The error of the globalist is that he rejects what is true and beautiful in front of him while worshipping an effete ideal. Better to remember what you have, and not bring in that which is not yours.
For diversity and proximity leads to conflict, if not war.
If the participants in a culture do not express a preference for its own traditions and ways of doing things, if members of a family have no special attachment to that family in particular then that culture and that family are finished. All cultures do and should view with suspicion someone who expresses no favoritism, no loyalty, no preference with regard to his own culture. Such a rootless person is a threat to the continued existence of that culture. Likewise, if there is no special attachment to a spouse and children in particular, that spells the end of that family.
Some nihilists have claimed that the universe is an uncaring and loveless place. However, this is not true. If the universe is to love us, that love has to be made manifest. And love can be made manifest only in the particular.
Which brings me to a poem for today, as England mourns. I am turning to Eliot, who has the seasons around the wrong way for the Antipodes, but he knew and loved England, more the old England than the unitarian industrial New that bought him to life.
Midwinter spring is its own season
Sempiternal though sodden towards sundown,
Suspended in time, between pole and tropic.
When the short day is brightest, with frost and fire,
The brief sun flames the ice, on pond and ditches,
In windless cold that is the heart’s heat,
Reflecting in a watery mirror
A glare that is blindness in the early afternoon.
And glow more intense than blaze of branch, or brazier,
Stirs the dumb spirit: no wind, but pentecostal fire
In the dark time of the year. Between melting and freezing
The soul’s sap quivers. There is no earth smell
Or smell of living thing. This is the spring time
But not in time’s covenant. Now the hedgerow
Is blanched for an hour with transitory blossom
Of snow, a bloom more sudden
Than that of summer, neither budding nor fading,
Not in the scheme of generation.
Where is the summer, the unimaginable
Zero summer?If you came this way,
Taking the route you would be likely to take
From the place you would be likely to come from,
If you came this way in may time, you would find the hedges
White again, in May, with voluptuary sweetness.
It would be the same at the end of the journey,
If you came at night like a broken king,
If you came by day not knowing what you came for,
It would be the same, when you leave the rough road
And turn behind the pig-sty to the dull facade
And the tombstone. And what you thought you came for
Is only a shell, a husk of meaning
From which the purpose breaks only when it is fulfilled
If at all. Either you had no purpose
Or the purpose is beyond the end you figured
And is altered in fulfilment. There are other places
Which also are the world’s end, some at the sea jaws,
Or over a dark lake, in a desert or a city—
But this is the nearest, in place and time,
Now and in England.If you came this way,
Taking any route, starting from anywhere,
At any time or at any season,
It would always be the same: you would have to put off
Sense and notion. You are not here to verify,
Instruct yourself, or inform curiosity
Or carry report. You are here to kneel
Where prayer has been valid. And prayer is more
Than an order of words, the conscious occupation
Of the praying mind, or the sound of the voice praying.
And what the dead had no speech for, when living,
They can tell you, being dead: the communication
Of the dead is tongued with fire beyond the language of the living.
Here, the intersection of the timeless moment
Is England and nowhere. Never and always.T.S. Eliot.
The timeless moment is in the particular. You are either in London or not. I am (praise God) not, and I recommend to all to be where the crowds are not. We are to do good where we are and for those whom are in our families. Let the Texan look after Texas. Let the Bavarian look after Bavaria.
The rootless elite, the Macrons, Clintons and Merkels… care for nothing. They have this as their fate: nothing will care for them.