Though linking this novel "of hatred" with Mein Kampf and My Lai, Kirkus Review conceded that its "basic premise is irrefutable."
In the West, the concept of race replacement is routinely mocked as racist paranoia, but entire neighborhoods or even cities have been racially replaced, such as many American ones after the race riots of the 60's, East London, much of Marseille and Palestine. To shift perspective, I can even cite my Vietnamese town, Ea Kly, which was entirely populated by ethnic Rade just over three decades ago. Now, they make up less than half of our 20,000 population.
In 1995, Raspail reflected on his novel, "It will probably not happen as I have described it, for The Camp of the Saints is only a parable, but in the end the result will not be any different, though perhaps in a form more diffused and therefore seemingly more tolerable." He spoke of a "global Spartacus," a revolt of the destitute against the fat cats, which has always been the aim of the Western left, and that's why those clamoring for Socialism are also demanding open borders. It's not suicide, bro, but equality, at last, and universal brotherhood.
Raspail warned, "But the petty bourgeois, deaf and blind, continues to play the buffoon without knowing it. Still miraculously comfortable in his lush fields, he cries out while glancing toward his nearest neighbor: 'Make the rich pay!' Does he know, does he finally know that it is he who is the rich one, and that the cry for justice, that cry of all revolutions, projected by millions of voices, is rising soon against him, and only against him. That's the whole theme of Camp of the Saints."
In this novel, Christianity doesn't provide solace or guidance, but is a roadmap to ruin. Preaching universal brotherhood, it insists there should be no barrier between nations, a belief not shared by yellows, browns or blacks, when it comes to their own nations.
Since every ethnic group has its own way of organizing society, even two hundred plus countries aren't enough to accomondate them all, so any globalist system or creed is always a form of mass violence.
Convinced that they're always the good guys and carriers of light, white Christians have been invading, inviting and remaking the world for several centuries, so it'd be fitting if they themselves are deformed by this Christianity. To show his contempt, Raspail has eleven elderly Christian monks trampled to death by an Indian mob they're trying to welcome.
Of the three books discussed, The Camp of the Saints is the most unhinged, with many racist passages that distract from its insights. There's no need to have a Hindu "turd eater," for example, or conjure up a bizarre sex orgy on a refugee boat, "Perhaps it was the heat, the inertia. Perhaps the sun, pouring druglike against the skin and into the brain, or that tide of mystical fervor it swam in. Most of all, the natural drive of a people who never found sex to be sin. And little by little, the mass began to move. Imperceptibly at first. Then more and more, in every direction" Soon the decks came to look like those temple friezes so highly prized by tourists, prurient or prudish, but rarely touched by the beauty of the sculpture and the grace of the pose. And everywhere, a mass of hands and mouths, of phalluses and rumps. White tunics billowing over fondling, exploring fingers. Young boys, passed from hand to hand. Young girls, barely ripe, lying together cheek to thigh, asleep in a languid maze of arms, and legs, and flowing hair, waking to the silent play of eager lips. Male organs mouthed to the hilt, tongues pointing their way into scabbards of flesh, men shooting their sperm into women's nimble hands. Everywhere, rivers of sperm. Streaming over bodies, oozing between breasts, and buttocks, and thighs, and lips, and fingers. Bodies together, not in twos, but in threes, in fours, whole families of flesh gripped in gentle frenzies and subtle raptures. Men with women, men with men, women with women, men with children, children with each other, their slender fingers playing the eternal games of carnal pleasure. Fleshless old men reliving their long-lost vigor. And on every face, eyes closed, the same smile, calm and blissful. No sounds but the ocean breezes, the panting breaths, and, from time to time, a cry, a groan, a call to waken other sprawling figures and bring them into the communion of the flesh--
From Rabelais onward, there's a grotesque strain in French literature, but this is ridiculous, man. One can defend one's heritage and be a nativist without claiming that any other group are more or less animals.
Should The Camp of the Saints prove more prescient than The Road and A World Made by Hand, eventually we'll see shiploads of white refugees, fleeing formerly white countries that have lost their mind, soul and spine. By refusing to define and compose yourself, you're already nothing.
In the West, the concept of race replacement is routinely mocked as racist paranoia, but entire neighborhoods or even cities have been racially replaced, such as many American ones after the race riots of the 60's, East London, much of Marseille and Palestine. To shift perspective, I can even cite my Vietnamese town, Ea Kly, which was entirely populated by ethnic Rade just over three decades ago. Now, they make up less than half of our 20,000 population.
In 1995, Raspail reflected on his novel, "It will probably not happen as I have described it, for The Camp of the Saints is only a parable, but in the end the result will not be any different, though perhaps in a form more diffused and therefore seemingly more tolerable." He spoke of a "global Spartacus," a revolt of the destitute against the fat cats, which has always been the aim of the Western left, and that's why those clamoring for Socialism are also demanding open borders. It's not suicide, bro, but equality, at last, and universal brotherhood.
Raspail warned, "But the petty bourgeois, deaf and blind, continues to play the buffoon without knowing it. Still miraculously comfortable in his lush fields, he cries out while glancing toward his nearest neighbor: 'Make the rich pay!' Does he know, does he finally know that it is he who is the rich one, and that the cry for justice, that cry of all revolutions, projected by millions of voices, is rising soon against him, and only against him. That's the whole theme of Camp of the Saints."
Since every ethnic group has its own way of organizing society, even two hundred plus countries aren't enough to accomondate them all, so any globalist system or creed is always a form of mass violence.
Convinced that they're always the good guys and carriers of light, white Christians have been invading, inviting and remaking the world for several centuries, so it'd be fitting if they themselves are deformed by this Christianity. To show his contempt, Raspail has eleven elderly Christian monks trampled to death by an Indian mob they're trying to welcome.
Of the three books discussed, The Camp of the Saints is the most unhinged, with many racist passages that distract from its insights. There's no need to have a Hindu "turd eater," for example, or conjure up a bizarre sex orgy on a refugee boat, "Perhaps it was the heat, the inertia. Perhaps the sun, pouring druglike against the skin and into the brain, or that tide of mystical fervor it swam in. Most of all, the natural drive of a people who never found sex to be sin. And little by little, the mass began to move. Imperceptibly at first. Then more and more, in every direction" Soon the decks came to look like those temple friezes so highly prized by tourists, prurient or prudish, but rarely touched by the beauty of the sculpture and the grace of the pose. And everywhere, a mass of hands and mouths, of phalluses and rumps. White tunics billowing over fondling, exploring fingers. Young boys, passed from hand to hand. Young girls, barely ripe, lying together cheek to thigh, asleep in a languid maze of arms, and legs, and flowing hair, waking to the silent play of eager lips. Male organs mouthed to the hilt, tongues pointing their way into scabbards of flesh, men shooting their sperm into women's nimble hands. Everywhere, rivers of sperm. Streaming over bodies, oozing between breasts, and buttocks, and thighs, and lips, and fingers. Bodies together, not in twos, but in threes, in fours, whole families of flesh gripped in gentle frenzies and subtle raptures. Men with women, men with men, women with women, men with children, children with each other, their slender fingers playing the eternal games of carnal pleasure. Fleshless old men reliving their long-lost vigor. And on every face, eyes closed, the same smile, calm and blissful. No sounds but the ocean breezes, the panting breaths, and, from time to time, a cry, a groan, a call to waken other sprawling figures and bring them into the communion of the flesh--
From Rabelais onward, there's a grotesque strain in French literature, but this is ridiculous, man. One can defend one's heritage and be a nativist without claiming that any other group are more or less animals.
Should The Camp of the Saints prove more prescient than The Road and A World Made by Hand, eventually we'll see shiploads of white refugees, fleeing formerly white countries that have lost their mind, soul and spine. By refusing to define and compose yourself, you're already nothing.
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