This morning, the Huffington Post wrote an article about Donald Trump advisor Steve Bannon that explains his fascination with a book called Camp of the Saints. The article counts the many times that Bannon has looked to the book for guidance and to explain his horrific worldview.
What the Huffington Post article is missing, however, is the actual text of the book. The book is about immigrants going from Asia, Africa, and the Middle East into Europe (and throughout the West) and ruining the world of white people (with their dirty, uncivilized nature), thereby causing a race war.
Just to see what kind of book this is, we have picked a few of the racist passages:
Camp of the Saints, Chapter 2
The second chapter of the book is where South Asian people are first described. Here are some of the racist passages describing them that it includes:
And you know what they'll do with your goddamn shoes? They'll probably use them to piss in. Or maybe they'll eat them. Because they all go barefoot!
And they'll build a fire with your big wooden door. And they'll crap all over your terrace, and wipe their hands on your shelves full of books. And they'll spit out your wine, and eat with their fingers from all that nice pewter hanging inside on your wall. Then they'll squat on their heels and watch your easy cha4rs go up in smoke. And they'll use your fancy bedsheets to pretty themselves up in. All your things will lose their meaning. Your meaning, man. What's beautiful won't be, what's useful they'll laugh at, what's useless they won't even bother with. Nothing's going to be worth a thing. Except maybe a piece of string on the floor. And they'll fight over it, and tear the whole damn place apart.
Camp of the Saints, Chapter 4
Regarding black and Latino residents of New York:
There was really no solution. Black would be black, and white would be white. There was no changing either, except by a total mix, a blend into tan. They were enemies on sight, and their hatred and scorn only grew as they came to know each other better. Now they both felt the same utter loathing..."No hope, Mr. Mayor. Unless you kill them all, that is, because you'll never change them. How about that?"
Camp of the Saints, Chapter 5
More about South Asians:
And so, there they were, thousands of wretched creatures, hoping, crowding against the consulate gates, like the piles of fruit a crafty merchant heaps on his stand, afraid it might spoil: the best ones up front, all shiny and tempting; the next best right behind, still in plain sight, and not too bad if you don't look too close; then the ones barely visible, the damaged ones, starting to rot, all wormy inside, or turned so you can't see the mold. ... Milling about, way back in the crowd, the women with the monsters, the horrors that no one would take off their hands.
Camp of the Saints, Chapter 9
Later, he couldn't remember if he really had put the idea in his head, or if the turd eater had read his mind. An illiterate Hindu pariah who can quote from Apocalypse, transform the Gospels, fabricate legend to inspire an event, could probably read the mind of the likes of Ballan too. ... He had said: "... then they gathered together their necklaces and diadems, their bracelets and rings, and they said to the captain, 'It's only right that we should pay you. Here, take all this. You've traveled the world up and down. Come, show us the way to paradise ...'" And the first collection had begun even before his tale was over. Gourd bowls in hand, the totem's monster minions wormed their way through the crowd. These wretches, more used to taunts and blows than to alms and compassion, these beggars with their ever-empty bowls, hands open onto the void, now found themselves pouring out piles of treasure at the prophet's feet, then trotting back on their twisted legs for more, as the crowd kept calling, "Over here! Over here!" In no time, once it was started, the money changers had the affair in hand. They set up impromptu networks, organized an army of collectors. Most incredible of all, the crowd didn't even distrust them! At the sight of the gold and rupees heaped up like the sand in a giant hourglass, everyone saw himself playing a part in the legend. And when the turd eater pictured the fleet of the gods at the gates of the West, and described the people singing on the deck of the India Star, they all turned and looked at the India Star, and reached out their arms to paradise.
Camp of the Saints, Chapter 13
Already they saw it their mission to guide the flock's first steps on Western soil. One would empty out all our hospital beds so that cholera-ridden and leprous wretches could sprawl between their clean white sheets. Another would cram our brightest, cheeriest nurseries full of monster children. Another would preach unlimited sex, in the name of the one, single race of the future--"a simple matter," he added, "since unlike skins attract," which was something he claimed to know all about. Still another would turn our supermarkets over to the barefoot, swarthy horde: "Can't you see it now! Hundreds of thousands of women and children, smashing their way through those gigantic stores, stuffing their mouths with food, beside themselves with pleasure ..."
Camp of the Saints, Chapter 14
The following passages are about people of Chinese descent:
Like a giant collective, with Chinamen sprouting wherever you look. On the right, the babies. In the middle, the women. On the left, the young ones. And behind them all, the men. From here, if you count them in squares, like cabbage, I'd say there are two or three million. From a plane, maybe five. And still they keep coming! ... Are they just going to pile up in the river? Or do you think they can swim?"
"They're like dogs, these Chinese," the general answered. "They know how to swim from the minute they're born. ... Listen, Zackaroff, don't stop watching. You've got to be my eyes. I can't bear to look. I never could pull the trigger when an animal looked me in the face. ... Anyway, don't waste your pity. Don't be fooled by those sweet little tots, those clean-cut girls and boys, those helplesslooking women! You can bet when we shoot up that crowd each one we kill will find just the right dramatic pose before they fall in a heap. Anything to impress us.
Camp of the Saints, Chapter 17
To wit, to crush with the weight of shame and remorse the common, foot-slogging soldier of the Western World, lord of its ancient battles, deserted by all his generals to a man, but a powerful force all the same. In column after column, the anti-Joan became, by turns, an Arab workman, snubbed and insulted; a publisher of smut, hauled into court; a black bricklayer, exploited by his boss; a theater director with a censored play; a young Madonna from some leftist slum; a rioter, beaten for ripping up the streets; a cafe tough, shot in his tracks; a student terrorist; a schoolgirl on the pill; the head of a people's culture center, summarily fired; a marijuana prophet; a rebel leader dispensing guerrilla justice; a married priest; an adolescent lecher; an incestuous author; a guru of pop; a female dead from an overdose of love; a pummeled Egyptian, a poisoned Greek, a Spaniard, gunned down; a reporter, attacked and beaten; a protester crapping on the Unknown Soldier; a hunger striker, soft in the head; a Vietnam deserter; a big-chief thug from the wrong side of town; a faggot with a medical excuse; a sadistic schoolboy tormenting his teacher; a rapist, mind twisted by racks of hard-core porn; a kidnapper, sure of his righteous cause; an incurable delinquent, victim of his genes or society's pressures; an abortionist butcher, screaming for his human rights; a Brazilian backwoods wench, sold into Sao Paulo salons; an Indian dying from a tourist's measles; a murderer calling for prison reform; a bishop spouting Marx in his pastoral letters; a car thief, mad for speed; a bank thief, mad for publicity's easy life; a maidenhead thief, mad for free and easy sex; a Bengali dead of starvation ... And so many more. So many crusading heroes, skilllully chosen to please and persuade. Which they usually did. And why not? When the heart gives way, it's a Turkish bazaar. Freedom is all or nothing. With the likes of this would-be heartrending rabble, these pseudopathetic peons beating his battering rams against the gates, Dio knew that, in time, he was sure to smash them down. When freedom expands to mean freedom of instinct and social destruction, then freedom is dead. And all the slimy Dio-larvae teem on its corpse, ready to burst into great black moths, heralding angels of the antiworid.
. But still! If their kids' eyes were going to catch the clap, after all--and in their nice new pool, to boot, that they scrimped their pennies together to pay for--and a dose like you wouldn't pick up from some army-camp whore, well, Arabs or not, they couldn't just let the thing get out of hand, and besides, doesn't everyone know it's an Arab disease? ... The fine folk believed it was only common sense to vote as they did, and to reach their unanimous decision: namely, that thereafter the only Arabs to use the municipal swimming pool at Saint-Favier would be those with a medical certificate proving that they had no contagious diseases that might be spread by water.
Camp of the Saints, Chapter 20
More about Indians:
With no cow droppings at hand, our seagoing horde would have to burn its own, prepared by a tried and true peasant technique known for three thousand years. And so, the decks became weird workshops, where hands deft at molding this curious coal--children, for the most part, down on their haunches--took each new batch of turds, kneaded and shaped them, pressing out the liquid, and rolling them out into little round briquettes, like the kind we used to burn in our stoves not very long ago. The tropical sun did the rest, heating the sheet-metal decks, where the crowd had left great spaces, like giant drying racks, with thousands of the putrid mounds spread out to bake and harden into fuel.
Most of all, the natural drive of a people who never found sex to be sin. And little by little, the mass began to move. Imperceptibly at first. Then more and more, in every direction ... Soon the decks came to look like those temple friezes so highly prized by tourists, prurient or prudish, but rarely touched by the beauty of the sculpture and the grace of the pose. And everywhere, a mass of hands and mouths, of phalluses and rumps. White tunics billowing over fondling, exploring fingers. Young boys, passed from hand to hand. Young girls, barely ripe, lying together cheek to thigh, asleep in a languid maze of arms, and legs, and flowing hair, waking to the silent play of eager lips. Male organs mouthed to the hilt, tongues pointing their way into scabbards of flesh, men shooting their sperm into women's nimble hands. Everywhere, rivers of sperm. Streaming over bodies, oozing between breasts, and buttocks, and thighs, and lips, and fingers. Bodies together, not in twos, but in threes, in fours, whole families of flesh gripped in gentle frenzies and subtle raptures. Men with women, men with men, women with women, men with children, children with each other, their slender fingers playing the eternal games of carnal pleasure. Fleshless old men reliving their long-lost vigor. And on every face, eyes closed, the same smile, calm and blissful. No sounds but the ocean breezes, the panting breaths, and, from time to time, a cry, a groan, a call to waken other sprawling figures and bring them into the communion of the flesh ...
Camp of the Saints, Chapter 23
No, of course we won't hesitate. We'll shoot without giving it a second thought. In this high-minded racial war, all the rage these days, nonviolence is the weapon of the masses. Violence is all the attacked minority has to fight back with. Yes, we'll defend ourselves. And yes, we'll use violence..Who worried then about the price, the millions of unarmed civilians--yes, women and children then, too--burned, dismembered, buried in the rubble! War was war! I was only a baby, but I remember. Everyone cheered! ... Well, today it's still war, just a different kind!
Camp of the Saints, Chapter 24
But minds back then were too warped and worn to admit the inevitable truth when they saw it. It never occurred to a soul that the Ganges fleet had just waged the first battle in an implacable racial war, and that nothing on earth now could stem the power of weakness triumphant. From this point on, it would give no quarter. ...
Camp of the Saints, Chapter 33
About the South Asians arriving in France:
Unless the government orders the army to take all possible steps to prevent this landing, it's the duty of every citizen with any feeling for his culture, his race, his religion and traditions, not to think twice, but to take up arms himself. Even Paris, our own beloved Paris, has already been besieged by the henchmen of the invader
Camp of the Saints, Chapter 38
As it is, we can't help but admit that our national reaction, at the crucial moment, has been one of repugnance: that kind of terror that the past has always seen produced by the confrontation between the races. Except for a few social dissidents and idealists--fanatics or misfits, for the most part--our people have fled from the south [where the immigrants entered] in droves.
Camp of the Saints, Chapter 39
Come now! You still think my men are going to shoot at that pack of miserable n-----ers? I'm not even sure I can do it myself.
Camp of the Saints, Chapter 40
But we mustn't digress ... In other industrial towns--Billancourt, Venissieux, Le Mans, and the like--the rhythm of Western life floundered and drowned in quite the same way. The fact that it owed its existence to Third World sweat doesn't change the picture. One can even claim, at the risk of prison or social extinction, that under the Western regime the Third World did work efficiently, at least. It would have been best to take pride in the fact, and establish a just master-servant relationship, instead of groaning with shame at the height of our prosperity. But why complain now? It wouldn't have made much difference. Not really. With millions of us and billions of them, we couldn't have held out much longer. Now we're swept up in the Third World tide, and it's clear that their instinctual drives have won out hands down. Everything has changed. The way people talk, the way they behave, the rhythm and rhythms of life, the play of emotions, the level of production. A whole new outlook. Even their way of not giving a damn. (Then too, with sexual appetites given free rein, it seems that the white has become Third World, though the Third World hasn't turned white in the bargain.
The blacks had decided to take over the Cafe Odeon, and had proceeded to make life miserable for the whites who frequented it. Now, it's a known fact that racism comes in two forms: that practiced by whites-- heinous and inexcusable, whatever its motives--and that practiced by blacks--quite justified, whatever its excesses, since it's merely the expression of a righteous revenge, and it's up to the whites to be patient and understanding.
Camp of the Saints, Chapter 43
She died in Nice, in a whorehouse for Hindus, disgusted with everything in general and herself in particular. At the time, each refugee quarter had its stock of white women, all free for the taking. And perfectly legal. (One of the new regime's first laws, in fact. In order to "demythify" the white woman, as they put it.) By Easter Monday Lydie had been raped--on her famous white sheets, we might add--and proceeded, not unwillingly, in those first chaotic days, to tag after a troop of energetic Hindus, who had taken her over in a kind of joint ownership, since she was very pretty, and her skin was very white. Later, when things (and people) began to settle, they had clamped her away in a studio of sorts, in Nice, with a number of other girls similarly treated. A guard fed them and opened the door to all comers. The enterprise was even given a name: the "White Female Practice and Experimentation Center."
Camp of the Saints, Chapter 49
being white isn't really a question of color. It's a whole mental outlook. Every white supremacist cause--no matter where or when--has had blacks on its side. And they didn't mind fighting for the enemy, either. Today, with so many whites turning black, why can't a few 'darkies' decide to be white?
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