Preface to «Le Système À Tuer Les Peuples»

Preface to «Le Système À Tuer Les Peuples» (The System for Killing Peoples) (1981) by Guillaume Faye

This book is currently out of print. It is extremely difficult to find used copies online. I have created a PDF of the original French version. If you would like a copy, email me at alex@arktos.com. No English translation exists yet. TN denotes translator note.

Beneath Frankfurt airport, buried in the thickness of concrete, somewhere between the parking lots and the underground business center, a nightclub has been built. Under Johannesburg airport, there's exactly the same one. In Oslo, the same again. In Tokyo and Chicago, the same. Soon, in Nairobi, Athens, Rio, Rome... In this same nightclub, you hear the same music everywhere, played on the same turntables, scientifically selected by the same music marketers. Let's go back to the surface: in the great global cities and, gradually, in the surrounding provinces and countryside, the landscape is changing. The planetary traveler feels less and less out of place: he finds the same blocks of glass and steel. People are dressed in the same jeans, the same anoraks. The same cars crisscross the same roads, lined with the same shopping centers, where you find roughly the same products. In individual living cells, you are greeted by television. Obviously, the programs change from one world city to another. But soon, the Time-Life program, broadcast by geostationary satellite, will unify all of this. Sitting in front of the TV, someone is reading a newspaper. No, he's not reading. He's looking at the images of a comic strip. It's Popeye. He closes his newspaper, he looks at you: he's Japanese, Norwegian, Italian or French. It doesn't matter. He explains to you, in a very soft voice, in basic English, with an accent from nowhere, that he has Western nationality and is seeking happiness. He has two children, a boy and a girl. They look terribly bored. The girl hums advertising slogans. The boy, somewhat dazed, taps on an electronic football game.

You leave the cell; you cross the lawn (you saw the same one yesterday, around the same dwelling, ten thousand kilometers from here). You get into your rental Toyota (you had the same one yesterday). You turn on the car radio: music. The same as in the nightclubs. Your memory, a marvelous machine, has now recalled every note. The music stops: advertising slogan. Well, it's the same as earlier; but it's also the same as the day before yesterday, when, in a Holiday Inn, you had turned on the television in the room. But, by the way, what does the advertisement say? It's about a book. The title reminds you of something: a love story that takes place in a disaster adventure. You think for a few seconds at most; but your neurons don't need to function, because you've just passed by a cinema, where the poster announces exactly the same title as the book. That's it, the image has stimulated your brain: you saw this film four days ago, very far from here, in... well, in another city, in another country, which doesn't really matter that much after all. But what was this film about? It's silly not to remember: it now comes back to you that you saw it a second time, on the plane that brought you here. No matter: it was an American film, which told, roughly, a story of love and disaster, exactly what the advertisement just said.

Moreover, the music in the advertisement is - it comes back to you - the same as the one that set the rhythm of the film, obviously, the same as the one from the nightclub, the other evening in... well, it doesn't matter.

Instructive, this world tour that your company, X.X.X. and Co, paid for you to visit its clients around the world.

You could wake up; all this could be a nightmare; but it's already no longer one. In Africa, the last tribal communities are disappearing. In Latin America, in the favelas produced by the Western commercial order, young people are rapidly forgetting their ancestral culture. In the European countryside, popular dance balls increasingly resemble the clubs of the Rive Gauche.

But you're not reactionary. Peasant women in headscarves and rugged dialects are not eternal. One must be in favor of the modern world. But which modern world? Where has modernity gone? Futuristic dreams have vanished. Television, social security, human rights, traffic jams on the A86 ring road, fake Formica beams, the mini stereo system on credit, is this the modern world? We've stopped wanting to go to the moon. If you're lucky enough not to be unemployed, everything around you exudes comfort. Comfort... it's comfortable, obviously, but it's not exhilarating. Don't you find this modern world somewhat boring? But to entertain yourself, there's always cinema and television. There, the modern world becomes exciting. Technology shows its full potential; we set off on adventures to planets on space cruisers. But you know well that all this doesn't exist, that it's all just a simulacrum. Yes, that's it, you live in a simulacrum. A simulacrum of happiness, of adventure, of love, of violence, of religion.

One thing at least is reassuring: you have your personality, perhaps a bit narcissistic, but if nervous depression is lurking around the corner, a psychiatrist will help you rediscover yourself. If your home looks like your neighbor's, if your clothes resemble your neighbor's, at least your mind resembles no one else's. And then, you are respected. You are free. Your neighbor is too, by the way. Their self is respected, like the millions of little "selves" of all Westerners, your neighbors and your brothers, who have, of course, nothing to do with yours.

Certainly, you have the same musical tastes as your neighbors: you all buy the same cassettes. Certainly, they all fear, like you, nervous depression... or cancer. They all become passionate, like you, at 8:30 PM, about the same TV series. But isn't the meaning you give to your existence fundamentally original?

Original?

Acquiring a comfortable situation, having pleasant vacations, being able to do DIY on weekends, managing to pay the installments for the dining room set, the stereo system, the 11-horsepower car, being able to practice windsurfing, is this really original?

Look at what you aspire to for your children: there, you distinguish yourself from your neighbors. You want your children to resemble you, just one notch above, quite simply.

If you still have doubts, tell yourself that you are French. That's something. A stroke of luck. Most Westerners, your neighbors, and non-Westerners who will soon be Westerners like you (you're not racist) don't have this luck.

French: we have a particular VAT (value-added tax) regime, the growth of our GNP (gross national product) is not exactly the same, and above all, we have a very different history: the history of France, Joan of Arc, Saint Louis, Louis XIV, etc. Okay, agreed, it's in the past, but it counts.

No, decidedly, you doubt your originality. Your mind, your clothes, your menu, your car, your hi-fi system, your dining room, your vacations, your urban landscape, your office, your 8:30 PM TV programs, your hobby, your musical tastes, your idol artist, your favorite actor, your shaving cream, your smell, your fears, your nervous depression, your administrative procedures, your social status, your retirement plan, your sexuality, your news magazine, your professional ambitions, your glasses, your desires, your standard of living, your refrigerator, are they so different from those of your millions of neighbors?

What are you saying? That you're afraid of originality? You don't want to step out of the uniform to find yourself alone, without roots, without belonging. You don't want your neighbors to point fingers at you and your children to reproach you for not doing like everyone else. No, decidedly, you're not foolish enough to stand out...