Years ago, my girlfriend and I attended a friend’s Hindu wedding. I remember all the colorful clothing and the strange dances and rituals the bride and groom performed. It was an enjoyable affair, but I have few specific memories of it. One from the reception, however, still stands out in my mind. I doubt I will ever forget it.
The reception was held at a restaurant which seemed a little too small for the event. Food was laid out on two long tables, and guests were expected to help themselves and find seating wherever they could. It was a bit cramped and crowded. My girlfriend and I found an empty booth, but because there were so many people also hunting for seats, we occupied only half of it, side by side, while leaving the opposite seat available.
Soon enough, she arrived.
I have no recollection of her name, although I am sure I learned it at the time. She came with plates of food for her and her two small children, and was perfectly nice. But she was, in a word, beautiful.
For me at least, being in close proximity with a beautiful woman is a rare thing, and when it does happen, everything seems to change. Time seems to slow down. I become aware of myself, of my breathing and movements. Everything I do becomes deliberate as I consider when I should look at her next, and for how long. This was an Indian woman. Tall, with flowing, lustrous hair; dark, intelligent eyes; thin, feminine eyebrows; flawless, light-bronze skin; and the kind of face that makes you believe in God. She had the classic hourglass shape, and was roundly endowed at the top. I snuck a peak at my girlfriend, and she was as impressed as I was.
Then he arrived.
This was, obviously enough, the husband. But out of context, it wouldn’t have been obvious at all. He was, in two words, not beautiful. Unimpressive might be the better word. Slender, balding, and wholly ordinary looking, he was perhaps an inch shorter than she was, and seemed to try to make up for it with a long, virile mustache. In a free and open society like America’s, a nebbish like that wouldn’t have a prayer with a knockout like her, yet there they were, doting happily together on their children.
Later, my girlfriend and I agreed that their marriage had to have been arranged (a suspicion later confirmed to us by the bride).
I think back on this event often now that I’ve come to identify with my race. Why not have arranged marriages for white people, too? What I saw that evening at the reception was a kind of cultural vigor which recognizes that too much freedom – especially for young people – can be self-destructive. Whites in the West are drowning in options, and, thanks to their overall prosperity, have extended their childhoods into their thirties and forties. From much of what I have read, the dating scene these days is brutal. Radical feminism has turned women against men; gay and transgender activism have turned people away from heterosexuality in general; and men have reacted predictably with the Men Going Their Own Way and Pick-Up Artist movements. The pill keeps young women out all night, and porn keeps young men in. All this in a society which is already balkanized along racial lines and heavily prejudiced against whites. Meanwhile, the song of traditional marriage – the bedrock of any thriving society – is being lost in all the cacophony.
Do we really want to put our children through all of this? Maybe parents arranging marriages once again might be a way to help them avoid all this anxiety. And if these parents share a common identity and outlook, all the better. Trust in one’s parents, respect for the importance of marriage and children, and a rejection of short-sighted individualism make up much of the psychology  behind arranged marriages. Young people essentially opt not to extend their youth longer than absolutely necessary, and instead embark upon their adult lives much sooner than they would if left to their own devices to find – or not find – a spouse. This is what I mean by cultural vigor. People in arranged marriages tend to follow the first two points of my list of Advice for Young White People : they make themselves useful and they reproduce at replacement levels at least—and early, which is another demographic benefit.
Whites in the West have been so affluent for so long now, it seems we have forgotten what vigor is. I’m afraid it’s people like the Nebbish and the Knockout at the Indian restaurant who will inherit Western civilization (and ultimately corrupt it) rather than the inheritors themselves, who have become dissipated on the successes of their ancestors. Is this the way it has to be? Should we as whites just meekly accept the fact that our best days are behind us and embrace our fate as a second-class people?
Of course, I say no. How could anyone not say no, unless they are a coward, a hedonist, or something worse? I say that whites should resist the tide of Progress as much as possible. Progress is not our friend. Maybe once upon a time, over a hundred years ago, Progress was the friend of the abused and the exploited in sweatshops and factories. There really were Haves and Have-Nots back then, and Progressivism may have indeed protected the latter from the former when they needed protection. The commission created by the New York State legislature following the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire  in 1911, for example, led to laws which mandated nationwide factory safety improvements. Child labor laws were a pretty good idea as well. But today, the champions of “Progress” tend to cast whites in the role of the Haves and non-whites in the role of the Have-Nots, even when in many cases the direct opposite may be closer to the truth. And then, with this bogus dichotomy established, progressives use their platform to attack the racial interests of all whites, regardless of what you have or have not.
Whites might not be able to stop Progress at this very instant. But we can slow it down. We can resist it to ensure that it spends itself that much sooner. Progressivism will eventually eat itself. It must. Progressives are already sexualizing children and committing infanticide. Pedophilia and pederasty are only a rave and photo shoot away from being tolerated among the Progressive mainstream. The insanity is raging on the Left, and soon its contempt for humanity will turn on itself, like the orgy of beheadings which concluded the French Revolution.
When this happens sometime this century, a critical mass of red-pilled, self-identifying whites will need to resist their enemies and rebuild whatever portion of Western civilization still remains to them. And the very best way to accomplish this is for high-quality, young white people to marry young and have children young rather than to do it in their forties, out of wedlock, or not at all.
Of course, this plan requires the sacrifice of freedom – although I doubt the nebbish at the Indian restaurant was sacrificing anything. It can go the other way, too. Instead of the Nebbish and the Knockout, imagine Plain Jane and the Dreamboat. In either case, someone is going to have to settle.
Seriously, guys – and I’m assuming most of my readership consists of men – which of you single and dating fellows would even consider committing to a woman who is a point or two less attractive than you are, but who is honest, hard-working, smart, family-oriented, and rejects feminism? A woman like that may have middling Sexual Market Value (SMV), but that underrates her Spousal Market Value, which is potentially through that glass roof. Remember Randy Quaid as an Amish bowler in the movie Kingpin, laughing at Woody Harrelson because his love interest (played by the gorgeous Vanessa Angel) didn’t exactly have childbearing hips? Yeah, we can laugh. But that paradigm shift we’re laughing at may be what saves us in the end.
I was introduced to the concept of SMV by the pick-up artist blogger Chateau Heartiste . Read him if you don’t. He’s brilliant and represents the crucial overlap between the Manosphere and the Dissident Right. Whenever he’s not making perfect sense opining about politics, culture, and human biodiversity, he likes to focus on the elusive quality of “game ,” which seems to be a man’s ability – through a downright heroic self-confidence – to induce women into submitting to him, sexually and otherwise. Reading about how Heartiste conquered this woman or that is sort of like watching a grandmaster play chess: you can follow along and appreciate the moves, but you know in your heart you could never, ever be that good. In a world without arranged marriages, Heartiste offers the masculine antidote to feminine hectoring; a testosterone shot, if you will, for the white male demographic which apparently requires constant reminders of its own greatness – and prodding to in fact be great again.
But game makes sense only in a fallen world in which it’s every guy and gal for himself, and the sexual marketplace somewhat resembles a Middle Eastern bazaar after a sudden influx of soldiers and prostitutes. In this sense, Heartiste is the Machiavelli of Sex, focusing on the bigger picture (i.e., men dominating women) and caring little for moral niceties while achieving this end (i.e., her feelings about, well, almost anything).
But when I push for arranged marriages, I’m suggesting that we not live in such a fallen world to begin with. Arranged marriages, when done correctly and cooperatively with sons and daughters, renders game irrelevant, and sets us on the path back to demographic strength. And it’s not like arranged marriages don’t tend to work. According to Infogalactic :
Divorce rates have climbed in Europe and United States, with increase in autonomous marriage rates. The lowest divorce rates in the world are in cultures with high rates of arranged marriages such as Amish culture of United States (1%), Hindus of India (3%), and Ultra-Orthodox Jews of Israel (7%). In contrast, over 50% of self-arranged marriages in many parts of Europe and United States end up in divorce.
It’s also not like people don’t become demonstrably stupid  when falling in love:
Brain scans show that a region of the brain that is essential to judgment, the brain’s frontal cortex, shuts down when people fall in love. Researchers using MRI scans found that the frontal cortex deactivates when someone is shown a picture of the person they love, leading them to suspend all criticism and doubt.
“When you look at someone you are passionate about, some areas of the brain become active,” Semir Zeki, professor of neuro-aesthetics at University College  London said, according to the Daily Mail. “But a large part is de-activated, the part that plays a role in judgment.”
It’s also not like people don’t become just as stupid when not falling in love, but desperately want to. When I was going through a rough, lonesome period in my early twenties, my mother once offered to help me find a girlfriend. I emphatically refused. Why? Because I couldn’t bear the stigma of having my own mother find someone for me. I wanted game, you see. And I didn’t have it. And that hurt. I was playing a game that I was ill-suited for, and didn’t realize it. At the time, I remember wishing that my mother would just set me up with someone, anyway. I can’t say I regret that she didn’t, since things turned out pretty well for me. But I got lucky. Many people don’t get lucky.
Yes, parents can be cruel or dictatorial when arranging marriages, and young people can be coerced into entering destructive relationships. Yes, forced marriages can happen to the detriment of the young people involved. There is a negative side to any option we face. But if we expect our children to compete with the tots raised by our mismatched couple at the Indian restaurant, and if we’d like them to escape the demographic hole we’re digging today, perhaps we should do more than just consider formal arranged marriages for whites. Dissident Right and white advocacy circles stretch around the globe. We have the network. Why not use it?
In the long run, how much does all that sexual freedom matter, anyway? We all grow old. We all get ugly. Even Heartiste’s SMV will take a hit once he’s in his eighties. And what would we prefer in our old age? Being surrounded by grandchildren throughout the last third of our lives, or remaining single and childless, happy with the knowledge that we tore it up in our youth?
This all reminds me of an obscure Kinks song, “When I Turn Off the Light .” If you can overlook the fifth word of the first line, I hope you will find it a charming eulogy to the mundane, and a wistful rejection of the world of game. It embodies perhaps the extreme end of what I am proposing here (so please don’t settle too far down that SMV scale, okay?), but it does give a nice indication of what all of us eventually have in store if we go into marriage with the right attitude. I have a feeling our knockout from the Indian restaurant sings a version of this song to herself every night when she turns off the light. I’m sure many of us do.
Here are the first two verses to get you started. Enjoy.
Who cares if you’re Jewish,
And your breath smells of garlic,
And your nose is a shiny red light.
To me you are gorgeous,
And everything’s right,
When I turn off the living room light.
Your clothes are old-fashioned,
Your knuckles are bony,
Your hair looks a terrible sight.
But I don’t have to see you,
The way that you are,
When I turn off the living room light.
Spencer J. Quinn is a frequent contributor to Counter-Currents and the author of the novel White Like You .