I haven’t updated this website since 2012, will probably not update again for a while. I have been hard at work on UnderworldAmusements.com, UnionOfEgoists.com, BenjaminDeCasseres.com, SidParker.com.

“When any person harms you, or speaks ill of you, remember that he acts and speaks believing it is his duty to do so. Now, it is not possible that he should follow what appears right to you, but what appears so to himself. Therefore, if he judges from a false appearance, he is the person hurt, since he is the person deceived. For if anyone should suppose a true proposition to be false, the proposition is not hurt, only he who is deceived about it. Setting out, then, from these principles, you will meekly bear a person who reviles you. For you will say upon every occasion, ‘It seemed so to him.'”

The Enchiridion by Epictetus


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.”

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: http://edda.se/
American customers order from: http://www.jdholmes.com/shop/jdholmes/C00013.html

THE RELIGION OF EGOISM. A Prayer for more Bitterness.

A Prayer for more Bitterness.

BRETHREN, we must become more bitter. Bitterness is the best antidote to the Christian slave-pox which for two thousand years has poisoned our blood. Said Emerson (my faithful ally in this and many another matter) “The doctrine of hatred must be preached as the counteraction of the doctrine of love when that pules and whines.” We are all pulers and whiners to-day—we are born such and rarely out-grow it. Bitterness is the only thing which can tear the bandage of Idealism from our eyes and enable us to see life as the old unseduced Greeks and Romans saw it. And when we can see life as the Greeks and Romans saw it, perhaps we will have no further use for bitterness and can then throw it away. When the poison of Idealism is extirpated, then, perhaps, will come to pass the saying of Zarathustra, ” Growth in wisdom is measured by decrease in bitterness.”

Blessed is the man who has felt the deepest and best of all bitternesses—the bitterness of one starving in the midst of plenty—and who is made a giant and a clairvoyant by that bitterness. Herein I have an advantage over Nietzsche, who unfortunately always knew where his next meal was coming from. If I-, Erwin McCall, had not been for years to all intents and purposes a DAMNED TRAMP—with never an assured meal ahead—I would never have been saved. It was this (philosophic) blessing of ever imminent starvation which made me see life as it is—bared of all its hypocrisies—made me see that ” He who feeds me governs me ” or as Bacon said ” Nations and wars go on their bellies.” It is a good starvation which also starves the ” Ideal.” Thus the tramp who has brains will learn what it took Nietzsche years of fatal devotion to literature to ascertain. If Nietzsche had had a couple of weeks’ tramping among friends and real Christians he would have learned in that time all that Montaigne, Chamfort and Co. could teach him, and the tree would have defied the lightning for another half-century.

The prospect of starvation may even save the soul of a millionaire—let us not be selfish with this last and best gift of the gods, starvation, but let us pass it round and redeem the rich from their intellectual poverty.

And then—and then—it must be said, although it will be misunderstood : only he who has been once thoroughly bitter can know how sweet love is. Man is fearfully and wonderfully made and truly our heaven and our hell are inseparably intertwined. Avaunt, logician, you have no antinomies like those of the human heart. This prayer for bitterness has relieved me immensely—if the mere aspira- tion for bitterness thus makes blessed, how ecstatic must be a deed of bitterness.

A Bible Not Borrowed from the Neighbours.

EMERSON the Egoist said ” All laws are laughable but those which men make for themselves.” It is time to say that all Bibles are to be rejected save that which we write for ourselves. The Bible of Jesus, of Goethe, of Heine, of Emerson, of Whitman, of Thoreau, of Nietzsche,—all these may help us somewhat but we must have pride enough to demand a Bible not borrowed from the neighbours. A slave may rest content with a Bible writ by another, the freeman must write his own. Vicarious suffering, vicarious salvation are out of date. We may weep over the sorrows of Jesus and Nietzsche, we may rejoice over their triumphs—but we are not saved till we weep over our own sorrows and rejoice in our own happiness, till we are deified by our own Calvary, till we can show our own Via Dolorosa, our own Gethsemane agony and exultation.

The Egoist learns to say:—”I, too, have a Divine Record—the record of my innermost griefs, sorrows, temptations, triumphs, tears and rejoicings.” We no longer accept salvation second-hand, we demand an original, an egoistic, salvation. Saved we are by love of self, pity for self, tears for our own incommunicable woe, but, last and best revelation, we are taught to strengthen and purify ourselves by laughing over our dire mistakes. Such laughter is the divinest emotion. Jove and the lions never weep, but often laugh. “The artist only reaches the last summit of his greatness when he learns how to laugh at himself “—he alone can go forward.

But some one says, Does the Religion of Egoism cure our sorrows as did the old Religion? We reply, What sorrows? Whose sorrows? The sorrows of a fool? To all such we say, The New Gospel is not milk for crying babes. We may add that the greatest injury you can do to a fool is to cure his sorrow—his only teacher. And the wise man will cure his own sorrows. After all, the New Religion deals generously enough with the sorrowing one. It makes each one of us the only God in the universe. What more do you want? And if a God cannot cure his own sorrows, the world will begin to doubt his divinity. We repeat what we learned in the cradle, that it is a shame not to have your own Bible and God in your own Ego’s home, it is a shame to be obliged to borrow these from the neighbours. Moreover the founders of new Religions have always lived above the question of consolation—and every Egoist is the founder of a new Religion.

An Egoist’s Confession of Faith in Himself.

FOR greater convenience in discerning and damning our enemies we have taken out a legal authority which permits us to divide all Egoists into two classes—philosophers and scoundrels. In our unwritten tract “Why I am an Altruist,” by A. Skinflint, we exhibit this confession of the egoist-scoundrel: “Having made a cool million by as cool a steal, I straightway endowed ten chairs for the teaching of altruism. Never was I more sincere than in so doing, for, the more altruists, the more victims for me.”

The best things are always the worst. Intemperance is only the abuse of the power of digestion. Unbridled lust is but love turned awry. Thus Egoism, the best thing in the world, may by abuse become murder, and scoundrelism of every sort. Every scoundrel is an Egoist but not every Egoist is a scoundrel.

By the egoist-philosopher (Hail to thee! death-dedicated apostle!) we mean the man who has the courage to proclaim the law of universal gravitation in ethics—that each ego is the centre towards which all things gravitate. He is the only man who wears his heart upon his sleeve for daws and even for men to peck at. I am sorry to say that he appears to be the only honest man in the world for he alone has found himself out and tells himself out. But he does more—he finds out those who think they are serving the heavenly ideal and he shows them they are fools, while the pseudo-altruist (egoist-scoundrel) says nothing but fattens on their foolishness.

It is a well-known fact that the preacher, whether of altruism or egoism, rarely practises what he preaches. In the Clarion Mr. A. M. Thompson gently chides us for devoting our “very conspicuous talents to the cause of advancing everybody’s interests but ” our own.” That’s me all over “—in fact that is pre-eminently the egoist-philosopher.. But every egoist-scoundrel must be a professed and professional altruist—every man who goes forth seeking whom he may devour must profess to be an altruist as the very condition of attracting victims to his net. But the man who avows himself an egoist scares away every possible victim from his net—or, more correctly, he throws away the net itself. Our language is not sufficiently expressive to enable us to state the paradoxes of our nature but the stern fact is that the egoist-philosopher is the only man who shows any real pity for men—the only man who shows them the only possible means of salvation. We egoist-philosophers are the only people who possess any real sympathy. Precisely because we do not prate of sympathy (the devil take this exception) do we possess the more. It is through the terrible calvary of our feelings (feelings too deep for thought) that we have fought our way to the egoistic philosophy of life—that invincible fortress defended by Epicurus on the one hand and the Stoics on the other. In combatting sympathy, we, like Nietzsche, combat the overcharged heart whose terrible inundations of sympathy would, if not ruthlessly restrained, swamp the free action of the intellect.

Be sure then of this—the man who devotes his days and nights and the money of all his dearest friends to the preaching of an egoistic philosophy, there-lay materially imperilling his awn chances in life, is necessarily nobler than the so-called altruist whose very creed is a sort of blackmail levied on the goodness and the goods of applauding fool-millions. Then the avowed Egoist and Atheist (shall we coin a word, Athegoist) who proclaims the true gospel of salvation, is not a knave though all the high-priced clerics and all the M.P.s and the whole gang of professional and endowed prostitutes declare him such; but, I repeat, he, as the only man who wears his heart upon his sleeve is the one honest man in the universe, the only man who has found himself out and told himself out. But the world with its usual supernatural and superasinine stupidity worships the scoundrel and keeps its obloquy for the honest philosopher. Such are the miracles of unreason which crown and culminate two thousand years of christian idiocy, such the result of feeding ourselves on babe’s milk, stale for twenty centuries by the clock.

Verily, we egoist-philosophers, we “destroyers of false hopes, are the true Messiahs”; we sacrifice ourselves for the sins of the past and for the happiness of future generations; we are the only genuine martyrs, for whom no subscriptions are raised, no civil list exists. In an age given over to the worship of altruism, the unmitigated egoist-philosopher must necessarily be a martyr. I mention Nietzsche in a madhouse and Stirner starved to death. But there are others.

The Calvary of Egoism.

EVEN the Egoist has his Calvary, but it is a home-made Calvary, just as the Egoist’s Bible is home-made. It is of suicide I speak, of a death self-decreed and self-executed, not of a death forced on one by a mob of fools and fanatics. (“Natural death is a coward’s death. We should desire a different kind of death—voluntary; conscious, not accidental or by surprise.”—Nietzsche)

It is time for the Egoist to give to the world a new Stabat Mater. The egoist-suicide speaks from his Cross with a hitherto forbidden eloquence—he speaks these bitter truths which man has hitherto lacked the courage for uttering :

Mother, behold thy prattling babe,
Behold the Suicide thou hast made!

Yes, mother, thou art the cause of this suicide. Listen to me, listen to this voice from the grave : There was not a lie perfectly calculated to unfit me for life which you did not faithfully instil into me. You did your work most perfectly. You poisoned me from my earliest years by teaching to me as the very word of God and means of eternal salvation, every superstition and every delusion which could deliver me bound into the hands of all the Shylocks and all the Judases of earth. I spent the best years of my life believing the Bible and trying to live it—and here am I. I would prefer to entrust myself to the mercy of the Devil (if one existed) than to such a fool of a mother as you have been to me. Truly, mother, thou has been a benefactor to man. Thou madest me (too late) a philosopher and I must bless thee for that?. (I would have truly blessed thee if thou hadst made me a philosopher in the cradle). Thou madest me a suicide and others will bless thee for that. Verily it is no small credit to thee that thou didst remove the curse and the curser thou didst create.
Will Christian journals please copy? And now, brethren, receive the benediction—”Here’s to the health of the next one that dies.” Thus endeth the fabrication for the first day.


THE WAY OF MEN | Jack Donovan

The Way of Men answers the question: “What is Masculinity?”

The so-called experts give the answers that suit their masters. They tell just-so stories to protect their ideology, their religion, their way of life.  They look to women for a nod of approval before speaking. They give socially acceptable answers and half-truths.

If what they have to say resonates with men, it is only because they manage to hint at the real answer.

The real answer is that The Way of Men is The Way of The Gang.

Manliness — being good at being a man — isn’t about impressing women. That’s a side effect of manliness.

Manliness isn’t about being a good man. There are plenty of bad guys – real jerks –who are manlier than you are, and you know it.

Manliness is about demonstrating to other men that you have what it takes to survive tough times.

Manliness is about our primal nature. It’s about what men have always needed from each other if they wanted to win struggles against nature, and against other men.

The Way of Men describes the four tactical virtues of the survival gang.

The Way of Men explains what men want, and why they are rapidly disengaging from our child-proofed modern world.

The Way of Men examines the alternatives, and sketches a path out of our “bonobo masturbation society” through a new Dark Age.

—– Early Reviews —-

“A thought provoking read on what it means to be a man today in a world that’s increasingly finding masculinity undesirable and un-needed. Donovan makes bold and unapologetic arguments on what The Way of Men needs to be in the future.”

Brett McKay, The Art of Manliness, Manvotionals


“In an age where traditional masculinity is disparaged, deconstructed, feared and scorned, Jack Donovan has engaged in the necessary task of reconstructing what masculinity is, and how it fits into modern society. It seems unlikely that one could learn manhood from a book, but this would be a good place to try.”

Scott Locklin; Writer, Taki’s Magazine


“Absolutely love this book!  I found Jack’s comments on the underlying primal instincts that motivate men and what can generate unity within a group to be both thought provoking and spot on from a leadership perspective.”

Chris Duffin, AAPF and APA record-holding competitive powerlifter, coach, and gym owner.


“Peering behind the layers of civility we indulge in as a matter of pretense, Donovan explores the primal relationship between tribal identity and masculinity, and emerges endorsing a type of Nietzschean struggle for significance through conflict”

Brett Stevens, Amerika.org


“The Way of Men reads like a primer for a generation that didn’t know it needed one. Donovan’s athletic prose reads quickly, and cuts straight to the point: Only in a coddled nanny-state could entire generations of boys grow up never having to put themselves to the hazards that harden boys into men.”

Max. US Army, Infantry.


“While others in the “Man-centric” blogosphere prefer to critique crazy feminists or theorize about the best way to pick up unstable women at bars, Jack Donovan has taken up the more important, anthropological task of asking who “the Man” really is.”

Richard Spencer; Editor, Alternative Right


“Jack Donovan’s latest book, The Way of Men, cuts through the Marxist and politically correct platitudes suffocating mainstream sociology and anthropology to deliver an insightful, original, and data-driven analysis of tribalism, gender relations, and the tortured state of manliness in the post-modern age.”

Matt Parrott, Blogger and Author of  Hoosier Nation


“Jack Donovan’s The Way of Men is an essential book on the nature of masculinity and why it is under assault in the modern world. But it is much more than that, for understanding masculinity is essential to understanding politics and the dynamics of human history. Thus, despite its accessible and unassuming style, The Way of Men is also a work of political philosophy. Indeed, it is a profound critique of liberal modernity. Hegel claimed that history began when men dueled to the death over honor. According to Donovan, the “end of history” is not merely a global, homogeneous, consumer society, for the defining characteristic of modernity is emasculation. The recovery of masculinity, therefore, requires unplugging from modern society, forming small-scale, bonded male groups (which Donovan calls gangs), and ultimately starting history and politics all over again. The Way of Men is revolutionary in the true sense of the word. This is the best book on masculinity since Fight Club.”

Greg Johnson, Ph.D., author of Confessions of a Reluctant Hater  

Books, Rifles, Witches, Laws, Podcasts

My “visial editor” and media upload functionality on my blog was down, stopping me from easily making new posts here for a bit. I installed a wordpress plugin “Use Google Libraries” and it seems to now function. I can assume causation, but I don’t really know.

The notice of this blog post will be my 1,000th Tweet. Dunno if that’s a good thing or not.

Since my last post, there have been a few things to post about, but I’m going to be a little lazy here and post short descriptions and links:

  • “Book and Rifle Club” shirt design through ASP Apparel. ( news | direct | FB page )
  • The Compleat Witch Illustrated Bibliography Project ( news | direct | FB page )
  • “Slaughter’s Law” was coined by Jack Donovan (and I approve) ( direct )

At the Comfort Diner in New York, recommended!

Since I’m in the listing mood, here are a few podcasts I’ve been enjoying since I posted about them last:

And Adam of 9Sense did this:

“I LEARN SOMETHING ABOUT SEX” By Corey Ford (from “Tales for Males”)

A short story from a book I scanned the table of contents from earlier. It was worth the trouble just so I could get the following excerpt online, but the introductory paragraph is a gem that I’m going to post on my quotes page:

“I was weak as a baby when I was born, and indeed it was several weeks at sea before I was able to hoist a sail as well as the rest of the crew.



By Corey Ford

“You see this here fish, June?” old Britches asked me one after­noon. “This here fish is called a sucker. It’s called sucker because it will swallow almost anything. There’s hundreds of thousands of these suckers, June, and most of them read travel books.”
I never forgot the lesson that he taught me.
My life at sea started at a very tender age. In fact my first im­pression upon opening my eyes on the world was of being dangled unceremoniously upside down by the heels, while the family doctor spanked me repeatedly with his open palm. It seemed to me even then that this spanking business was starting pretty early, and I objected in my childish treble.
“Hey, what the hell?” I piped.
“Rockaby, baby,” replied the doctor kindly, seizing my ankles and slamming me against the mattress until I was red in the face.
“Listen, no damned son of a — can get away with that!” I gasped, my father’s blood roaring in my veins. “Rockaby, baby, eh!” and wrenching loose a slat from the cradle I swung on him with all my strength. Two hours later I reported aboard the Ethel M. Dell with my duffle wrapped up in a triangular piece of white linen.
I was weak as a baby when I was born, and indeed it was several weeks at sea before I was able to hoist a sail as well as the rest of the crew. In the meantime my father turned me over to the care of old Britches. Britches was the sail-maker on our boat—that is, when the wind fell off and we were becalmed, it was old Britches that Father called on to make sail—and from the time he first took charge of me until he perished in the fatal fire that finally destroyed our boat, he devoted his life to my care. For fourteen years he taught me the mysteries of the sea; and although I abused him and pestered him and embarrassed him as only a child can, yet everything that I am today I owe to him. Poor old Britches!
I recall Britches as the only man who was older than Father. His life was just one more of those mysteries of the sea. Nobody knew where he came from—some said he was a descendant of Robert Britches, the poet—but when he and his brother came aboard to sign on the Ship’s Articles, he fiddled with the pen for a moment and then said : “Our father’s name was Britches, Skip­per, and if you don’t mind we’ll just sign on the same way.”
“Just a couple of sons of Britches,” answered Father, who knew a good joke when he saw one.
So the old sailor signed the Articles just “Britches,”1 and for fifteen years he went by no other name. In appearance he was un­like any other sailor I ever saw, an effect which was partially caused by the fact that he always wore a derby hat and carried a riding-crop. To discreet inquiries as to the purpose of these articles, he would only reply: “You never can tell when you might find a horse,” but it was generally believed that they referred to some romance of his buried past, and that in his youth he might have been thrown by a favorite mount. Whatever was his secret, Britches never told. He had a pleasant face surrounded by a fringe of red hair, and a wide comfortable lap, which did not disappear when he stood up, as most laps do, but merely ran around behind him and showed up under an assumed name. I spent many happy hours in that lap, learning some of the mysteries of the sea.
The first mystery which had to be solved was the question of feeding and clothing me during that initial trip. Fortunately the question of clothes was settled with promptness and dispatch. Britches had a pair of yellow oilskins and an old sou’ wester, which he had worn, man and boy, for fifty years and by which he set great store; but when the question of clothing me arose, he did not let any sentimental attachment deter him for a moment in his decision. Without hesitation the loyal old sailor grasped his scis­sors and with trembling fingers cut out the seat of a pair of father’s best pants. Soon I was clothed as shipshape and tidy as Britches and all the rest of the crew, except Father. For fourteen years old Britches was my guardian, nurse and severest critic, and no sacrifice was ever too great for his faithful old heart to make.
Although the question of clothing me was easily settled, the puzzle of how to feed me did not prove such an easy matter. Father’s friends had warned him that he was crazy to take a baby to sea; and their dire predictions seemed about to be borne out. Even old Britches was baffled. To be sure, he manufactured me a very handy milk-bottle out of an old gin bottle that Father had lying around in his bunk, half full; and he also designed a work­able nipple out of the first mate’s galoshes. But when it came to filling the bottle, his ingenuity gave out.
Three days out of Frisco the supply of milk which Father had put aboard for me was exhausted, and we were forced to turn back and get more. This supply in turn was exhausted three days out, and Father had to turn back once more. The third time he got as far as four days out, but inasmuch as it took him just that much longer to get back to Frisco again, it really didn’t help much. After this state of affairs had continued for a month or so, Father grew pretty discouraged. It began to look as though we would never get more than three days out of Frisco until I was weaned.
“We’ve got to do something pretty soon,” he said disconsolately to Britches. “We’re way behind schedule, and our milk bill is get­ting something fierce.”
“Can’t we get milk from the ship?” suggested Britches. “A ship is she,” he added philosophically.
Father shook his head.
“We could milk her rudder,” urged Britches.
“How do you know?”
“I heard a farmer say so once.”
“You misunderstood.”
There was a long silence.
“If we had some cream,” said Britches, “we could add some water, and make milk out of that.”
There was another long silence. When Britches opened his eyes again, Father had left.
The following morning I was crying with hunger, and in des­peration Father turned in at Norfolk Island to see if he could buy something for me to eat. He sent Britches in one direction down the island, and he went another, seeking to solve this feeding prob­lem. His search was in vain. The native women refused to accom­pany him back to the ship—after all, they said, if he was so darned anxious for them he could come ashore—and after combing the island all day Father returned that night discouraged and empty-handed. Britches met him at the gangplank with a broad smile on his round face.
“Cap’n, I settled the feed problem fer the kid!”
“Where is it?” shouted Father.
With a sly grin Britches laid his finger astride his nose, tip­toed aft to the fo’c’stle, and pointed proudly to his prize. Father peered through the shadows, and saw a terrified goat tied to one of the bunks, balancing dizzily on its legs and bleating feebly.
“Cap’n, I hada helluva time gettin’ it,” said Britches, “but I finally traded your compass, sextant, and chronometer for this here dairy.”
It was the best trade Britches ever made. Father was so grateful for the goat that he gave Britches the special privilege of cleaning up after it, as long as it stayed on the ship. The happy sailors named the goat “Sweetheart,” and it soon became the pet of the fo’c’stle.
Unfortunately I was not destined to have my bottle of milk that night, nor for many nights to come. The moment we put to sea “Sweetheart” became violently seasick, and meantime I grew hun­grier and hungrier. Father knew that seasickness, like a broken leg, was purely mental; but unfortunately neither the goat nor I fully appreciated this advice. For weeks it lay in its bunk in the fo’c’stle, moaning and groaning and hoping to itself that the boat would sink; and for weeks I lay in my bunk, starving to death. The crew tended the goat day and night, bringing it appetizing tidbits and magazines to read; but despite their efforts “Sweet‑heart” steadily refused to give milk. After a month had passed, Father’s suspicions began to be aroused. He decided to go aft to investigate.
That night he approached my bunk with a steaming platter of goat-meat.
“I’m afraid there’s no use waiting any longer for that milk,” he said sadly.
“Why not?” I demanded in surprise.
” ‘Sweetheart’ will never give milk, June, little girl.”
“What’s the big idea?”
By way of answer Father sat down quietly on the bunk beside me; and while I devoured my first square meal he opened his worn old Bible and turned its pages till he found a certain chapter in the Old Testament called the “Songs of Solomon.” And then in a gentle voice, while the ship creaked and the waves hissed under our bow, he read to me the explanation of the question that I had asked.
That was the first time I ever realized there was such a thing as Sex.

1 His brother left the ship immediately afterwards, having come aboard, in fact, just for the sake of the gag.

A product of New York by birth and education, he has not limited his range of living and writing. His latest book “War Below Zero,” co­authored with Bernt Balchen, tells the story of Greenland. He also wrote “Short Cut to Tokyo.” It is amazing that the same man can write such incredibly ridiculous themes as the one we selected here. Sometimes he uses the pen name of John Riddell.
Corey Ford is widely known for fiction and satire which he con­tributes to magazines, and for his books such as “The Gazelle’s Ears.” He can give you serious reading which makes you think, or the most delicious nonsense which makes you chuckle. The latter applies to “1 Learn Something About Sex.”

His wikipedia page is here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Corey_Ford

BOOK NERD :: The Book of Forbidden Knowledge – free ebook on archive.org, + process notes

I uploaded my first contribution to archive.org today. A reader of my site from Germany asked if I had copies of “The Book of Forbidden Knowledge”, I assume after seeing it listed on the page with cover scans (actually photos) of various Johnson smith & Company booklets I have collected over the years.

I told her I’d scan my copy and send a PDF, but since I’d been finding so much incredible stuff on Archive.org lately I decided to upload it there so that everyone could have a digital copy if they wanted.

I figured I’d roughly outline my process with a few images:

I scan ever page individually at 400dpi in 24bit color. I have scanned them 2-up before, but the time saved at the scanner is lost in separating the images of the two pages in editing. For ease I just flip the book upside down ever other page so that I lay it on the platen in the same spot every time:

This means that every other page is upside down, but not a problem. I set the scanning area to be a bit larger than needed, so that if I don’t place it exactly in the same spot, I don’t end up cutting off something I need.

Once I have the scans, I import them all into photoshop and use the cropping tool to get the bulk of the text block with a little extra. You can rotate the area you crop to help straighten it out. From there I just click Image>Image Rotation>180 and it’s right side up.

I save each page with the correct page number, the above being ForbiddenKnowledge-pg01.tif, and the covers will get a -C1 for front, -C2 inside front, -C3 inside back, -C4 back.

I then open one image and create a Photoshop Action that strips the yellow paper color from the page (Image>Adjustments>Replace Color) and then use the curves to give the page a crisp dark black and white (Image>Adjustments>Curves) and finally convert to Grayscale. I close that image without saving and then use the Batch command with the new Action to zip through the directory of interior page images.

After this is done, I put them all into an InDesign file and exported to a PDF without compressing the images. I uploaded that PDF to Archive.org and it had automagically processed it before I was able to finish writing this blog, allowing me to put the following inline:

I started scanning this 36 page booklet at 11:20 this morning and posted the blog at about 1:20pm.

Quotes from “Studies in Pessimism” by Arthur Schopenhauer

Below are just a few quotes that I had highlighted on my Kindle when reading portions of “Studies in Pessimism”. I haven’t finished the book, but thought I’d share these quotes:


“Hatred and contempt are diametrically opposed and mutually exclusive. There are even not a few cases where hatred of a person is rooted in nothing but forced esteem for his qualities. And besides, if a man sets out to hate all the miserable creatures he meets, he will not have much energy left for anything else ; whereas he can despise them, one and all, with the greatest ease. True, genuine contempt is just the reverse of true, genuine pride; it keeps quite quiet and gives no sign of its existence. For if a man shows that he despises you, he signifies at least this much regard for you, that he wants to let you know how little he appreciates you; and his wish is dictated by hatred, which cannot exist with real contempt. On the contrary, if it is genuine, it is simply the conviction that the object of it is a man of no value at all. Contempt is not incompatible with indulgent and kindly treatment, and for the sake of one’s own peace and safety this should not be omitted; it will prevent irritation ; and there is no one who cannot do harm if he is roused to it. But if this pure, cold, sincere contempt ever shows itself, it will be met with the most truculent hatred; for the despised person is not in a position to fight contempt with its own weapons.”


“Why is it that common is an expression of contempt ? and that uncommon, extraordinary, distinguished, denote approbation ? Why is everything that is common contemptible ? Common in its original meaning denotes that which is peculiar to all men. i.e., shared equally by the whole species, and therefore an inherent part of its nature. Accordingly, if an individual possesses no qualities beyond those which attach to mankind in general, he is a common man.”


“What value can a creature have that is not a whit different from millions of its kind ? Millions, do I say ? nay, an infinitude of creatures which, century after century, in never-ending flow, Nature sends bubbling up from her inexhaustible springs; as generous with them as the smith with the useless sparks that fly around his anvil.”


“I have argued that whilst a lower animal possesses nothing more than the generic character of its species man is the only being which can lay claim to possess an individual character. But in most men this individual character comes to very little in reality; and they may be almost all ranged under certain classes: ce sont des especes. Their thoughts and desires, like their faces, are those of the species, or, at any rate, those of the class to which they belong; and accordingly they are of a trivial, every-day, common character, and exist by the thousand. You can usually tell beforehand what they are likely to do and say. They have no special stamp or mark to distinguish them ; they are like manufactured goods, all of a piece.”


Also, I kinda dig this quote from Oswald Spengler:

For I confess that I have never had anything but contempt for ‘philosophy for its own sake.’ To my way of thinking there is nothing more tedious than pure logic, scientific psychology, general ethics and esthetics. Life is not made up of science and generalities. Every line that is not written in the service of active living seems to me superfluous. At the risk of being taken too literally, I would say that my way of looking at the world is related to the ‘systematic’ way as the memoirs of a statesman are related to the ideal state of a Utopian. The former writes down what he has lived through; the latter records what he has dreamed up.