Believe all women – the Alice Sebold edition


Have you ever heard of an American author called Alice Sebold? I sure hadn’t; I had to check her name twice to try and spell it correctly. Sebold is a modern author, writing modern drivel in an excruciating manner that then gets paraded around as the best thing ever and is given numerous awards and the usual all points bulletin by the system.

I have never read a word of her rubbish, but I don’t need to in order to form this opinion because she is a manufactured product of the system and the role of no-talent hack writers like her is to destroy from within the world of literature by writing absolute crap that gets hailed as high art. It’s the wordy version of modern art, which was the first medium where this happened and where they gave the game away very early indeed when some wag scrawled some graffiti on a urinal and hung it on a wall. Just rubbing our faces in it, literally.

The purpose of all of this is to discourage any real talent from making a name for themselves with actual literature or art. There is an overlong piece at the Orthosphere today where the writer jumps through as many IQ hoops as he can in order to come up with a reason why there has been a severe genius shortage over the last 50 years. It’s not to do with anything that he says at all. It’s to do with the fact that the system won’t let an actual genius through the gates. Their way will be blocked at every turn, they will be actively discouraged away from their chosen field, and they will be demoralised by the rubbish that is lauded by the system and its paid promoters.

Rubbish like that written by this Sebold woman. Her first novel is the story of a teenage girl who is raped and murdered at the age of 14. She’s only ever written two novels; the second one is the story of a model who murders her mother. Critics use adjectives such as “harrowing” and “disturbing” which is par for the course these days. If they were honest they would describe this drek as the awful crap that it is. It is the literary version of hanging a stained urinal in an art gallery. But the usual morons will come in and go “ooohh” and “ahhh” while they nibble on salmon horderves and guzzle champagne before heading off to the bathroom to molest each others’ kids.

Sebold also wrote a memoir called Lucky. It describes a scenario where she was supposedly raped in a tunnel at her college campus. I say supposedly because the guy who got framed for the rape and who did 16 years in jail has now been officially exonerated of the crime. A film of the book was being made but one of the executive producers had doubts about the story’s veracity; so much so that he left the project, hired a private investigator, and the story came out that this guy was set up for the crime by the police and prosecution with the active participation of Sebold who couldn’t even identify him correctly in a lineup at the time.

It turns out that the guy wasn’t identified or charged until five months after the supposed rape. Sebold bumped into the poor bastard and decided that he was good enough to play the part, or at least that’s how it played out given the actual circumstances. How’s that for a bad day? You’re walking along, minding your own business, and then you have the sheer misfortune to bump into your stone cold feminist nutjob who counts snorting heroin as one of her pastimes. And then it’s 16 years in the slammer for you even though she couldn’t even pick you out of a lineup.

Did the rape happen? I don’t know, but I wouldn’t believe a word that comes out of this woman’s mouth. And I wouldn’t read one of her ghastly books if you tied me down and stuck pinpricks in my eyes. But she serves a purpose as a perfect representation of the utter darkness of this present cultural age through which we are suffering. And if any guys are reading this who do fancy themselves as a writer or an artist or a musician then for God’s sake don’t take any notice of what is promoted by the system. Look back in time to that which is beautiful and coherent and take inspiration from those guys. Leave the drek to the heroin snorters and their depraved ilk.

Originally published at Pushing Rubber Downhill. You can purchase Adam’s book here.

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Adam Piggott writes about all things red pill and nationalist right. He examines what it means to be a man in the modern world and gives men advice beyond the typical 'how to pull chicks', (although he does that too.) He plays the guitar, smokes cigars, drinks wine and rum, rides motorbikes, is bad at cricket, and distrusts any man who has no redeeming petty vices. He does his best to be a reality check to any Millennials or progressives so unfortunate as to cross his path.