Black flags in the windstained with

Black flags in the wind

stained with blood and sun

Black flags in the sun

howling of glory in the wind



We need to return to the origins. To drink at the ancient fountains.

We need to return to heroic anarchism, to individual, violent, reckless, poetic, decentering audacity…

And we need to return with every bit of our modern instinct, every bit of our new conception of life and beauty, every bit of our healthy and lucid pessimism, which is not renunciation or powerlessness, but a thriving flower of exuberant life. We are the true nihilists of reality and the spiritual builders of ideal worlds

We are destructive philosophers and creative poets.



We walk in the night

with a sun in our mind

and with two huge golden stars

in our blazing eyes



We walk…



II



Several years ago, all the earth’s kings, all the world’s tyrants crossed the threshold of time, and—turning their backs on the dawn—called in a great voice—the ghosts of the past, of the gloomiest past!

The voices of the tyrants and kings were joined by the raucous voices of all the great misers of the spirit, of art, of thought and of the idea!—And in the voices of the tyrants, kings and misers, ghosts and phantoms were raised from their tombs and came to dance among us…

The “state,” the “race,” the “fatherland” were macabre storm clouds assailing the heavens, ghastly phantoms darkening the sun; they threw us back into the dark night of distant medieval times.



III



Death!

Who still recalls the macabre dance of the baleful and monstrous god of war?

Who still recalls the war?

Much time has passed between then and now, but upon this wretched yet noble earth, fertilized with sterile corpses and bloated with infertile blood, not a single ideal, virgin flower, made of spirituality and purity, still sprouts today.

No, the flowers that are born now on the dry clods of this earth, so vainly bathed in blood, are not flowers of flourishing life, capable of great hope, virile struggle, vigorous thought; they are rather flowers of death, born in the shadow, growing in the anguish of the unconscious, swept away in the hurricane, borne along in the drift of the river of oblivion…

…

I am not a sentimentalist… but I have a horrible memory of the war.

It is the reason that I ended up hating and then despising men. Before despising and hating them though, I collected all the tears of humanity in my heart and locked all the sorrows of the world in my vast mind-synthesis…

…

Even the spirit of the great Zarathustra—who is war’s truest lover and the warrior’s most sincere friend—must have been horribly nauseated by this war…

He must have been horribly nauseated, because I heard him cry out: “You must seek your own enemy, fight your own war, and for your own ideas!”

And if your idea succumbs, may your rectitude cry out in triumph.

But, alas! the heroic preaching of the great liberator came to nothing!

The human herd didn’t know how to distinguish its own enemy or to fight its own war for its own ideas. (The herd has no ideas of its own!)

And not knowing his own ideas that he might make triumph, Abel died at Cain’s hands once again.

He was called to die, and he went, like always. So!

Without knowing how to say either Yes or No! He goes as a coward, as a robot, like always.

If he had at least had the capacity to say the Yes of enthusiastic obedience—if he didn’t have the heroic power to pronounce the titanic No of tragic negation—he would at last have shown that he believed in the “cause” for which he died, fighting…

but he didn’t know how to say yes or no!

He went!

As a coward, like always!

So…

And when he left, he went toward death.

He went toward death without knowing why.

Like always!

And death did not wait…

It came!…

It came and danced.

It danced and laughed!

For five long years…

It laughed and danced over the muddy trenches of the entire world’s fatherlands.

A macabre dance!

Oh, how idiotic and vulgar—how savage and brutal—is this death that dances without the wings of an idea on its back.

Without a violent idea that smashes and destroys.

Without a fruitful idea that generates and creates.

What a stupid and horrendous thing, dying as cowards, without knowing why.

We saw it—as it danced—Death.

It was a black Death, opaque, without any of the transparency of light.

It was a Death without wings!…

How ugly and vulgar it was.

How clumsy its dance was!

And how it mowed them down—dancing—all the superfluous, those of whom there were more!

Those for whom—the great liberator says—the state was invented.

But, alas, it didn’t only mow these down…

Yes! Death—to avenge the state mowed down those who were not useless, those who were necessary…

It also mowed down those for whom life was a profound poem where sublimated sorrow sang a playful refrain…

But those of whom there were not more, those who were not superfluous, those who fell crying out the rebellious and forceful titanic No!: they will be avenged.

We will avenge them!

We will avenge them because they were our brothers; because they died with stars in their eyes; because as they died, they drank the sun.

The sun of the Dream.

The sun of Battle.

The sun of Life.

The sun of the Idea!



IV



The war!…

What has the war renewed?

Where is the heroic transfiguration of the spirit?

Where have the phosphorescent tablets of new human values been hung?

In what sacred temple have the miraculous gold amphorae, containing the flaming hearts of creative geniuses and dominating heroes, that the frantic supporters of great war promised?

Where does the majestic sun of the great new dawn shine?

Frightful rivers of blood washed all the turf in the world and went howling through all the paths of the earth.

Terrifying torrents of tears made their heartrending, anguished lament echo through the darkest, most remote eddies of all the world’s continents.

Mountains of human bones and flesh rotted everywhere in the mud, and cried everywhere in the sun.

But nothing changed—it was useless!

The worm-ridden bourgeois belly just belched with satiety! and that of the proletarian howled from too much hunger!

And enough!

If with Christ and christianity, the human spirit was suspended in the cold and empty void of the afterlife, with Karl Marx and socialism, it was made to descend into the intestines…

The roar that sounded across the world after the war, shaking humanity, was nothing but a belly roar that socialism betrayed, stamped out, smothered, strangled, as soon as it noticed that this roar had begun to take on a bit of the color of an ideal content…

This supreme, nameless cowardice used up, the blackest, bleakest, most baleful reaction was born and grew tremendously.

It was logical—natural—fatal!

It was human…



V



Our time—despite empty and contrary appearances—is already lying on all fours under the heavy wheels of a new History.

The bestial morality of our bastard christian-liberal-bourgeois-plebeian civilization turns toward the sunset…

Our false social organization is collapsing fatally—inexorably!

The fascist phenomenon is the surest, most indisputable proof of it.

In Italy as elsewhere…

To show it, one would only have to go back in time and question history. But even this isn’t necessary!—The present speaks eloquently enough…

Fascism is nothing but a cruel, convulsive spasm of a decaying society that tragically drowns in the quagmire of its lies.

Because it—fascism—indeed celebrates its bacchanals with flaming pyres and malicious orgies of blood; but the dull crackling of its livid fires doesn’t give off a single spark of vivid innovative spirituality; meanwhile, may the blood that pours out be transformed into wine, that we—the forerunners of the time—silently gather in red goblets of hatred setting it aside as the heroic beverage to pass on to the children of the night and of sorrow in the fatal communion of great revolt.

We will take these brothers of ours by the hand to march together and climb together toward new spiritual dawns, toward new auroras of life, toward new conquests of thought, toward new feasts of light; new solar noons.

Because we are lovers of liberating struggle.

We are the children of sorrow that rises and thought that creates.

We are restless vagabonds.

The boldest in every endeavor; the tempter of every ordeal.

And life is an “ordeal”! A torment! A tragic flight.—A fleeting moment!



VI



Our will is heroic!

We’ll stir everything up in a flurry of hatred at the heart of the world, and we’ll transmute everything into a storm of the abyss.

Into a hurricane of the peaks.

Into cries of the mind.

Into howls of freedom!

By celebrating the social evensong, we will try to fully realize individual life, of the free and great I.

So that the night no longer triumphs.

So that the shadow no longer coils around us.

So that the never-ending fire of the sun becomes eternal and perpetuates its feast of light over land and sea!

Because we are fiery dreamers of the impossible, dangerous conquerors of the stars!



VII



Fascism—despite empty and contrary appearances—is something far too ephemeral and impotent to prevent the free, unbridled course of rebel thought that overflows and expands, impetuously bursting beyond every barrier, and furiously spreads beyond every limit—as a powerful, animating, driving force—drawing behind its gigantic steps the vigorous and titanic action of hard human muscle.

Fascism is impotent, bec

Hasil (Bahasa Indonesia) 1:

Bendera hitam angindiwarnai dengan darah dan matahariBendera hitam di mataharimelolong kemuliaan angin Kita perlu kembali ke asal. Untuk minum di air mancur kuno. Kita perlu kembali ke heroik Anarkisme untuk individu, kekerasan, sembrono, puitis, decentering audacity... Dan kita perlu kembali dengan setiap sedikit naluri kami modern, setiap bit dari konsepsi kita baru tentang kehidupan dan keindahan, setiap bit pesimisme kita sehat dan jelas, yang bukan penolakan atau ketidakberdayaan, tetapi bunga berkembang kehidupan yang meriah. Kami adalah nihilists benar realitas dan pembangun rohani dunia ideal Kami merusak filsuf dan penyair kreatif. Kami berjalan pada malam haridengan matahari dalam pikiran kitadan dengan dua bintang emas yang besardi mata kami menyala Kami berjalan... II Beberapa tahun yang lalu, raja seluruh bumi, di dunia tiran melintasi ambang batas waktu, dan — mengubah punggung mereka pada fajar — disebut dalam suara besar — hantu dari masa lalu, masa lalu gloomiest! Suara tiran dan raja bergabung dengan suara parau semua misers besar Roh, seni, pemikiran dan gagasan! — dan di suara tiran, raja dan misers, hantu dan hantu yang dibangkitkan dari kubur mereka dan datang untuk menari antara kita... "Negara," "ras", "tanah" yang mengerikan awan badai yang berputar-putar di langit, mengerikan hantu penggelapan matahari; mereka melemparkan kita kembali ke dalam malam gelap jauh pertengahan. III Kematian! Yang masih ingat tarian mengerikan jahat dan mengerikan dewa perang? Yang masih ingat perang? Banyak waktu telah berlalu antara dulu dan sekarang, tetapi atas bumi ini celaka namun mulia, dipupuk dengan mayat-mayat steril dan bengkak dengan darah yang subur, tidak ideal, virgin bunga tunggal, terbuat dari spiritualitas dan kemurnian, masih taoge hari ini. Tidak, bunga-bunga yang lahir sekarang pada gumpalan kering dari dunia ini, sehingga sia-sia bermandikan dalam darah, yang tidak bunga berkembang kehidupan, mampu harapan besar, jantan perjuangan, penuh semangat pemikiran; mereka adalah agak bunga kematian, lahir di bayangan, bertumbuh dalam penderitaan bawah sadar, swept away dalam badai, ditanggung bersama arus dari Sungai dilupakan... … Saya tidak sentimentalist... tapi saya memiliki memori yang mengerikan perang. Ini adalah alasan bahwa saya akhirnya membenci dan kemudian membenci laki-laki. Sebelum membenci dan membenci mereka meskipun, saya mengumpulkan semua air mata manusia dalam hatiku dan terkunci semua penderitaan dunia luas sintesis-pikiran saya... … Bahkan semangat Zarathustra besar-siapa yang paling benar perang kekasih dan prajurit yang paling tulus teman — harus telah mengerikan nauseated oleh perang ini... Dia pasti mengerikan mual, karena aku mendengar dia menangis: "Anda harus mencari musuh Anda sendiri, melawan perang Anda sendiri, dan untuk ide-ide Anda sendiri!" Dan jika mengalah ide Anda, mungkin kejujuran Anda berseru kemenangan. Tapi, sayangnya! khotbah heroik hebat pembebas datang untuk apa-apa! The human herd didn’t know how to distinguish its own enemy or to fight its own war for its own ideas. (The herd has no ideas of its own!) And not knowing his own ideas that he might make triumph, Abel died at Cain’s hands once again. He was called to die, and he went, like always. So! Without knowing how to say either Yes or No! He goes as a coward, as a robot, like always. If he had at least had the capacity to say the Yes of enthusiastic obedience—if he didn’t have the heroic power to pronounce the titanic No of tragic negation—he would at last have shown that he believed in the “cause” for which he died, fighting… but he didn’t know how to say yes or no! He went! As a coward, like always! So… And when he left, he went toward death. He went toward death without knowing why. Like always! And death did not wait… It came!… It came and danced. It danced and laughed! For five long years… It laughed and danced over the muddy trenches of the entire world’s fatherlands. A macabre dance! Oh, how idiotic and vulgar—how savage and brutal—is this death that dances without the wings of an idea on its back. Without a violent idea that smashes and destroys. Without a fruitful idea that generates and creates. What a stupid and horrendous thing, dying as cowards, without knowing why. We saw it—as it danced—Death. It was a black Death, opaque, without any of the transparency of light. It was a Death without wings!… How ugly and vulgar it was. How clumsy its dance was! And how it mowed them down—dancing—all the superfluous, those of whom there were more! Those for whom—the great liberator says—the state was invented. But, alas, it didn’t only mow these down… Yes! Death—to avenge the state mowed down those who were not useless, those who were necessary… It also mowed down those for whom life was a profound poem where sublimated sorrow sang a playful refrain… But those of whom there were not more, those who were not superfluous, those who fell crying out the rebellious and forceful titanic No!: they will be avenged. We will avenge them! We will avenge them because they were our brothers; because they died with stars in their eyes; because as they died, they drank the sun. The sun of the Dream. The sun of Battle. The sun of Life. The sun of the Idea! IV The war!… What has the war renewed? Where is the heroic transfiguration of the spirit? Where have the phosphorescent tablets of new human values been hung? In what sacred temple have the miraculous gold amphorae, containing the flaming hearts of creative geniuses and dominating heroes, that the frantic supporters of great war promised? Where does the majestic sun of the great new dawn shine? Frightful rivers of blood washed all the turf in the world and went howling through all the paths of the earth. Terrifying torrents of tears made their heartrending, anguished lament echo through the darkest, most remote eddies of all the world’s continents. Mountains of human bones and flesh rotted everywhere in the mud, and cried everywhere in the sun. But nothing changed—it was useless! The worm-ridden bourgeois belly just belched with satiety! and that of the proletarian howled from too much hunger! And enough! If with Christ and christianity, the human spirit was suspended in the cold and empty void of the afterlife, with Karl Marx and socialism, it was made to descend into the intestines… The roar that sounded across the world after the war, shaking humanity, was nothing but a belly roar that socialism betrayed, stamped out, smothered, strangled, as soon as it noticed that this roar had begun to take on a bit of the color of an ideal content… This supreme, nameless cowardice used up, the blackest, bleakest, most baleful reaction was born and grew tremendously. It was logical—natural—fatal! It was human… V Our time—despite empty and contrary appearances—is already lying on all fours under the heavy wheels of a new History. The bestial morality of our bastard christian-liberal-bourgeois-plebeian civilization turns toward the sunset… Our false social organization is collapsing fatally—inexorably! The fascist phenomenon is the surest, most indisputable proof of it.
In Italy as elsewhere…

To show it, one would only have to go back in time and question history. But even this isn’t necessary!—The present speaks eloquently enough…

Fascism is nothing but a cruel, convulsive spasm of a decaying society that tragically drowns in the quagmire of its lies.

Because it—fascism—indeed celebrates its bacchanals with flaming pyres and malicious orgies of blood; but the dull crackling of its livid fires doesn’t give off a single spark of vivid innovative spirituality; meanwhile, may the blood that pours out be transformed into wine, that we—the forerunners of the time—silently gather in red goblets of hatred setting it aside as the heroic beverage to pass on to the children of the night and of sorrow in the fatal communion of great revolt.

We will take these brothers of ours by the hand to march together and climb together toward new spiritual dawns, toward new auroras of life, toward new conquests of thought, toward new feasts of light; new solar noons.

Because we are lovers of liberating struggle.

We are the children of sorrow that rises and thought that creates.

We are restless vagabonds.

The boldest in every endeavor; the tempter of every ordeal.

And life is an “ordeal”! A torment! A tragic flight.—A fleeting moment!



VI



Our will is heroic!

We’ll stir everything up in a flurry of hatred at the heart of the world, and we’ll transmute everything into a storm of the abyss.

Into a hurricane of the peaks.

Into cries of the mind.

Into howls of freedom!

By celebrating the social evensong, we will try to fully realize individual life, of the free and great I.

So that the night no longer triumphs.

So that the shadow no longer coils around us.

So that the never-ending fire of the sun becomes eternal and perpetuates its feast of light over land and sea!

Because we are fiery dreamers of the impossible, dangerous conquerors of the stars!



VII



Fascism—despite empty and contrary appearances—is something far too ephemeral and impotent to prevent the free, unbridled course of rebel thought that overflows and expands, impetuously bursting beyond every barrier, and furiously spreads beyond every limit—as a powerful, animating, driving force—drawing behind its gigantic steps the vigorous and titanic action of hard human muscle.

Fascism is impotent, bec