This is a postscript to my two previous entries. Next, the translation of two different passages of the book whose syntax I find myself reviewing:
Remember that [my father] baptised his cantata La Espada [The Sword]. Now that I have buried my mind into the texts of white nationalists, I could not help remembering when I read something that, rephrasing Dominique Venner, Michael O’Meara wrote: ‘The European of history is best seen as a warrior bearing a sword, symbol of his will’, and he added that the Hellenes made their debut in history by refusing to be slaves. Nothing can contrast this old European Aryan with the Shakespearean evasion that has sealed the character of my father. [page 116, a reference to the 1948 Hamlet film epigraph after minute 1:45]
The above quote was taken from a section, ‚Caballero sin espada‘ (knight without a sword) in reference to a dream while sleeping that plagued my father’s youth, when he dreamt himself fighting an obscure force without a sword. The following is taken from page 11 of the Introduction:
The objective of my writings, in which I include what I write in my private blog Hojas Eliminadas, would be to show that the evil that afflicts the white man is exactly the same that destroyed my tree and the morals of my beloved family… If I could unravel the evil that destroyed me, I will probably unravel the evil that destroys the white race around the world, including the mass migration of people of colour into the West that I witnessed on my last trip to the United Kingdom. In other words, the evil I saw in my parents, acquaintances, psychiatrists and the evil I see in Westerners who commit ethnic suicide could be, ultimately, two sides of the same coin. There is no qualitative difference between my father’s ‘comfy’ mind and that of millions of Europeans, Americans and Australians. In times of bread for all and all kinds of circuses, the passivity of Westerners [no sword] before the elites ran parallel to the sociopathic passivity of my father before my [disturbed] mother. I confess that, in my [winter] soliloquy to warm my feet and hands, I told myself that those millions of white males were exactly like my father. For decades I had imagined that people outside my family were better, or in other words, less depraved; less destructive or less crazy. The truth is that those who are allowing their beautiful race to die out (note in the image of Missa Hercules that the female above the young Greek is no longer Aryan) are as wicked as my father was. I do not think they are any less bad than the central character of my two volumes. What I could not understand in the Internet forums of those who complain about Aryan decline, we can ponder by reducing a complex problem—the character of millions of Westerners—to a problem that I am able to address: the character of my father. That deserves to venture into a new literary genre.
 This is a reference to a previous passage from the Preface where I reproduced this image: something related to the tragedy of the transition from the Classical World to the Christian world. As a teenager, I often listened to the music of this mass by Josquin Des Prés: an LP record that my father very much appreciated.
Of course, in-context the above-translated paragraphs are more comprehensible.