Recommend books in this thread

[august]

The vulgarisms casually interspersed in the general mood of sentimentalism is very off putting. He should omit those less than classy analogies and metaphors because they prevented me from proper immersion with his work. Unless the whole thing is satire, then change nothing. 

I tried to give Aidan’s interpretation of SYM a charitable reading, which is why I chose to post that excerpt specifically. I don’t particularly like smut in general but, giving him the benefit of the doubt, it could be that he used the gauche and lurid passages for the purpose of contrasting the type of love that a SYM would naturally seek with the type of ““love”” that is available today, this false and artificial construct that all young men are browbeaten into accepting, and that they will accept if they aren’t strong enough to continue walking alone on the dark path that 99.9% of them can see stretched out before themselves. If read generously, it does seem to at least try capturing, to an extent, the wistfulness for man’s ability to love “in this true sense” in the face of a totally warped sense of what constitutes man’s ability to love today (i.e., being a subservient housbond to his ran through, SSRI and birth control riddled ‘wife’). “So you take a rebellious pleasure in every petty act of revolt against it even now that you want something with surety …” 

Much is said about the need for and desire to create “RW art”. Art, by definition, is in itself right wing. It’s obvious that what passes as “art” today is nothing more than the products of special ed arts and crafts time that their parents tell them looks amazing and magnet to the fridge. When we remove the ideological window dressing (that is, when we tell the truth), that, funnily enough, becomes “RW art”. Whether more than a few hundred people will read what Aidan wrote, I can’t say, but I think these types of ventures are a step toward where we’d eventually like to be. We can think of it as absolute shit or as some of the best vulgar and honest writing since Céline; either way, at least it’s something.

Repulsive coal

But did you not say something similar about BAM while simultaneously refusing to read it? Maybe I’m wrong, but it seems that you just like to throw stones.

[Guest]

I tried to give Aidan’s interpretation of SYM a charitable reading, which is why I chose to post that excerpt specifically. I don’t particularly like smut in general but, giving him the benefit of the doubt, it could be that he used the gauche and lurid passages for the purpose of contrasting the type of love that a SYM would naturally seek with the type of ““love”” that is available today, 

This would be a believable interpretation, and not create a flagrant break in general mood, if he shifted the wistfully sentimental tone to a scornfully invective tone creating a juxtapose that both retains an element of sincerity while also highlighting the inner turmoil of the author in relation to the subject. But because this distinction isn’t made distinct enough it leaves the impression of both insincerity and bafoonishness, which would be great for satire.

If read generously, it does seem to at least try capturing, to an extent, the wistfulness for man’s ability to love “in this true sense” in the face of a totally warped sense of what constitutes man’s ability to love today (i.e., being a subservient housbond to his ran through, SSRI and birth control riddled ‘wife’). “So you take a rebellious pleasure in every petty act of revolt against it even now that you want something with surety …”

This is true, which makes the vulgarisms all that more repulsive. If it lacked this element I wouldn’t have found any problem with the vulgarisms in the first place.

Much is said about the need for and desire to create “RW art”. Art, by definition, is in itself right wing. It’s obvious that what passes as “art” today is nothing more than the products of special ed arts and crafts time that their parents tell them looks amazing and magnet to the fridge. When we remove the ideological window dressing (that is, when we tell the truth), that, funnily enough, becomes “RW art”. Whether more than a few hundred people will read what Aidan wrote, I can’t say, but I think these types of ventures are a step toward where we’d eventually like to be. We can think of it as absolute shit or as some of the best vulgar and honest writing since Céline; either way, at least it’s something.

I agree. I wasn’t hating on him but instead offering criticism, which may be interpreted as a sign of respect, or not(not that it matters). But on the “at least it’s something” point, I feel this sentiment leads to this kind of impression: “special ed arts and crafts time that their parents tell them looks amazing and magnet to the fridge.” We shouldn’t shy away from calling things what they really are. This is how good “RW art” will eventually be generated. But this means actual critique and not just barroom insults. Critique provides the fundamental element to a dynamic culture.

[Guest]

Aidan X'd a link to his new book, Sensitive Young Man: A Phallobiography.

And one winter night in the gently falling snow, a rarity, with campus dead silent from southern fear of it you go for a walk with her. Your feet crunch in the perfect half inch of accumulation. It settles on the trees and hedges, on the cobblestones, the wavering sheets of it in the air lit by orange lamplight that casts the world in white and tenebrous sepia, a moment you could freeze in time forever. She doesn’t have a jacket for the snow and she cuddles into you on a bench in a hoodie her dark silky hair against your face and across your chest and she nervously asks you in a gentle voice if she could be your girlfriend.

And you have come to care for her deeply and tenderly but there is something missing. That same spark that was missing on your first date had failed to ignite and while you come to care for her like a sister and the sight of her sweet little face warms your heart to see it you cannot love her because she cannot love you. And you do not mean the outward playacting of courtship or domestic life or even the grotesque moral value called love that squats today on the empty throne of god dripping heroin from six obese dugs. For a man to love is to own, and when you love a brother or a parent or a child their being yours is an inherent and unshakeable bond that exists behind the world and like with a friend you are owned by them in turn, and with a friend or with a woman that bond is forged and can be broken. All this you realize because you can see the hole outlined by what love is not. It sounds cruel to say but a man can only love that which is his own and a man who has nothing of his own cannot love anything but himself and many men who cannot control even themselves hate themselves in turn and love nothing. And this has been true since the first man said “my land, my cows, my children, my wife” and that man’s father was nothing but an ape.

And you know with the surety of sunrise that Kathy will never love you and will never be yours despite how close you have come, two ships passing in the night within a hairs breadth of each other, and though you tell her no the two of you continue on just as before. Drawn together as if by magnetism like two partners intelligently designed to be together in a world without SSRIs, a world where getting sad as a teenager and hurting yourself in a whirlwind of mad hormones didn’t condemn a young girl to a lifetime of medical zombification and if you knew then what you know now you would have thrown her meds in the toilet and held her close during the wrack and ruin of withdrawal and locked in her dorm room until it was done and kept her with you forever. Even her pussy was a perfect fit as if it was sculpted by divine hands to be a scabbard for your hog. And you know now that you want to have a woman be yours, truly yours and not an empty title, and this is why you have shied away from commitment, have fucked and fucked and fucked without even a thought of having a “girlfriend”, a label as fake as love on antidepressants. And to have a woman does not mean that she is an obedient sex slave who never complains but is rather a sort of surety, an immense power and peace like the unbreakable word brother from which springs joy. And most men have never had and never will have a woman in this true sense and will never be able to understand you when you try to tell them.

This was right after the kangaroo court with Kristen went down and now the world is closing in on you as if you are trapped in an open-air prison in which every attempt to escape is blocked by guards. So you take a rebellious pleasure in every petty act of revolt against it even now that you want something with surety, for the thing that you want is a thing that the world which surrounds you tries to prevent at all costs and your past comes into sharp relief in light of what feels like a cosmic and sinister conspiracy to keep a man from owning, from loving, anything. What happened with Kristen was something that has broken many men, even ones you knew, but you persist. Your forefathers had suffered more and more brutal because sometimes fate just decides to take a shit and you’re in the toilet and the only thing you can do is hold on with steel in your guts and fight and fight and fight. And you cannot but see other men as broken to their servitude while you continue to struggle alone. Kathy, a year older than you, graduates. And she comes back to visit, a weekend here, a weekend there, in your dorm. Pulled together as if a world in which the Enemy was not the lord of the earth was fighting against this.

I don't think this is very good.

Stylistically, it's poorly written. Consider the important sentence "For a man to love is to own, and when you love a brother or a parent or a child their being yours is an inherent and unshakeable bond that exists behind the world and like with a friend you are owned by them in turn, and with a friend or with a woman that bond is forged and can be broken. ". This was a pivotal sentence and it's a grammatical mess. It should read something like "For men, to love is to own -- love contains an unshakeable bond no material event can sever. A parent, brother, or child is always family. But friends come and go, and now so do women. All this you realize ..."

Also I hate the use of second person here. Just sounds low IQ and lazy, not tasteful. In addition the vulgar language is tasteless and jarring. "Even her pussy was a perfect fit as if it was sculpted by divine hands to be a scabbard for your hog." Disgusting substantively and stylistically. What kind of sensitive young man thinks like this? "Ooga booga oh she got a nice pussy doe urrrrrr". Nigger thought.

Substantively I think it's lazy and half wrong. Sensitive young men can't love women because women don't love them, not because of feminism or ownership or whatever. Women are always traitors. Love was always unrequited with women but now it will get you emotionally raped instead of making you a fair owner. Sensitive young men learn to stop loving women after one or two of these rapings, where they did try to love a woman and they saw how evil women are toward their mates.

There's even an ageism in the sentence with "teenager" in it. Overall dumb on women and blames feminism and age for what is really the essence of woman. The other comes across as only half a man himself talking about a "spark" and "dat tight pussy".

I'm not sure who wrote this but if it's Aidan Maclear on X.com this confirms my idea of him, I have seen him around for years and always seemed kind of midwit. Meh

[august]

I pretty much agree. Especially with the sentences being messy. Having thought more on what Guest1 above said, the fact that it is so disjointed really does become a problem. There are some flashes of what come across as nice, romantic visualisations, only to swing right into gross (IMO) erotica detailing bad-sounding sex with a mid foid (many of them coloured). Not really into that.

Also I'm not sure if reading it made me retarded, but the interweaving of smut with attempts to convey very passionate sentimentality/introspection seems to get more raving and manic while the sentences run on longer and longer as it progressed. What you mention about the second person kind of makes Guest1's comment as to whether it's satirical more compelling... casting YOU, the "Sensitive Young Man", as some kind of bipolar, ADHD head case. The grand finale of all this being, "And the next week you meet your wife."

[Guest]

I'm on page 33 of this shit and I'm going to go ahead and say insofar as this is normative/autobiographical, this guy is a dumb normie who is only in rightwing spaces because he's a cluster B attention whore. The male equivalent of Radfem Hitler. He's not a sperg. He's not above 110 IQ. He's not an incel literally or in spirit. He has to have a million STDs and is perfectly at home with IFL (in fake longhouse) normie "friends" who he constantly parties with. If he has any social criticism at all it's just that there are laws that would limit his disgusting low IQ disease spreading hedonism. Ultimately I imagine this guy is a sociopathic tattoo'd drug using normie who coughs everywhere constantly because his viral load is off the charts and he has no understanding or care for germ theory. Also he is a fag because he fucks buttholes on top of checking every fag box except for liking cock. Probably has monkey pox

[Muskox]

Some of these sensitive young men don't seem very sensitive.

[BillyONare]

*faps to hentai*

later in the Amarna forum: “how dare this guy talk so Luridly about cocks and pussies”

SYM doesn’t necessarily mean you are a loser or outcast. AK and AM are genuine SYM.

[august]

It's a good thing that I'm neither, which is probably why I took the time to actually read it and share it here with some genuine, largely complimentary words. I liked Setting the Record Straight...

[Guest1]

*faps to hentai*

later in the Amarna forum: “how dare this guy talk so Luridly about cocks and pussies”

SYM doesn’t necessarily mean you are a loser or outcast. AK and AM are genuine SYM.

Because I’m the first one to mention the work’s vulgarisms, I should specific that I took it as an artistic element that was clashing with the overall mood. I wouldn’t critique low brow raunchy humor or other explicitly vulgar media for being lurid because it’s meant to be vulgar(But I also don’t care about that kind of media anyway). I read the quote provided and judged the work to either be satire or poorly executed.

[Guest]

I would recommend starting a new thread about this, the recommending books thread is probably not the best place to have a debate on this book specifically. Sorry for seeming like a janny.

[Guest]

Aidan here. I wouldn’t expect the audience of this forum to enjoy my book, not because of the vulgarity (you’ve heard and seen worse) but because it posits the realm of “sex relations” as an arena in which authentic Life threatens to erupt through the surface of fakeworld, a position which I’m sure most of you inherently reject- in fact that rejection was explicated by one of the commenters above. It is not ultimately about sex; it is fundamentally a book about violence and an atavistic spirit reclaiming the ancestral world. But that latter theme can only be honestly felt against the backdrop of the brutal incessant tragedy of modern sexual relations. The intense dissonance between the McCarthyesque romantic prose and the base mechanical depictions of sex and lust is an intentional stylistic choice. It is meant to be somewhat painful to read, with the result that many readers completely missed important parts of it.

I personally abhor the postmodern style in which I wrote it, but that is the right style with which to treat the subject matter. The only possible style in fact. It is an exercise in “drag everything though the gutter to see what still gleams”. Well, I have done this and I say what is good. I do not think I was subtle with what I was trying to say, but despite beating the reader over the head with the point many have missed it so I say to read carefully if you can finish it.

The last sentence is an ironic play on Nietzsche’s saying that a man’s story ends when he gets married; that the protagonist’s story is only just beginning is one of those things I thought I made too obvious but nobody picked up on.

[BillyONare]

I loved it, Aidan. Thank you.

[Guest]

the realm of “sex relations” as an arena in which authentic Life threatens to erupt through the surface of fakeworld

"The 'sexual marketplace' as an arena in which true love can be discovered."

The SYM is, needless to say, acutely sensitive to the perversity of such a supposition; such a supposition constituting, of course, perversity itself. No compromise shall be made, no middle ground shall be found; the world having turned its back on him, so he shall turn his back on it. Nothing bar the construction of a new moral order in conformation with Nature; indeed, nothing bar the construction of a new Nature in conformation with his moral order, where, at last deserving of his love, the universe shall experience its reign-such is the righteousness of the SYM. 

The author's sentiment is not that of the SYM's but of the Normalfaggot Oldtroon Nigger's. Accordingly, the author should re-title his work to Normalfaggot Oldtroon Nigger or simply Nigger.

[august]

Cheers for giving a comment on it Aidan.

[Guest]

The author's sentiment is not that of the SYM's

Houellebecq is one author who does express this sentiment well. Les Particules élémentaires ends not with Bruno (formally analogous to the self-insert protagonist of Sensitive Young Man; nigger) "discovering an authentic Life in the realm of sexual relations"  but with Michel (SYM) annihilating de fond en comble this realm and establishing his own, based on his own moral sensibilities, through irreversible technological intervention. Michel's sensitivity being such that he would not accept one degree of compromise with this perverse realm; being such that he intimately understood that "truth" found in appearance is yet appearance.

[Zed]

Aidan X'd a link to his new book, Sensitive Young Man: A Phallobiography.

And one winter night in the gently falling snow, a rarity, with campus dead silent from southern fear of it you go for a walk with her. Your feet crunch in the perfect half inch of accumulation. It settles on the trees and hedges, on the cobblestones, the wavering sheets of it in the air lit by orange lamplight that casts the world in white and tenebrous sepia, a moment you could freeze in time forever. She doesn’t have a jacket for the snow and she cuddles into you on a bench in a hoodie her dark silky hair against your face and across your chest and she nervously asks you in a gentle voice if she could be your girlfriend.

And you have come to care for her deeply and tenderly but there is something missing. That same spark that was missing on your first date had failed to ignite and while you come to care for her like a sister and the sight of her sweet little face warms your heart to see it you cannot love her because she cannot love you. And you do not mean the outward playacting of courtship or domestic life or even the grotesque moral value called love that squats today on the empty throne of god dripping heroin from six obese dugs. For a man to love is to own, and when you love a brother or a parent or a child their being yours is an inherent and unshakeable bond that exists behind the world and like with a friend you are owned by them in turn, and with a friend or with a woman that bond is forged and can be broken. All this you realize because you can see the hole outlined by what love is not. It sounds cruel to say but a man can only love that which is his own and a man who has nothing of his own cannot love anything but himself and many men who cannot control even themselves hate themselves in turn and love nothing. And this has been true since the first man said “my land, my cows, my children, my wife” and that man’s father was nothing but an ape.

And you know with the surety of sunrise that Kathy will never love you and will never be yours despite how close you have come, two ships passing in the night within a hairs breadth of each other, and though you tell her no the two of you continue on just as before. Drawn together as if by magnetism like two partners intelligently designed to be together in a world without SSRIs, a world where getting sad as a teenager and hurting yourself in a whirlwind of mad hormones didn’t condemn a young girl to a lifetime of medical zombification and if you knew then what you know now you would have thrown her meds in the toilet and held her close during the wrack and ruin of withdrawal and locked in her dorm room until it was done and kept her with you forever. Even her pussy was a perfect fit as if it was sculpted by divine hands to be a scabbard for your hog. And you know now that you want to have a woman be yours, truly yours and not an empty title, and this is why you have shied away from commitment, have fucked and fucked and fucked without even a thought of having a “girlfriend”, a label as fake as love on antidepressants. And to have a woman does not mean that she is an obedient sex slave who never complains but is rather a sort of surety, an immense power and peace like the unbreakable word brother from which springs joy. And most men have never had and never will have a woman in this true sense and will never be able to understand you when you try to tell them.

This was right after the kangaroo court with Kristen went down and now the world is closing in on you as if you are trapped in an open-air prison in which every attempt to escape is blocked by guards. So you take a rebellious pleasure in every petty act of revolt against it even now that you want something with surety, for the thing that you want is a thing that the world which surrounds you tries to prevent at all costs and your past comes into sharp relief in light of what feels like a cosmic and sinister conspiracy to keep a man from owning, from loving, anything. What happened with Kristen was something that has broken many men, even ones you knew, but you persist. Your forefathers had suffered more and more brutal because sometimes fate just decides to take a shit and you’re in the toilet and the only thing you can do is hold on with steel in your guts and fight and fight and fight. And you cannot but see other men as broken to their servitude while you continue to struggle alone. Kathy, a year older than you, graduates. And she comes back to visit, a weekend here, a weekend there, in your dorm. Pulled together as if a world in which the Enemy was not the lord of the earth was fighting against this.

Delicious Tacks did all of this better. Cease with fucking commentary. Show, don't tell. This reads like a substack post interspersed with a 2007 live journal entry. I feel nothing reading this beyond a nostalgia for Heartiste.

It's not raw. It does not anger or sadden me. You don't invite me to see the psychological state that you were in, you simply supply the post-facto narrative of how you retrocontextualized what happened to you.

Aside from that, your voice is a recycled mish-mash of old red pill memetic phraseology and that might be the highest point of praise I can offer you. It shows that your self-understanding was birthed admist frogtwitter truisms. That itself is interesting, but it seems unintentional. I haven't read your book, so maybe I'm wrong.

Next time, show us who you were before you ever posted a single tweet on X.com. if people want canned 280 charcter life advice, they can read Sol Brah, REN, or Andrew Tate. It doesn't need to be directly inserted into the text.

[Mason Hall-McCullough]

Aidan here. I wouldn’t expect the audience of this forum to enjoy my book, not because of the vulgarity (you’ve heard and seen worse) but because it posits the realm of “sex relations” as an arena in which authentic Life threatens to erupt through the surface of fakeworld, a position which I’m sure most of you inherently reject- in fact that rejection was explicated by one of the commenters above. It is not ultimately about sex; it is fundamentally a book about violence and an atavistic spirit reclaiming the ancestral world. But that latter theme can only be honestly felt against the backdrop of the brutal incessant tragedy of modern sexual relations. The intense dissonance between the McCarthyesque romantic prose and the base mechanical depictions of sex and lust is an intentional stylistic choice. It is meant to be somewhat painful to read, with the result that many readers completely missed important parts of it.

I personally abhor the postmodern style in which I wrote it, but that is the right style with which to treat the subject matter. The only possible style in fact. It is an exercise in  “drag everything though the gutter to see what still gleams”. Well, I have done this and I say what is good. I do not think I was subtle with what I was trying to say, but despite beating the reader over the head with the point many have missed it so I say to read carefully if you can finish it.

The last sentence is an ironic play on Nietzsche’s saying that a man’s story ends when he gets married; that the protagonist’s story is only just beginning is one of those things I thought I made too obvious but nobody picked up on.

Interesting theory, but I think I'm going to stick with the more parsimonious explanation as to why you chose this subject matter and style, which is that you can't write, wanted attention, wanted to brag about how you "slay pussy", and don't possess an inner world.

[chevauchee]

Aidan X'd a link to his new book, Sensitive Young Man: A Phallobiography.

And one winter night in the gently falling snow, a rarity, with campus dead silent from southern fear of it you go for a walk with her. Your feet crunch in the perfect half inch of accumulation. It settles on the trees and hedges, on the cobblestones, the wavering sheets of it in the air lit by orange lamplight that casts the world in white and tenebrous sepia, a moment you could freeze in time forever. She doesn’t have a jacket for the snow and she cuddles into you on a bench in a hoodie her dark silky hair against your face and across your chest and she nervously asks you in a gentle voice if she could be your girlfriend.

And you have come to care for her deeply and tenderly but there is something missing. That same spark that was missing on your first date had failed to ignite and while you come to care for her like a sister and the sight of her sweet little face warms your heart to see it you cannot love her because she cannot love you. And you do not mean the outward playacting of courtship or domestic life or even the grotesque moral value called love that squats today on the empty throne of god dripping heroin from six obese dugs. For a man to love is to own, and when you love a brother or a parent or a child their being yours is an inherent and unshakeable bond that exists behind the world and like with a friend you are owned by them in turn, and with a friend or with a woman that bond is forged and can be broken. All this you realize because you can see the hole outlined by what love is not. It sounds cruel to say but a man can only love that which is his own and a man who has nothing of his own cannot love anything but himself and many men who cannot control even themselves hate themselves in turn and love nothing. And this has been true since the first man said “my land, my cows, my children, my wife” and that man’s father was nothing but an ape.

And you know with the surety of sunrise that Kathy will never love you and will never be yours despite how close you have come, two ships passing in the night within a hairs breadth of each other, and though you tell her no the two of you continue on just as before. Drawn together as if by magnetism like two partners intelligently designed to be together in a world without SSRIs, a world where getting sad as a teenager and hurting yourself in a whirlwind of mad hormones didn’t condemn a young girl to a lifetime of medical zombification and if you knew then what you know now you would have thrown her meds in the toilet and held her close during the wrack and ruin of withdrawal and locked in her dorm room until it was done and kept her with you forever. Even her pussy was a perfect fit as if it was sculpted by divine hands to be a scabbard for your hog. And you know now that you want to have a woman be yours, truly yours and not an empty title, and this is why you have shied away from commitment, have fucked and fucked and fucked without even a thought of having a “girlfriend”, a label as fake as love on antidepressants. And to have a woman does not mean that she is an obedient sex slave who never complains but is rather a sort of surety, an immense power and peace like the unbreakable word brother from which springs joy. And most men have never had and never will have a woman in this true sense and will never be able to understand you when you try to tell them.

This was right after the kangaroo court with Kristen went down and now the world is closing in on you as if you are trapped in an open-air prison in which every attempt to escape is blocked by guards. So you take a rebellious pleasure in every petty act of revolt against it even now that you want something with surety, for the thing that you want is a thing that the world which surrounds you tries to prevent at all costs and your past comes into sharp relief in light of what feels like a cosmic and sinister conspiracy to keep a man from owning, from loving, anything. What happened with Kristen was something that has broken many men, even ones you knew, but you persist. Your forefathers had suffered more and more brutal because sometimes fate just decides to take a shit and you’re in the toilet and the only thing you can do is hold on with steel in your guts and fight and fight and fight. And you cannot but see other men as broken to their servitude while you continue to struggle alone. Kathy, a year older than you, graduates. And she comes back to visit, a weekend here, a weekend there, in your dorm. Pulled together as if a world in which the Enemy was not the lord of the earth was fighting against this.

Delicious Tacks did all of this better. Cease with fucking commentary. Show, don't tell. This reads like a substack post interspersed with a 2007 live journal entry. I feel nothing reading this beyond a nostalgia for Heartiste.

It's not raw. It does not anger or sadden me. You don't invite me to see the psychological state that you were in, you simply supply the post-facto narrative of how you retrocontextualized what happened to you.

Aside from that, your voice is a recycled mish-mash of old red pill memetic phraseology and that might be the highest point of praise I can offer you. It shows that your self-understanding was birthed admist frogtwitter truisms. That itself is interesting, but it seems unintentional. I haven't read your book, so maybe I'm wrong.

Next time, show us who you were before you ever posted a single tweet on X.com. if people want canned 280 charcter life advice, they can read Sol Brah, REN, or Andrew Tate. It doesn't need to be directly inserted into the text.

You would likely not believe me if I told you that it is not ex-post-facto rationalization through a “redpill” filter. If you read it, which you said you didn’t, you watch the protagonist’s views evolve throughout the book. It is actually about how I came to believe what I believe through struggle against the world, things that I felt with apocalyptic fury before I ever made a Twitter account or read a word of Heartiste. 

Others have commented that “Sensitive Young Man” is an inaccurate title. It is an inaccurate title. It does not line up with the consensus of a SYM. It is intentionally an inaccurate title because I reject this consensus view that a fully ensouled non-normie must necessarily withdraw from the world. I am trying to in part be provocative against people who have abandoned this struggle just as the book is a far more vicious imprecation of the “live laugh love” normie who says that this stuff doesn’t matter and you should touch grass.

A man must impose his inner world on the outer world or be a slave.

[Guest]

Quite embarrassing to see this man pretend he doesn’t care about Amarnite critique on his Xitter account when talking about this forums critique of him, while simultaneously engaging in impassioned defense of it on the forum (that too to a literal homosexual tranny). Delete your niggerxost and Hail Amarna Forum now or delete your reply to Zed. You cannot straddle the line.

[august]

It's not raw. It does not anger or sadden me. You don't invite me to see the psychological state that you were in,

I haven't read your book, so maybe I'm wrong.

How can you say this and then immediately admit that you haven't read it? I really don't wish to go back and forth on the whole thing much more, since Aidan personally gave comment, but I'm almost shocked that someone can call it "not raw" and uninviting of the "psychological state" while having only read a 3 or 4 paragraph excerpt. Is it just me? Because that excerpt specifically, in my opinion, was one of the most real parts of the book in terms of what it conveyed about the tragedy of modern sexual relations. Despite the nearly impenetrable clearpilled aura that I often so gracefully exude, that excerpt gutted me a bit. And I know that I couldn't have been the only one who felt that way, because Truth's Blade would have surely pierced through the chest of any man who has but the least bit of perceptiveness and who has been unlucky enough to be born in this time and amongst its respective women. As I've said, this is what I believe to be the bare minimum of 'right-wing art' (i.e., simply, real art... i.e., something that tells the truth). People can agree or disagree all they want about whether Aidan accomplished that or not, but I'd at least expect them to do so in good faith (you know, actually read what they're critiquing) if they really wanted said critique to be taken seriously.

Next time, show us who you were before you ever posted a single tweet on X.com.

Interesting theory, but I think I'm going to stick with the more parsimonious explanation as to why you chose this subject matter and style, which is that you can't write, wanted attention, wanted to brag about how you "slay pussy", and don't possess an inner world.

Both embarrassing things to type out if you have even the slightest familiarity with the person that they're directed at, which, obviously, neither of you do. Mason made nearly the exact same attack on BAM not long ago on this most glorious Forum (while admitting that didn't read that either, like the many others) and was deservedly ragdolled around so humiliatingly that, if that had been me, I'd have made a new account and thought long and hard before posting even a single sentence here again.

Ctrl+f through here... perhaps even—and I know this is a big ask—read through some of it. Nothing about who the author is or was should have been a secret to anyone, and nothing in the book should have come off as boastful larping... or whatever the both of you are implying that it was.