Translated by Guillaume Durocher
Ex: http://www.counter-currents.com
Translator’s Note: The following are excerpts from the preface to a collection of early articles by Emil Cioran translated from Romanian into French. I found this very interesting concerning the young Cioran’s embrace of fascism as embodying the “barbarism” he considered necessary to halt decadence. I have broken up some of the paragraphs. The title is editorial, and the footnotes are my own. Source: Emil Cioran, Apologie de la barbarie: Berlin-Bucharest (1932-1941) (Paris: L’Herne, 2015), pp. 11-19.
Why shouldn’t we rejoice when the flames of our will to sacrifice triumph over our sorrows, our illnesses, and our insignificant resignations? Renunciations, yes, but not resignations. He who renounces has too much to give, whereas he who resigns himself cannot even receive. – Emil Cioran, Vremea,[1] [2] January 14, 1934
Long before adopting French as his exclusive means of literary creation, it was first through German that the young Emil Cioran (1911-1995) gradually crossed the cultural boundaries of his country of origin. Born as a subject of the Austro-Hungarian Empire in the region of Transylvania, which was inhabited by many Saxons, he early on became familiar with this language which, from the age of fourteen, opened the doors to poetry and philosophical thought.
Some springs later, when he published his first pieces in the Romanian press, it was easy to feel the presence of German: in truth, it was then Cioran’s second language, almost a mother tongue, a language which conveyed an entire mental universe from which the future essayist would soon draw his inspiration, if not his identity. In 1928, shortly after having obtained his high school diploma, he left the city of Sibiu and registered at the Faculty of Letters and Philosophy of Bucharest: the capital, which was nicknamed “the little Paris of the Balkans,” was in those days resolutely turned towards France . . .
From this point of view, the cultural baggage of a Mihail Sebastian[2] [3] or a Eugène Ionesco[3] [4] – francophile spirits, if there ever were any! – was much more representative of the young Bucharest intelligentsia of the day than was Cioran’s . . . A discrepancy saturated with momentous issues and which has perhaps not been sufficiently emphasized.
Through the selection of articles presented in this volume, we have sought, on the basis of authentic documents, to reconstitute the young Cioran’s intellectual journey grappling with his pre-war Germanophilia. By reading them, one perceives better that a certain Germany – Romantic, then vitalist and irrationalist – was, in his eyes, able to be the counterpoint to the irrelevance of a France which to him was obsolete, as well as to the structural deficiencies of his country and the atrophy of a world in which the exercise of the mind is no longer, in short, compatible with Life. This Romanian was already well-versed in the art of the pamphlet and had only the harshest words, for pages on end, to excoriate the West’s decline. . . .
It goes without saying that Cioran’s stay in the Reich (autumn 1933-autumn 1935) constitutes a particular – and eminently crucial – episode in his biography. Whereas a few months earlier he still displayed a frank contempt for all forms of political engagement (“that immense filth,” he said), the philosophy student would nourish himself, as soon he arrived in Berlin, with a genuine passion for the “new Germany” – the effectiveness of the Gleichschaltung, the people’s frenzy, and especially the Führer’s charisma.
From this period until his definitive move to France (1941), Cioran would constantly ideologize his discourse, fight against pacifism as well as skepticism, and promote the fanaticization of the masses and the resort to violence in order to destroy critical thought – convinced of having discovered in Hitlerism a model dictatorship to be urgently imported into his own country. He also sought – with force, lyricism, and aggressiveness – to put before his compatriots the following choice: a mission or despair; the birth of a history or rotting in time’s ash-heap; the transfiguring leap or death . . . He wrote in the February 4, 1934 columns of Vremea:
For my part, Romania remains of interest only insofar as it can succeed in becoming another Romania, insofar as speaking of another Romania is meaningful. Because, for my part, I refuse to patch a torn-up shirt back together, nor do I want to let myself be dissolved in a rot for which I am not responsible. Then, how can we not admire Germany’s self-asserting will, ready to fight the entire world, brandishing untenable ideas and unfounded aspirations, which are due to a vitality and a pride whose intensity eliminates caricatural ridiculousness, confronts the absurd, and nourishes itself against many mistakes which our insipid lucidity avoids because of a shameful prudence?
Simply said: there was, with Cioran, a before and an after Germany – a before and after 1933. How could his future rapprochement with the Iron Guard have been possible without his stay in Berlin and then in Munich, without this fateful stay during which he discovered the powerful aspirations of “great politics”? All the more in that there remained abyssal differences between Legionary doctrine and the theorist Cioran’s prescriptions (without speaking of those distinguishing Hitlerists from the Guard).
This is shown by his cursed book, The Transfiguration of Romania, published in 1936 . . . In this work, Cioran tries to confront his ideas concerning the philosophy of culture and of history with the concrete case of Romania, in order to establish the foundations for an explicitly nationalist project. If Codreanu’s disciples could legitimately appropriate some of his positions (notably on minorities and foreigners, and on the need to liquidate Romanian democracy and replace it with a far-Right dictatorship), it seems likely that many other arguments, consciously critical of the Guard, must have provoked much incomprehension and perplexity among the “Greenshirts”: the marked praise of Bolshevism; the pages dedicated to the people’s material misery, and the lack of genuine reflection in the national debate on social injustices; the categorical rejection of Orthodoxy and “Romanianism” as identitarian foundations for the country to be born; and the modernist voluntarism which Cioran stubbornly praises – against “tradition,” the “village,” the figure of the “eternal peasant” – in favor of a massive industrialization of the very rural Romania of that time . . .
This Cioran, in short, has nothing reactionary about him: he abhors the passéisme affecting too many of his compatriots, just as he abhors the limp and prudent consensus of parliamentarism, a political institution which in his eyes is as ineffective as it is corrupt, as incapable of raising Romania’s “historic level” as of inspiring the appearance, from within it, of the heroes which it so urgently needs.
And he repeats to excess: in Romania, everything is still to be created, there are no precedents – but one must first make the effort to definitively forget this wonderful past which many local historians claimed existed and which was, in fact, nothing more than a painful fantasy whose harmfulness was manifest. Yes, this Cioran wants to be exclusively turned towards the future. And the future, for him, is Nazi Germany – the perfect cultural and political antithesis to the French spirit, towards which Cioran feels a certain sincere attachment, but which it would ultimately be in vain to still attribute any vitality.
For that matter, one of the great questions raised by this part of Cioran’s biography is no doubt the following: How to explain the suddenness with which the young student, put into contact with Hitlerism, let himself be convinced to put his incisive pen and his vast culture in the service not only of liberticidal, but essentially deadly causes? The question is all the more difficult in that we cannot satisfy ourselves with the argument of temporary folly. “I know for certain that I will never go mad,” he quite precisely wrote to Bucur Țincu[4] [5] in 1932. And, does one become mad simply by constantly calling for madness in one’s literary productions?
A thorny question, then, but on which the chronological reading of the articles which follow can bring valuable insights: an extreme anthropological pessimism; the observation of a generalized decadence in the West inspired by Spenglerian analyses; a rejection of the rationalist tradition stemming from the Enlightenment to the benefit of thought centered on the “soul,” the “vital,” and the “intuitive”; and the exacerbation of the fundamental antinomy between Kultur and Zivilisation, with a stark predilection for Kultur. Even before his departure for Berlin, Cioran’s texts draw, on the strictly cultural level, from a collection of values and assessments which are so many “spiritual” predispositions towards an effective politicization of his discourse.

That said, there is another easily observable phenomenon in these texts and which was, perhaps, more decisive still, that is to say: self-loathing. In the young Cioran, this takes on at least two forms: in the first instance, self-loathing as the representative of an organically deficient “small culture,” as a Romanian; then self-loathing as an intellectual. Constantly associated with the notions of fecundity and effectiveness, the aspiration towards a regenerative “barbarism” is for Cioran the only way to escape this double condition, which he considers sterile and humiliating.
The encounter with Hitlerism in the autumn of 1933 would serve as a catalyst in his mind: henceforth, to withdraw to inner life would no longer be acceptable; one needed to act, and act quickly – that is to say, politically. If this conversion was brutal, it is in fact because it answered a vital need, the inability to bear any longer the pressure of a wounded pride, mortified by Destiny.
Cioran’s frenzied enthusiasm was then proportional to the intensity of his despair. He no longer wanted to be lucid; he wanted to be alive – even if it meant, for that, renouncing everything, including his quality as a free, thinking man. He would bluntly write in Vremea:
Among all the values to which humanity has grown attached, none “wears out” as quickly as liberty. The feeling of inopportuneness becomes dramatic. Hence is born among intellectuals, in our time, a strange fury for submission, a need for blindness, delight in debasement. Nobody wants to be free anymore. And this is what is to be sought in the passion for the Right as much as for the Left.
Astounding statements, when one knows the outspokenness, the finesse, and the originality of the thinker which Cioran would become, a few years later, in the French language.
Notes
[1] [6] A Romanian newspaper, its name meaning Time.
[2] [7] A Romanian Jewish playwright, journalist, and novelist (1907-1945). He died in a traffic accident, not because of the persecution of European Jewry.
[3] [8] A Romanian playwright who, like Cioran, also lived in France and came to publish exclusively in the French language.
[4] [9] An essayist and literary historian who hailed from the same village as Cioran, Rășinari.




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Au total, 691 soldats ont été tués par la PIRA (dont 197 UDR) et 6 par les loyalistes protestants. De leurs côté, les militaires ont abattus 121 PIRA, 10 loyalistes et 170 civils. La PIRA a tué 1457 civils dont, par règlements de compte, 162 autres « républicains » (c’est-à-dire plus que l’armée), et 28 loyalistes. Ces derniers ont tués 1071 civils. 

« Les premières années de sa carrière de dessinateur, Hergé doit tout à son patron, sauf son talent bien entendu. Le directeur Wallez lui offrit des opportunités et le mentor Wallez lui prodigua de précieux conseils et d’indispensables encouragements. L’abbé le prit sous son aile et lui apprit qu’il devait être plus exigeant envers lui-même, qu’il devait davantage travailler à son développement spirituel, tenter de répondre à des normes morales toujours plus rigoureuses, mettre la barre toujours plus haut. C’est lui qui incita Hergé à inventer lui-même une histoire et à ne plus illustrer les idées des autres. Il l’encouragea à créer un petit personnage qui serait un exemple pour les jeunes lecteurs du journal. On peut dire que Wallez a été, avec Hergé, à l’origine de Tintin. Il est de notoriété publique que c’est lui, et non le dessinateur, qui a décidé d’envoyer le sympathique petit reporter successivement au pays des Soviets et au Congo, tout d’abord pour mettre les jeunes en garde contre les dangers du bolchévisme et ensuite pour leur montrer le formidable travail accompli par les missionnaires belges dans la colonie. Mais Wallez fit encore bien plus. Il fut le premier “agent littéraire” de Hergé et parvint à vendre les aventures de Tintin à l’étranger, plus précisément à l’hebdomadaire français Cœurs Vaillants dirigé par l’abbé Gaston Courtois, avec qui il était lié d’amitié et partageait les mêmes opinions conservatrices ».
Le jeune Léon Degrelle publie des articles au sein du Vingtième Siècle sur les taudis, puis sur la situation des Cristeros, les paysans catholiques mexicains se soulevant contre le gouvernement anticatholique. Degrelle est appelé ensuite à exercer des fonctions ailleurs.
Le professeur Petri (photo), qui a assisté au discours de l’abbé Wallez, attend ce dernier à la sortie de la salle et le félicite pour « […] son élévation, sa vigueur et la nouveauté de plusieurs de ses aperçus ».
Le 28 février 1948, Wallez comparaît en appel. La peine est alourdie d’un an de prison supplémentaire. Il retourne à la maison de repos. Le dimanche 25 avril, il y est arrêté et ensuite emprisonné. Il est finalement relâché pour raison de santé, admis dans un hôpital et opéré.
Hergé, recyclé par la Résistance
En 1889, Fidus reprend les cours réguliers qu’il s’était promis de suivre à Munich. Il y fait la connaissance de Wilhelm Hübbe-Schleiden, originaire, lui aussi, d’Allemagne du Nord, converti à la théosophie de l’occultiste Madame Blavatsky et partisan d’une politique coloniale allemande. Ce nati de Hambourg était un ami intime de Madame Blavatsky et de son adepte américain Henry Steel Olcott, qui avait fondé aux Etats-Unis une secte théosophique. La religiosité théosophique de Steel Olcott était un mélange obscur de bribes hétéroclites tirées des religions d’Asie et de trucs de prestigiditateur, qui avait pourtant acquis une notoriété internationale. Il faut aussi rappeler que ce cher Henry travaillait accessoirement pour le gouvernement américain. Pour rassembler leurs adeptes allemands, Hübbe-Schleiden édita une revue mensuelle, intitulée Sphinx, dont le graphiste principal fut évidemment le jeune Fidus. Cette collaboration dura trois ans. Influencé par les idées glanées dans la revue, Fidus fit siennes celles d’un « cercle de vie » et d’une « thérapie par la lumière ».
Fidus, lui, quitta Munich pour Berlin, où il travailla pour des revues telles Jugend, Pan et Simplicissimus. Plus tard, il collabora à Kraft und Schönheit et à Die Schönheit. Le regard de Fidus sur la beauté naturelle du corps humain et son style « Art Nouveau », quelque peu édulcoré, firent de lui le graphiste le plus connu d’Allemagne au tournant du siècle.





Such an apology and a reform (or series of reforms) the real revolutionaries mightily feared. Never had they actually sought reform of French society, whatever their claims and protestations. Instead, from the moment they began the revolution in 1789, they wanted to destroy and overturn all that opposed them and to do so utterly and completely, leaving no remnant and no possible opposition. To destroy as violently and wholly as possible, they needed to make a caricature of the aristocrat and the monarch. They needed to take the particular evils of each and make the average person believe them the universal and norm of each. Rather than examining the human condition, the true revolutionaries exaggerated its faults as manifested in the elites of society. They, Burke claimed in true Aristotelian and Thomistic fashion, redefined the thing, claiming its accidents to be its essence. Being revolutionaries, they could not create, they could only mock and pervert. Though the revolutionaries claimed to hate the violence and errors of the aristocracy, they submitted themselves to the very same evils, creating excuses for their own sins, as if necessary to expiate all of those of the past.
" Malgré les nombreuses études qui lui ont été consacrées, une période cruciale de la vie de Julius Evola restait encore dans l’ombre, d’autant plus que l’intéressé, discret jusqu’à la réticence au sujet de lui-même, en avait très peu parlé : les années 1943-1951, qui furent celles de l’attitude à adopter face à la grande crise du régime fasciste et à la fondation de la République sociale italienne (rsi), puis de l’accident survenu à Vienne début 1945 qui le laissa paralysé des membres inférieurs, du véritable « chemin de croix » médical qui suivit entre l’Autriche, la Hongrie et l’Italie, enfin du retour définitif à Rome au printemps de 1951.
It’s not difficult to understand why, however, given that for a long time, Traditionalists have been operating under the guise of being purely concerned with religion and mysticism, remaining silent about the fact that Traditionalism in its complete form is one of the most – if not the most – reactionary current of thought that exists in the postmodern world. This is of course a consequence of the fact that most Traditionalist thinkers today have opted for the safety of academic careers (something which Evola noted already in the 1950s and for which he expressed his contempt), and thus want to avoid being called fascists. Their cover has been somewhat blown, however, as a result of Steve Bannon’s claim that Guénon was a crucial influence on him, which has in turn led to some superficial and ill-informed propaganda from journalists using Traditionalism as a branding iron with which to mark both Bannon and Trump (by association) as fascists, by bringing attention to the connection between Evola and Guénon. (And Evola had the audacity to call himself a “superfascist,” so by the logic of the average half-witted journalist of today, that makes Bannon and Trump really fascist!) It remains to be seen what the long-term consequences of this will be in terms of Traditionalism’s reception in the mainstream, although I’ve noticed that it’s become harder to find Evola and Guénon’s books on bookstore shelves these days. It may have the beneficial effect of forcing Traditionalists out of the realm of pure scholasticism and into putting their beliefs into practice, if academia ultimately becomes a hostile environment for them – which it inevitably will, if present trends continue. Time will tell.



Ook de transportcorridor door Pakistan heeft met dergelijke destabilisaties te kampen. In deze regio strekken veel bevolkingsgroepen zich uit over de grens tussen Afghanistan en Pakistan, zodat instabiliteit in Afghanistan ook uitstraalt naar Pakistaanse regio’s.
Nog groter is het potentieel van de zogeheten
De Noordoostelijke Doorvaart biedt dus veel voordelen ten opzichte van de nu gangbare route. Het gebied rond het Suez-kanaal is momenteel immers bepaald instabiel. De Straat van Bab el Mandeb, die vanuit de Golf van Aden toegang geeft tot de Rode Zee en het Suezkanaal, ligt immers tussen Jemen enerzijds en Eritrea/Djibouti anderzijds. In Jemen voert een Arabische coalitie onder leiding van Saoedi-Arabië en met ondersteuning van de VS, het Verenigd Koninkrijk en Frankrijk een 


Lucius Quinctius Cincinnatus

The paper was PM, and for the first two years of its existence (1940-42), it exulted in damning Father Coughlin as a seditionist, a yellow-journalist, a Nazi mouthpiece, and an impious opponent of democracy. PM began with a long series of articles in the summer of 1940. “Nazi Propagandist Coughlin Faithless to Church and Country: Hatred and Bigotry Spread Throughout the Nation by Priest,” screamed one headline. After American entry into the war, histrionic, full-page editorials by Editor Ingersoll became a regular feature; e.g., one titled “Has Charles Coughlin Lied Again?”
From the start, PM was renowned for its crankiness and an eagerness to print facts and speculation side-by-side, journalistic taste be damned. For example, in 1941 New Yorker editor Harold Ross discovered that his male secretary had embezzled about a hundred thousand dollars from him over the years. Ross wanted to keep the story hushed up, especially after the greedy amanuensis gassed himself in his Brooklyn apartment and was revealed to be a homosexual who squandered the dough on boyfriends, the turf club, and maybe a blackmailer. This was Harold Ross’ nightmare idea of a scandal. Most of his friends in the press were happy to help him bury the lurid tale. Not PM, though, which printed the murky details of the kitchen suicide, as well as the disarray of Ross’ personal finances.
Fr. Coughlin lived until 1979, seldom remarked upon or remembered. Since that time, the smear campaign has begun anew, as though taken straight from the pages of the 1942 PM. All the trite pejoratives get leveled at him: fascist, pro-Nazi, conspiracy-thinker. And, of course, “anti-Semite.” The website of Washington, DC’s Holocaust Museum even has a page dedicated to him, and it’s filled with every sort of twist and innuendo in the cliché barrel. For example, after Germany’s Kristallnacht made the headlines in November 1938, the priest gave a radio talk explaining the background to the news. This is spun as Coughlin “defend[ing] the state-sponsored violence of the Nazi regime,” although he did not, in fact, endorse violence, window-breaking, or persecution of Jews. From sites such as this, you might get the impression that Fr. Coughlin was a sort of Julius Streicher in a Roman collar.

Dans le monde arabe, à la défaite militaire s’ajoute la défaite symbolique. Il y a bien évidemment l’humiliation de l’occupation : le Sinaï égyptien (qui sera récupéré par le président Sadate), le Golan syrien (annexé en 1981), les fermes libanaises de Chebaa et les territoires palestiniens de Gaza et de Cisjordanie (dont Jérusalem-Est), administrés auparavant par l’Égypte et la Jordanie. Il y a aussi la spoliation du peuple palestinien, qui se retrouve occupé et malmené pendant des décennies par une puissance étrangère. Mais il y a aussi l’échec du nationalisme arabe qui en annoncera bien d’autres. Cet échec de trois grandes armées arabes encouragera le réveil de la résistance palestinienne. Dans les années 1970, l’Organisation de libération de la Palestine (OLP) jouera un rôle analogue à celui de Nasser, décédé en 1970. En Jordanie comme au Liban, Yasser Arafat apparaîtra comme une figure tutélaire à son tour, stimulé par quelques succès militaires dont les grandes armées arabes ont été incapables. On retrouvera ce phénomène avec le Hezbollah libanais. Un peu plus de dix ans après cette guerre, à la cause arabe contre Israël se substituera une cause nouvelle, nourrie par la montée du wahhabisme à la faveur des pétrodollars, celle de la guerre d’Afghanistan (1979). Tandis que l’Égypte vient de signer un traité de paix avec Israël (ce que la Jordanie fera en 1994), des milliers de combattants venus du monde arabe se retrouveront ainsi plongés dans un conflit lointain au nom d’une appartenance religieuse, encouragés par les Américains et contre l’ennemi « impie » tout désigné : l’Union soviétique.
Voici les propos qu’on lui prête :
Selon ce grandiose Calgacus, on est là aussi pour être rincés par les impôts qui n’ont jamais été aussi élevés (France, Allemagne, USA) pour les couches faibles et moyennes dans ce monde pourtant si libéral :



Nach der Rückehr König Ferdinands (VII.) aus dem unfreiwilligen französischen Exil (1814) baten dieselben „Servilen“ ihn in einer später als „Manifest der Perser“ (Manifiesto de los Persas) berühmt gewordenen Schrift, die revolutionären Neuerungen zu verwerfen. Der seltsame Name rührt von einer Bezugnahme auf die alten Perserkönige zurück, welche der Überlieferung zufolge die Pflicht hatten, mit ihrem Thronantritt die alte Ordnung wiederherzustellen.
Französische Befreier
«i cavalieri liberi del barone Ungern von Sternberg, che sognava di ricostituire in Asia l’impero di Gengis Khan. Un giorno salì a cavallo e disse ai suoi: “Vado su Alpha Centauri”. Nessuno lo vide mai più».
Lors du référendum de Maastricht de 1992, il appelle à un « oui » critique au nom de l’intérêt de l’Europe, car Michel Jobert est très européen. « L’Europe, si elle nous tient à cœur, n’aura de visage, d’identité, que si elle est capable d’assurer elle-même sa sécurité, au lieu de faire semblant de ne pas voir que, au-dessus d’elle, le parapluie nucléaire américain est troué depuis des années et que les États-Unis se replient d’Europe, à l’évidence (dans L’aveuglement du monde occidental. Chroniques de politique internationale 1993 – 1996, Albin Michel, 1997, p. 334). » Parfois désabusé, il estime par exemple que « la fameuse trilogie – monnaie unique, politique étrangère commune, défense commune – est, malgré les étapes et les dates fixées dans l’accord de Maastricht, du domaine de l’imaginaire ou de l’approximation (op. cit., p. 25) ». 

Negli anni Sessanta, in qualità di giovanissimo militante della Giovane Europa, l’organizzazione da lui diretta, ebbi modo di vederlo diverse volte. Lo conobbi a Parma, nel 1964, accanto a un monumento che colpì in maniera particolare la sua sensibilità di “eurafricano”: quello di Vittorio Bottego, l’esploratore del corso del Giuba. Poi lo incontrai in occasione di alcune riunioni della Giovane Europa e in un campeggio sulle Alpi. Nel 1967, alla vigilia dell’aggressione sionista contro l’Egitto e la Siria, fui presente a un’affollata conferenza che egli tenne in una sala di Bologna, dove spiegò perché l’Europa doveva schierarsi a fianco del mondo arabo e contro l’entità sionista. Nel 1968, a Ferrara, partecipai a un convegno di dirigenti della Giovane Europa, nel corso del quale Thiriart sviluppò a tutto campo la linea antimperialista: “Qui in Europa, la sola leva antiamericana è e resterà un nazionalismo europeo ‘di sinistra’ (…) Quello che voglio dire è che all’Europa sarà necessario un nazionalismo di carattere popolare (…) Un nazionalcomunismo europeo avrebbe sollevato un’ondata enorme di entusiasmo. (…) Guevara ha detto che sono necessari molti Vietnam; e aveva ragione. Bisogna trasformare la Palestina in un nuovo Vietnam”. Fu l’ultimo suo discorso che ebbi modo di ascoltare.
All’inizio degli anni Ottanta, Thiriart lavora a un libro che non ha mai visto la luce: L’Empire euro-soviétique de Vladivostok à Dublin. Il piano dell’opera prevede quindici capitoli, ciascuno dei quali si articola in numerosi paragrafi. Come appare evidente dal titolo di quest’opera, la posizione di Thiriart nei confronti dell’Unione Sovietica è notevolmente cambiata. Abbandonata la vecchia parola d’ordine “Né Mosca né Washington”, Thiriart assume ora una posizione che potrebbe essere riassunta così: “Con Mosca contro Washington”. Già tredici anni prima, d’altronde, in un articolo intitolato Prague, l’URSS et l’Europe (“La Nation Européenne”, n. 29, novembre 1968), denunciando gli intrighi sionisti nella cosiddetta “primavera di Praga”, Thiriart aveva espresso una certa soddisfazione per l’intervento sovietico e aveva cominciato a delineare una “strategia dell’attenzione” nei confronti dell’URSS. “Un’Europa occidentale NON AMERICANA – aveva scritto – permetterebbe all’Unione Sovietica di svolgere un ruolo quasi antagonista degli USA. Un’Europa occidentale alleata, o un’Europa occidentale AGGREGATA all’URSS sarebbe la fine dell’imperialismo americano (…) Se i Russi vogliono staccare gli Europei dall’America – e a lungo termine essi devono necessariamente lavorare per questo scopo – bisogna che ci offrano, in cambio della SCHIAVITU’ DORATA americana, la possibilità di costruire un’entità politica europea. Se la temono, il modo migliore di scongiurarla consiste nell’integrarvisi”.
Apparso nel 1964 in lingua francese, nel giro di due anni Un Empire de 400 millions d’hommes: l’Europe vide la luce in altre sei lingue europee. La traduzione italiana venne eseguita da Massimo Costanzo, (all’epoca redattore di “Europa Combattente”, organo italofono della Giovane Europa), il quale presentò l’opera con queste parole: “Il libro di Jean Thiriart è destinato a suscitare, per la sua profondità e per la sua chiarezza, un forte interesse. Ma da dove deriva questa chiarezza? Da un fatto molto semplice: l’autore ha usato un linguaggio essenzialmente politico, lontano dai fumi dell’ideologia e dalle costruzioni astratte o pseudometafisiche. Dopo una lettura attenta, nel libro si possono anche trovare impostazioni ideologiche, ma queste traspaiono dalle tesi politiche e non il contrario, come fino ad oggi è avvenuto nel campo nazionaleuropeo”. Nonostante le riserve che alcune “impostazioni ideologiche” dell’Autore (eurocentrismo, razionalismo, giacobinismo ecc.) potranno suscitare, il lettore di questa seconda edizione italiana probabilmente concorderà con quanto scriveva Massimo Costanzo quarant’anni or sono; anzi, si renderà conto che questo libro, senza dubbio il più famoso dei testi redatti da Thiriart