Interviews, Journalists, And The Police

David Myatt

David Myatt

From The Archives

Interviews, Journalists, The Police, and Pathei-Mathos
(pdf)

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Extract from the Editorial Preface:

The following autobiographical article by David Myatt was written in 2009 and revised in 2010. It was included as an Excursus in early (2009-2011) drafts of his autobiography Myngath, copies of which were circulated to a few friends, with the drafts briefly appearing on some internet blogs, to be replaced by the final and substantially revised version published in May 2013 which lacked this article.

The article provides Myatt’s side of the story in relation to the police, interviews, and journalists such as Nick Ryan who have written about Myatt in a propagandistic manner.

Four interesting things deserve mentioning in connection with the article. The first – and most curious – is that the journalist who, in 1974, “stitched Myatt up” by making allegations about animal sacrifice became ill shortly after his report was published in a local newspaper. He was diagnosed with a terminal disease, and died less than a year later, with the local rumour being that Anton Long’s then Leeds-based Temple of the Sun (an early O9A nexion) had undertaken The Death Ritual (qv. The ONA’s Black Book of Satan) and thus cursed that journalist […..]

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Related:

Myatt: A Matter Of Honour
(pdf)


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Almost Mid-Summer

Editorial Note: This evocation of the numinous and of the English countryside is a letter written by David Myatt to a friend in 2008. It was included in Myatt’s 2013 book Understanding and Rejecting Extremism.

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Almost Mid-Summer

Another beautifully warm and Sunny day, bright with the light remembered from childhood years in Africa and the Far East: so different from the normally dullish light of temperate England.

Thus, here in the warm Sun and as so often, there is a time of reflexion; a stasis as life becomes reviewed through memories. And it is occurring to me more and more that this is all that there is, beyond the immediacy of the moment: only memories of moments past.

So many memories which slowly fade as bright colour exposed to Sun: as the bright checks of my Tweed cap have slowly faded over the years, unrenewed as the greens of the grass, the bush, the tree, become renewed each year, through Spring. Only memories, as of Fran; to be savoured but perhaps now not too much to be dwelt upon in almost unbearable sadness, for thus is – for thus has – a type of balance returned; that balance, that dwelling in immediacy, which I from learning feel and know is the essence of wu-wei.

This is a change within me, regarding the life and death of Fran, and the life and death of Sue; regarding my own diverse journeys and explorations. A change toward a being-settled that has partly arisen from at last forsaking abstractions and partly from accepting that it is immediacy and remembrance of memories which convey the only correct meaning we human beings have or can find and which is numinous. No projection, thus, of an abstractive life-beyond this mortal life; no need for a religious type of faith; no battle or desire to strive to be in accord with any abstraction; and even no need to believe in, or even un-numinously desire, some-thing. No depth of unfathomable wordless sadness to bring that ultimate life-ending despair such as I assume Fran felt in the last hours of her own mortal living.

For there is only the bright Sun; the slight breeze in bush and tree; the verdant, living, green of grass; the yellow Buttercups that are profusely sprinkled there in the old Orchard of old Apple trees whose lower branches have been windfallen, or become broken with age, or stripped of bark by the two Goats who roam there, where Chickens range, food-seeking. Only the passing billowing fair-weather white Cumulus clouds below the sky-blue of Earth’s earthly mortal life.

Across from where I sit – at the back of the Farmhouse – that Barn whose Summer Swallows swoop in and out to feed their still nesting young who gape and chatter as their food is brought. And I am only this moment, only this moment, as the young Farm dog who comes to lay down in the grass beside me is only the young Farm dog. He looks up at me once – three times – tail wagging, before settling down to sleep.

There is no world beyond, for us here; for the life here. Only the weather; only the changing weather; only some natural need to move us, slowly by our limbs. A need for shelter, water, food. Only the Seasons changing as they change. Only the gentle companionship of a gentle acceptance that lives, grows, changes, slowly, as all natural life lives, grows – changes – slowly, as Sun through cloudless Summer sky.

My decades long mistake of unbalanced stupidity has been to be un-rooted; to be of unnatural uneedful haste. To cease to dwell within each immediacy of each moment. To be swayed by, persuaded by, in thrall to – to even love – un-numinous and thus un-ethical abstractions. To be thus that which we human beings have become: a stage between animal – talking – and compassionate, empathic being aware of and treasuring each small pulse of life that lives near, within, us because there is no separation unless we in hubris and by abstraction create such separation.

Thus are we now struggling, halting, wasting ourselves and all of Life around us; infected now with the virus of abstractions so that, upon this living Earth, we – in our new de-evolution – despoil, disrupt, destroy the Life that is our Life and the genesis of The Numinous, often in the name of that un-ethical abstraction called “progress”. And yet we have a cure for our millennia-long debilitating sickness; have always had a cure, although so many for so long, as I, have failed in our blind stupidity to see it.

So, this is all that there is: only the bright Sun; the slight breeze in bush and tree; the verdant, living, green of grass; the yellow Buttercups that are profusely sprinkled here where, now, The Numinous lives, on another beautifully warm and Sunny day, bright with light remembered…

David Myatt
June 2008

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Article source: https://davidmyatt.wordpress.com/almost-mid-summer/
Image credit: The Day’s Consecration, a painting by Richard Moult


In Reply To Some Questions (2012)

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From Myatt’s preface:

“These answers, though dated, may be of some interest; for example, in regard to the development of my ‘numinous way’ into the ‘philosophy of pathei-mathos’ and in regard to my temerarious statement that “I do not intend to write anything more about” that philosophy, for I have of course since 2012 continued to write about, and develope, that philosophy and which more recent writings have obsoleted most of the essays referenced in the following answers.”

Questions For DWM, 2012
(pdf)


Source: https://davidmyatt.wordpress.com/questions-for-dwm-2012/


Myatt: Selected Essays

A printed version of the 72 page compilation Such Respectful Wordful Offerings: Selected Essays Of David Myatt, edited by Rachael Stirling, is now available.

ISBN-13: 978-1978374355. BISAC: Biography & Autobiography / Philosophy.

Contents:

° Editorial Preface
° Bright Berries, One Winter
° The Leaves Are Showering Down
° Perhaps Words Are The Problem
° A Non-Terrestrial View
° Musings On Suffering
° Blue Reflected Starlight
° A Slowful Learning, Perhaps
° Toward Humility – A Brief Personal View
° A Catholic Still, In Spirit?
° Some Personal Perceiverations
° Twenty Years Ago, Today
° Some Questions For DWM, 2017
° Cantio Arcana
Appendix I – A Note On Greek Terms In The Philosophy Of Pathei-Mathos
Appendix II – On Translating Ancient Greek
Appendix III – Concerning ἀγαθός and νοῦς in the Corpus Hermeticum
Appendix IV – Cicero On Summum Bonum
Appendix V – Swan Song Of A Mystic
Appendix VI – Self-Dramatization, Sentimentalist, Or Chronicler Of Pathei Mathos?


Such Respectful Wordful Offerings As This

David Myatt

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Selected Essays Of David Myatt

Edited by Rachael Stirling

Such Respectful Wordful Offerings As This
(Second Edition, pdf)

Contents

° Editorial Preface
° Bright Berries, One Winter
° The Leaves Are Showering Down
° Perhaps Words Are The Problem
° A Non-Terrestrial View
° Musings On Suffering, Human Nature, And The Culture of Pathei-Mathos
° Blue Reflected Starlight
° A Slowful Learning, Perhaps
° Toward Humility – A Brief Personal View
° A Catholic Still, In Spirit?
° Some Personal Perceiverations
° Twenty Years Ago, Today
° Some Questions For DWM, 2017
° Cantio Arcana
Appendix I – A Note On Greek Terms In The Philosophy Of Pathei-Mathos
Appendix II – On Translating Ancient Greek
Appendix III – Concerning ἀγαθός and νοῦς in the Corpus Hermeticum
Appendix IV – Cicero On Summum Bonum
Appendix V – Swan Song Of A Mystic
Appendix VI – Self-Dramatization, Sentimentalist, Or Chronicler Of Pathei Mathos?

From the Editorial Preface

This compilation of essays arose out of some enquiries sent or forwarded to us following our re-publication of Some Questions For DWM, 2017 and of Ms Stirling’s article – titled Swan Song Of A Mystic – commenting on those questions and answers. Included here are all of the Myatt texts enquired about, plus a few others for context including those 2017 questions and answers and Swan Song Of A Mystic. This second edition includes an essay – Self Dramatization, Sentimentalist, Or Chronicler Of Pathei Mathos? – which takes a critical look at Myatt’s post-2010 writings.

The title of the compilation is taken from Myatt’s translation of the Cantio Arcana of tractate XIII of the Corpus Hermeticum and which ‘Esoteric Song’ we include here.

Three Wyrd Sisters
2017 ev


A Delightful Place To Be

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A Delightful Place To Be

In many ways, England at this time of year – around mid-Spring – is a delightful place to be, for there are Spring flowers, hedgerows in bloom, trees coming into leaf; the burgeoning Dawn Chorus, and quite often warmer and sunnier days heralding perhaps another Summer of dreams to be remembered, happily remembered, as the dark longer nights and the cold of Winter return as they return and we – perhaps with family, partner, friends – hunker ourselves down to await such warmer days, again.

Such simple delights, of such a childful joy; delights and a simplicity that I personally have come to value more and more as pathei-mathos and increasing age has slowed me in both body and thought, bringing – it seems – a certain repose, certainly a need for personal humility, for expiation, and certainly a feeling concerning, another intimation of, what for us humans is most valuable, most human, and possibly should be most desired. Which is the joy of a personal love shared; the companionship of family, friends; and that simple quite humble way of living arising when our life is just our and their life, when our concerns just our and their concerns, when our hopes and dreams are just our and their hopes; the life, the concerns, the hopes, the dreams, of those whom we love, we trust, and with whom we share the passing of our daily lives.

For decades I – flawed, hubriatic, dissatisfied, often angry, and often inclined toward violence – rejected such manifestations of our humanity as I pursued one and then another suffering-causing agenda; as I – extremist activist, agitator – stupidly arrogantly placed some abstraction, some ideal, some ideology, before personal love, before compassion, before empathy, before kindness, before family, before wu- wei. And it was during those four decades of hubris that I scribbled away, writing thousands and thousands of pages – propaganda, essays, ideological tracts, pamphlets – in praise of and trying to justify the extremisms I upheld and fought for. Worse, I not only supported violence and propagated hatred but pridefully, temerariously, saught to revise some abstractions and manufacture new abstractions in my attempts to motivate and inspire others and bring closer the downfall of ‘the system’ I then so disliked in the hope that some revolution, some violent struggle or other, might somehow and in some miraculous way bring into being a ‘new world’ founded on some ideological ideal and which ideal was always harsh and always founded on prejudice and intolerance, on some divisive division between ‘them’ and ‘us’. In the process, of course, I caused suffering. To loved ones, to family, to friends, and to others; to so many others, known or personally unknown to me. As I wrote earlier this year:

“I have no excuses; the failure of decades was mine. A failure of compassion, empathy, honour. A failure as a human being. There are no excuses for my past, for deeds such as mine. No excuses for selfishness, for a hubris of personal emotion. No excuse for deceit, deception, lies. No excuse for extremism, for racism, for the politics, the religion, of hate […]

I would like to believe – to hope – that this [my] personal, this interior, change, possibly evident in some recent writings of mine, and possibly also evident in my [philosophy of pathei-mathos] is positive, good; in some way counter-balances the hubris of my past, and is thereby some expiation, some propitiation, for at least some of the suffering caused. But it is for others, not for me, to judge whether that is so.” [1]

David Myatt
2nd April 2012

[1] The quotations are from the compilation of essays and letters entitled Meditations on Extremism, Remorse, and The Numinosity of Love.

Image credit: The Day’s Consecration by Richard Moult