Archive for August 2010

People Can Be So Cruel

David Myatt 1995 CE

David Myatt 1995 CE

People Can Be So Cruel

A recent comment about David Myatt is quite illuminating about mundanes and mundane-ness, and also about how Myatt is perceived by many if not all mundanes, based on their mis-understanding of him and their innate mundane prejudice about those who do not seem to conform to their mundane expectations. The comment appeared on some blog which is quite well-read and quite well-regarded among certain sections of a certain type of mundane community in Britain. Here is the comment –

” David Myatt never gets arrested despite his copious hate speech output, converting to Islam to try to become the British Osama Bin Laden and his numerous websites fishing for recruits. Here’s one: one of his poems is called, “People can be so cruel.”
Check it out if you fancy a chuckle….. “

Two things to notice, here. First, the author of the comment is insinuating that Myatt could be an MI5 operative, and making spurious (unreasonable) connections based on unproven and prejudiced assumptions about Myatt’s intentions. Second, and most importantly in respect of mundanity, the author is making some supercilious comment about what he states is a poem by Myatt.

The supercilious comment is the most interesting, because it is an object lesson in how mundanes think and behave. Firstly, the mundane in trying to show how “clever” he is, just makes an ass of himself; and second, he’s showing the mockery of non-mundanes which is common to most mundanes, “if you want a laugh, go read this…”, a mockery which expresses the plebeian, profane, ethos of mundanes, everywhere: their need to laugh at others not like them and to try and profane what they themselves do not understand and/or do not feel: empathy, the numinous, reason.

The man makes an ass of himself because, AFAIK, there is no poem by Myatt called “People can be so cruel”. Thus, the mundane makes a mundane error. There is, however, a private letter by Myatt which goes by that title and which appears in the first volume of Myatt’s collected letters, published by Julie Wright. This letter was written in 2003 CE, and is given in full below.

Now, what is humorous in the letter? In particular, what is there to mock or chuckle at in the pertinent part of the letter which recounts the story of a suicide of a young woman?

Just why does this particular, and this reasonably well-known, mundane, think that the feelings Myatt records in this letters are something one might find amusing?

Read the letter, and decide for yourself.

Does the comment by the mundane seem to you to suggest that superficiality, the plebeian attitude, that is the specialty of mundanes?

Now, I will not dignify this mundane with his real personal name, but suffice to say that he is typical of mundanes everywhere and typical of the type of mundane that the hubriati love and whom their Media applauds. For the particular mundane has been “noticed” by the Media, not especially for his talent in playing a particular musical instrument, but also because of him expressing his mundane-ness by means of writing the almost obligatory novel (hyped by the Media, of course) and by churning out various musical “compositions”.

Interesting, is it not, how this plebeian mundane ethos – the vulgarity, the superficiality, of mundanes – is now so applauded and so celebrated in the societies of the West?

People Can Be So Cruel…

There is nothing to do this hot, Sunny, humid early evening after work but sit in the shade and sigh. The shade is from the tall Ash tree that grows in the hedge in this corner of the field. In one part of the sky, clouds build, rising, giving a hint of a storm, and, rested a little, I wander over the low, old, wire fence broken here in three place, through the grass and willow-herb down to the damp ground where bull-rushes grow. There is a small part of this rough ground between two trees of Willow – one broken, old – and the scrub bush, which is shaded for most of the day, and the small pool of now clear water is still there, days after rain, frequented by birds, insects, and home to a myriad of minute living things eking out their brief existence in their own cosmos, three hands long, less than one hand wide and now less than the width of my forefinger deep.

So I sit again, and again shaded but this time by Willow, and sigh. For here by this very field on this very day in late June I have slipped out of love with she who these past four long months has governed my life. I would wake, after a few hours sleep, to think of her – to desire her; to want to be with her, remembering the moments, the hours, of passion we had shared – as I would wait, hours, days, for those telephone calls that she never made. I was the cause of her split from her intended – but our shared time, together, was brief, for she, afraid perhaps of my intensity, the depth of my love, my passion – of something – withdrew to leave me wondering, for weeks. She wanted friendship only then, and I with my love obliged, holding onto hope as we who love do. For four months – except for five days – I had put her feelings, her wishes, before mine. But then came that deed to leave me more hurt than I have ever been. We had talked of sharing, of me moving in; but she said she wanted time to think. And then – the storm breaking after days, nights of humid sleepless hours – she told of he, her friend, who was moving in with her that very day we met again to talk…..

So I sit, with no wind to cool me down. But there has been a calmness, these past hours and – for the first time in five days – my dull, persistent, headache has gone. There is no haste, here, and I am glad of this half hour before I walk back to the farmhouse, for tea. So I am alone, again, released; part sad; part happy. I am happy, because this place where I sit has become like a home – a refuge, where I am me; where I do not have to pretend. I can be the innocent boy, inside, pleased by the sights, sounds, smells, life, around. No need for words; no need to explain; no misunderstandings. Only that – trees, bush, birds, grass, plants, sky, insects, soil, Sun – which I am and which are me.

So I sit, this new notebook on my knee, pen in hand, with no measure of passing time except the change of light, shade, as a memory, forgotten for many, many years, rises, unbidden by me, as the Sun, rising each day, is unbidden by Earth.

It is the story – the sad story – of a young woman I knew and whom I briefly nursed in those days, long ago now, when my then still early life served a different and perchance more noble purpose. She was on the Ward where I then worked, recovering from a routine operation and, as I changed her bloodied dressing one warm day, we fell to talking as people do. She had been reading Howards End – then a favourite book of mine – and it was not long before we discovered a mutual love of Mozart. Whenever time, my duties, permitted, we talked – as that evening, some days later, after my shift had ended. We talked for hours, as late afternoon turned to evening

Why she confided in me – almost a stranger – I did not know. But she showed me a letter she had written to her lover, a letter she feared to send. She wrote of her love, her hopes, her feelings, as she spoke to me of her past – the betrayals; the manipulation; the self-doubt; the suicide attempt, only months ago. “People can be so cruel, I remember she had said, as I remember that she seemed to me, then, as now, a delicate, gentle, life – a rather shy, awkward, innocent girl in a young woman’s body, so taken advantage of by others, by men. I remember how her eyes brightened when she spoke of Mozart; of how she happily showed me photographs of a family trip to Austria; and revealed the pressed Edelweiss she kept as a memento. I remember how she almost cried as she spoke of how her lover – how several others – had said she should “grow up”.

I was there when she left, clutching her little unfashionable bag full of the things people need for a stay in hospital. I was there, by the swing-doors which gave entrance to the Ward. I was there hoping that someone would come to meet her; to hold her. But no one did. I was there, sensing that she wanted me to do something, to say something: sensing that she herself was too shy to do, say, what she felt, needed. I was there, wanting to hold her, wanting to ask for her address; for her telephone number – but there was something, something, which held me back. It was my honour; for I had pledged my loyalty to the woman I then loved.

Not long after, I learnt that my favourite patient was dead. She had killed herself. Was this, I thought, the price of my honour? Could I have done more? I should have done more. For weeks afterwards, her death haunted me. I felt such a failure, as a Nurse, as a human being. It was such a waste of a beautiful life. We two human beings had made a connexion – a deep connexion. We two, who perhaps felt too much; who felt what others felt, and who often retreated into ourselves because the words of others, their feelings, even sometimes the way they looked at us, could wound us. I knew we two had shared something human, special, just as I knew that she was a better human being than those who derided her, who demanded she “grow up”. Grow up – and become like them? Insensitive; forgetful of, or never having known, the pure innocent joy of those wondrous, civilized moments such as being captivated by a beautiful, sublime piece of music heard for the first time, bringing tears. Become like them? – laughing at the treasured keepsake? Become like them? – cheating; scheming; lying to impress.

All she needed was a simple, uncomplicated, giving, gentle, love. Such a waste of a beautiful life. Such a regret, for me, in me. And now my own life has returned to the feelings of that time, that place, filled as they were then by that beautiful, brief, life. For years, for many, many years – too many years – I forgot her; forgot the feelings engendered then; the understanding given by her, through her. I tried in those long years to “grow up”; to behave, act, scheme, like others. But there is no need to “grow up”, here, in this my quiet, special, rural place where Nature lives. I can be myself, again, as I was, once, with her. Perhaps she, my favourite patient, is here – or somewhere nearby. I would like to believe so. Perhaps she lives as long as I, someone, remembers her.

How easily I, we, forget. But I shall strive to never forget her, again.

David Myatt


A Review of Myngath – The Autobiography of David Myatt

David Myatt, Feb 1993, Spain

David Myatt

A Review of

Myngath –  Some Recollections of the Wyrdful Life of David Myatt

Myngath is the title of David Myatt’s recently published autobiography. To those unfamiliar with Myatt, he has been called, at various times, in the last forty years, an evil genius, the most evil nazi in Britain, a ferocious Jihadi, a deeply subversive intellectual, and described as the mentor who drove David Copeland to kill.

In these forty or more years, Myatt has been twice jailed for racist attacks; acted as Colin Jordan’s bodyguard; led the political wing of the violent neo-nazi group Combat 18; translated ancient Greek literature; written several volumes of pagan poetry; been a Catholic monk, and last – but not least – supported Osama bin Laden and the Taliban.

According to the British newspaper, The Observer, Myatt was the “ideological heavyweight” behind the violent neo-nazi group Combat 18. Political scientist Professor George Michael wrote that Myatt has “arguably done more than any other theorist to develop a synthesis of the extreme right and Islam,”; while he was described, at a NATO conference on terrorism, in 2006, as having called on “all enemies of the Zionists to embrace the Jihad against Jews and the United States…” Myatt has also been accused of being the Grand Master of the secretive and sinister Occult group – famed for its support of human sacrifice –  the Order of Nine Angles, an accusation he has always denied.

In 1998, after over thirty years of involvement with neo-nazi politics, Myatt confounded his supporters and critics by converting to Islam. He has since and in the past three years – according to his own account – developed his own philosophy which he calls both The Numinous Way, and The Philosophy of The Numen – based, in his words, on the virtues of empathy, compassion and honor – thus ending his association with Islam, and instead devoting himself to philosophy, mysticism, and writing poetry.

Given this varied and somewhat strange and extreme life, one might expect his autobiography to provide interesting, if not fascinating, personal accounts of street brawls; meetings with Muslim extremists; life as a neo-nazi fanatic, as a convert to Islam, and then as a Muslim apostate.

What one gets, however, is something of an apologia – often rather cursory accounts of some events in his life, followed by an explanation of his feelings and motives. Occasionally, Myatt adds one of his own poems in order to express these feelings. The section on Islam – on his life as a Muslim – is particularly sparse, and while it seems somewhat glossed over, it is certainly interesting, with Myatt writing, for instance, that, “being part of the Ummah dissolved every last vestige of my former political beliefs…..I travelled in the Muslim world, met some very interesting and committed Muslims…..In a literal way, Islam taught me humility, something I aspired to during my time as a monk but which my then prideful nature rebelled against…..”

In fact, the work neatly falls into two categories, almost exactly mirrored by Myatt’s division of Myngath into two parts. The first category centers around his early life and his often violent and always extreme political involvements; the second, around his personal life, and in particular his liaisons with women. It is these liaisons that are, for me – and I suspect for many other readers – the most interesting, as well as being, in my opinion, the most informative about Myatt’s personal character.

These liaisons include two tragic events, and Myatt is remarkably honest about his feelings and his failings; and one is left with the impression of reading an almost religious story of redemption, only without God; the story of someone very slowly, and quite painfully, learning from their mistakes.

The story, that is, of a violent, driven, often fanatical and selfish man, obsessed with making his own inner and extremist political vision real, who gradually rediscovers his humanity after suffering two personal tragedies, and who ends up writing, in probably the most poignant passage of the book, that the tragedies had, “at last – after so much arrogance and stupidity and weakness on my part – revealed to me the most important truth concerning human life. Which is that a shared, a loyal, love between two people is the most beautiful, the most numinous, the most valuable thing of all.”

Of his departure from Islam, Myatt writes that it resulted “from one singular, important, event…” To wit, his love for a woman, and the subsequent tragic death of that woman.

Overall, this apologia – I do not feel it deserves to be called an autobiography – might therefore be more correctly described as a modern allegory, a tale of redemption, and it is this which, in my opinion, makes it a worthwhile and ultimately a valuable book to read. For its interest lies not in the person or character of Myatt himself – not in his various peregrinations, nor even in his own motivations for his deeds and involvements – but rather in the allegory: a modern Faust without the cloying appearance of God at the end.

August 2010

Myngath is published under the Creative Commons License and is available in pdf format here (david-myatt-myngath), in several other places on the Internet, and as both a freedownload, and a printed book, here via on-line publishers Lulu dot com.