by Professor Revilo P. Oliver
An odd coincidence has brought me THE "F" CERTIFICATE, by David Gurney (London, Bernard Geis, s.a. [1968?]). It is not literature – but who would expect to find great art of any kind in the nightfall of civilization? It is what is called "a novel of suspense," vividly written and with a plot contrived to keep the reader in a suspense and emotional excitement to the very end, even if he realizes that the effect is obtained, as is inevitable in such stories, by sequences of improbable coincidences and odd blunders by intelligent characters. And, of course, the reader must be left with the satisfaction of a miraculously happy ending. But Gurney's book is much more than that.
The text is preceded by the notice, "The time of this story is the immediate future." That was true by extrapolation from the present when the book was written, and it will soon be true again. We are now only in the lull between two waves.
The protagonist is an Englishman of good family who has attained a considerable success as a producer of high-grade motion pictures, in partnership with a talented director, a "refugee" from MITTELEUROPA. Although no one would dare say so explicitly, the partner is obviously a Kike, who naturally stabs the Englishman in the back financially, partly from greed, but primarily, as he confesses, because he HATES GENTLEMEN. He plans to use the studios to produce films of the hardest "hard-core" pornography to induce and spread corruption by exciting the sexual urge that is innate in all viable species of mammals and in our species has been further acuminated by the Judaeo-Christian notion of sexual magic. Only the strongest minds can resist the corrosive effect of such morbid excitation. Greed does enter into the Yid's motives, but he is supplied with large sums of money from unidentified sources to achieve his purpose, which obviously cannot be that of capital investment. It is clear that his greed is merely superficial: he is driven by an innate lust to pollute, to defile, to destroy a civilization he instinctively hates, and to that end he is prepared to sacrifice everything, including his own children. In this part of the story there is a fundamental and timeless truth – a fact of life that it is suicidal to ignore.
The extrapolation from the present brings us to a time in which the "hippie culture," as it is called, has reached its natural result. And that result is, of course, the calculated product of the powerful but clandestine forces that created the "hippies" in our time, who, as everyone not befuddled by the press and boob-tubes must see, are a form of cunningly induced degeneracy. In the story, the nigger-noise, sometimes oddly called "rock music," has been reduced to its primitive essentials, a rhythm destructive of sanity and producing by itself the kind of addiction that we witness daily, when we see scantily clothed individuals out "jogging" but carrying tiny radio receivers to produce the din that keeps their minds in abeyance. The improved "hippies" of the story are equipped with such miniature noise-boxes, which also have a hole through which the victim can see "psychedelic" splinters of light that have an hypnotic effect.
The marijuana of today has been a little improved and is purveyed in pills that produce more vivid and constant hallucinations and are as addictive as heroin. The drugged creatures become mindless zombies with latent criminal instincts and are, of course, easily manipulated by their masters. The degenerates, known as "drummers" from the loud sounds produced by their noise-boxes, are, of course, nourished and fostered by the hellish travesty of a society called the "Welfare State." They are equipped with motor scooters and wander in packs. They have a distinctive "unisex" costume, so that males and females are indistinguishable in appearance, and they naturally include many specimens of physical degeneracy, flat-chested animals that can be classified anatomically as female, and pudgy animals that have to be called male for want of a more specific word. Roaming in packs on their motor vehicles, they terrorize the countryside and population so rotted with humanitarian idiocy that individuals flee instead of simply shooting the creatures as one would shoot a rabid dog. In a sane world, shooting the anthropoid pests would be recognized as a duty civilized men owe to their society, but in a country as rotted as our own now is with the dregs of Christianity, people gabble about the "sanctity of human life." And when some of the creatures are arrested and put on trial for one of their killings on impulse, even more poisonous vermin appear in the guise of "sociological experts," complete with academic titles and honors, who argue that the degenerates "are not criminals. They are children lost in a hostile world." Whether the great sociologists are moronic or hired by the occult forces that are determined to abolish us, is always uncertain. There are doubtless both kinds, equally pernicious.
So there you have the substance of Mr. Gurney's astonishing book – astonishing because it could be published by a major publisher in England (though not in the United States) today. It is based on a fundamental fact of our dying civilization, and its "immediate future" is like the line of a graph that records an overall progression and is logically projected beyond the immediate present. If you want a vivid portrayal of what I have briefly described, or if you want only a tale of suspense that you will be compelled to read to its conclusion, read the book, but remember that the author had to sweeten it with some unwarranted optimism.