Today is the 200th birthday of Charles John Huffam Dickens, author of great novels like David Copperfield, A Tale of Two Cities, Great Expectations and A Christmas Carol. I wanted to write a special homage to the man but honestly, I’m not as familiar with him as I should be. I read “Great Expectations” in high school because I was forced into it; I didn’t enjoy the experience. Later, I read “A Christmas Carol” because it was a famous Christmas classic, but still, I wasn’t conscious of a distinctly white (British) literary tradition and didn’t appreciate it. (I even tried reading part of “Old Curiosity Shop” but couldn’t make it through.)
Years later, after realizing the war taking place against my people and culture, I realized how special Dickens was as a writer. I realized his genius. This past Christmas I think I read Dickens for the first time — as Dickens — in a way that recognized the importance of his work. “The Battle of Life: A Love Story” was one of the most beautiful short-stories I’ve ever read.
But there is so much I don’t know about Dickens: the society he lived in, his concerns, his political views, and his life. I know he’s influenced political discourse. The phrase “Pickwician Liberal” is applied to some British politicians thanks to Dickens. Wanna know what it means? So would I.
In addition to my ignorance, there’s another reason I am not writing a homage to Dickens. I’ve got something else on my mind.
While browsing Alternative Right today, I found a blog written by Peter Bradley called “The Dark Side of Game.” It’s all about the male pick-up artist and how, in learning to manipulate the sexual desires of women, he gains valuable insights into the feminist movement. The term “game” when used like this, implies a sort of charisma or charm that a male strategically employs in the presence of a young lady in the hopes of persuading her to have sex with him. Best I can tell, the usage of the word in this way originated among the negros. The more success a man has with women, the more “game” he is said to have.
Of course, the pagan white-nationalists aren’t so vulgar with their zeal. They attach noble sentiments to the enterprise and make intellectual-sounding observations about it all. In this way, the “pick-up artist” has shown up (as a theme) in many white-nationalists blogs and online writings. He’s even shown up at Kinism’s own Faith & Heritage in an article written by Generation 5. They’re all trying to say that some good might come from the “pick-up artist” (in one way or the other.) **EDIT** Just to be clear, the F&H, Gen.5 article is an excellent analysis of the Pick-up Artist phenomenon. He expounds on many of the themes I cover in this blog. I mention it here to demonstrate the wide-range of conversation about this topic in the WN community.
I don’t want to do a point-by-point rebuttal of Bradley’s article. I doubt it would do any good. But, while thinking about these things and fondly remembering Dickens at the same time, I had an insight:
One of my first jobs was picking produce in a field. There were about ten of us white kids out there, picking tomatoes, squash, cucumbers and all the rest. We’d pick them in the morning and haul them in to be sorted, washed and boxed in the afternoon. It was hard work, but it was fun. The farm was run by an old farmer of the old blue-collar stock. He would tell us stories about “the niggers” and we’d laugh all afternoon. His wife was a kind woman; the stereotypical farm wife. But she had a pastime of meddling in the social affairs of the help.
That’s how I found myself picking tomatoes across from a beautiful young blond who recited to me, in a perfect Southern accent, the joke about the truck full of bowling-balls — you know the one? Where the trucker, hauling a load of bowling balls stops to pick up some black hitch-hikers? A little later, he’s stopped by a policeman who radios in an emergency: “I need backup! I just stopped a load of nigger-eggs and two of them have already hatched!” I’ve heard the joke dozens of times since then, but it was never as sweet as that first time.
Of course, I was too young to know what to do with the girl but you can’t blame a farm wife for trying. (I’ll tell you this much: I wont miss an opportunity like that again!)
Can you imagine if some pompous, flamboyantly-dressed, scumbag, strolled out into the middle of the field, flashed some dollar-bills, swayed his hips, and offered his “pick-up” routine to the girl?
I’d have knocked the guy out! He’d have to “pick-up” his teeth out of the dirt.
But, that’s the issue, isn’t it? They’re not strolling out into fields. They’re not walking up into traditionally white settings and plying their trade. They’re going to urban centers. Cities, night clubs, cafe’s and bistros. Decontextualized-living in these environments makes the “pick-up” game possible. With so many atomized individuals, women are looking for someone with substance, who displays archetypical male traits.
By “archetypical male” I mean a male who conforms to a Godly image: a strong, domineering man who has the power to take dominion over himself and his surroundings to the glory of God — for the purpose of ringing in order, fighting back chaos and establishing a firm foundation for his wife and future children.
The “pick-up artist” scum-bag has learned to successfully project this image (for a short period of time).
Far better for a man to go out into the fields and work hard — to actually *be* an archetypical man instead of simply pretending to be one.
This is how a very likeable couple in Dickens’ story “The Battle of Love” came together. They worked with each other every day! A sweet, though awkward, housekeeper named Clemency Newcome fell in love with the character Benjamin Britain (they both worked for a rich country Doctor). You wouldn’t have expected those two to fall in love but in Dickens’ story, they did.
“I’m not sure,” said Mr. Britain, “that it’s what would be considered good philosophy. I’ve my doubts about that; but it wears well, and saves a quantity of snarling, which the genuine article don’t always.”
“See how you used to go on once, yourself, you know! said Clemency. “Ah!” said Mr. Britain. “But the most extraordinary thing Clemmy, is that I should live to be brought round, through you. That’s the strange part of it. Through you! Why, I suppose you haven’t so much as half an idea in your head.”
Clemency, without taking the least offense, shook it, and laughed, and hugged herself, and said, “No, she didn’t suppose she had.” “I’m pretty sure of it,” said Mr. Britain. “Oh! I dare say you’re right,” said Clemency. “I don’t pretend to none. I don’t want any.”
Benjamin took his pipe from his lips and laughed till the tears ran down his face. “What a natural you are, Clemmy!” he said, shaking his head, with an infinite relish of the joke, and wiping his eyes. Clemency, without the smallest inclination to dispute it, did the like, and laughed as heartily as he.
“I can’t help liking you,” said Mr. Britain; “you’re a regular good creature in your way, so shake hands, Clem. Whatever happens, I’ll always take notice of you, and be a friend to you. “Will you?” returned Clemency. “Well! that’s very good of you.”
Then, later on after they were married, Dickens describes how well of a match they turned out to be:
“Though the host of the Nutmeg-Grater had a lively regard for his good-wife, it was of the old patronising kind, and she amused him mightily. Nothing would have astonished him so much, as to have known for certain from any third party, that it was she who managed the whole house, and made him, by her plain straight-forward thrift, good-humour, honesty, and industry, a thriving man.”