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Satan Speaks!

Foreword

Marilyn Manson

A nton LaVey was the most righteous man I've ever known. He honored his immortality, and had more faith in

his peculiar axioms than any armchair Christian vacantly reciting John 3:16 ever possessed. Yet, despite his cynicism and

apocalyptic view of society, he often hoped for a better world, or at least one in which intelligence and creativity were

applauded. I find more respect for humanity in his blackest humor than in the passionless zealotry that perpetuates all other

conventional religions. Even if I had never agreed with a word he said, it would be irresponsible not to appreciate the sheer

brilliance with which it was spoken--not to mention his having the balls to come out and speak it.

I've come to realize that the truth is most often unwanted or believed to be a lie. In a world so full of shit, Anton LaVey cut

through it with the best of them.

Someone once asked me for the secret to my success. I answered that if they weren't smart enough to figure it out on their

own, they didn't deserve to know; and if I told them, it wouldn't be a secret anymore. Fortunately for me and for all of us,

Anton LaVey shared his magic, and I think it has made this wretched fucking planet a better place.

Thank you for your support and inspiration,

Marilyn Manson

Introduction

Blanch Barton

D r. Anton Szandor LaVey, founder of the Church of Satan and ideologue of modern Satanism, died

October 29, 1997, while this book was being compiled. His unconventional life and vocations have been well-chronicled; the

reader is urged to seek out The Secret Life of a Satanist of other biographical profiles on the Black Pope to see how his life as

a concert oboist, gun-runner, carnival calliopist, circus lion trainer, hypnotist, ghost buster, and crime photographer formed a

diabolical alchemy within him that bubbled forth as the Satanic philosophy.

Anton LaVey released The Satanic Bible in 1969 and it has remained continuously in print since then, something of a

record for an original paperback. That book contains the essence of what Dr. LaVey proposed as his new sinister religion.

However, some of LaVey's advocates recommend that those who are curious about his writings begin their curriculum not

with that basic primer, but with The Devil's Notebook, the collection of essays published previous to this one. Anyone

reading the essays published in either that book or Satan Speaks! Will glimpse a man of cutting wit, eclectic passions and an

uncomfortably clear perception of mankind. Good writing paints a portrait of a man to the careful reader and the man

portrayed in these essays was exactly as advertised--strong, talented, demanding, funny, opinionated, romantic, fiery,

decisive in mind and movement.

One reason Anton LaVey has exerted the covert and overt influence on fashion, music, entertainment, politics, and other

popular culture arenas that he has over the past decades is because of his honesty. Strange, perhaps even insulting, that the

Devil's Ambassador on Earth should be considered "honest." Anton LaVey has many detractors who would itch to dispute

that claim, especially those vermin who rush to discredit people after they're dead. But I maintain that he was at the core an

honest, honorable man who devoted his life to exposing injustice and pomposity. He's worthy of the status of anti-hero many

of his admirers have bestowed upon him.

Nothing irked LaVey more than self-righteous self-delusion--and he saw it everywhere. He mercilessly carved up sacred

cows of all shade, maintaining that nothing gives a human a broader license to kill, maim, or destroy than a frothy illusion of

righteous indignation. That was true during the Crusades and Inquisitions; it is still true in the age of PC hypersensitivity and

winning through victimization. Through his works, he endeavored to shine a glaring light on aspects of everyday life that all

of us might feel oppressed by but would never dare to challenge. The Devil is known for using his pitchfork to poke holes in

overinflated taboos. In his own writings, if LaVey felt himself becoming too grandiose, he'd bring himself back down to

reality with a chuckle. He didn't have to think about it; he just did it. Anton LaVey speaks to the Devil in all of us. One near-

universal phrase he heard all his life was, "I've always felt that way myself but never knew anyone else did." He held sacred

that which others scoffed at, and snickered at shopworn parlor tricks others revered as truth. He found beauty in misshapen

freaks and was repelled by the ugliness advertisers try to pawn off as beauty. You'll find that constant perversity and satire in

all the essays contained in this book.

And yet, Anton LaVey never claimed his writings were direct revelations from Satan; he never claimed to be Lucifer

Incarnate. (He did die and was resurrected in 1995, but that's another story.) It would have been an easy pose to strike, and

not entirely unbelievable. His looks and bearing certainly reflected the image of the Gentleman Downstairs. His ideas

evolved from his enthusiasm for Satanic sympathizers and reprobates like George Bernard Shaw, John Milton, Goethe, Mark

Twain, Jack London, Friedrich Nietzshe, Machiavelli, Rasputin, the Romantic and Decadent poets--peppered with a liberal

dose of the Johnson, Smith & Co. Catalogue of Jokes, Tricks and Novelties. His sense of timing and drama, which he wound

throughout his music, his magic and his life, was impeccable. LaVey's system of sorcery (and yes, he did very much believe

in and practice sorcery) was so complex and subtle that it would take several lifetimes to fully explore.

Anton LaVey like to say that if he didn't exist, someone would have to invent him. He experienced both the delights and

the detriments associated with the job of being the Devil's Henchman. The High Priest resonated with the evil archetype so

completely that he attracted delicious extremes into his life--undying love, fierce loyalty, unconscionable betrayal,

supernatural strength, intense jealousy. I gain satisfaction in knowing that his many detractors who try to attack the mundane

details of his life will remain forever clueless as to Dr. LaVey's true complexity. Though he never pretended to be the Devil

on Earth, he was as close as we are likely to see--even in his denial of that very identity. Preserver of forgotten pasts, singer

of lost songs, lover of fallen women, advocate of fitting justice, dreamer of wicked futures--how could we conjure up a more

rakish picture of the Dark One?

There was no room for survival after death in Anton LaVey's philosophy. We live; we entertain pompous illusions about

ourselves; we die. Too bad. And yet, if we mesmerize, irritate, inspire, or terrorize enough people, our names will be

remembered. Dr. Anton Szandor LaVey has earned that right.

The God of the Assholes

It is believed, by empirical evidence, that many people who professed no belief in a deity when younger turn to "God"

when they get old. Presumably, the closer they get to death, the greater their need for the comfort provided by religion.

Well, I guess I'm no exception to the rule. I seldom touch on theology. Apart from my Satanic Bible, I have left all

discussion of gods and their creators to others to debate or exorcise, whatever be their requirements. Now, I must confess, I

have found God; or rather I should say I have found a God. He (yes, he is usually male, and I'll tell you how I know) is not

the kind of God I want to get to know. He is a total asshole.

Why do I say such things? Am I trying to show how blasphemous I can get, because it's expected of me? I can assure you;

if I appear rude, it's because there truly is very little good I have to say about the God I have discovered.

We all know what an asshole is. If God isn't an asshole, he certainly acts like one. He's completely unjust, a shit disturber,

impulsive, capricious and mercurial, irresponsible and unpredictable, a spoilsport, bad loser, child molester, and stoolie. He

thrives on intrigue, scandal and gossip; likes to punish the just and reward the rotten. It's true: he loves the common man. The

commoner, the better. If a common man does not believe in him, He makes a believer out of the simple soul by killing his

little girl or placing him into a precarious situation whereby the poor guy must pray to Him. In short; God is just like real,

unthinking, insensitive, avaricious and pretty people.

Of course, God is a very Jungian construct. He was created by small men to serve their needs, according to their needs.

Then, after the limited minds of millions of stupidos acknowledged Him, the goddamn dummies pretended it was the other

way around. They insisted that God created man. They admitted that God created man in His own image, but could never

extend the similarity beyond that. Not wanting to portray God as a monster, they presented Him as a patriarch in a long white

robe with go-aheads and a long white beard. That way they could make a stern father figure out of him, to set an example for

His children. If Daddy says it's okay to act like an unthinking asshole, then it behooves His followers to act accordingly. Thus

given a green light, His minions are off and running.

The collective power of all the minds that accept the god of the assholes gives substance to such a divinity. It displays the

power of magic. It is the collective will of millions of ten-watt humans. By their very faith, their God becomes a reality.

His minions are quite correct in many of their theological presumptions. Their God watches over them--at least as well as

their own fuck-up natures can do. If the god they have created sometimes appears callous, so do they. That's why He can be

excused so easily. After all, He's only human, and you know what assholes they can be! If something is "God's will," it's

because He is willful. But like "pride," it comes in both real and false. There is a big difference between "will" and "willful."

I said I'd tell you why God is usually masculine in form. It's because most of his creators were guys. Since he's been around

so long, enough female assholes have appeared that He might occasionally take on a female form. Knowing what a welsher

and double-crosser God can be, don't be surprised if He isn't a guy in drag. God, like his disciples, likes to make promises he

can't keep; getting human hope up, only to let it down. It's a nice trick to boost His ego. It's called "prayer."

If God is what I reckon Him to be, and Satan represents his antithesis, I'll place my faith in Satan. I have self-respect. Thus,

I must have respect for the personification I select as a divinity. I cannot respect assholes. I don't quite know which is worse,

an asshole or a fuck-up--a wise guy or a dumbbell. Being as how the popular God seems to possess the characteristics of

both, I want no part of Him. I not only reject Him, but I despise Him. He is all that is mean and spiteful and petty. I would

like to blow Him away. If I thought that by firing my .45 into the air I could exterminate Him, I would. There are two things

wrong with that kind of tribunal. (1.) Knowing "God's will," the bullet would come down on some innocent kid. (2.) If I kill

God, do I really want all the assholes of the world praying to Satan? Isn't He too good for them? Too reasonable? Too

logical?

Satan may have always actually ruled the world, but He had to provide the self-righteous with a Goodguy Badge. The

assholes, placing great store on fancy awards and titles, elevated themselves to Godhead status by proxy, but couldn't admit

it. Perhaps Satan wants no part of such people either. He knows that when they make a mess of things, He's the one who has

to clean it up.

To:

All Doomsayers, Head-Shakers, Hand-Wringers,

Worrywarts, Satanophobes, Identity Christers, Survivor

Counselors, Academia Nuts, & Assorted tremblers

Y our Apocalypse is here. It arrived right on schedule. Just the way you like it, pickle in the middle with the mustard on

top. Credit me for the revolution, but credit yourselves for the forms that it has taken. I provided the reason and the rebellion.

YOU supplied the incentive and weaponry.

When I began my New Epoch in 1966 (not to be confused with your latter-day chickenshit New Age), I thought I might be

alone: a dreamer and speculator with a few agreeable cronies. I found out differently. Pretty soon, word got out. No admen,

no public relations agents--slimy fame claimers to the contrary. Just supportive weirdoes in the right places who shared my

views. Soon there were mimeographed broadsides available.

The next year, every time I conducted an "event," the media turned out in droves. A wedding, a baptism, a funeral--and

nude altars too. Pretty soon the husband of one of my Witches Workshop students, columnist Merla Zellerbach, did

something very special. His name was Fred Goerner and he had just authored a book called The Search For Amelia Earhart.

Fred said I should write a bible, and he felt sure it would get published. "Wait a minute," I said. "I'm not a writer, never have

been, and never have had any aspirations." "That's OK, don't worry about it," said Fred. "You can do it." He introduced me to

his literary agent, Mike Hamilburg, who brought a man to see me. His name was Peter Mayer, a dynamic new editor at Avon

Books. We talked a little, and Peter asked me, "How soon can you have it ready?" Like everything else in my life, this was

sort of unexpected. I had never written a book before, let alone a bible. Especially under a deadline. "Just say it the way it is,"

insisted Peter. "It'll be fine."

And so I wrote. The rest is history. I thought that after being taken as entertainment value, my book would straighten a few

things out concerning Satanism. It did, for some who read it. For others, it just went in one eye and out the other. But a

couple of years later, someone paid me a great compliment. They said: "Anton's no fun any more."

Whenever I got on TV or the radio, I was given a few seconds to say what they desperately needed me for. Someone else

who had lost 240 pounds of ugly fat got 20 minutes of air time. A woman who saw Jesus on a tortilla had even more time to

recount her experience. If Satanism was so hot, why wasn't I able to talk about it? The media loved the topic, but they

couldn't afford to air the truth.

I was like Santa Claus. Except that I delivered the presents after they selected and wrapped them. I started getting the

feeling that maybe what I had to say was dangerous. After the unexpectedly blasphemous impact of Rosemary's Baby,

Hollywood needed to provide an antidote. They bought an absurd story from a devout Catholic named Bill Blatty and turned

it into a blockbuster. I was actually banned from the movie set. It laid the ground rules for diabolic session. A homicide

inspector named Dave Toschi told me, "I bet it's getting a lot of people back into church, Anton." It did more than that. It

brought back that old-fashioned Satan--the kind that good church going Christians needed.

Then came the rest of the delineators, the experts, the vanquishers of evil. The survivors, the abused, the breeders, the ex-

High Priests, the cops for Christ--bullshit artists all. Where was Freudian wisdom when psychiatry like Michelle Remembers

was validated by the media? A "Satanic survivor" could grunt out 15 belabored minutes of applauded testimony, while a real

Satanist was lucky to be heard above two whole minutes of studio idiots gasping and jeering.

Now, in your End Times, you blame Death Metal and its influence on youth. You fret over the quality and content of their

sounds. You demand warning labels on shrink-wrap. You silly mush-heads. YOU listened to the warnings and examples set

forth by the Blattys,

Pazders, Geraldos, Oprahs, Sally Jessies, Bob Larsons and their identity-starved stooges. I wanted to tell your children what

was RIGHT about Satanism: encouraging sensuality with achievement, outrage with justice, nonconformity with wisdom.

Instead, YOU provided media saturation informing them what "real" Satanists do, what kind of noises they make when

possessed. YOU encouraged them to rebel by the aesthetic standards YOU provided, and still you grouse when they gravitate

to Slayer, Ozzy, Electric Hellfire Club, Mercyful Fate, Deicide, Marilyn Manson, Acheron, Morbid Angel.

Do you know what? I think those bands are great. I would also like your kids to listen to Liszt, Borodin, Saint-Saens,

Dvorak, Ketelbey, Wagner, Puccini, von Suppe, Rossini, Romberg, Kern, Friml, Al Jolson, Russ Columbo, Nelson Eddy, Nat

"King" Cole, and the marches of John Philip Sousa. But you never gave me the time to explain THAT to them. As panderers,

you were too busy crinkling the fat around your avaricious eyes and rubbing your money-grubbing hands and thinking of

ratings. Or else, as audience, you were too dim-witted to think anyone on TV or mainstream print could be misleading you

about Satanism. It runs YOUR life, so it must be OK for your children.

You hypocritical self-righteous fools. YOU made Death Metal and Satanic Metal bands what they are, by YOUR standards

of blasphemy --but with significant modification. Now the performers and the audiences aren't shunning the idea of Satanism.

They now greet each slavering monster as a friend. They raise their arms in Satanic salute. By whatever form their sounds

take; the lyrics, barely understandable in their guttural roar, hurl all your warnings and admonitions back in your faces.

YOU set the disturbing aesthetic standards which concern you now. If something bold and new will emerge from it, it

won't be to your credit. It will be because enough young people are seeing OTHER arenas of Satan. Your hysterical plan has

backfired. YOU brought about your own Apocalypse, like the stupid masochistic victims that you are. You needed a Hell

according to your own comfortable requirements. It didn't quite work out that way. Satan doesn't play by network, Marvel

Universe, or Nintendo rules; or by Augustinian rules either. Soon your children will come walking in the front door with a

Satanic Bible in one hand and a CD of Mussorgsky's Night On Bald Mountain in the other. Then, you'll know you're in real

trouble. You wanted Hell. I'll give you Hell. It won't be fun. The Devil's Plan may not be your plan. Your Apocalypse is

HERE. YOU brought it about. Take it. Suffer. It's all yours.

'T'ain't Funny, McGee

There is no sorcerer without a sense of humor. A sense of humor confers power in ways that cannot be learned. The

following is the formula for a genuine sense of humor:

If you want to make you life easier, sometimes it helps to get a different perspective on things. Take seriously what others

make fun of, and vice-versa. A true sense of humor is exhibited by this means. But first, it must be remembered that like

intrinsic right and wrong, some things cannot be anything other than ludicrous. Others cannot and should not be funny. One

who violates that basic rule is like a Christian "devil worshipper" who perversely tries to be "evil." At best, he is

indiscriminate, and at worst, nurses a masochistic death wish.

Genuine misfortune appeals to the herd, who requires to feel superior. The superior man sees comedy in that which others

hold solemn, but is the misfortune of their own doing. Examp les include impersonal tragedy, economic breakdown, and

media-conditioned issues of all sort.

But it takes more than an ability to see the light side of serious things. One cannot have a true sense of humor without an

equal sense of the profound. The familiar cliché of the clown whose heart is breaking holds great validity.

Invariably, those with the most finely-honed sense of humor find serious meaning in what everyone else ridicules. The very

nature of the joke is its foundation of misfortune. The joke maker can spot the sham in acceptably serious situations. Then,

having called attention to the deception, he may stand forth as a Satanic tribune. Not so easy is the reverse. The same rebel

who defends the unpopular and the ridiculed, plays to an audience whose only illusion of strength lies in its ability to ridicule.

It's interesting to observe how lower man, while realizing the sadness of clowns, seldom pays attention to them when they

have serious thoughts to offer.

Some occupational and professional groups are conspicuously lacking in humor. At the top of the list are the occultists,

who like counselors, lawyers, clergymen, social workers, interior decorators, fashion designers, and petty officials, lack any

true professional purpose. The ranks of the most useless professions are always filled with the most humorless practitioners.

A rule of thumb may be that sense of humor is in direct proportion to one's tangible worth as a productive creature.

How ironic, that occultists lead the pack of humorless persuasions. In their attempts to discover and utilize the arcane

secrets of live and death, the fall short in the most important department. If seriousness is their stock in trade, many are born

to that role. Like laugh tracks and applause signs, they flaunt their purpose--which is nothing. Occult studies is a haven for

the impractical and inept, just as other useless tradesmen find asylum in other arenas. Were it not for his badge of office, the

petty official could command no respect. Most social workers are only concerned about themselves, and sociologists don't

laugh at dirty jokes--they just collect them. Of course, the reverse can hold true of sociologists; they enjoy the jokes so much,

they become sociologists.

Psychiatry is often seen as a ghetto of marginal, run by deranged practitioners who are, in their own way, as nutty or nuttier

than their patients. There is no profession that suffers the slings of lampoon as much as the most reputably serious. Death,

being an exception to the humorless associated with it, entertains a larger than average number of humorously-inclined

professionals. Perhaps that is why because of their proximity to death--those in the mortuary sciences often display a

remarkable sense of humor. Unlike the occult arts, death is very real, very tangible, and necessary to deal with. There is little

room for interpretation. Death is finite, discernible, and attendable. Its workers would go mad without a sense of humor.

Anyone who performs essential duties and leads an essential life has a higher sense of humor than pretentious-but-useless

citizens. A strong need for identity precludes a sense of humor. One of the first refuges of the humorless is in the dismal

world of comedy clubs. They remind me of a man I once knew--quite humorless--who was quick to identify a sense of humor

as one who "laughs a lot." Like books on "How to be a Comedian," standup comics are among the world's most unfunny

people. They don't have to be funny--their audience is usually comprised of similar drones. Its members "laugh a lot" because

a professional comic--a specialist--stands before them and expertly says funny things, invariably on topics safely established

as open to ridicule.

True humor is encouraged by individuality, rather than herd conformity. One must be removed from the contagion of

established levity, the kissing cousin of the disease of false concern.

The Good Old Days:

A Devil's Advocacy

Having been a rebellious youth, I can attest that the "good old days" were not so good. First off, conformity--right or

wrong--was king. Sure, we can talk about the parameters of conformity in today's world, and somehow equalize them with

those of the past. It's easy to argue that one conforms just as much today, but to different standards. But I believe there is

more room for individual, out-of-the-closet, non-conformity than ever before--if the opportunity is taken. Things we now

take for grated were once so tabooed as to be unthinkable.

In the good old days, if you didn't believe in God, you at least paid lip service to a benign supreme being. Oddly enough,

the Devil did not constitute a threat and was able to be utilized in all manner of popular culture. He could appear in

everything from food products to sports team mascots without consternation. As long as one believed in God, it was perfectly

all right to entertain Satan for fun. If you were actually serious about metaphysical pursuits, you ran the risk of being pointed

out as a strange cultist at best, or a devil worshipper at worst. The Rosicrucians were about as dark as you could get.

Institutions such as the military had no provision for alternative, offbeat religions. If you weren't of a Christian

denomination, you must be Jewish--a separate kind of human being, tolerated at best. At least Jews could change their names

and live like Christians and nobody'd be the wiser. Not so with people of color. They were stuck with their stigma. It is

inconceivable today what real racism was like in the good old days.

Romantics like to talk of the slower pacing of yesterday. In many ways it wasn't so good. If you were traveling abroad and

got homesick, you couldn't jump on a jet and be back in your own bed in a few hours. Mail was slow, and long distance

telephone was a costly luxury. Well-made products were so well made that it took four strong men to move an item that

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