Nazi literature in the Americas - A version for a new century
When I met the writer Arturo Belano at his home in Cadaques he was already in the antechamber of death. I spent one week in his company, preparing his tea and reading the news on the El Diario website or the pages of some novel he was finishing at the moment. During the whole time I was there, Belano did not leave his bed for one single moment, only telling me to leave the room when he felt he needed to use the restroom, which he did in a chamber pot he kept under his bed frame. On my seventh day there he must have felt that he was about to die, for he asked me to approach and whispered to me in a cracking voice that I should continue his project of cataloguing and summarizing far-right literature in the American continent. After this he laid down his head, snored loudly five times and died. I left the house in Cadaques and only when I was back in Barcelona I called from a pay phone and told the police there was a corpse in such and such address.
Of course I had read his first version of “Nazi Literature in the Americas”. In my youth I belonged to a Trotskyite group in Santiago University - as every young man did - and such readings were nearly mandatory if you either wanted to have a voice during the interminable assemblies we organized every week or have any chance in bedding a pretty coed with an Italian surname. But this was long after those days and now what did I know of far-right literature? My personal politics were confusing and many times contradictory, and literature-wise I had completely abandoned the craft after publishing a couple of poem compilations which only my family and a few bibliophile eccentrics had ever read. Still, it was bad luck to deny the last wishes of a dying man, and I launched myself at research. The following entries are some of the artists I had the opportunity to read during my investigation. Their quality varies from tremendous to subpar, but they all share an interest in political extremism.
Lazaro Perez Ornamendi
The oldest entry in this encyclopaedia, a man probably known by Belano himself. Ornamendi was born in Coronel Pringles, Argentina, 1938. His literary journey passes through Ultraismo, Regionalism, Hysteric Realism, Speculative fiction and Criollismo. One could describes each of his efforts as “Mediocre” in nature, but through the sheer mass of his textual production he forced his way into the artistic scene of the late 60s, and got a job writing weekly column in the El Cronista discussing political matters blended with perplexing insertions of self-fiction and erotic content. Through his later years his politics became gradually more radical until reaching an apex in the days before the 76 coup. The Argentinian military junta offered him his greatest opportunity yet, hand-picking him to write nationalistic short stories where a dashing yet stoic army officer was always involved in combats in the pampas, fending communist sympathizers and swarthy gauchos with cleaver in hand. Were this Ornamendi’s only merit he would certainly have been forgotten as happened to many other hacks throughout cultural history, however his worth comes from quickly recognising the propaganda value of new technologies, first the cassette tapes, then VHS and finally independent radio and the internet, through which he re-enacts his stories in long-winded recordings distributed to a wide public. Even today, approaching his 80s, Ornamendi still writes daily in his WordPress blog, streams in an active YouTube channel and updates a weekly podcast, all in which he serializes his work. In a recent interview he admitted to draft his stories by night and release them by day, leaving out the mystery of when does he sleep - although, as we know, old people need very little sleep, and vampiric geezers like Ornamendi need even less. Somehow he also closely follows recent politics as the cast of villains fought by his military officers are in constant expansion, growing to include indian militants, the peronists, the landless movement, homossexuals, George Soros, globalists, the Chinese, the Americans, the Brazilians, university students, women, doctors, think tank employees, pensioners and other dirty fingers in the hand of international bolshevism.
Lautaro Durrez, or “Diocles”
The world is still mourning the early loss of Chilean writer Lautaro Durrez, the one known as Diocles. A great poet in his own right, he composed 3 epics on the conquest of Araucania, each one written in dactylic hexameter. In his work Basque whalers were like Achaens and the Chiloe Archipelago was Ionia. The Mapuches, for their own side, were liked to violent Laestrigonyans, and Diocles exulted in describing their extermination. He promised to publish a cycle of at least seven of such sagas but suddenly disappeared from public view after publishing the third one, called Caupocalicania. Rumours that he had passed away were given as true for many years, until one fan discovered that the man once known as Diocles now lived in Massachussets under the assumed name of Vernon Martinez, managed an oyster bar and refused to acknowledge to have ever written a single line of poetry.
Desidério “Flaquito” Gomez
The first poem by Desidério “Flaquito” Gomez, a native of Culiacan, was put to song in a NarcoCorrido music video celebrating the life and feats of Ismael Manin, the leader of the Gente Nueva de Sinaloa. His prolix style attracted the attention of many, even those feeble intellectuals in the streets of Barrio Roma, who discuss his verses as if they were written by Octavio Paz. Flaquito of course profited from his new found glory as the bard of the Mexican underworld, reportedly charging over 10 thousand dollars for even a short victory ode. While the usual graphic description of violence is expected, and while he engages in the tedium listing of heavy weaponry as any other mediocre Narco poet does, Flaquito’s lyrics are permeated by his sine qua non political cosmology, one which evokes a mythical Mexican past where the frequent sacrifices of hundreds of men were the lubricant to keep the sun’s gears from halting in their tracks. Professor Alberto Valverde of the UNAM described the dichotomy in precise words: It is an aesthetic sensibility such as the one belonging to the ancient tlatoani, capable of finding equal beauty in both the flicker of the hummingbird and the flailing of an enemy. Flaquito only writes in honour of leaders of the Sinaloa cartel. The leaders of Los Zetas have put a generous bounty on his head, and so did the Caballeros Templarios. But Flaquito is a shadow, a ghost.
CunyGroyper1488
The real identity of the Twitter user CunyGroyper1488 (@OstPlanAppreciator) is a mystery. Some claim he is a 15-year old tweeting from Cajamarca, Peru. Others affirm to have doxxed him all the way to the offices of a financial accountant from Southern Equador. A popular theory is that CunyGroyper is not a singular individual, but several, a hive mind of extreme fascists from South America, tweeting as one mind. But then again - is that not all of the internet? Even the fact that he is Latino is implicit only from a single tweet, long deleted, where a past iteration of his profile typed in Spanish, letting slip an Andean slang. His style is controversial - there are not few that consider him too vulgar, and his repetitive use of “Gigachads” derivative. Yet others consider his racism exceptionally elegant. With a few strokes, his admirers claim, he is able to reach the inner racial deficiencies of a myriad of ethnicities. This must be the reason why CunyGroyper1488 refuses to tweet over the 140 character limit, and his invectives take the nature of a haiku. Basho and Zen mixed with deep racial hatred. Sometimes not even a word is needed - the disturbing image of a newly produced Soyjak, each one crafted by his own hand, is sufficient to convey his message.
@_Dignidad
Members of Latin America's largest bodybuilding forum were surprised in early 2013 by what resembled a series of posts that when parsed together formed a coherent story. That someone would use a bodybuilding forum for a literary experiment was not surprising, as bodybuilding forums are only tangentially about bodybuilding, but in reality tackle a number of different subjects. The astounding feature of this particular experiment is that the text was periodically posted in seemingly unrelated threads (for example, a thread on Atlantean ruins found in Mauritania, another on the effects of aluminium on the body, yet another to share recipes of ketogenic diet) and did not seem to possess any coherent plot linearity between each posted section. They were all written by the same user, named @_Dignidad, who did not interact in any particular thread prior to the beginning of his literary career. While seemingly random at first, forum users were able to reveal that the pattern of such posts resembled that of a Sator square
in which a clockwise spiral was formed, meaning that a post of the part of the story corresponding the letter “S” was followed by one corresponding to the letter “A”, then one corresponding to the letter “T” and so forth, until concluding at the “N” in the centre of the square. The tale seemed to describe a series of historic national migrations, from fantastic Hyperborea to Northern Europe, from Gotland to Chile, from the kingdom of the Visigoths to Patagonia, concluding on the perfect mix of races between Hispanic colonists of Teutonic stock and Amerindians, who the author considered to be direct descendants of those warring Germanic tribes that ruined Rome. The spiral nature of the text also referenced the cycles of Yugas, the levels of ascension through the palaces of heaven and Platonic redundant view of governance. Eventually, users also noticed that the temporal distancing between each post seemed to growth representing a prime mathematical pattern, with the first post from the second being separated just by 1 day, then 3, then 15, then 105 and so forth. In that forum two currents bloomed and split out, disagreeing not in content but in conclusion. The first believes that when @_Dignidad finally reaches the N, a new dawn will rise whence ancient Gods awaken and usher an era of human apotheosis. The opposite faction believes the same thing, except that these bronzed gods of the past will not allow us into their pure kingdom, and that we will be forced to watch the redemption of the world without us from behind its garden fence.
Alcibiades de Santana Nassr
The first time we heard about Alcibiades Nassr we were watching the quarter-finals of the Libertadores cup. At that time, 2018 I believe, it was fashionable for intellectuals to watch football, as it was considered a manly activity devoid of snobbish bourgeois sentimentality. The game was Palmeiras vs. Colo-Colo, and we were all for the Chileans, of course. The game was dull, or perhaps we found all football dull but insisted on watching it as a proletarian obligation, with Palmeiras leading by 1 goal. We could clearly hear the chants of their fans - most were uninspired, references to the sodomitical proclivities of our players or to the harlotry of the referee’s mother. Suddenly, at the 76’ mark, the joint voices of a small group of fans rose over the stadium, singing “BREAK THE TEETH OF THE WICKED”, only to fall silent again. We, the spectators, were confused by this sudden act of poetry. They would not repeat it until the end of the game, with Palmeiras advancing to the semifinals.
Through a friend of ours we learned that the chanting fans belonged to the 13th Division, a small group of ultras led by Alcibiades Nassr. In the few photos we could find he looked like a large man, with a shaved head and a menacing look on his face. His skin tone was that cardboard box hue many Brazilians seem to have, neither here nor there in terms of whiteness. I would say that the man did not looked to be very intelligent. Our group of literati decided to watch the next game, taking place against Cruzeiro in Belo Horizonte, to see if that bewildering moment would repeat, and for that we chipped in with all our money to buy the full Libertadores payperview package.
During the course of the first half of the match, nothing happened. Then on 47’ minutes mark we could clearly hear from the TV a collective cry of “WHO AMONGST YOU”. They did not speak again until 10 minutes later a cry rose of - “THE LORD IS A WARRIOR”. Palmeiras was given a free kick and Gustavo Scarpa converted. The Cruzeiro fans were silent, which amplified the voice - “YOUR RIGHT HAND LORD”. We held our breath during the last 20 minutes, waiting to hear from them. For a long they said nothing else, and the game reached its 90’ limit. “That was it for today” we thought, but 2 minutes of extra time were given and by the end of the first one we heard “TERROR AND DREAD WILL FALL ON THEM”. The referee blew his whistle to call for the end of the match, 2 x 1 Palmeiras.
Due to an obligation or another, I lost the return match in Sao Paulo. A few of my friends watched it and told me what was sung - unfortunately this was over 5 years ago and the exact words were lost. As Palmeiras advanced to the finals against Boca Juniors and the match would take place in neutral Asuncion, a couple of us decided to buy the tickets and ride the bus all the way to Paraguay. A whole story could be told about the perils of crossing the Andes and the boredom of the Pampas, but this is an entry on Alcibiades Nassr, not on a bunch of university hoodlums. We reached Asuncion and pretended to be Palmeiras fans so we could be allowed to sit on their side of the stadium. On the day of the game we put on our green shirts and arrived early, so we could sit where the 13th Division would congregate. They arrived and surprised us by their size - there shouldn’t be more than 20 of them. They did not carry the drums or flags of other ultras, and one would easily mistake them for normal fans if it weren’t for their matching green jerseys with a simple “13th division” print of their chest. Alcibiades stood at the centre of their group, and from up close he seemed even larger than I expected. I could see that he had a black cross tattooed covering the whole length of his right forearm, and what looked like Jesus weeping on his leg. During the entire game he did not eat or drink or sat down - perhaps he saw the match as his penitence. We could not get very close, but it was close enough to watch them, and we waited for them to get into action amongst the jeers and cheers of the crowd.
Perhaps I was expecting Alcibiades to act as conductor, ordering the right time for them to chant. But the whole 13th Division behaved as a well prepared collective, without any need for individual orders. Barely the game had started they chanted for the first time - “LIKE A BEAR IN WAITING, LIKE A LION IN HIDING”. My whole body trembled. They continued “HE PIERCED MY HEART WITH ARROWS FROM HIS QUIVER”. “That's Lamentations” a friend said. I shook my head. “HE HAS TRAMPLED ME IN THE DUST”. The game was ferocious, with fights breaking out between players. On the Argentinian side, a man mimicked a monkey in our direction. The Brazilians grew angrier and cursed and shook their fists but I could only stare at Alcibiades. He chanted with his group and stared at the field, but besides that he didn’t even seem to experience much pleasure in the game. During half time my friends brought up some beers and on their side a few of their men drank but most didn’t. Alcibiades remained standing up staring at the field with a steely rigidity even while the match was suspended. The game barely resumed when they sang again - “THE HARVEST OF THE EARTH IS RIPE”. and “POURED OUT HIS BOWL ON THE LAND”. And again “POURED OUT HIS BOWL ON THE SEA” and then “POURED HIS BOWL ON THE RIVERS”. I could barely see or hear them, for the Brazilians started a small tumult and threw a bunch of objects at the field, their racket drowning almost all other noise as they jumped up and down, clashing with the Paraguayan police at the lower fences. “We better get out of here”, a friend came and took me by the arm, and we walked out of the bleachers with my stare still fixed on Alcibiades, singing something whose words I could not quite make out. Outside riot police beated their batons against their acrylic shields and that night in my hotel room I watched the news about riots on the street of Asuncion, with the tv showing images of barricades on fire. Palmeiras won 3 x 1.
We returned to Santiago and resumed life. My friends continued to watch the games of the Chilean national championship but I used my longer work hours as an excuse to slowly lose interest in football, and after that I only watched a couple of games at the World Cup. Some months later I read the news that Alcibiades Nassr had been arrested for killing a Bolivian boy before a game in Santa Cruz de la Sierra.
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After a few years at work I was forced to stop my research. My compendium of far-right authors in the Americas only seemed to grow larger, and defied my concept of literature. For example: Could the posters in the many Chans of America be qualified as authors? Some of their oeuvre surpassed in size many of our most renowned artists, and their invectives against democracy and equality were admittedly of great creative power. Yet they were Legion - I could never succeed in putting all of them in one single encyclopaedia. And what was literature? Were images of violence and gore literature? “No!” I scream, and immediately I feel the post-mortem breath of Arturo Belano behind my back. At his old age his poetry became abstract, abandoning conventional letters for asemic writing. He wanted to “free himself from the slavery of semantics”.
Allowing myself to expand my concepts of literature, I see their new use of mediums everywhere, in banners and medical leaflets, in midnight preaching on the radio, in the graphomaniac infinite scrolling of the internet, in messages written in the sand made to disappear with the change of the tide, in the secret language of horses, in a man in Paraguay who rewrites Mein Kampf word for word and somehow produces a new book, in the blood spattered on the sidewalk, in the projects for future editions of Nazi Literature of the Americas, which by themselves will redefine extreme literature and elevate it beyond their initial meaning, amplify its aggression, deliver it from evil.