Jean Raspail

Jean Raspail (5 July 1925 – 13 June 2020) was a French explorer, novelist, and travel writer. Many of his books are about historical figures, exploration and indigenous peoples. He was a recipient of the prestigious French literary awards Grand Prix du Roman and Grand Prix de Literature by the Académie Française. The French government honored him in 2003 by appointing him to the Legion of Honor, with the rank of Officer. Internationally, he is best known for his controversial 1973 novel The Camp of the Saints, which is about mass third-world immigration to Europe. Quotes The Camp of the Saints (1973) You're nothing to them, you and all you stand for. Your world doesn't mean a thing. They won't even try to understand it. They'll be tired, man. Tired and cold. And they'll build a fire with your big wooden door. And they'll crap all over your terrace, and wipe their hands on your shelves full of books. And they'll spit out your wine, and eat with their fingers from all that nice pewter hanging inside on your wall. Then they'll squat on their heels and watch your easy chairs go up in smoke. And they'll use your fancy bed sheets to pretty themselves up in. All your things will lose their meaning. Then they'll ask for independence. They'll damn well demand it. And why not? The UN has delegates today from a hundred countries that have no excuse for existing. To threaten the West with a bloodless invasion! Dio possessed a belligerent intellect that thrived on springs of racial hatred barely below the surface, and far more intense than anyone imagined. Its members were veterans in the rat race to gnaw at the UN cheese when you consider the model severity of the Australian Immigration Act, encouraging, as it does, the entry of Greeks, Italians, Spaniards, English, French—in short, all those are white of skin and Christian of soul, while relentlessly excluding any trace of yellow, black, or brown Enough to demoralize those men and women who considered themselves good law-abiding citizens; in other words, almost the entire population. there was only one solution. Every Indian knew it well. With no cow droppings at hand, our seagoing horde would have to burn its own, prepared by a tried and true peasant technique known for three thousand years. And so, the decks became weird workshops, where hands deft at molding this curious coal—children for the most part, down on their haunches—took each new batch of turds, kneaded and shaped them, pressing out the liquid, and rolling them out into little round brackets, like the kind we used to burn in our stoves not very long ago. The tropical sun did the rest, heating the sheet-metal decks, where the crowd had left great spaces, like drying racks, with thousands of the putrid mounds spread out to bake and harden into fuel. We'll shoot without giving it a second thought. In this high-minded racial war, all the rage these days, nonviolence is the weapon of the masses. Violence is all the attacked minority has to fight back with. Yes, we'll defend ourselves. And yes, we'll use violence. Magnificent antiracist pastry, filled with the cream of human kindness, spread with a sweet egalitarian frosting, sprinkled with bits of vanilla remorse, and on top, this graceful inscription, in flowery caramel arabesques: "Mea Culpa!" A cake to tug at the heart strings, if there ever was one. And everyone wanted to get the first bite... nothing on earth now could stem the power of weakness triumphant. "I hope there are lots of Zulus in London," the President muttered. "There's something I'd like to see! A Zulu, citizen of Great Britain!" Apocalypse or birth? A new breed of man, a new social order? Or the death of all bearable life as we know it? Dio couldn't give less of a damn. He admits it. "... human ideals, above governments, and economic systems, and religions, and races ..." Yes, that's what he said. But what does it really mean? Not a blessed thing, really. There's nothing at all above those things. And absolute void, like the splitting of the atom, or a great empty nothingness, let loose all at once. A show too good to miss. What else could you expect from a Brazilian? The Cardinals wanted a new-style pope. For the universal Church, they said. Well, they certainly got one! In the Middle Ages they would have kicked a few cardinals in the rump, elected a new pope, and declared this one an antipope, just like that. Which is just what I'm doing in my own heart of hearts. Besides, it's all nothing but words. this one from the UN, where they've just passed a unanimous resolution to abolish the concept of race. Which means ours, you can bet. cowardice towards the weak is cowardice at its most subtle, and, indeed, its most deadly. And so, they all hoped that the army, with no such scruples, would come to the rescue. Though clearly they had little faith, I'm afraid, since they all turned and ran. At the first signs of flight, my duty demanded that I ordered the army to take up positions along the coast. The result is that now, should we only choose to do so, we are perfectly able to repulse the invasion and destroy the invader. Assuming, that is, that we are willing to murder—with or without regret—a million helpless wretches. "Look," Dragasès replied, "we may as well clean out all our traitors right now, even the ones who don't know that they are, who could screw us to the wall, good intentions not withstanding. Last-minute traitors are the worst kind of all. The brainwashing will last for a hundred years. A thousand. At Central Park the black tide is rising. Twenty-three floors in a single hour. The Queen receives the leaders of the "Paks," stands aghast at one of their non-negotiable demands. Namely, that her younger son marry a Pakistani. To destroy a symbol or to make it their own? We could argue forever ... "What I wanted to tell them," Hamadura continued, "was that, to my way of thinking, being white isn't really a question of color. It's a whole mental outlook. Every white supremacist cause—no matter where or when—has had blacks on its side. And they didn't mind fighting for the enemy, either. Today, with so many whites turning black, why can't a few 'darkies' decide to be white? Like me. I decided, and here I am. Will the word racism have any meaning for them at all? Even in my day the meaning has changed. What I always understood to be a simple expression of the races' inability to get along together has become for my contemporaries—or most of them, I daresay—a war cry, a call to arms, a crime hgainst humanity and the dignity of man. External links