The 13th Warrior is a movie I watched last night with Bob, a cool Nordic movie wherein semi-Neanderthal humans sill lived in the 900s. This is based on a novel titled The Eaters of the Dead by Michael Crichton. This prolific author, I am told, passed form the earth at least a decade ago. If he were still among the living, as writer he could indeed crow! A couple of times, in the 90s and again in the teens, I read, what I think was a 1985 illustrated mass market edition of this novel. Crichton deftly inserted the first three scenes from the actual narrative of an Arab historian who traveled to Russia, to the Land of Slaves, and witnessed a Viking funeral.

The story links that account, from the perspective of the bemused Arab intellectual, with the story of Beowulf. I recommend the striking view of the Pacific Northwest setting. There is a link here too, as the Eaters of the Dead are called Wendol, a combination of the Germanic monster Grendel and the North American wendigo, a pale beast man that lives in the woods and eats humans.

I have, I know, hundreds of readers, from among my mere hundreds of readers, who will not consider reading “fiction,” as they are analytical people who came to my writing looking for information on crime, self defense, and, when it was discovered that I read thousands of books and wrote on history, on questions about our ancestors. Fiction, we are told, is false. Yet, all of the facts we are fed by our media are either lies, twisted facts, facts out of context, and/or facts acting as veils to bar our sight of The Truth.

This has become quite obvious since Brovid Jiveteen [1], that terrible shamdemic that has killed and driven insane many a person, which still strives to kill me and mine by denying antibiotics for lung infections—when they are heavily dispensed to homos for orgy prepping. I have seen many close to me perish during the time since 2020. Now, stroke and cancer clinics are so full that these terrible afflictions are treated as outpatient hospice, and lung infections are only treated as inpatient care. Instead of prescribing $20 of antibiotics to a bronchitus patient, doctors and HOMOs insist on letting it go until hospitalization is required and thousands of dollars a day can be billed. And if we die, they get our house. Some of our readers have seen this and started reading fiction along with journalism and history. This is such a good sign. Because, lack of narrative understanding, the inability to instinctively read or listen to a relation that is supposed to be fact, and not immediately wince at the inauthentic and unreal story line, is one aspect that prevents our brightest people from seeing the truth, or, even of recognizing facts out of context, and characters out of character.

Since WWII, short stories have mostly died and novels, [2] have grown in length, even as our working hours have expanded. This leaves fiction mostly for women, troons, INCELs, and faɡɡots. Also, adventure fiction has mostly been replaced by introspective fiction. A novel, as taught—so I am told by educated writers, and so I did read in 28 books on how to write—is not supposed to focus on adventure, but on introspection. Character development is claimed to be something only done through protagonist introspection, not through action. One learns by suffering and being powerless and empathizing with THE OTHER. The promotion of such writing has driven men of action away from fiction as surely as it has driven men of deep thinking and pondering away from the same.

This has not saved thought from corrupt narration, from passive programming. Rather it has placed our narrative sense firmly in the imposed dream state of movies, TV and video games. In these realms we are, via this corrupt narrative, guided off course, into the weeds and down the river into the rushes and swamp of Grendel, not up river to the spring that is our source.

The hero does not have to transform, to grow, to gaze at his naval—he just needs to keep being a hero, to affront the system to keep the struggle going. The poets knew this, Crichton knew this. At the time he wrote his story, convention said, in the form of anthropology, paleo-anthropology, archaeology, etc.,, that Neanderthals went peacefully extinct and interbred with our human ancestors who tried, but failed, to save them from their own impractical ways.

This made no narrative sense to me, and flew in the face of all myth from all cultures, that humanity was once hunted under temperate forests by some booger men, or scheming dwarves, forest demons, elves, sprites, big foot, wendigo, of giants, Humbaba, Grendel, werewolves, vampires, lamias… There is something in our collective past that hunted us in the forest. Also, the story of Beowulf very much resembles the uprising by nocturnal humans or near humans against a colonizing force. Life in the miserable fens, away from warming hearth, described in Beowulf, suggests that the monster and his mother had been driven into the worst haunts. In particular the lineage of Cain, of the outcast son of the First Man, being alone in the wild and jealous of his brother, Abel’s descendants, rang home to me each of the 44 times I listened to, and the three editions I have read, of Beowulf.

I recalled that Neanderthal were multiple times stronger than men, that they had large eyes [a nocturnal adaptation], were too short-limbed and muscular to throw at a distance and compete at long range with us—and why would they, owning the forest and the night? Larger brains indicated a longer maternity. There hunting was described by one scientist as “wolves with knives.” They suddenly went extinct at the time wolves were domesticated. This was all scoffed at from hippy, sissy quarters, yet rang in all of the most ancient stories. Bob had told me, years ago, that one never went into Grizzly country without dogs, that dogs were the best way to keep from being dragged from your tent by the Grizz at night,

As new archaeology and genetic testing reveals we find out that Michael Crichton’s speculative novel was right on almost all counts, according to more recent science, and that the science models still clung to by most scientists today are 180 degrees false.

Neanderthals were nocturnal.

They ate us, cracked our bones for marrow.

Dogs hated them, descending as they did from wolves, their rivals.

They were close combatants.

They dwelt in forests and caves and revered the bear.

They guarded their women with much more commitment, for all of our Neanderthal DNA comes from their men, none from women.

And more, Crichton got most of what we can know about that deep past right thru narrative sense, while over 90% of scientists devoted to this study have been as wrong as wrong can be.

This is why fiction is one of the antidotes to falsehood and faction, which are the arts of deception so often hung on the passively imbibed false narrative of movies and TV, where the savior is never welcome to remain, where women are the real fiber of resistance, when it is they who are so eager to spread their legs for the enemy. It is no accident that science and fact are ever so wrong, will ever be proven false, until the lie, so obvious to any ancient, and poet, glazes the minds eye of the media meat puppet and drives man over the cliffs of his own implanted, false instinct.

In a world where reading fiction has been replaced by viewing movies, I consistently encounter one truth, when highly intelligent people look at something that makes sense in a flash to any criminal out of the gutter, and says, “This makes no sense,” I will find out within that conversation why, when they suddenly show a glimmer of understanding of some happening, and can only explain it by reference to a movie! Using the very tool that taught them how to forget what we were.

If you, the reader, have trouble looking at any bit of news, and think, that, “makes no sense,” then there is one thing that might help:

-Skip watching your next 40 videos, TV shows and movies, and read one book.

-Then watch one movie or video or TV show.

-Then read another book.

-Do not listen to a podcast. Listen to a book.

-Do not read news. Read a book.

-Do not read anything written after 1946 until you have read ten books written before 1860.

After a year that world stage, that is so curtained in opaque now, will appear to be captured in glass.

It is no accident, that Robert E. Howard, a savant in his 20s, wrote a poem, A Song of The Naked Land, that describes the nature of civilization more effectively than the combined works of Plato, Xenophon, Aristotle, Augustine of Hippo, Will and Ariel Durant’s massive Story of Civilization, and the editorial staff of hundreds of American universities?

Notes

-1. I suspect that heresy is being given a breathing space in these few years, so that heretics might expose themselves for the inquisition of 2029 thru 32. The puppet masters, I suspect, are working faster and will reduce the typical 8 year term of figurehead to 4.

-2. Movie lengths, especially of adventure stories, which genre begs for brevity, have grown increasingly long. Compare a western of the 1930s with a science fiction or western of today and you will see an extended hypnotic process devoted to the same vapid construct of the sunset hero.