[note translator: This text was written by the inspiration of the Germanic goddess Hell. All this sounds sinister, but it is the opposite. I will let Jan-Anton explain all this himself in the Preface to the Germanic Book of the Dead.
Original text is copyrighted by Jan-Anton van Hoek.]

Preface to the Germanic Book of the Dead

A book of the Dead in the "classical" sense, as it is the case with the Egyptian or the very different Tibetan Book of the Dead, does not need to be rewritten for the new World Year: that which is eternal in these Books of the Dead can not be improved - that which does not apply anymore has already lost its power, without the need to refute. The Germanic Book of the Dead is not like the other Books of the Dead. It is not a guide to avoid reincarnation and it is not a manual to avoid judging justice: these concepts are not a focus the Germanic Book of the Dead. The Germanic Book of the Dead has its name because it relies on what Hell -the Goddess of Death- visionary has revealed. Of course, the term "Germanic" is of no other significance than its connection to the Northern European pagan concept, that in its esoteric meaning goes back to the times of emperor Hoetan (the first mortal emperor). Her message is intentionally intended for the New World Year and will be of cosmic importance for a long time. When reading it, do remember that many who read a mystical treatise will try to compare it to others which they deem similar. It may be that disappointment will be the result. Hell's words are clear, concise, and sometimes even abrupt. The Goddess does not lose time, although she has time in plenitude.
Hell herself? How many times did I not see and do I still see Hell, who speaks without even one word and lets me know everything I desire! As she appears, light brown of hair, with helm like crown on her head, wearing a purple attire, her smile lightly mocking and her green eyes lightly closed; her power is tangible by surroundings of by acolytes and demons of death of many appearances, (translator: Jan-Anton van Hoek does not use the word 'demons' in the classical sense; he calls demons a particular class of very powerful and highly spiritual beings which by their appearance or actions can be frightful), also surrounded by dragons and monsters. Her irony does not mock anybody but is simply above time, and in so much as the wriggling of mankind is or could not be anything more than just wriggling. Of course, Hell should not be confused with Loki's daughter Hell from the old World Year: it is the same spirit, but now, after Ragnarok (the twilight of the Gods), she has been purified and is one of the most positive creative forces in the cosmos; which also applies for the giants (now guardians of order), the wolf Fenris (guardian of the All, and servant of the Holy dragon), and the serpent Iörmungandr (priest of Eternity and First servant of the Solar cult on earth). It is there that one of the first seeds of the resurrected esoteric Paganism is. Even in the old Word Year, Rudolf the Wise One (translator: Jan-Anton calls Rudolf his brother whom he has met since ancient time, and who is now on the spirit side and in contact with Jan-Anton), could trust that a dying religion could brought back to a new life. But now the verdict has been made: that impasse is over; the word is for those who posses esoteric knowledge and are able to bring it out into the open, and this is definitive.
How cosmically inspiring is the thought about Gods, about their holy imperturbability! How blessed is he who is able to feel their power and feels himself connected to them!
Hell's inspiration is within me and is leading the creations of my spirit. The fact that her name -as with many of the Gods- has been changed for the worst, does not affect her name: a precious stone can be covered with mud but it remains the same precious stone. One can imagine Hell's laughter about this all: "I am Hell, if that pleases you or not. It does please me." Finally this: I cannot say that this Book of the Dead is my creation. It is by Hell's power of inspiration that it was written on paper; in this I am nothing, no mystic in the classical interpretation, even not a medium in the parapsychological meaning of the word. I simply know that Hell wants to communicate this - it is not explainable how. And I am passing it on. May the Germanic Book of Death give comfort and understanding; when understanding has been achieved, comfort is not necessary anymore. May it be a contribution to the learning of mankind: the learning of being born, living, dying, living after dying, and everything related to it. Nothing more than a contribution! Our book shows, but it does not teach, that man has to conclude and act by himself - now that he has the freedom to do this. Death harbors secrets for sure, and those are twofold: first the secrets that one can only find by himself, and secondly the secrets that can be written down and that form a passport of life and after-life and at the same time are reflections of both existences of life. Because what is called "life" or "death" is nothing more than a door between two rooms of the House of life. Regarding the style of writing, the subject seemed to be sufficiently poetic to let Hell's concise inspiration-sentences to be as they were. Thus I have avoided as much as possible the style of an essay, and I have given the preference to a more poetic approach.
 

The Germanic Book of the Dead

Birth is not; life is not; dying is not;
They are not: they form parts of a Whole.
He who is born from the womb into the life of flesh
makes one step forwards;
The he makes another step;
Then a third one-
And he already leaves the corporeal shell.
With the first step who will not think about the second one?
And though, who dares to think about the third one
when he is making the second one?
He is vain, suddenly to want to be blind.
It is foolish to cut the threads
which run through the phases of existence.
Existence: from becoming physical
to becoming un-physical.
Who, when breathing in, hesitates to breath out?
Why fear, oh man, to breath out to becoming un-physical?
Everything you perceive is both mortal
and immortal:
Shells die off, like a coat wearing out
of sometimes also being torn: a new shell follows.
But does one wear a coat
When one lies down for a rest?
One time, for any who suffers from the cold,
If he wants; the time will come when cold will not have any hold on him anymore,
And without a coat he becomes happy and satisfied.
As long as he cosmically shivers, he will need shells
And with his earth bound gaze
He attaches himself to them as it was so heavily important.
It is vain, to want to be that warm.
It is foolish, to adore the shells
which guide through the phases of existence.
Shells: from materialization
to dematerialization.
And when attaching oneself to others:
How easy it is to see their shells for humans,
How easy one thinks the breaking of their eye,
Is the breaking of their soul!
How easy:
No one is the property of the other.
One does not feel bereft,
Because also the coats of others
Fall like rags from the shoulders.
Only he who lives in detachment
Really lives:
Nothing is your property, and you are nothing.
Your coat has been loaned to you
Until it drops down when worn out.
That is the way to go
And always direct attention to the goal.
Then one can enjoy the material the most:
One profoundly knows the boundaries.
Is it not the best laughter
which underlies the tempers of melancholy?
 
Only the four Holy Emperors are immortal
Their body sublimed
When they grasped the hands
Of Him who is incomprehensible.
After them, everyone shed their coats
And it shall be this way in the future.
The last breath escaping from the chest
Makes the seams of the shells pop
And the fabric disintegrate.
The chest collapses,
The belly rattles,
The skin becomes like wax.
You who ascends through the narrow,
Protected by your guides,
Who beholds your fear with wonder:
This is the third step
Called dying,
But dying it is not.
Only he who is detached
Goes from the one into the other.
Him the tunnel is awaiting,
Him the gate is awaiting,
Him the meadow is awaiting;
But he is not dazed!
He shall see them all,
The volatile spirits,
The demons he shall see
And maybe the Gods too.
If his eye is not glued
He shall see.
If his ear is not glued,
He shall hear.
Clarity will be with him in laughter
And he will not distinguish anymore
Between seconds and aeons,
Between miles and fathoms,
Hundredweights from grains.
Tight he felt when he came out of his mother's belly:
That tight he felt again when leaving his shells.
But now he is light and playful
And he does not cry like last time.
He left behind on earth
The threatening authorities of eternity
Together with their suffering soul.
The majesty of the transition
Elevates a soul who gained nobility
And gained in noble fight!
Fear leaves you: great is your luck.
Like moon crescents Hell stretches her hands:
The light thereof is shining your unearthly path.
The angled cross is turning around,
Ever calm, but inevitable.
Seeing it makes you learn many things
And makes you experience the turning of the All.
Then you will perceive your task with awe
And silently you will acknowledge your fall
And you will hear that you have risen,
resurrected from the deep indignity.
Then, stirred, grasp with both hands
Your fate and help decide your aid
Which will be your dwelling after the spiritual world!
All who honor the Gods, who acknowledge the All in respect,
May claim such an unfolding.
Calm he may be he who grows without attachment.
He may hope to come here for the last time
before the shells would cloth him in another earthly attire.
 
The detached ones do not return;
The attached ones remain bound to the earthly cycle.
They help to choose the mother's belly which shall give birth to them;
They determine their fate;
Their fate is always suffering.
He who has left behind everything;
He who is death to preaching of penance;
He who goes his path undeceived:
He will be detached,
Will be free,
Will shake the cycle from him
Like a dead snake.
The chains falls off: the spirit stands free,
Disconnected from any compulsion
And already half blessed in Him who is home to everyone.
If his eyes don't wander,
He will not get under any spell!
His innate being will evaporate
And dissolve into the being of Him.
But if he looks behind,
His heart is moved with compassion!
And already he decides to rescue
Who just was sheltering himself.
His eyes are radiating throughout the All,
A string is offered to him,
A string of taking pity, rich
Of so many beads
As will be his return to
The earthly realm of need.
A God dissolves,
His task of Lord accomplished:
His place determines the fate
Of he who freely and fully
With majestic benevolence,
Makes the earth vibrate
With his golden foot.
He will not be given a lot of gratefulness.
He already it knows well beforehand
And unwavering he traverses his cycle.
No other need pressures him
Than his holy pledge,
As he has already ascended the earthly bonds.
Out of free will he takes the heavy cane,
Bearing the backpack and the heavy boots.
The body around him pays its toll
What silently needs to be paid:
A Great Spirit does not stagger and bides his time.
He knows how long his candle will burn
And is ready, to extinguish himself the wick at the end.
That which man believes to be his luck,
He does not care about: he knows it already
And knows man's illusion.
But shall he really snarl from his high post,
Or only allow his body, to despise
The wriggling of the lusting brood of man?
He knows very well, how many times he has left
Passing through this earth again.
The burden becomes heavier each time
He takes it upon his shoulders.
Then, bending through his knees during the last time
He knows he will ascend into the Will,
The only one who always prevails
And who he knows as Something, with nothing behind.
That 'absolutum' is only granted to him
Who escapes from the cycle by way of offering:
The others dissolve,
The Godhead, being free itself, knows.
 
Has the old World Year gone
And the new One arisen,
Even than the Law does not change.
The biggest things remains true to their selves.
But at the end of it:
Many will go the path
Through the tunnel and the gate
To the meadow.
Very many.
Very Many.
How many among them
Will be detached
And free?
He who is not, will wake,
Wake in the Night,
The Night of All,
That comes
And lies between All and All.
Who will ascend into Him
Behind whom there is nothing?
Woe!
Woe!
Wake o man, now the time is here
That you will not wake
And lonely try
To drown a System that does not exist anymore.
In the need of loneliness
Until a grim day dawns
Of chaotic new Universe.
Breathe the breath in;
Breathe the breath out.
Be your own master,
Your own priest,
Your own religious lord!
Free yourself!
Very many will go,
Few will reject themselves.
Sharp be your gaze-
The Law never changes.
In the Night of All,
Do not wake!
Then you are not supposed to be anymore;
Be in Him, until at dawn He
Splices Himself again, evaporating
And throwing away substances of soul.
Purify yourself of strange contamination
And listen to the voice in your soul,
The rustling of your spirit.
In there every answer is present.