript of my lecture “The Great Satan” will appear in the following journal:

The Fenris Wolf, Issue no. 5
Edited by Carl Abrahamsson
350 pages. 148 x 210 mm, sewn paperback.
Cover art by Fredrik Söderberg. Limited edition of 666 hand numbered copies.

Contains material by Jason Louv, Patrick Lundborg, Gary Lachman, Timothy O’Neill, Dianus del Bosco Sacro, David Griffin, Philip Farber, Aki Cederberg, Renata Wieczorek, Genesis Breyer P-Orridge, Ezra Pound, Gary Dickinson, Robert Podgurski, Stephen Ellis, Mel Lyman, Hiram Corso, Frater Nagasiva, Peter Grey, Vera Mladenovska Nikolich, Kevin I. Slaughter, Lionel Snell, Phanes Apollonius, Lana Krieg and Carl Abrahamsson.

On topics as diverse as the psychedelic William Shakespeare, secret societies, Rosicrucians, Illuminati, neurological interpretations of magic, the esoteric gardens of Quinta da Regaleira, Italian witchcraft, Pierre Molinier, Derek Jarman, the I Ching, Geomancy, the logic of evil and vice versa, Rémy de Gourmont, Aleister Crowley, Liber AL vel Legis, Macedonian vampires, Satanism, Goethe’s Faust, and the creation of a “mega Golem” within the context of developing a contemporary magical terminology.

Non-Americans order through:
American customers order from:

Writers and thinkers important to Satanism

At one point in the past 50 years, the Church of Satan released a suggested reading list. On the third page it included a list of names where many of their works are important, rather than just one title by a particular author.

Friedrich Nietzsche
Mark Twain 
George Bernard Shaw
Ayn Rand
Thomas Paine
Robert Ingersoll
Herbert Spencer
Sigmund Freud
Wilhelm Reich
H.G. Wells
Aldous Huxley
H. P. Lovecraft
George Orwell
Auguste Compte
Charles Darwin
Niccolo Machiavelli

What followed that was a series of quotes:

“The Church has the right to require that the faithful shall not publish books which she has not previously officially examined, and to prohibit their publication by anybody whatsoever for just cause. The provisions of this title also apply to daily publications, periodicals, and other published writings of whatever kind, unless the contrary appear.”
– Code of Canon Laws: Canon 1384.

“The Church doesn’t believe in book-burning, but it believes in restricting the use of dangerous books among those whose minds are unprepared for them.”
– John of Salisbury (called Parvus)
Policraticus, 7, 10, 133.

“I know many books which have bored their readers, but I know of none which has done real evil.”
– Voltaire: Philosophical Dictionary, 1764.

“The books that the world calls immoral are books that show the world its own shame.”
– Oscar Wilde

“In the long run of history, the censor and the inquisitor have always lost. The only sure weapon against bad ideas is better ideas. The source of better ideas is wisdom. The surest path to wisdom is a liberal education.”
– A. Whitney Griswold: Essays on Education.