The path of modern man is a blind search for a masculine heart. Steeped in confusion, he makes sense out of his impotence, painting the world with the pessimism of grey, calling it colorful. Steeped in complacency, he is unable to transmit ancestral meaning from one generation to the next.
Without a home, he gazes from afar at fires warming the soulless in empty houses; his shelter is rootlessness, a wallless mansion. That is his world without borders.
Eager for depravity, loyal to decadence, and a jealous guarder of his deracination, he rushes off to rotten pastures, where beauty is culled. He is the myth of non-myth, the sense of non-sense, the man of non-man—he is the non.
His initiation into non-manhood is that of desecration, a test of how strong his self-hatred is, how well he can hammer down the magnificence of his past, the very proof of his existence.
He is the iconoclast: His culture is iconoclasm, his politics is iconoclasm, and so too his religion. A proselytizer of suicide, his existence is foundationless. He is less. His moral certitude is without holy ritual. To be without holy ritual is to be without the most martial of things, for only the manly enough participate in it. Thus he is devoid of the essence that makes men truly great: his duty to pride, the birthright of all men.
On the far opposite end is the man of excellence. Against modern man, the first to wither on the front lines, the man of excellence is the first to climb the walls of adversity and plunder difficulty. He is the reveler, the truest of lovers. He has real firmness, real passion.
Find me a man who has shed his own and claimed that of others, and I’ll show you a man who knows real intimacy. Find me a man who has toiled without breaking, bearing the divine weight of ancestral wisdom and prestige, and I’ll show you a man who has truly lived. It is the duty-bound who are paragons of all.
But the path of modern man is a blind search for a masculine heart. With no hearth to warm a house, he is bound to seek warmth elsewhere. But the warmth he comes upon is the foulness of desecration.
There is immense energy that requires this, and immense energy that is given in doing it, in swimming in clanlessness, nationlessness, and hearthlessness. He is the individual atom at the expense of the social molecules that make up the tribe of those duty-bound. Emotionally empty, his sense of feeling is the dejection brought on by his increasing isolation. An unmasculine rebel with an unheroic cause, receding into the less, the non.
His blind search for a masculine heart is like breaking temples and shrines instead of the paper that walls his infantile prison. The glory is there, for the taking, but modern man purposefully keeps himself aloof from it.
As something ethereal, glory at a grasp’s distance is fixed as a bait dangling in front of him, strapped onto a pole whose starting point is tightly fastened, belted around his waist. It’s not others who have robbed him of glory, but himself. He has robbed himself of his own birthright, his duty to pride, treading blindly across ruins.