Revolt Against the Modern World by Evola is an amazing treatise into traditional thought and ideology. At times it is very esoteric and difficult to fully process, but it many ways that is part of the charm of this obscure work. Indeed, this book would profit from re-reading it.
However, there are many such occasions when Evola makes very succinct and well thought out points that I find just as relevant today as it was when it was initially written. Evola raises a lot of great points, some points while I don't necessarily agree with line by line, I do get the underlying meaning of it. Truly this was a fascinating read that I highly encourage others to pick up.

This guy is really into the 'traditional world'. That seems to mean antiquity, way way back. The Roman empire being the most recent vestige of this prime time to be alive. He is particularly fond of Kings/Emperors/ruler who are in their place due to divine right. Modern kings don't count because they have the consent of the people which is ridiculous and unnecessary if the dude is supposed to be god on earth. Traditional living also includes an inherently superior aristocracy and is A-OK with caste systems. Women are supposed to serve their husband and find purpose in that. Evola draws on a bunch of mythic shit from Greece to China but is quite smitten by the Indo-Aryans. You can see where this is going. Turns out he was into nazi stuff. Anyway, all the examples he gives about this golden age of kings and crap reads like awesome fodder for epic heavy metal lyrics. It got boring but was a relatively short experience.

"...It is not impossible that some unlooked-for optical improvement may disclose to us, among innumerable varieties of system, a luminous sun, encircled by luminous and nonluminous rings, within and without, and between which revolve luminous and non luminous planets, attended by moons having moons, and even these latter having moons..."

"...Natural selection is continually trying to economise in every part of the organisation. If under changed conditions of life a structure before useful becomes less useful, any diminution, however slight, in its development, will be seised on by natural selection, for it will profit the individual not to have its nutriment wasted in building up an useless structure..."

You plunge your digital dick dagger into the digital cunt crocodile. It flips over with a contented sigh and becomes a blob of amorphous red flesh. The crocodile next to it looks up at you with coy eyes, wriggling its tail back and forth with a dexterity unmatched since your last visit to war-torn Nicaragua. Not today, you say, putting your digital dick dagger back into your digital dick sheath. Not today. It's been a long hunt and the sun burns your skin black as opium. You return to your Jeep and head west. You mutter into the radio, war is the true nature of man’s wilderness. There is only static and black smoke. It fills your lungs, like war-torn Nicaragua. You remember the times. You remember the heady smells like childhood. Riding your bike through the spice markets, sandal-heeled. Your father smiling beside a vase of bulging Grecian men.

Salamanders deliver coded messages through the pattering of their toes. They sip the sweat off your arms. It is a fair trade — a just trade. Pure and untainted by the decadent rot of ass. Nature! Savage yet sensuous. You sucked the Malaria out of your veins, like a weaning child. It made you stronger. It gave you a sense of purpose beyond corporate ass and sewage. The corruption that spits into your throat every time you fall asleep, dreaming the rabid dream of modernity. Eternity is the long night of man.

Sometimes you forget it all. You chase a boar through the underbrush. You scream, Walden! Walden! driven by your instincts predator. Your Jeep lies in flames behind you, metallic chassis warped into the face of John Galt. The boar is forever ahead of you and you scream, Walden! Walden! Behind you, the face of John Galt, solemn and immaculate. You reach your arms out, as if to embrace the boar, because you love the world — because you love the world as much as your AR-15, and your Remington tattoo, and your battle against the cuck dragon. The dream always ends the same. The boar runs off the edge of the cliff. The boar would rather kill itself than be touched by you.

Off in the distance, beyond the swaying palms, crocodiles moan for your digital dick dagger. You shout at your reflection in the puddle outside. The sky is the same colour as your mother’s opal necklace the night she was murdered by street thugs with antifa ass tattoos. Get a hold of yourself, get a god damn hold of yourself, you say. You are in control. You are your own Jeep. You are — Owowowowowowo! Suddenly, negro soldiers burst out of their shacks. They surround you, undulating their bodies to your panicked gasps. They fire their AR-15s into the sky, screaming, Yass queen, yass! You are overwhelmed by their mystic incantations. You collapse with a bulging erection and Mother Earth welcomes you into her sweet, savage cunt.

One of your earliest memories is the Nicaraguan spice trade beginning in 1634 when your great great great great great great grandfather declared precolonial Africa terra nullius a ripe site of extraction for the molar economy henceforth known as nitrous oxide suckling geothermal vents through the proxy of slaves. Out of barbarity your grandfather brought Sisyphian fire rolling a crest of thorns holier than Ouranos and you the shining seed of permanent destruction. During black mass self-sufficient women gather beneath the moon and steal the joy from your Belgium grandfather quipping the Congo Styx carved the arms off natives holier than the Conquistadors. The Nicaraguan Savannah taught you all you needed to know about the world. Despite these empty people despite every inch your dick the whole world must be liberated.

Friedrich Hayek once said, if you stare into the abyss long enough the abyss with fuck your wife and steal your job. When your daughter began reading Angelina Jolie’s autobiography, you let it pass. You were a good father — a liberal father. When she began talking about the Black Panther Party, you let it pass. Because you were a good father — a god damn liberal father. Then you stumbled on her TikTok account. You watched her descent into totemic dances, into the irrational savagery of primitive socialism, and you realised you had reared a stranger. You began researching Evangelion and ahegao porn. You watched hours of VTubers eating Mochi Mochi Nippon! You dived into the heart of modern darkness and saw that hidden amidst its proclamations of queer emancipation were the chains of ass worship and crack house womanism — smoke screens to the fallout of a slow motion Hiroshima that had already detonated. You realised man had become a gay ghost.

The Owl of Minerva wakes you at twilight. Submerged in the Nubian River, you are a man off the grid, a spook. You apply a herbal balm to your dick and transform into the Spear of Longinus. You drift down the Nubian River. Along its edges, crocodiles bare their cunts to the sky like sentinels welcoming you home. In the skies, eagles tear at each other’s throats, sending great spurts of blood across the starry hemisphere. Beyond the palms, jungle cats scream. Like the prodigal son, you disowned your comfortable bourgeois trappings and fled to the wilderness of war-torn Nicaragua. You returned to your fatherland to cleanse yourself in the Sacred Fire of Vesta. Now, you take up the mantle of man alone. You return to the origin of yourself, becoming your own cunt to birth a virgin dick. You become your own dick-cunt God and propel yourself into the ass cult of multiculturalism, and out of this triumphant collision your body stretches and expands into a new continent, a continent free of libertine decadence, a continent called Far Cry 6.