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erectile crocodile pasta_master - Jan 23	1 replies	by avocado_senpai »» Jan 23, 12:22 PM
important talking points pasta_master - Feb 28, 2023	1 replies	by avocado_senpai »» Feb 28, 2023 11:42 AM
new discussion pasta_master - Feb 4, 2023	1 replies	by avocado_senpai »» Feb 4, 2023 10:28 AM
sex avocado_senpai - Nov 18, 2021	1 replies	by pasta_master »» Feb 2, 2023 12:49 PM
cow shit flinger pasta_master - Feb 2, 2023	3 replies	by avocado_senpai »» Feb 2, 2023 12:40 PM

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avocado_senpai | Apr 8, 10:42 AM

https://youtu.be/8TvcZAJdGdA?si=vXDd38dk-kgKt6GP

avocado_senpai | Feb 27, 2:58 AM

jew nigga

pasta_master | Feb 28, 2023 11:42 AM

Today it seems to me providential that Fate should have chosen
Braunau on the Inn as my birthplace. For this little town lies on
the boundary between two German states which we of the
younger generation at least have made it our life work to reunite
by every means at our disposal.
GermanAustria must return to the great German mother country,
and not because of any economic considerations. No, and again
no: even if such a union were unimportant from an economic
point of view; yes, even if it were harmful, it must nevertheless
take place. One blood demands one Reich. Never will the
German nation possess the moral right to engage in colonial
politics until, at least, it embraces its own sons within a single
state. Only when the Reich borders include the very last German,
but can no longer guarantee his daily bread, will the moral right
to acquire foreign soil arise from the distress of our own people.
Their sword will become our plow, and from the tears of war the
daily bread of future generations will grow. And so this little city
on the border seems to me the symbol of a great mission. And in
another respect as well, it looms as an admonition to the present
day. More than a hundred years ago, this insignificant place had
the distinction of being immortalized in the annals at least of
German history, for it was the scene of a tragic catastrophe which
gripped the entire German nation. At the time of our fatherland's
deepest humiliation, Johannes Palm of Nuremberg, burgher,
bookseller, uncompromising nationalist and French hater, died
there for the Germany which he loved so passionately even in her
misfortune. He had stubbornly refused to denounce his
accomplices who were in fact his superiors. In thus he resembled
Leo Schlageter. And like him, he was denounced to the French
by a representative of his government An Augsburg police chief
won this unenviable fame, thus furnishing an example for our
modern German officials in Herr Severing's Reich.
In this little town on the Inn, gilded by the rays of German
martyrdom, Bavarian by blood, technically Austrian, lived my
parents in the late eighties of the past century; my father a dutiful
civil servants my mother giving all her being to the household,
and devoted above all to us children in eternal, loving care Little
remains in my memory of this period, for after a few years my
father had to leave the little border city he had learned to love,
moving down the Inn to take a new position in Passau, that is, in
Germany proper.
In those days constant moving was the lot of an Austrian customs
official. A short time later, my father was sent to Linz, and there
he was finally pensioned. Yet, indeed, this was not to mean "res"'
for the old gentleman. In his younger days, as the son of a poor
cottager, he couldn't bear to stay at home. Before he was even
thirteen, the little boy laced his tiny knapsack and ran away from
his home in the Waldviertel. Despite the at tempts of
'experienced' villagers to dissuade him, he made his way to
Vienna, there to learn a trade. This was in the fifties of the past
century. A desperate decision, to take to the road with only three
gulden for travel money, and plunge into the unknown. By the
time the thirteenyearold grew to be seventeen, he had passed
his apprentice's examination, but he was not yet content. On the
contrary. The long period of hardship, endless misery, and
suffering he had gone through strengthened his determination to
give up his trade and become ' something better. Formerly the
poor boy had regarded the priest as the embodiment of all
humanly attainable heights; now in the big city, which had so
greatly widened his perspective, it was the rank of civil servant.
With all the tenacity of a young man whom suffering and care
had made 'old' while still half a child, the seventeenyearold
clung to his new decisionhe did enter the civil service. And after
nearly twentythree years, I believe, he reached his goal. Thus he
seemed to have fulfilled a vow which he had made as a poor boy:
that he would not return to his beloved native village until he had
made something of himself.
His goal was achieved; but no one in the village could remember
the little boy of former days, and to him the village had grown
strange.
When finally, at the age of fiftysix, he went into retirement, he
could not bear to spend a single day of his leisure in idleness.
Near the Upper Austrian market village of Lambach he bought a
farm, which he worked himself, and thus, in the circuit of a long
and industrious life, returned to the origins of his forefathers.
It was at this time that the first ideals took shape in my breast.
All my playing about in the open, the long walk to school, and
particularly my association with extremely 'husky' boys, which
sometimes caused my mother bitter anguish, made me the very
opposite of a stayathome. And though at that time I scarcely
had any serious ideas as to the profession I should one day
pursue, my sympathies were in any case not in the direction of
my father's career. I believe that even then my oratorical talent
was being developed in the form of more or less violent
arguments with my schoolmates. I had become a little ringleader;
at school I learned easily and at that time very well, but was
otherwise rather hard to handle. Since in my free time I received
singing lessons in the cloister at Lambach, I had excellent
opportunity to intoxicate myself with the solemn splendor of the
brilliant church festivals. As was only natural the abbot seemed
to me, as the village priest had once seemed to my father, the
highest and most desirable ideal. For a time, at least, this was the
case. But since my father, for understandable reasons, proved
unable to appreciate the oratorical talents of his pugnacious boy,
or to draw from them any favorable conclusions regarding the
future of his offspring, he could, it goes without saying, achieve
no understanding for such youthful ideas. With concern he
observed this conflict of nature.
As it happened, my temporary aspiration for this profession was
in any case soon to vanish, making place for hopes more stated to
my temperament. Rummaging through my father's library, I had
come across various books of a military nature among them a
popular edition of the FrancoGerman War of 18707I It
consisted of two issues of an illustrated periodical from those
years, which now became my favorite reading matter It was not
long before the great heroic struggle had become my greatest
inner experience. From then on I became more and more
enthusiastic about everything that was in any way connected with
war or, for that matter, with soldiering But in another respect as
well, this was to assume importance for me. For the first time,
though as yet in a confused form, the question was forced upon
my consciousness: Was there a difference and if so what
differencebetween the Germans who fought these battles and
other Germans? Why hadn't Austria taken part in this war; why
hadn't my father and all the others fought?
Are we not the same as all other Germans?
Do we not all belong together? This problem began to gnaw at
my little brain for the first time. I asked cautious questions and
with secret envy received the answer that not every German was
fortunate enough to belong to Bismarck's Reich..
This was more than I could understand.
It was decided that I should go to high school.
From my whole nature, and to an even greater degree from my
temperament, my father believed he could draw the inference
that the humanistic Gymnasium would represent a conflict with
my talents. A Realschol seemed to him more suitable. In this
opinion he was especially strengthened by my obvious aptitude
for drawing; a subject which in his opinion was neglected in the
Austrian Gymnasiums. Another factor may have been his own
laborious career which made humanistic study seem impractical
in his eyes, and therefore less desirable. It was hus basic opinion
and intention that, like himself, his son would and must become a
civil servant. It was only natural that the hardships of his youth
should enhance his subsequent achievement in his eyes,
particularly since it resulted exclusively from his own energy and
iron diligence. It was the pride of the selfmade man which made
him want his son to rise to the same position in life, orJ of
course, even higher if possible, especially since, by his own
industrious life, he thought he would be able to facilitate his
child's development so greatly.
It was simply inconceivable to him that I might reject what had
become the content of his whole life. Consequently, my father s
decision was simple, definite, and clear; in his own eyes I mean,
of course. Finally, a whole lifetime spent in the bitter struggle for
existence had given him a domineering nature, and it would have
seemed intolerable to him to leave the final decision in such
matters to an inexperienced boy, having as yet no Sense of
responsibility. Moreover, this would have seemed a sinful and
reprehensible weakness in the exercise of his proper parental
authority and responsibility for the future life of his child, and as
such, absolutely incompatible with his concept of duty.
And yet things were to turn out differently.
Then barely eleven years old, I was forced into opposition for the
first time in my life. Hard and determined as my father might be
in putting through plans and purposes once conceived his son
was just as persistent and recalcitrant in rejecting an idea which
appealed to him not at all, or in any case very little.
I did not want to become a civil servant.
Neither persuasion nor 'serious' arguments made any impression
on my resistance. I did not want to be a civil servant no, and
again no. All attempts on my father's part to inspire me with love
or pleasure in this profession by stories from his own life
accomplished the exact opposite. I yawned and grew sick to my
stomach at the thought of sitting in an office, deprived of my
liberty; ceasing to be master of my own time and being
compelled to force the content of a whole life into blanks that
had to be filled out.
And what thoughts could this prospect arouse in a boy who in
reality was really anything but 'good' in the usual sense of the
word?
School work was ridiculously easy, leaving me so much free
time that the sun saw more of me than my room. When today my
political opponents direct their loving attention to the
examination of my life, following it back to those childhood days
and discover at last to their relief what intolerable pranks this
"Hitler" played even in his youth, I thank Heaven that a portion
of the memories of those happy days still remains with me.
Woods and meadows were then the battlefields on which the
'conflicts' which exist everywhere in life were decided.
In this respect my attendance at the Realschule, which now
commenced, made little difference.
But now, to be sure, there was a new conflict to be fought out.
As long as my fathers intention of making me a civil servant
encountered only my theoretical distaste for the profession, the
conflict was bearable. Thus far, I had to some extent been able to
keep my private opinions to myself; I did not always have to
contradict him immediately. My own firm determination never to
become a civil servant sufficed to give me complete inner peace.
And this decision in me was immutable. The problem became
more difficult when I developed a plan of my own in opposition
to my father's. And this occurred at the early age of twelve. How
it happened, I myself do not know, but one day it became clear to
me that I would become a painter, an artist. There was no doubt
as to my talent for drawing; it had been one of my father's
reasons for sending me to the Realschule, but never in all the
world would it have occurred to him to give me professional
training in this direction. On the contrary. When for the first
time, after once again rejecting my father's favorite notion, I was
asked what I myself wanted to be, and I rather abruptly blurted
out the decision I had meanwhile made, my father for the
moment was struck speechless.
' Painter? Artist? '
He doubted my sanity, or perhaps he thought he had heard wrong
or misunderstood me. But when he was clear on the subject, and
particularly after he feltthe seriousness of my intention, he
opposed it with all the determination of his nature. His decision
was extremely simple, for any consideration of w at abilities I
might really have was simply out of the question.
'Artist, no, never as long as I live!' But since his son, among
various other qualities, had apparently inherited his father' s
stubbornness, the same answer came back at him. Except, of
course, that it was in the opposite sense.
And thus the situation remained on both sides. My father did not
depart from his 'Never!' And I intensified my 'Oh, yes!'
The consequences, indeed, were none too pleasant. The old man
grew embittered, and, much as I loved him, so did I. Ally father
forbade me to nourish the slightest hope of ever being allowed to
study art. I went one step further and declared that if that was the
case I would stop studying altogether. As a result of such
'pronouncements,' of course, I drew the short end; the old man
began the relentless enforcement of his authority. In the future,
therefore, I was silent, but transformed my threat into reality. I
thought that once my father saw how little progress I was making
at the Realschule, he would let me devote myself to my dream,
whether he liked it or not.
I do not know whether this calculation was correct. For the
moment only one thing was certain: my obvious lack of success
at school. What gave me pleasure I learned, especially everything
which, in my opinion, I should later need as a painter. What
seemed to me unimportant in this respect or was otherwise
unattractive to me, I sabotaged completely. My report cards at
this time, depending on the subject and my estimation of it,
showed nothing but extremes. Side by side with 'laudable' and
'excellent,' stood 'adequate' or even 'inadequate.' By far my best
accomplishments were in geography and even more so in history.
These were my favorite subjects, in which I led the; class.
If now, after so many years, I examine the results of this period, I
regard two outstanding facts as particularly significant:
First: I became a nationalist
Second: I learned to understand and grasp the meaning of
history.
Old Austria was a 'state of nationalities.'
By and large, a subject of the German Reich, at that time at least,
was absolutely unable to grasp the significance of this fact for the
life of the individual in such a state. After the great victorious
campaign of the heroic armies in the FrancoGerman War,
people had gradually lost interest in the Germans living abroad;
some could not, while others were unable to appreciate their
importances Especially with regard to the GermanAustrians, the
degenerate dynasty was only too frequently confused with the
people, which at the core was robust and healthy.
What they failed to appreciate was that, unless the German in
Austria had really been of the best blood, he would never have
had the power to set his stamp on a nation of fiftytwo million
souls to such a degree that, even in Germany, the erroneous
opinion could arise that Austria was a German state. This was an
absurdity fraught with the direst consequences, and yet a glowing
testimonial to the ten million Germans in the Ostmark. Only a
handful of Germans in the Reich had the slightest conception of
the eternal and merciless struggle for the German language,
German schools, and a German way of life. Only today, when the
same deplorable misery is forced on many millions of Germans
from the Reich, who under foreign rule dream of their common
fatherland and strive, amid their longing, at least to preserve their
holy right to their mother tongue, do wider circles understand
what it means to be forced to fight for one's nationality. Today
perhaps some can appreciate the greatness of the Germans in the
Reich's old Ostmark, who, with no one but themselves to depend
on, for centuries protected the Reich against incursions from the
East, and finally carried on an exhausting guerrilla warfare to
maintain the German language frontier, at a time when the Reich
was highly interested in colonies, but not in its own flesh and
blood at its very doorstep.
As everywhere and always, in every struggle, there were, in this
fight for the language in old Austria, three strata:
The fighters, the lukewarm and the traitors.
This sifting process began at school. For the remarkable fact
about the language struggle is that its waves strike hardest
perhaps in the school, since it is the seedbed of the coming
generation. It is a struggle for the soul of the child, and to the
child its first appeal is addressed:
'German boy, do not forget you are a German,' and, 'Little girl,
remember that you are to become a German mother.'
Anyone who knows the soul of youth will be able to understand
that it is they who lend ear most joyfully to such a battlecry.
They carry on this struggle in hundreds of forms, in their own
way and with their own weapons. They refuse to sing unGerman
songs. The more anyone tries to alienate them from German
heroic grandeur, the wilder becomes their enthusiasm: they go
hungry to save pennies for the grownups' battle fund their ears
are amazingly sensitive to unGerman teachers, and at the same
time they are incredibly resistant; they wear the forbidden
insignia of their own nationality and are happy to be punished or
even beaten for it. Thus, on a small scale they are a faithful
reflection of the adults, except that often their convictions are
better and more honest.
I, too, while still comparatively young, had an opportunity to
take part in the struggle of nationalities in old Austria.
Collections were taken for the Sudmark I and the school
association; we emphasized our convictions by wearing cornflowers and red lack, and gold colors; 'Heil ' was our greeting,
and instead of the imperial anthem we sang 'Deutschland uber
Alles,' despite warnings and punishments. In this way the child
received political training in a period when as a rule the subject
of a socalled national state knew little more of his nationality
than its language. It goes without saying that even then I was not
among the lukewarm. In a short time I had become a fanatical
'German Nationalist,' though the term was not identical with our
present party concept.
This development in me made rapid progress; by the time I was
fifteen I understood the difference between dynastic ' patriotism'
and folkish "nationalism'; and even then I was interested only in
the latter.
For anyone who has never taken the trouble to study the inner
conditions of the Habsburg monarchy, such a process may not be
entirely understandable. In this country the instruction in world
history had to provide the germ for this development, since to all
intents and purposes there is no such thing as a specifically
Austrian history. The destiny of this state is so much bound up
with the life and development of all the Germans that a
separation of history into German and Austrian does not seem
conceivable. Indeed, when at length Germany began to divide
into two spheres of power, this division itself became German
history.
The insignia of former imperial glory, preserved in Vienna, still
seem to cast a magic spell; they stand as a pledge that these
twofold destinies are eternally one.
The elemental cry of the GermanAustrian people for union with
the German mother country, that arose in the days when the
Habsburg state was collapsing, was the result of a longing that
slumbered in the heart of the entire peoplea longing to return to
the neverforgotten ancestral home. But this would be in
explicable if the historical education of the individual
GermanAustrian had not given rise to so general a longing. In it
lies a well which never grows dry; which, especially in times of
forgetfulness, transcends all momentary prosperity and by
constant reminders of the past whispers softly of a new future
Instruction in world history in the socalled high schools is even
today in a very sorry condition. Few teachers understand that the
aim of studying history can never be to learn historical dates and
events by heart and recite them by rote; that what matters is not
whether the child knows exactly when this or that battle was
fought, when a general was born, or even when a monarch
(usually a very insignificant one) came into the crown of his
forefathers. No, by the living God, this is very unimportant.
To 'learn' history means to seek and find the forces which are the
causes leading to those effects which we subsequently perceive
as historical events.
The art of reading as of learning is this: to retain the essential to
forget the nonessential.
Perhaps it affected my whole later life that good fortune sent me
a history teacher who was one of the few to observe this principle
in teaching and examining. Dr. Leopold Potsch, my professor at
the Realschule in Linz, embodied this requirement to an ideal
degree. This old gentleman's manner was as kind as it was
determined, his dazzling eloquence not only held us spellbound
but actually carried us away. Even today I think back with gentle
emotion on this grayhaired man who, by the fire of his
narratives, sometimes made us forget the present; who, as if by
enchantment, carried us into past times and, out of the millennial
veils of mist, molded dry historical memories into living reality.
On such occasions we sat there, often aflame with enthusiasm,
and sometimes even moved to tears.
What made our good fortune all the greater was that this teacher
knew how to illuminate the past by examples from the present,
and how from the past to draw inferences for the present. As a
result he had more understanding than anyone else for all the
daily problems which then held us breathless. He used our
budding nationalistic fanaticism as a means of educating use
frequently appealing to our sense of national honor. By this alone
he was able to discipline us little ruffians more easily than would
have been possible by any other means.
This teacher made history my favorite subject.
And indeed, though he had no such intention, it was then that I
became a little revolutionary.
For who could have studied German history under such a teacher
without becoming an enemy of the state which, through its ruling
house, exerted so disastrous an influence on the destinies of the
nation?
And who could retain his loyalty to a dynasty which in past and
present betrayed the needs of the German people again and again
for shameless private advantage?
Did we not know, even as little boys, that this Austrian state had
and could have no love for us Germans?
Our historical knowledge of the works of the House of Habsburg
was reinforced by our daily experience. In the north and south
the poison of foreign nations gnawed at the body of our
nationality, and even Vienna was visibly becoming more and
more of an unGerman city. The Royal House Czechized
wherever possible, and it was the hand of the goddess of eternal
justice and inexorable retribution which caused Archduke
Francis Ferdinand, the most mortal enemy of AustrianGermanism, to fall by the bullets which he himself had helped to
mold. For had he not been the patron of Austria's Slavization
from above !
Immense were the burdens which the German people were
expected to bear, inconceivable their sacrifices in taxes and
blood, and yet anyone who was not totally blind was bound to
recognize that all this would be in vain. What pained us most was
the fact that this entire system was morally whitewashed by the
alliance with Germany, with the result that the slow
extermination of Germanism in the old monarchy was in a
certain sense sanctioned by Germany itself. The Habsburg
hypocrisy, which enabled the Austrian rulers to create the
outward appearance that Austria was a German state, raised the
hatred toward this house to flaming indignation and at the same
time contempt.
Only in the Reich itself, the men who even then were called to
power saw nothing of all this. As though stricken with blindness,
they lived by the side of a corpse, and in the symptoms of rottenness saw only the signs of 'new' life.
The unholy alliance of the young Reich and the Austrian sham
state contained the germ of the subsequent World War and of the
collapse as well.
In the course of this book I shall have occasion to take up this
problem at length. Here it suffices to state that even in my
earliest youth I came to the basic insight which never left me, but
Only became more profound:
That Germanism could be safeguarded only by the destruction of
Austria, and, furthermore, that national sentiment is in no sense
Identical with dynastic patriotism; that above all the House of
Habsburg was destined to be the misfortune of the German
nation.
Even then I had drawn the consequences from this realization
ardent love for my GermanAustrian homeland state.
The habit of historical thinking which I thus learned in school
has never left me in the intervening years. To an everincreasing
extent world history became for me an inexhaustible source of
understanding for the historical events of the present, in other
words, for politics. I do not want to 'learn' it, I want it to in
instruct me.
Thus, at an early age, I had become a political ' revolutionary,'
and I became an artistic revolutionary at an equally early age.
The provincial capital of Upper Austria had at that time a theater
which was, relatively speaking, not bad. Pretty much of
everything was produced. At the age of twelve I saw Wilhelm
Tell for the first time, and a few months later my first opera,
Lohengrin. I was captivated at once. My youthful enthusiasm for
the master of Bayreuth knew no bounds. Again and again I was
drawn to his works, and it still seems to me especially fortunate
that the modest provincial performance left me open to an
intensified experience later on.
All this, particularly after I had outgrown my adolescence (which
in my case was an especially painful process), reinforced my
profound distaste for the profession which my father had chosen
for me. My conviction grew stronger and stronger that I would
never be happy as a civil servant. The fact that by this time my
gift for drawing had been recognized at the Realschule made my
determination all the firmer.
Neither pleas nor threats could change it one bit.
I wanted to become a painter and no power in the world could
make me a civil servant.
Yet, strange as it may seem, with the passing years I became
more and more interested in architecture.
At that time I regarded this as a natural complement to my gift as
a painter, and only rejoiced inwardly at the extension of my
artistic scope.
I did not suspect that things would turn out differently.
The question of my profession was to be decided more quickly
than I had previously expected.
In my thirteenth year I suddenly lost my father. A stroke of
apoplexy felled the old gentleman who was otherwise so hale,
thus painlessly ending his earthly pilgrimage, plunging us all into
the depths of grief His most ardent desire had been to help his
son forge his career, thus preserving him from his own bitter
experience. In this, to all appearances, he had not succeeded. But,
though unwittingly, he had sown the seed for a future which at
that time neither he nor I would have comprehended.
For the moment there was no outward change.
My mother, to be sure, felt obliged to continue my education in
accordance with my father's wish; in other words, to have me
study for the civil servant's career. I, for my part, was more than
ever determined absolutely not to undertake this career. In
proportion as my schooling departed from my ideal in subject
matter and curriculum, I became more indifferent at heart. Then
suddenly an illness came to my help and in a few weeks decided
my future and the eternal domestic quarrel. As a result of my
serious lung ailment, a physician advised my mother in most
urgent terms never to send me into an office. My attendance at
the Realschule had furthermore to be interrupted for at least a
year. The goal for which I had so long silently yearned, for which
I had always fought, had through this event suddenly become
reality almost of its own accord.
Concerned over my illness, my mother finally consented to take
me out of the Realschule and let me attend the Academy.
These were the happiest days of my life and seemed to me almost
a dream; and a mere dream it was to remain. Two years later, the
death of my mother put a sudden end to all my highflown plans.
It was the conclusion of a long and painful illness which from the
beginning left little hope of recovery. Yet it was a dreadful blow,
particularly for me. I had honored my father, but my mother I
had loved.
Poverty and hard reality now compelled me to take a quick
decision. What little my father had left had been largely
exhausted by my mother's grave illness; the orphan's pension to
which I was entitled was not enough for me even to live on, and
so I was faced with the problem of somehow making my own
living.
In my hand a suitcase full of clothes and underwear; in my heart
an indomitable will, I journeyed to Vienna. I, too, hoped to wrest
from Fate what my father had accomplished fifty years before; I,
too, wanted to become 'something'but on no account a civil
servant.

pasta_master | Feb 4, 2023 10:32 AM

party shitters yeah

avocado_senpai | Feb 2, 2023 12:18 PM

pls giv us moeny to buy 1 ton of cow shit (don't tell my parents, they gonna be angry shieeeet, nigga)

avocado_senpai | Mar 16, 2022 10:56 AM

NIGGERS AND JEWS

WHat's YOUR opinion?

avocado_senpai | Jan 22, 2022 9:33 AM

my mom is cool

avocado_senpai | Jan 22, 2022 9:33 AM

yooooo¨
les goooo
lesssss gooooooooooo

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Category: Cities & Neighborhoods

Created: Nov 18, 2021

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