Some men were just born for suffering.
Born needing it, like the dualistic relation between an essential Blood-Spirit and its purgative catharsis: mingling, mingling, and never quite coming together. So we have this great Spirit, this Blood-Spirit, driving us forward, and at the same time this purging, this cleansing, that goes on at the same time. The two forces coexist, and are bound up together. Complementing each other, but at the same time in opposition.
Think of Roosh stumbling through South America, escaping the tyranny of Dr. Wang and his little petri dishes, from the tyranny of being told to be “respectable”; and at the same time, being wracked by parasites and dystentery. Following the essential Blood-Spirit, and being purged simultaneously. It is a fitting dualism, if you can manage it.
And there you have it. The essential purging that must take place before our Mr. Roosh can be free of greasy Dr. Wang, free from mother, free from sister, from the oppression of familiarity, and free from Maryland. Ah, how he hated Maryland, how he yearned to get away. Away. To scrape off the old resin with a Roman strigil.
And so they writhe, such men. Myself included. Some men were just born to writhe on the edges of razors they themselves spend their lives honing. To flail at themselves with their Idealistic cat-o-nine-tails. Thwack! Thwack! You can almost picture Roosh scourging his back again and again with his flail, wishing for Poland, for Brazil, for Colombia, for anywhere but here. But why, why, isn’t he happy? Because he knows the Ideal is doomed.
Roosh’s Why I Can’t I Use A Smiley Face is the poignant confession of a man who has lived this great experience for us, this experience of exploring foreign lands in search of the great female “Paradise”. Confessio pro vita sua. Poosy Paradise, as he calls it. The Great Snatch. The Pink El Dorado. And he returns to the US to find mostly grimness and disillusionment. To return home to get winks from 50 year single mothers on Match.com, to be condescended to by fat, arrogant dunces who nod politely and understand nothing. And so Roosh goes on flagellating himself. Thwack! Thwack! It is an entirely necessary flagellation, a required ritual.
And this is as it has always been, maybe. For it has been the fate of every real traveler—not your run-of the-mill Lonely Planet tourist–to return home to the maddening incomprehension of the common man. Don’t believe me? Look at what Melville, Richard Burton, and Wilfred Thesiger endured. Outcasts. The boorishness of the mob. The stupidity and inertia of the masses. Or think of Marco Polo, clapped into prison when he returned home for spinning what his countrymen called “tall tales”. Literally. Seems the Venetians didn’t like what he had to tell them. Didn’t want to hear it. Or Melville. Living among the South Sea Islanders, frolicking with Fayaway, on a different planet basically, and then coming home to face decades of disillusionment as a hack and occasional customs agent in New York City. With heating bills, a wife he hated, and a drunkard son. Anguish. He was another one born to suffer.
Well, our Mr. Roosh is right, of course. Society truly is a hateful place. The culture here is as soul-gobbling and rotten as he imagines it to be. Maybe more. You have only to enter any megastore in suburban America to view a species of humanity that barely qualifies as human. Homo corpulensis degeneratus. Walmart. Target. Home Depot. Take your pick.
But we are the agents of our suffering, mostly. Because it is we who construct the Great Ideals in the first place. The Great Ideal. The ideal of the Perfect Woman. We set ourselves up for disillusionment. The ideal of the perfect relationship. By persisting in our Ideals, we condemn ourselves to writhe on the edge of our own straight-razors: for there is no perfect woman, no perfect love, no perfect relationship. Melville tried and persisted in his Idealism, and went to his grave trying. He never quite recovered from his stint among the cannibals. He searched for the perfect love and couldn’t find it: his Polynesian mistress could never measure up. Searched for the perfect friend, and couldn’t find that either. His friendship with Nathaniel Hawthorne could not meet his Ideal. Nothing could, really. Because there is no Perfect Ideal. Because there is only struggle, and fight, and struggle some more. And this is life. Pass me a drink.
And yet there is something great and noble and savage in this confession, this little testament of Roosh. This noble confessio. Because in his heart, Roosh remains a proud soul: an expression of the purest Dream-Quest. The great odyssey in search of the Great Ideal: the great Arthurian quest. And there is something stirring and redeeming in that. For its own sake. The quest itself redeems, does it not? The Ideal itself redeems. Even if it is doomed. Compare the noble and doomed love of Shakespeare’s Anthony and Cleopatra to the unmanly whining and cringing of King Lear, shouting to heaven at the injustice of the world. You tell me which is more noble.
Because no matter what, our Roosh knows he is not going back to Dr. Wang and his test-tubes and his petri dishes. Ah, how he despised little greasy Dr. Wang and his rules, and how he ached to get away. To escape that prison. Away! Away! Anything to get away! And he did get away, he did indeed. He split from the whole program.
It is a noble confession because he never lost hope. Roosh never could abandon himself to despair or indifference. He never gave up. Even when he says “enjoy the decline”, don’t believe him. Don’t believe a word of it. It is his unconscious way of dodging his real sentiment. He isn’t enjoying the decline. He writhes with it. Because he cares. In truth, he loathes the decline. Like he despised old Wang and his petri dishes.
And this, the savage nobility of caring, is what makes him elevates him in the end. This is his Great Redeemer. The selflessness of the act of caring. Our Roosh, the great carer. The exterior he adopts–the acid, the profanity, the vitriol, the sarcasm–is his way of masking the essential gentility and nobility of character within. Of masking the purging of his Blood-Spirit, of masking the scars of the flagellation. Thwack! It is an armor of old date, a necessary protective coloration. Because Roosh doesn’t really want a private purging, a private flagellation. He wants and needs a very public one, a public catharsis. An auto-da-fe for Mr. Roosh.
For by living this great experience for us, he has effectively shed his old skin, reptile-like, and has started to grow his new skin. His new identity, his new essence. It is a painful, agonizing process: like being reborn. The process of being reborn, if you will. Because a new Roosh is taking shape before our eyes.
It is a great confession. Because Roosh knows in his deepest soul that the Ideal is doomed. His old Ideal. He just knows it.
Doomed. But yet he refuses to abandon his Ideal. His Titanic-like Ideal is going down, down beneath the waves, but he continues to fight. And he stays true to his own noble Blood-Spirit. His deepest identity. And this is what redeems him, and will assist him in his new Rebirth. His new mission, his new Ideal.
Because sometimes we have to grind ourselves down, to shatter our old icons, to shed our old skins, before we can be reborn. When the old Idols no longer serve the purpose for which they were created, they must be overthrown. We must scale the steps of the pyramid, smash the old Idols, and roll them down the steps. Destroy them utterly. As Cortes pulled down the dead gods and dead idols in Tenochtitlan. Well, let the old gods die. Good riddance.
O, how I long to point my howitzer into the faces of the Old Idols, and pull the lanyard! Fire for effect! For only then can we be reborn. And begin anew.
Read More: The Man Who Dropped Out Of Harvard To Become A Sailor
Quintus Curtius = Roosh. FYI.
Huh?
I take that as a compliment.
So creating multiple online accounts to plug your book is a compliment? Whatever works for you. Glad I made your day.
Actually, you are wrong. I am not Roosh. But I feel his his purpose.
And I am gratified that he was willing to let himself be subjected to this kind of intense scrutiny. Perhaps my opinions reveal more about myself than about him. If so, so be it.
But the first task of the critic is to save the artist from himself. From how own obfuscations. Because in this case, the artist Roosh is so much greater than he may know. Hence this review. To save Roosh from Roosh. To save the artist from the tale.
What is freedom? What is FREE? We are only free, Mack Daddy, when we are following the innermost purpose of our own Blood-Nature. Our own IT. What is your IT? Do you know?
IT is our essential core of purpose, our being. What is your IT? Do you know? Are you prepared to chase it down, hunt it down, and possess it?
Only the most unfree prattle on and on about “freedom”. It only is a rattling of chains, really. A jingle-jangle of handcuffs. Men are not free when they are doing just what they like. Stroking their guns like some festishist. No. Because the moment you can do anything you like, you care about doing nothing at all.
The most free think of freedom not at all. And run off to the Wild West, to rant about freedom. Think of the Puritans, fleeing England to set up the most un-free colony imaginable.
Know that freedom exists when a man is following his innermost mystical purpose. His deepest Blood-Desire. Hunting it down. As he must. All else is just an unmanly craving. And Roosh knows this.
In his heart, he is a mystic. This wandering, mendicant Daryoosh. Roosh. A whirling, seeking Turkish dervish. Daryoosh. A seeker. Chasing his Blood-Nature to the ends of the Earth.
Before you can do what IT commands you to do, you must first breaks the bonds of the old commandments. To break free, FREE, from you own greasy Dr. Wang and your own Petri dishes. Are you ready to repudiate your own Dr. Wang, and follow your own IT, with the assurance and compulsion of a sleep-walker?
And that is what I say. And when you do this, your own Great Day will begin.
What could be more noble than that?
You are most free when you aren’t a slave to selfish bodily pleasures. You are free when you willingly serve others.
You probably won’t get a seat on the train to pussy town with that mindset…but that is just another prison that has momentary releases for good behavior.
“You are most free when you aren’t a slave to selfish bodily pleasures. You are free when you willingly serve others.”
I call male hamster on this one.
You are free when others have no influence over you and only you have influence over yourself.
I said willingly serve…not by somebody’s force.
If so, how is a man who willingly serves others more free than a man who willingly serves himself?
What’s the difference between being self-driven to satisfy one’s moral ideals and being self-driven to satisfy one’s biological impulse?
Willingly serving yourself puts you into the prison of your pleasures…serving others willingly frees you of that prison.
If Jesus did it I don’t see it as a bad thing.
But wouldn’t willingly serving others put you into the prison of their pleasures?
How can the self be a prison when the concept of prison is others imposing their will upon your self?
Pleasure has it’s limits. It also has its own cages with which to trap you like a bird on a wire.
Pleasure is like Oxycontin. Just enough, and you can function through what ails you. Too much, and you may as well have just taken heroin or crack and got it over with.
Think of it for a second. Roosh may make money from this site? However, in many ways, he is providing a service to other men as well. Though he may not believe in Christ, he is following some of His tenets.
I don’t think the Big One Upstairs necessarily cares what you say or do; yet even if you are evil, there are rules in the universe, and any who are wise enough to follow it, can participate in the fruits of their labor. God respects no man. Also, I guess He does not care if a apostate profits. The rain falls on the good and the bad.
Willing service is one of the highest goals and ambitions. The fact that most shun it as inconvenient, or unmanly actually condemn themselves.
Noble Service to others comes in numerous forms; but one of the outcomes of it is the same. Pleasure.
Sex can bring a pleasurable ecstasy. Yet the knowledge that your hard work, even if not the direct service of others, or for monetary gain; brings pleasure in knowing you achieved something.
I will finish with this as I have calc to do.
In the Pyramids at Giza, inside the big pyramid, above the burial chamber, and inside the large triangular formed support stones is an attic of sorts. What is notable about this would actually surprise most if they thought about it.
It is largely an unusable space, that no one was ever going to see; so they thought anyways. Yet inside, on one of the side surfaces is a triangular symbol with hieroglyphics on it.
It is a sign of those who built it.
They basically got to lay their claim to history by saying “we were here.” Even though they most likely died doing it.
There is pleasure in any kind of service to a man, when his work is well done. Mankind has known this for as long as he has built cities and farmed, if not longer.
dude what the fuck are you talking about? i mean, the way you talk man. it sounds like you are tripping on acid.
I can kind of see where earl is coming from here. Pleasures can be cages. Just look at addicts. That being said, I don’t agree that serving others frees you from that. Helping people is just another pleasure as it releases Endorphins, hence why it feels good to do it. Furthermore, there is a point where serving others can be counter-productive and even harmful to yourself.
Aside from external factors, what will make you “free” (this is not the time or place for a discussion of whether or not free will exists) is control. Maintain control over yourself and your desires. To paraphrase Doug Stanhope, practice “Excess in moderation.”
You say that like it’s a bad thing 😉
If everyone here is truly on the path to better themselves, then wouldn’t it make sense that Roosh equals QC (or anyone else for that matter)? Because he is sharing the information on this site, another site or in a book really doesn’t matter. Time and knowledge….both are commodities. Both are very valuable.
We jump from one prison to another in this life.
Perfection doesn’t come until we die.
Yes, either physical or metaphysical death are what’s required to be free. But even physical death may not free a soul from being reincarnated to learn its lessons.
Until fixation on thought dies one will never find peace, in this or any dimension. You’re actually fine either way, though you suffer less when you make that inquiry the focal point of your life. Truth waits.
“And this, the savage nobility of caring, is what makes him elevates him
in the end. This is his Great Redeemer. The selflessness of the act of
caring. Our Roosh, the great carer.” An editor might put the brakes on some these flourishes. I actually like the more experimental style though. These ideas are going to have to break out of the blogosphere ghetto at some point, and we’re going to need people who can write in a language higher than blogese.
tl;dr
get money, fuck bitches
For real! Quintus, he wrote a good book, but get of his dick, geez.
Observe that we are debating Roosh and not the masses holed up in their “blissful ignorance”.
We can debate the existence, merits, or mystical properties of a man like Roosh all day long and and not have a consensus on things. The point is not what conclusions are made, but the fact that he/it is worthy of thought and consideration in the first place because he/it is something greater than most people/ideas.
Awesome post!
How could anyone think this was written by Roosh!? It’s not his writing style at all!
I loved this post, even if I don’t know more words than I’d like to. I like how he feels towards Roosh, and the way he speaks about him. If I understood it correctly, I agree with all that he says about him. And I can relate to his faith in Roosh cause I feel the same way.. There’s a bunch of us expecting great things from him.
Now pass me a drink too.
Ah, but when you are there, this American life is a million miles away, and far, far from your thoughts. When you are there and on the streets, those unfamiliar streets in that strange world and culture, you live more in 5 minutes than you do here in one day. It starts at the jetway when you arrive, it builds when you see the foreign immigrations officers and it smacks you in the face when you step outside the front door or the airport. All airports are the same, little pieces of America, no matter where you are in the world. But that ends at the front door.
And when you go alone, when you have very little to anchor you, when you get into that taxi and ride through the city, when you end up in some strange room, and you drop your luggage, and then in the following days as you find your way, find yourself, then all you were, and all that was, is so so far away.
And it can ruin you forever. I have been back 3 years and I do not seek to engage America in any way. I stay home, on the internet. I shop in the middle of the night for food. When I must be out in the day, I move quickly, efficiently. I interact little with this society that I am no longer a part of. Some of that is age but a lot of is that I have killed my American self and I feel no affection for it, no loyalty to it, and I shall discard it forever, soon. The only connection is feel to it is you, you band of renegade rebels to whom I feel a kindred spirit.
Listen closely to expats. Perhaps it is a self limiting situation. I would assume no lover of America, no person that celebrates it as a place, is an expat. So on one hand, they are a group disposed to dissent. They may have issues over the laws, the bureaucracy of the new place they now live, but rarely do they ever ever long for America.
Despite the claims of feminists, America is the Matriarchy, the land owned and dominated by women and their mangina menservants, their guards, their infrastructure that so caters to them, their laws.
You see it when upon landing in America. In other places, immigration is almost a “lip service”, a gang of sorts to get money from you when you arrive and when you leave. The security you must pass, when entering. is almost a joke compared to what you encounter when you arrive in America. And it is far greater when you leave, those airlines and airport security forces have a procedure that is not so much that the idea of the country you are leaving, but rather the dictates of America, and its women.
And here you are not a man, but a functionary, a manservant, a slave to women. You see it when you arrive, you feel it, you know it, that stripping of your masculine dignity that begins the moment you leave the plane and enter an American terminal, that herding, that loss of the you that is you. And you see it as you come out on these clean, lit streets, this great giant boring shopping mall, all designed for women, all policed for women, all at the behest of women and those manginas that have bought in, that know no different, that do not understand what they are, what they do, and what they have done.
So, yes, you leave because you have the idea that something here is wrong, some other place must be better, NAPALT, Not All Places Are Like This. Perhaps, if you are only gone for a short while, you won’t quite be a able to put your finger on what the difference is, just that it is different. But when you spend a good deal of time away, you know there is a difference, and if you must come back, then you yearn not to be here.
It is not the adventure of the place or the exotic.
What you miss is the experience of being a man in a way that this society will never allow. It is too late for here. It is more than merely cultural, more than social, it is even biological. This matriarchy has dominated even nature here, controlled every last aspect, even the dirt, even the germs, all of the animals, and certainly, all of the men.
If you stay, you will remain in angst, a slave to women.
When I close my eyes the image I see is elsewhere. And when I die, the fact I got to live elsewhere for a time, will dwarf what I feel about here. It is the basis of my rants about marriage and this American life as a married man being insipid, stupid, and a waste of the life of man. Because it ties you to here, it chains you, it removes your option, your hope, that you might leave, and seals your fate as a slave.
Thanks for weighing in, Mark. Always appreciate your fresh voice.
Mark, what places did you go to ?
Spain, England, Colombia, Panama, Peru, Japan. But most of my time was spent in Colombia, the long extended times out of the country. And that is where I formed my opinions. It is better to live as a man on a minimal subsistence in another place than to work for 6 figures in the monotony and slavery of a man in the US.
By the way this little comment here has sparked a firestorm on manboobz. He copied it and parodied it and it has caused some 685 comments to his typical 200 for a post.
But I say this. Manboob is a pussy, a bitch. He throws men under the bus for personal gain and he plays the biggest Beta/Gamma Game in the internet.
So I take great pleasure in being the target of one of his posts.
Good thoughts…thanks for sharing that experience.
Eventually you come to the Buddha’s first noble truth:
life is always going to be somewhat unsatisfactory,
it’s always going to contain some suffering.
Looking outside your own mind for happiness just isn’t going to work.
External conditions can create some comfort or some discomfort,
but happiness comes only from within.
Beautifully done, sir; I can’t wait to read this book.
Uncle Roosh = our martyr. I was listening to this song while reading this article, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r26VsCGCgb0, a beautiful experience.
One of the best writings in the manosphere I have read in a year.
It brings to mind something of Eastern Philosophy: Water which is too pure has no fish.
I think Melville had a real problem, but not the one this article necessarily subscribes.
Being content is actually quite the skill “set.” I did not say just a skill, but a set of skills. In order to be content, one must realize he is far from the perfect catch! So he will very likely never find perfection. For opposites are merely the few side interests we have that add to our variety. Yet generally, people who get together are more or less the same. Common interests, common goals, common dreams.
So with the quote, if you took all the “grime” out of water, you have distilled it. Yet distilled water produces nothing, without some of the grime with which to make things grow.
And growing is rarely ever pleasant when you go through it. Yet if Melville, or Roosh, had not experienced the things they did, the layer of grime they have would not be present. They would not be as interesting as they were/are!
It is the nature of a man not to avoid confrontation or adversity, but to overcome and thrive within the boundaries it sets; until you are strong enough to break those bonds. The fact that another set of boundaries appears should not dishearten you.
Merely give you encouragement that something new is on your horizon.
A man who bitches and moans, always chomping on the bit like a girl who can’t go shopping because daddy refuses the credit card is not a friend of mine.
It is the high note guy. The man who dusts himself off, and keeps fighting. I don’t care if he loses, the fact he has the inner fortitude to not give up despite the “pod” of beached whales lying about screeching their ear shattering bitchiness the world over is what separates the men from the boys.
Messed up shit happens to us all, it is what you do with it that defines you. Even if whipping your own back with a cat’0’nine tails is your MO; still, at least you are doing something.
I figure at some point you will get there. Why I read this site.
The alternative to this scenario is just accepting women are people with the same desires, dreams, virtues and flaws as you have and living your life with its hazards, disappointments and pleasures – just like everyone else has to. Or you can keep acting weird.