On many lists I’ve seen when I search around for “funniest books of all time” there is Three Men in a Boat and I’m finally getting to it now. Something quaint about the humor so far, probably because it was written in 1889, but it’s still making me smirk (and chortle) from time to time. These guys in it are just sick of life

I agreed with George, and suggested that we should seek out some retired and old-world spot, far from the madding crowd, and dream away a sunny week among its drowsy lanes—some half-forgotten nook, hidden away by the fairies, out of reach of the noisy world—some quaint-perched eyrie on the cliffs of Time, from whence the surging waves of the nineteenth century would sound far-off and faint.

He couldn’t feel his heartbeat and he got to the pharmacist after seeing the doctor without reading the prescription and was sent away because it was for steak, beer, and a walk. You think that’s enough, doc?

Where are the comedians these days? That’s why I resort to reading something from 1889. Or in some cases 414 BC.

Humor seems like the most appropriate attitude toward life.

Not in the irony-poisoned way where nothing is serious because that’s nihilism- it just seems someone has “life in them” when they have a joking around mentality.

Jokesters almost seem like they know something you don’t, about life itself. They can be like a Buddha with a twinkle in their eye. I know you know when a person is like this.

When I reflect now, some of the best books ever involve boats. Is this some kind of pride in the species, the mastery of nature, when one rides, and even lives, on a boat? It is similar to a type of seastead or moon base. It’s your own country away from society.

Anyway in this novel these men travel up and down the river Thames with a fox terrier named Montmorency who “never did care for the river”. Leave it to the English to give a dog an absurd name like that.

Then we run our little boat into some quiet nook, and the tent is pitched, and the frugal supper cooked and eaten. Then the big pipes are filled and lighted, and the pleasant chat goes round in musical undertone; while, in the pauses of our talk, the river, playing round the boat, prattles strange old tales and secrets, sings low the old child’s song that it has sung so many thousand years

This reminds me of another great story involving a river, “The Willows” – that’s horror though (it’s of the quality of Lovecraft in my opinion). Humans are complex, capable of comedy AND horror. It’s still a mystery to me why anyone would ever seek out horror. And yet we do. Wouldn’t you prefer to laugh? You must have a screw loose. No, maybe it’s because laughter doesn’t tell us everything about our nature, and nature itself.

This reminds me I haven’t gone camping for a while (white people NEED to camp intermittently)

the poisoned sneers of artificiality had made us ashamed of the simple life

Once you’ve taken a boat trip with Nietzsche it’s tough for other things to make you laugh, but this book is pretty good so far. I’m so spoiled by the Greeks and the Germans, people shouldn’t listen to an over-polished brat like me. OF COURSE Americans are going to suck compared to them. What does being a connoisseur really get you besides never-ending disdain? It really isn’t that hard to spot a Sabbatean subhuman so I don’t get why there are so many of them. George Washington was a failure, to hell with him. And shekelboy Cromwell set it into motion. Now we have hundreds of millions of irredeemable niggers to deal with, and that’s to say nothing of the gooks, spics, jungle bunnies, and all the rest. You have to find humor in it somehow. Not to be rude but it seems the average white american at this point is somewhere near the level of the Irish, and they can only be forecasted to descend even further as we make our way into the future. Just because a country is the world-superpower doesn’t mean it’s not second-world. Just send the Aryans to me, surround me with the Aryans, then I’ll be happy. Too many kike’d-niggers everywhere, and the cancer is terminal in them.

It was a glorious morning, late spring or early summer, as you care to take it, when the dainty sheen of grass and leaf is blushing to a deeper green

I’m trying to psyop myself into being more optimistic. Usually people browbeating you to not be so pessimistic are sell-outs with no dignity. Yeah it’s easy for you because you’re one of the people to be pessimistic ABOUT. “You get such nice things by being a sell-out though.” And one thing you don’t get is not being one of the demiurge’s worthless niggers. Only people equally valueless like you find value in you, and I guess that’s enough for you.

I haven’t seen anything Real for so long. It’s all hollowness, there are no heroes in our society.

Anyway, reading this old English novel is helping me understand the Anglosphere I live in. There are so many middling, bourgeois aspects. The author explicitly honors the Saxons in this too. It’s just too obvious that the ugliness and depravity of America can be blamed squarely on the Saxons. The jews just fuck its rotting corpse.

And the Irish have an inferiority-complex about the Saxons, and the blacks have an inferiority-complex about the Irish. The Great Chain of Being isn’t so great in many ways. Cry me a river for being observant I guess.

If the US went back to Saxon times it would be better. And it would be even better if it emulated German times.

The real “first-world” occurred during the 1800s. Nothing much truly profound has happened since then. That’s where I live. I feel like a vampire in that way, in not having died since that time. People like this should all just live in a smalltown in flyover country together.

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