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Quote by J.R. Nyquist

“I have written many essays detailing the facts about this so-called “collapse of communism.” In all that time nobody wrote a detailed argument showing I was wrong. They just repeated slogans the communists had given them. In fact, those who warned about the coming fake collapse of communism – James Angleton and Anatoliy Golitsyn – were not dealt with by rational argument. They were libeled in books whose authors did the talk show circuit. They were dragged through the mud and called madmen by leading conservatives like William F. Buckley, Jr. But there was no rational argument against their true predictions of the future. Angleton and Golitsyn had been right. And now the end of the long range strategy is upon us. J.R.Nyquist”

Quote by J.R. Nyquist

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J.R. Nyquist

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“Occorre farsi trovare pronti quando ci accorgeremo, finalmente, che non esistono altre soluzioni per sfamarci, e non solo sfamarci, se non restituendo dignità alle attività agricole. Ci eravamo illusi, per molto tempo, di poter rivolgere altrove le nostre attenzioni prioritarie. Oggi, dopo quanto accaduto nel mondo della finanza, in quello dell’industria, nel mentre salgono sulla scena nuove nazioni che avevamo preso l’abitudine di definire “emergenti”, si va riscoprendo che l’agricoltura non è un nostalgico passato ma una assoluta necessità per il futuro.”

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“Se è corretta la mia ipotesi che il capitale cloud sta prevalendo sul capitale terrestre, risucchiando sempre più rendita cloud dalla catena del valore globale, allora l'Europa è in grossi guai. Perché non è la Cina. Non ha una sola azienda Big Tech che possa competere con quelle della Silicon Valley e i suoi sistemi finanziari sono in tutto e per tutto dipendenti da Wall Street.”

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“Se non è un mercato capitalista, in cosa entriamo, buon Dio, quando andiamo su amazon.com ?” Mi ha chiesto qualche anno fa uno studente all’Università del Texas. “Una specie di feudo digitale” ho risposto d’istinto. “Un feudo post-capitalista, le cui radici storiche rimangono nell’Europa feudale, ma la cui integrità è oggi mantenuta da un tipo di capitale futuristico e distopico basato sul cloud”

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“All of the Indians must have tragic features: tragic noses, eyes, and arms. Their hands and fingers must be tragic when they reach for tragic food. The hero must be a half-breed, half white and half Indian, preferably from a horse culture. He should often weep alone. That is mandatory. If the hero is an Indian woman, she is beautiful. She must be slender and in love with a white man. But if she loves an Indian man then he must be a half-breed, preferably from a horse culture. If the Indian woman loves a white man, then he has to be so white that we can see the blue veins running through his skin like rivers. When the Indian woman steps out of her dress, the white man gasps at the endless beauty of her brown skin. She should be compared to nature: brown hills, mountains, fertile valleys, dewy grass, wind, and clear water. If she is compared to murky water, however, then she must have a secret. Indians always have secrets, which are carefully and slowly revealed. Yet Indian secrets can be disclosed suddenly, like a storm. Indian men, of course, are storms. The should destroy the lives of any white women who choose to love them. All white women love Indian men. That is always the case. White women feign disgust at the savage in blue jeans and T-shirt, but secretly lust after him. White women dream about half-breed Indian men from horse cultures. Indian men are horses, smelling wild and gamey. When the Indian man unbuttons his pants, the white woman should think of topsoil. There must be one murder, one suicide, one attempted rape. Alcohol should be consumed. Cars must be driven at high speeds. Indians must see visions. White people can have the same visions if they are in love with Indians. If a white person loves an Indian then the white person is Indian by proximity. White people must carry an Indian deep inside themselves. Those interior Indians are half-breed and obviously from horse cultures. If the interior Indian is male then he must be a warrior, especially if he is inside a white man. If the interior Indian is female, then she must be a healer, especially if she is inside a white woman. Sometimes there are complications. An Indian man can be hidden inside a white woman. An Indian woman can be hidden inside a white man. In these rare instances, everybody is a half-breed struggling to learn more about his or her horse culture. There must be redemption, of course, and sins must be forgiven. For this, we need children. A white child and an Indian child, gender not important, should express deep affection in a childlike way. In the Great American Indian novel, when it is finally written, all of the white people will be Indians and all of the Indians will be ghosts.”

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“1 Cain lifts Crow, that heavy black bird and strikes down Abel. Damn, says Crow, I guess this is just the beginning. 2 The white man, disguised as a falcon, swoops in and yet again steals a salmon from Crow's talons. Damn, says Crow, if I could swim I would have fled this country years ago. 3 The Crow God as depicted in all of the reliable Crow bibles looks exactly like a Crow. Damn, says Crow, this makes it so much easier to worship myself. 4 Among the ashes of Jericho, Crow sacrifices his firstborn son. Damn, says Crow, a million nests are soaked with blood. 5 When Crows fight Crows the sky fills with beaks and talons. Damn, says Crow, it's raining feathers. 6 Crow flies around the reservation and collects empty beer bottles but they are so heavy he can only carry one at a time. So, one by one, he returns them but gets only five cents a bottle. Damn, says Crow, redemption is not easy. 7 Crow rides a pale horse into a crowded powwow but none of the Indian panic. Damn, says Crow, I guess they already live near the end of the world.”

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“The white woman across the aisle from me says 'Look, look at all the history, that house on the hill there is over two hundred years old, ' as she points out the window past me into what she has been taught. I have learned little more about American history during my few days back East than what I expected and far less of what we should all know of the tribal stories whose architecture is 15,000 years older than the corners of the house that sits museumed on the hill. 'Walden Pond, ' the woman on the train asks, 'Did you see Walden Pond? ' and I don't have a cruel enough heart to break her own by telling her there are five Walden Ponds on my little reservation out West and at least a hundred more surrounding Spokane, the city I pretended to call my home. 'Listen, ' I could have told her. 'I don't give a shit about Walden. I know the Indians were living stories around that pond before Walden's grandparents were born and before his grandparents' grandparents were born. I'm tired of hearing about Don-fucking-Henley saving it, too, because that's redundant. If Don Henley's brothers and sisters and mothers and father hadn't come here in the first place then nothing would need to be saved.' But I didn't say a word to the woman about Walden Pond because she smiled so much and seemed delighted that I thought to bring her an orange juice back from the food car. I respect elders of every color. All I really did was eat my tasteless sandwich, drink my Diet Pepsi and nod my head whenever the woman pointed out another little piece of her country's history while I, as all Indians have done since this war began, made plans for what I would do and say the next time somebody from the enemy thought I was one of their own.”

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