 Author’s note: Today, we take a break from the usual fun. Rather than indulge in the groping, vaping, lying antics of well-endowed congressional clowns, the hilarious hijinks of fake “joggers” running over real bicyclists, or the need for a revival of the Dan White Gun Club, we instead enjoy a bit of story-telling from a bygone era. Some might suspect it is tinged with an aura of the pseudo-autobiographical. The boy gradually became aware of three things. First of all, while staring off at someone’s porch lights, and then maybe while glancing up and around, he noticed that dusk had fallen and was even then giving way to full nighttime. Never one to wear a watch, if such a confining thing could be avoided, he had no precise way of knowing the time. At the moment, “kind of dark,” “a little late,” or “around supper time” worked well enough in his head. Further considering the latter description, he was a little hungry. It had been a busy day, or, rather, a busy afternoon that almost without warning fell into the evening. But a dedicated working man, even one only eight or so years old, couldn’t be a clock-watcher. And again, he was sans chronometer. Whether he’d been hired or volunteered for this particular job he just couldn’t remember in the far distant future. The school, one of those delightful Southern academies that magically sprung up during the Sixties, had at times need for fundraising. For something or another. His teacher or the assistant principal had surely explained it. Or was it the Cub Scouts? It couldn’t have been his Little League team, given the time of the year. Forced to look back, as through a dark haze, nearly half a century, he decided— Forty years. It was about forty years earlier. Forty sounded better than fifty, and as sure as his hair was slowly graying, it was closer to the numeric truth. He decided it had to be the school and for generic academic purposes. But what kind of solicitation had him out that night? Chocolate bars certainly come to mind given questions of that nature. That, he thought, was the wrong answer. Also incorrect was the little catalog of Christmas ornaments he could almost picture. In a pinch of creative logic, he firmly decided it had been the list of magazine subscriptions. People read back then and there was seemingly a circular publication for every taste, whim, or fancy. In fact, his list, another kind of catalog, was organized according to the particular interests of the prospective readers. Those were further divided into three master classes: men, women, and children. It was all coming back to him. Each publication had a number or code along with its price. He was assigned a sheet whereby his customers selected their chosen work or works and provided their names and addresses. He could not recall how financial matters were handled, assuming a clearing house billed as needed and, as it concerned him then, after the fact. He was not a born salesman. Where, he had wondered, would one look to find literary patrons? As with many such concerns, he consulted an authority: “Dad, where do I find people to sign up?” “Why don’t you just walk around the neighborhood?” his father suggested. “Knock on doors. There are enough people around here to fill up that sheet.” It was sound advice. University Estates was a large settlement, plenty large enough for his purposes. And it was full of good, decent, literate people — many of whom he knew. It was laid out in three sections, the old, the middle, and the new. Likely sometime in the Fifties, people had begun building in the older parts. Those were located near the eastern edge of the campus. They flowed in a roundabout, up-and-down fashion to the middle section which had probably come along during the Sixties. Both of them hosted a variety of nice houses on acre-ish lots. Most impressively, the old and middle sections both had paved streets. The asphalt ended and gave way to dirt and gravel at the two approaches to the new section, his neck of the woods. There, beginning, he supposed, in the Seventies, the houses and the yards became larger and further apart. It was at that end of the area that the Estates name earned its keep, with each lot being a minimum of five acres. Owing to something, his parents had built their house at the then extreme eastern end of the last road. His was, for a time, literally the last house. As such, it bordered on, and he considered his backyard to include thousands of acres of University forest and agricultural test field land. In those days, like any civilized man, he was accustomed to entering and exiting the house by the back door. A turn to his right, or walking straight ahead, meant entering his vast playground, hunting fields, and imaginary worlds. Of course, that afternoon, he’d turned to the left and walked down the driveway and then up the road leading to the other houses, and eventually, to the college and town. He knew all the routes by heart, having walked and biked them many times, sometimes with friends and sometimes alone. America was then safer, saner, and more civilized, and no one had yet thought of ten thousand phantom dangers to keep children inside and under constant surveillance. Somehow, against all odds and all the concerns of the professional hand-wringers, he (and virtually all the other children) had survived that blissful nightmare of freedom. That day, for whatever reason, he’d left his mildly customized Huffy where it rested under the carport, and set forth on foot. Many steps were needed going there and back again. His future self, afflicted with many cares, could not place what kind of afternoon it was. A Saturday would have been ideal. Therefore, he concluded it must have been a weekday, and thus, the end of a school day. Regardless, on he had walked. Naturally, he immediately took a shortcut and his first stop was at the Wilson’s house next door. A path down through his own garden field, across a railroad tie bridge over a small creek, and up through the Wilson garden led him to their backdoor (where he generally entered, with or without a knock). Then it was on to other homes all across the newer portion. If he had a plan, it was to keep to the newer and middle parts. He knew the more populated older areas would probably get covered by Sam and Ashley, two boys a year or three ahead of him in school. Part of his memory suggested he had seen one of them at the first crossing where the streets were paved. “You going towards town?” “No, I figured you guys were handling that.” “Good call, kid. Got many yet?” “Seven, eight, nine … the next one is number ten!” “Good job. Getting a little late. See you around.” He couldn’t recall whether it was Sam or Ashley. It was probably Ashley. He was a relaxed lankier youth with a semi-bookish appearance. Sam, while of similar demeanor, was built more like a football player. Both were solid ordinary Mississippi boys of a kind the world would benefit from, then and later, if they were of greater numbers. Or was it Sam? He couldn’t quite recall. Nor, interestingly enough, could he later remember exactly what anyone had ordered. Beyond the Wilsons, he couldn’t even picture any of the many other faces he encountered — with two pretty exceptions. Regardless of his other plans, he purposely steered himself to the houses of both Amy and Edie, two high school girls. As luck had it, they’d both been home! Their ordering was immaterial and he might have even forgotten to mention his magazines. But a hug —that kind of little brother “hello!” hug, maybe with a lingering squeeze— he’d certainly offered that. They’d reciprocated with that wonderful soft, sweet-smelling, sparkly generosity only Mississippi girls can properly muster. The world desperately needs more Mississippi girls. “We can walk to the pond another time. It’s getting a little late.” “Or we could do it now! You’re my favorite cheer—, uh, flag girl, you know.” “I know. And it’s getting late.” “I like your sweater. And your jeans.” He left unsaid his appreciation of their fit. “Thanks. You’re cute.” “You smell like flowers—” “Okay, Shortstuff. Mom said something about your magazines.” “Magazines?” He was remembering something… The door-to-door! Of course. Not long after taking his reluctant leave of Edie (“Ee-dee”, for Edith), he’d turned back out of the middle section and set foot down a meandering dirt drive that ultimately looped back to his road. The shadows grew longer, as did the intervals between houses. After hastily leaving one abode and pausing at the lawn edge of another, he gradually became aware of three things. It was dark. It was considerably cooler. And that dog had followed him. It was a larger breed. A moment earlier, it stood somewhat menacingly between him and the last doorbell. It uttered a low growl, probably a dog’s way of saying, “Nobody’s home. Take your magazines and beat it.” He did, slowly, politely retreating to the lane and the crunch of gravel under his boots. He might have walked off whistling innocently. The beast now inched towards him. A new tactic leaped into his brain. Crouching down, he did what any man does when confronted with a strange canine. He called it to come closer. And with its ears half-cocked but without any snarls, it responded. His hand was extended for inspection. A sniffing earned a petting that turned into him having to sit on the road and scratch a shaggy coat from head to tail. Suddenly, his new friend heard something and darted off. Relieved and gladdened by the encounter, and being almost saddened by the departure, it was about that time he really first observed the darkness. And the creeping chill of mid-fall air. He’d prepared for the weather in advance. Like the fashionable Edie, he was wearing jeans atop his cowboy boots. Over his long-sleeve t-shirt, with or without a polo collar, he was wearing his favorite vest, the beige one with the orange pocket and edge markings. Imagining he could almost see his breath, he calculated the temperature to be somewhere in the upper fifties. He also roughly calculated the time. That last house was the very last one, and he soon trotted off towards home. Perhaps only half an hour later, he was at the table over something hot. Time progressed as it did. The long years since, many of them, were spent on another kind of odyssey, one not dissimilar to the early quests of wandering Thorongil. He and the great king had experiences and realizations of differing sorts. That thought was driven home, perhaps for the final time, as he walked out of the customs office. Pyotr from the forum was waiting for him in the public area of the concourse. “We meet, at last, my digital friend!” the man exclaimed happily. “Welcome to civilization! As I mentioned on the phone, we are eagerly awaited back at the office. A special party, now with a special guest. You’ll get a sneak peek of how everything works. Elsewhere, your room is waiting before the apartment lease is signed. All is ready. But tell me, how was the long route through Istanbul?” “It was the long route, for certain. Before we get into all that, I was wondering if I might grab a magazine and take a short walk. And, Lord, this is like going back in time! Started at one MSU, only to come, as if back home, to another. Hello, my new old friend.” Through the doors to the taxi stand, a breeze hit his face, and he noticed three things. It was dark. It was cooler. And that dog— No, the dog was only a memory, the cloudy, rosy reflection of a once-upon-a-time little peddler. We are reminded once again of the words of that great philosopher, Meatloaf: “It was long ago, and it was far away, and it was so much better than it is today.” Then again, as ever, things change.
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 The morons, a sizable demographic plurality in our continent-spanning Sodom and Gomorrah, are sporting masks again. I’m not sure what to make of this other than a substantial portion of the population consists of faithless heathen idiots. People who believe in nothing tend to be frightened of everything and will fall for almost anything. No matter how obviously fake. They have plenty of chances to indulge their craven stupidity because, as Daira Dugina wrote in Eschatological Optimism, “...the given world which we presently take to be pure reality, is illusory: it is an illusion that is about to dissipate and end.” As the esteemed Professor Clyde Wilson noted the other day, we are surrounded by a sea of hoaxes and fakery: fake holidays, fake entertainment, fake leaders, and fake virtues. Paradoxically, much of the more serious illusory nonsense can and does affect us materially as well as spiritually. One wouldn’t think it possible, but it is. Today, we’re going to take a look at a living example of something ridiculously fraudulent that is about to have deadly serious ramifications for a number of people. Back in early 2022, on one or more episodes of the Prepper Post News, I urged my mostly Western audience to pick a city, town, or area in Ukraine that most closely resembled where they lived. People, places, and happenstance are not so different, and one may learn a lot about one’s own condition or potential plight based on what happens with and to someone else somewhere else. I have no idea whether anyone undertook the experiment other than me. The town I picked is doing rather well today. It was liberated and annexed and is in the process of being rebuilt. This leads me to think I may have picked the wrong place. Regardless of my possible comparative geostrategic foibles, at the end of last week, the world got a stark reminder of the evil nature and extreme gravity of our illusory world. The military conflict between NATO and Russia, as displayed in Ukraine, is a horrific nightmare for the Ukrainian people. The nation’s population from the end of the Soviet era had already fallen by several million before last February. Since then, it has been essentially cut in half. More than ten million people fled to other countries. Millions more joined the Russian Federation. Almost half a million Ukrainian men have been killed in combat. Of the million or so additional wounded casualties, many of them are “sanitary losses,” as they are called, meaning they’re maimed for life and unfit to return to battle. Proof exists that Kiev is relying on old men of seventy and rumor suggests they’re calling up boys of sixteen or seventeen. In DC, London, and Brussels, a general panic has set in over where to find additional cannon fodder. Loose plans involved men from Poland, the Baltic States, other parts of Europe, and, in a rather unlikely scenario (as of just yet), the US. However, needing bodies now, the Clowns have resorted to a new low of desperation. Ukraine is drafting women. Read that article from RT. Think about the implications. Notice what’s obviously wrong in the included photograph.  Ukraine to close borders for ‘mobilized women' via RT, 8 Sep, 2023 All Ukrainian women with medical backgrounds and education are involuntarily enlisted now. They are needed in an effort to triage some of the 1,000 or so male casualties sustained every day. That paints a poor enough scene, but it’s only the beginning. A possible general mobilization of women for combat duty is expected in the near future. Read that article (translation most likely required) and watch the recruiting videos. Before all is said and killed, we’ll probably start to see videos of these women delimbed, decapitated, and truncated. The Werewestern MSM doesn’t show the existing videos of men being slaughtered and I never link to them out of a sense of decency. But they’re out there. And they’re nauseating. The saddest part of all of this is how unnecessary it is. As the Clowns are locked into America and unable to invade, divide, and destroy Russia (or China), they appear intent on the spiteful genocide of the Ukrainian people. That’s what’s happening. Wipe out the sexually mature and functioning men AND women of any nation, and that nation’s future is erased or greatly diminished. Our real enemies, our fake, gay, stupid, sociopathic rulers, are among the most wicked and degenerate people who have ever lived. One wonders when or if anybody in America or the other hostage host countries has any ability to oppose these demons or even acknowledge they exist. They won’t be content with butchering Ukrainian women. Last May, I wrote a column that raised the specter of the Clowns drafting American women into service against Russia. In 2019, I wrote another column about a court case that set the stage for the unthinkably dyscivilizational and dysgenic, National Coalition for Men, et al. v. [Imperial] Selective System Service, et al., Slip Op., 4:16-cv-03362, Civ. Action H-16-3362 (So. Dist. Texas, Feb. 22, 2019). Opined a GAE judge:
ERA all the way! Baby, you’ve come a long way (towards oblivion). Gurl power! And so forth.
Being one to notice things a little earlier than most, I noticed this budding development no later than 2016. Then, I examined the support of most of the warmongering lunatic GOP presidential candidates for killing our girls. (Off-topic reminder: If you don’t support “conservatives”, then the “liberals” will win!) I suppose it was easier to entertain the false, illusory concept of equality during times of relative peace. I hope during the opening phases of World War Three the outlook has changed a little. In fact, I hope the US collapses and dissolves before any more American men or women can be killed for global satantry. If not, then we’re in for a lot of “ifs”. If the GAE goes all-in for a hot war with Russia, China, Iran, North Korea, Africa, Europe, and/or America, then it will lose. If they go all the way, then they can’t rely on the dwindling power of the existing imperial military. If called on, the US simply doesn’t have enough young men fit for service. If they institute a draft, then it will probably or possibly include ‘Murica gals. However, no ifs about it, our rulers hate us and will happily sacrifice both sexes even if they know they lose in the end. Again, how anyone can support or tolerate these slimy little rats is as big a mystery as why dullards are once again wearing useless scraps of fabric over their fat, sullen faces. Ladies, young ladies, just know this not-so-happy picture is a future possibility for you. It’s still remote; I give it a 10-20% chance of happening. Then again, I would have given roughly the same odds to females in Kiev and Lviv this time last year. This edition was almost a polemic short work of fiction. I was going to title it The Anger Games. That header and the one I chose today pay a form of homage to The Hunger Games novel by Suzanne Collins. In that surprisingly interesting work, young Katniss Everdeen, a District 12 girl, volunteers for the violent titular games to spare her little sister from certain misery and death. In my hypothetical story, the protagonist was going to be someone’s uncle. He never even got a name. But he was to be a hero. Faced with his government’s drafting of his niece for some absurd war of aggression, he volunteered in her place. None of this was ever jotted down, but in my mind, he was so eager to fight his real enemies that he commenced the combat activities immediately at a ceremony held at the local military recruiting center. “Private Frag reporting for duty,” he would have heartily exclaimed before opening fire (thus fragging the assembled bastards). He would have hoped that the incident would spark a resistance. We’ll never know, though the concept is something to think about. Woman was God’s masterpiece of Creation. A woman “full of Grace” gave physical birth to our Lord, Jesus Christ. As such, it’s unnaturally natural for the devil’s slaves to hate women as they plainly do. To them I caution: Leave our girls alone. Deo vindice et hostibus semper mortem!  Some time ago, I postulated that three events would herald the dissolution of the GAE and the former US as a cohesive nation-state: economic collapse, a substantial overseas military defeat, and a catastrophic civil war. I speculated all three would probably happen roughly at the same time. I was right. While at times it may not exactly look like it, all three of these things are currently in progress. In a moment, I want to get into some good general advice —as dangerous a thing as that is— that may help someone in America at some point. But first, a glance at the three combined factors may be in order. The economic situation, like a slow-rolling and unstoppable permanent depression, has been in the works for years. The real economy in the GAE and much of the West has been destroyed, as has been the very concept of money. What we’re left with is a façade and I’m not really sure what keeps it standing. Sooner or later, even that will fall. The GAE-NATO war on Russia looks like a major foreign defeat and it is. But that front is only one part of the larger global conflict. In many ways, our economic woes and brewing, bubbling civil discontent are also smaller fronts in the greater conflict. There are many fronts and many sides. Yet for clarity, this new world war (that’s what it is) essentially boils down to Christians and their allies versus satanists and their dupes (and captives). Americans, we, and much of the Western population count as captives. We’re on the wrong side of this one. And while most of us are not directly responsible for the evil our leaders perpetrate here and abroad, we’re still affected by it. We must never accept, tolerate, or join with it, or else we literally take the side of the devil against God and His ordained order. On a more geopolitical level, the conflict is between the Sovereign Nations, led by Russia and China, against the usurious, homosexulaized, “rules-based”, globalism of Clown World, as led by the USSA and the UK. The military operation and/or “war” in Ukraine is the centerpiece and the most observable aspect of the struggle. Even as it is nowhere near as serious as it could be, it is still beyond the scope of anything any modern American or Western military planner has ever experienced. Ukrainian killed-in-action casualties already approach half a million. Another million or so Ukrainians have been wounded, many of them being permanently maimed. The Russians are averaging one-tenth of those loss levels. While a 10:1 ratio is virtually unheard of, the math dictates that Russians are still suffering greatly. Other active, semi-active, and/or potential fronts simmer in east and southeast Asia, the Middle East, Africa, and elsewhere. Why the widespread nature? Because after seventy-five years of heavy-handed GAE domination, the rest of the world is sick and tired of being used, abused, robbed, and murdered. They have found inspiration in Afghanistan, Iraq, Syria, and Russia, and they’re breaking free. The GAE previously had two things that allowed it to run the world’s business: the feared might of the GAE military and the systemic dominance of the US Petrodollar. The former has been shown a hollowed-out, inept paper tiger; the latter has essentially disappeared over the past several years. The largest front in our new world war is not on any battlefield. It is economic in nature. The mass financialization that crippled then killed the US domestic economy also wreaked havoc on the rest of the world. Now, however, the mechanisms that allowed the lop-sided relationships are gone. Backing a dying currency with someone else’s oil was always a stupid idea doomed to fail. And it has failed. Other nations are already trading in their own or other, non-dollar currencies. The monopoly of SWIFT has been replaced with a multi-polar exchange of currencies, largely facilitated by the MIR-CIPS makeshift system devised by Russia and China. Next year in Kazan, the full, regular replacement will be rolled out. The Sovereign Nations and all those not directly controlled by Washington, London, and the EU are eager to join. Last fall the total value of the BRICS+ economies surpassed that of the G7. This year the gulf will widen. Ultimately, and even now, this is all good for the majority of humanity. But it all means the loss of power, control, and prestige that the Clowns live on the way vampires depend on blood. They know the game is over and they are extremely angry. And desperate. The most dangerous element for us going forward is the fact they are now trapped here among us. Our necks may end up being the only ones their fangs can reach. The worst part of all of this is how unnecessary it is. There are relatively few of our demonic oppressors and we know who and where they are. We could be free of them forever in a short afternoon. But as Americans and some Europeans are the only people on earth still frightened of these rats and still reluctantly subservient to them, that rosy scenario is unlikely for a while longer. In the meanwhile, look for the turmoil to grow from the already unpleasant into the indescribable and the unimaginable. There’s no way to exactly predict what will go down or when. Therefore, for discussion’s sake today, I’m opting for one of many possibilities. I’m going to use it now as a frame of reference for preparations and precautions everyone should take regardless. Let’s discuss full-blown conventional warfare between the GAE and Russia. Yay? Too much is riding on Ukraine and the Clowns know they’re going to lose. We’re right up against a decision to go all in, cut bait and retreat, or, possibly, keep the conflict going, as-is, by any means necessary. The next few months to a year should provide some indication of which path is selected. [I just tired from rewriting what I have written out multiple times before.* I could keep on going, but to ease my suffering, I’m shifting straight into a list of to-do items, probably without much explanation.]
There’s more and you should actively pursue it. That’s the key to survival: being proactive and maintaining an optimal degree of adaptability. Perhaps half the population is unwilling or incapable of even considering the foregoing. Doing nothing is an option and many will take it. In a very harsh but simple light, the default setting for the rest of this decade may be becoming a casualty. If that sounds unpleasant, then do what you can to shift the odds in your favor. The good news is that the good guys will win, many people will survive, and they will together rebuild society(s). You can be part of that. Deo vindice. *Author’s note: We’re going to have to have a little more fiction and/or something else in the near future. This piece was originally published on Sept. 6, 2023 at Perrin Lovett.
 There are few things more intellectually agreeable than a well-reasoned treatise that forces one to continually think, that offers both reassurance and challenge. If such a work is both inspiring and captivating, then it becomes an even finer rarity. So it is with today’s subject, a proper exposition of the good, the true, and the beautiful:  Dugina, Daria “Platonova”, Eschatological Optimism. Tucson, Arizona: PRAV Publishing, 2023. The book is the posthumously collected essays and lectures of the brilliant Daria (also to some, Darya) Dugina, as masterfully edited by John Stachelski and fluidly translated into English by Jafe Arnold. This review and all page citations are based on the Kindle edition; for reference, I use the pagination rather than positioning provided by my Kindle reader. One may and should order a copy either from PRAV or from Amazon. Eschatological Optimism is extraordinarily well-structured. Given topics that some might otherwise present with a stuffy, stilted, or disjointed complexity, the innately smooth format instead flows verbally and mentally like a gentle stream. This is a credit to the skills of the editor and, for the English-reading audience, the translator. Yet there is something more remarkable at work, which speaks to the prowess of the author and which is highlighted and magnified by the fact the posited chronicle is a compendium of smaller annals. One encounters a series of repetitions of the title theme and related matters. Plato’s Allegory of the Cave, for example, is mentioned in multiple places. Yet at no time does the recurrence become stale. Rather, the litany has a reinforcing cumulative effect. As such, the presumed editorial joining and rejoining of various matters exposes a deliberate composition to engender delight, awe, and perhaps even envy. This phenomenon speaks most highly of the mind behind the assembled words, of an intellect active, engaged, and engaging. A concentrated will and organization obviously guided all of Dugina’s script, understanding, and reflection. The book will be of great interest to Orthodox Christians, Russians, and Neoplatonic thinkers. It will also be of great interest to all other Christians, non-Russian nationals, Aristotelians, and anyone else who enjoys exercising his brain. Along with the thoughtful rendering of its nominal philosophy, Eschatological Optimism allows for subtly divergent, if parallel consideration of the component parts or conclusions of the stated theory by the reader. Pouring through the pages, a wonderful idea of complementary synthesis builds in the mind, a congruency. Commodious space is provided for individual intellectual maneuvering; though one need not precisely follow every attestation or predication of the text, one should, in my estimation, be able to reach a pleasingly similar denouement. Your reviewer is, for the sake of disclosure, an eschatological optimist. All Christians should be as well, for we know and trust that even as our plodding way may be rough, our ultimate destination and salvation are assured. For almost every interested party, there is something to be learned from Dugina’s book. She forced me to remember things forgotten, consider things in new ways, and to consider entirely new concepts. She has opened a wide and well-lit door. She did so, admittedly, from a distinctly and naturally Russian perspective and the very different (from the “ordinary”) outlook of the philosopher. Regardless of disposition, all of the types of readers I just noted should feel or foster towards each other a kind of camaraderie and respect as each approaches that door. It leads to something and somewhere rewarding. “Eschatology,” of course, concerns the final end of the world, and for Christians, the Second Coming. “Optimism” is a favorable perspective. Together, as Dugina explains on page 34, the combined terminology is “rather dangerous and complex.” It’s also rather positive, informative, and even enchanting. Two approaches to the philosophy are delineated along with the defined assertion that the eschatological optimist, while accepting that terminal change in the world is imminent, nonetheless soldiers on by consciously and purposely living. On page 54, Dugina provides perhaps a clearer and more actionable definition:
A dialectical Christian may or may not hone in on the illusory aspect. For my part, I hope he does, wrestling with the notion of being in but not of the illusion. If I failed to mention there is great thrill and fun in the reading, then know that there is. The wallop is far-ranging, as one will find numerous examples from history, theology, and literature. For instance, like the author, I still ponder the questioned optimistic potential of Edgar Allen Poe. Was the raven’s perch of choice supposed to suggest to us something of deeper ancient character?! In many ways, Eschatological Optimism is a grand refresher for those who previously studied Plato (and other classical philosophers). If one is not well-acquainted with Greek thought, then it is a marvelous introduction. Platonism is well-explicated across the course of some twenty-five centuries and from various points of view and understanding. The reader will be reminded of the linkage and harmony across socio-theological realms regarding ontology, hierarchy, and more. Dugina covers many subtopics very well, a list too multitudinous to recount here. I touch only upon a few of many interesting points. Apophatic theology, intricately bound to Orthodox tradition and general Christian thought, lies at the heart of eschatological optimism. As opposed to, or rather, in addition to, direct cataphatic orientation towards God, the apophatic is a path to comprehension (of the ultimately incomprehensible) via negation or indirect appreciation — trusting that which cannot be seen clearly in this world. It is reasoned yet mystical faith, not “blind” as it is guided by a form of structured logic. Beyond Eastern Orthodoxy, the apophatic has been part of Catholic doctrine since the Thirteenth Century, as embraced and expressed by Saint Thomas Aquinas, who was deeply influenced by Areopagitic thought. The root of (apophatic) Christian Platonism — see page 301 — comes from the fusion of Greek philosophy with Christian Patristic tradition forged by Dionysius the Areopagite. That coalescence of religious and Platonic thought is expounded thoroughly and even poetically. Given the current state of the corporeal world, the same as it ever was, some of Dugina’s attention turns to the unpleasant aspects of human existence since the expulsion from Eden. She writes, correctly, on page 67, “Evil is easy to find and easy to see.” Much energy and time would be saved if materialists would acknowledge this truth and cease wasting their efforts attempting to explain evil as merely “bad” and if they would limit their tangible reactions to what are primarily spiritual concerns, even those, especially those that intrude into our illusory “real” world. War is presented as a necessary righteous rebellion against the false order of the world, a conflict of what is “below” against God and His order above. In and around that context, and among other timely, cogent observations, Dugina correctly calls out the sad misunderstanding by the postmodern West of nature, life, love, war, and peace. Set against the great spiritual conflict that envelops all of us whether we understand it or not, Dugina delivers a call to resistance the likes of which is rarely if ever heard today, a call made so clearly, passionately, and appropriately. From page 102:
That passage alone should cement the value of Dugina’s book, her theories, and her bold place among the champions of Christian civilization. She goes on to call for cultivating the warrior within. This is the clarion call for our times. A fascinating discourse occurs concerning the differences between the legitimate feminine principles (of Russia) and the faltering postmodern feminist attitudes of the West. There is such a thing as “Christian Feminism” and I leave to the reader the joys of exploring its place in sane sociosexual relations. In my estimated summary, men and women were literally made for each other, separate but equal, and utterly compatible. In this, not a minor front in our war, we must reclaim the joy that satan and his minions have stolen or attempted to pilfer. The various fractures of the natural hierarchy between God and man, between man and man, and between man’s sociopolitical entities and himself are examined in keen detail. Ultimately, what Dugina calls for is a return to or continuation of the grand traditions of our past, to the turning of backs to the disorder of the postmodern world. By doing so, she bravely imagines — and I think she is correct, we can (re)ignite the optimist’s spirit. And we may do so in a way both intelligible to us and pleasing to God. Elsewhere, others have commented at length about the combining of the noble pagan Greek thought, as exemplified by Plato, and the just doctrine of Christianity. Dugina’s detailed look into the life and times of Emperor Julian the Apostate, along with the “Justinian” reaction thereto and thereagainst, and our ensuing history, provides a spectacular example of what works, what does not work, what mystifies, and what may or must happen in order to maintain clarity of thinking (the Platonic way) without sacrificing any of the absolute Truth of Christianity. Emperor Julian is presented under “Political Platonism.” On page 277, Dugina quotes W. R. Inge regarding the emperor being “a conservative when there was nothing left to preserve.” There is something familiar in those words for today’s Westerner, particularly for today’s American. Those of us in the West have suffered tremendous damage from the faux Enlightenment, which Dugina proportionally dismisses, including libertine calls for nebulous openness and false freedom. As she notes, true light comes only from Jesus Christ. In it, and only in it do we find genuine comfort and cause for optimism. Herein, I have painted very broadly and just enough to cover the bare corners. Needless to say, I highly recommend Eschatological Optimism. The reader will be delighted, astounded, and … saddened. Reading through, roughly articulating a mental outline for this review, I resolved to omit any painful mention of Daria Dugina’s tragic and untimely death. That resolve dissipated upon reading the Afterword written by Daria’s mother, Natalia Melentyeva. Noting the broken character of our world, Mrs. Melentyeva spoke of Daria’s courage and spirit, of the kind of mental and spiritual effort necessary to restore our civilization. She candidly answered the terrible question I feared to broach on page 364:
Despite the wicked endeavors of mankind’s truest, darkest enemies, Daria Dugina is (is, not was), as her mother wrote, “the ever-rising star of Russian thought.” A beautiful, optimistic star to help steer our course. Да благословит и сохранит тебя Господь, Платонова. This piece was originally published at Perrin Lovett on August 31, 2023.
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