Yesterday, I was listening to a marvelous discussion in Russian between Dmitriy Puchkov and Yegor Yakovlev titled “Hitler’s mistakes” – although it mostly consisted of the praise of Stalinist Russia’s culture and the noble Aryan nature of the early Bolsheviks. Then Yakovlev started reciting poems as is custom among Russians, and I went to DuckDuckGo to check out some poetry in Russian and in English (I have always considered Russian classics far more simplistic, yet far more rhythmic). I obey Sergey Brin, and am directed towards Poetry Foundation. Imagine my shock when I uncover… Let you guess: a) Negroes; b) whores; c) faggots. The answer is C, with a bit of A.

“Dear Gaybashers” by Jill McDonough on the front page, and the President has been relieved of his post because of his being offensive (“racist” in modern American) to Negroes.

To commemorate this, I would like to republish a beautiful poem about a vengeful revolution by Maxim Gorky. I wonder what he would have thought of a nuclear war…

The Song of the Stormy Petrel

Up above the sea’s grey flatland, wind is gathering the clouds. In between the sea and clouds proudly soaring the Petrel, reminiscent of black lightning.

Glancing a wave with his wingtip, like an arrow dashing cloudward, he cries out and the clouds hear his joy in the bird’s cry of courage.

In this cry — thirst for the tempest! Wrathful power, flame of passion, certainty of being victorious the clouds hear in that bird’s cry.

Seagulls groan before the tempest, – groan, and race above the sea, and on its bottom they are ready to hide their fear of the storm.

And the loons are also groaning, – they, the loons, they cannot access the delight of life in battle: the noise of the clashes scares them.

The dumb penguin shyly hiding his fat body in the crevice . . . It is only the proud Petrel who soars ever bold and freely over the sea grey with sea foam!

Ever darker, clouds descending ever lower over the sea, and the waves are singing, racing to the sky to meet the thunder.

Thunder sounds. In foamy anger the waves groan, with wind in conflict. Now the wind firmly embraces flocks of waves and sends them crashing on the cliffs in wild fury, smashing into dust and seaspray all these mountains of emerald.

And the Petrel soars with warcries, reminiscent of black lightning, like an arrow piercing the clouds, with his wing rips foam from the waves.

So he dashes, like a demon, – proud, black demon of the tempest, – and he’s laughing and he’s weeping . . . it is at the clouds he’s laughing, it is with his joy he’s weeping!

In the fury of the thunder, the wise demon hears its weakness, and he’s certain that the clouds will not hide the sun – won’t hide it!

The wind howls . . . the thunder rolls . . .

Like a blue flame, flocks of clouds blaze up above the sea’s abyss. The sea catches bolts of lightning drowning them beneath its waters. Just like serpents made of fire, they weave in the water, fading, the reflections of this lightning.v

-Tempest! Soon will strike the tempest!

That is the courageous Petrel proudly soaring in the lightning over the sea’s roar of fury; cries of victory the prophet:

-Let the tempest come strike harder!


Yesterday, I was trying to throw away a tiny black spider from my room – but it died anyway, probably from a heart attack. Is this familiar to Jains?

Yesterday, I had a scary dream about talking about a nuclear war (and another one about not being heard – that is understandable); and I never have scary dreams. Is this what humans have to deal with with their psyche? I’m sure, I have no unanswered questions, and yet it happened to me. (I did have a phobia about nukes when I was 8 in Crimea, but now, I have a sense of geography so great that my desire for nuclear war is natural, and is not some Freudian valve of my hatred or anything.) It probably has something to do with the terrible heat.

Yesterday, I was trying to continue writing on the Unz Review, but I appear to be limited in my ability to post comments.

Yesterday, I listened to Roosevelt’s “The Day of Infamy” speech. A better orator than Hitler, I’m sure, Tolkien took him as a prototype for Curumo. Hitler spoke like Théoden, like a crow.

Harsh as an old raven’s their master’s voice sounded in their ears after the music of Saruman.

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