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Break His Bones:

The Private Life of A Holocaust Revisionist



Journalists and others in questionable professions like to ask why I argue for an open debate on the Jewish Holocaust story instead of some other story. I don’t really know why. Of course, those who ask that question do not ask themselves why they do not ask me some other question. That’s how it goes. The why questions are the difficult ones. That’s why we ask them of others but seldom of ourselves.

Patting myself on the back, I will say that I have asked myself many times why I argue for an open debate on that story and not some other one. After twenty years I am left with the same answer. I don’t know why I started asking, and now I don’t know why I don’t stop. The experience of trying to get academics to be honest about the moral corruption and historical fraud forwarded by the Holocaust Industry has left me isolated, broke, and old.
I’m not saying that the experience has been a waste of time. Far from it. There have been many laughs, I have made many friends, even if it is a rare moment that I can spend time with them, and I have gained one interesting insight. Now I understand that not only do I not know why I decided to argue for an open debate on the Jewish Holocaust story, I do not know why I decide to do anything. Which either complicates the issue or simplifies it, depending on which way you perceive the wind to be blowing at any given moment.

I mean the big stuff of course, not the little stuff. We all understand the little stuff. I understand why, for example, I decide each time to eat the inside of the banana rather than the outside—but wait a minute—thought has just recalled, using a process too racy and complicated for me to follow, that it has been observed that during the high periods in the history of the novel narrative dominates, while in its low periods the subjective dominates. Thought responds: and Proust? I don’t do novels, however, so I don’t understand why thought would have bothered me with this little back and forth.

If I am unable to understand what thought just did with regard to bananas and the history of the novel, I do not think I am going to find out why I began to argue that the history of the 20th century will have to be rewritten. In seventy years I have made only three big decisions. It’s clear to me that each was made without benefit of purposeful thought, that each was the expression of a small collision where my personality bumped (originally I wrote “crashed” but that’s too large a word for it) into the movement of the age, and that in any case it hardly matters one way or the other. I’ve stayed afloat, had a relatively interesting life whatever that is, have damaged relatively few people, have few regrets, accomplished nothing remarkable, and now it’s coming to an end, which appears to me to be remarkable in itself—no beginning, no end.

At twenty-one I decided to become a writer. This was an okay decision and never hurt anyone directly. When I was thirty-three I decided that the visions were real, but real for me alone. That one was okay too for the same reasons that the first one was okay. When I was forty-nine I decided that there was something fishy about the “gas chamber” stories. That time it was different. That time my decision was not about me, but about the age. If the gas chamber stories weren’t right, the “genocide” of the Jews would begin to smell bad. I had never dreamed that I would sniff that one out. But once I had, there was nothing for it, and I have been following my nose ever since.

My sense of smell soon put me up against many of the great brains and great souls of the age. Many of these, perhaps all of them, know more about everything than I do and are more sensitive about everything than I am, except for one thing. I understand something of how the mechanism works, the movement of my own heart. I recall Hemmingway observing in a letter to someone that he had a “built-in shit-detector.” For a while, he did. For a while he could smell shit a mile away. I’m skating on thin ice here, but my reaction to my first reading of a revisionist paper on the gas chamber stories was, shall we say, Hemingwayesque. Nothing I have read or heard since about gas chambers has been able to put a good odor to them.

From one morning in my twenty-first year to this one I have never stopped writing. I have failed as a literary writer, and failed as a journalist, but it makes no difference to me. I’m the fool that Sam Johnson warned us against, the scribbler who will write when he has no audience and does not even get paid for it. You can say it’s obvious why I decided to become a writer, that it was the psychological stress of having been in combat and so on. But there were many young men in the army hospitals with me, most of them had seen worse than I had seen and all were hurt worse than I was hurt, yet I’m the one who became the writer. Why? On the other hand, why ask? It’s already gone.

After I turned seventy it became increasingly clear that the time is come to focus my energy, what I have left of it. This was brought home to me the other night when my daughter and I were horsing around. She pushed me, I pushed her back. She kicked me with the side of her foot, I kicked her. She tried to throw me on the bed. I threw her on the bed. We played King of the Mountain. We wrestled and punched each other around for maybe half an hour. We were both sweating. She’s fourteen now, five foot nine, weighs 120 pounds and kicks like a horse. I won, I was King of the Mountain again, but it wasn’t easy. The next day I was exhausted. It took two days to fully recover. I could not help but reflect on how fragile I have become, how the end is in sight.

I don’t expect to make any more big decisions in this life. From here on out it’s all small potatoes. Focusing on the daily round, remaining vulnerable, and following my nose for better or for worse. In the end, life is lived as simply as the good marriage—till death do you part.





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