Эрнст Юнгер - A German Officer in Occupied Paris - The War Journals, 1941-1945

One stylistic trait that helps to create Jünger’s remote narrative voice is his frequent use in German of the impersonal pronoun man . English can translate this as “one,” e.g., “One can see from the example….” Jünger’s style thus often has a generalized impartiality that could be avoided by using the first-person pronouns I or we (which he used less frequently). An English translation that respects this feature in every case produces a stilted, awkward manner alien to English readers. As a result, we have adopted the tendency followed by other English translators of Jünger and in places chosen more colloquial English pronouns in order to create an idiomatic and readable English text appropriate to journal writing. To be sure, this may at times produce expressions like “You can see this when you examine….” instead of “One can see this when one examines….” Similarly: “I feel a sense of disbelief,” rather than, “One feels a sense of disbelief.”

Counter examples abound in these journals that contradict the charge of emotional detachment. Passages show the writer—the man—expressing deep filial piety, familial devotion, love and affection toward women, delight in nature, pervasive melancholy, despair at the destruction of his culture by war, empathy for victims, or outrage at the cruelty perpetrated by the National Socialist regime. Especially moving are those journal entries during the weeks made after the death of his son, Ernstel, who is killed in action in November 1944.

Many of Jünger’s conventions are familiar from journal-writing style. For example, he omits pronouns to produce a shorthand entry like, “Was in the city yesterday.” Furthermore, his entries frequently do not separate the world of real experience from that of dreams. His dream journal is thus sometimes integrated into the narrative of the day and given the same weight as the account of waking activity, with the result that a paragraph about familiar routines might shift without warning to a setting of classical ruins teeming with snakes.

The journals use distinctly different levels of style for different subject matter. Jünger’s appreciation of natural beauty can border on the lyrical, while descriptions of military or daily routines can have the crisp concision of objective reportage. When he speculates on mystical themes, however, his vocabulary frequently uses neologisms—or employs familiar vocabulary in personal and metaphorical ways—to create allusions to arcane or imagined reality. Furthermore, his command of French often permeates his native German and introduces concepts that depart from traditional German vocabulary. This translation renders idiosyncratic inventions with more familiar terms to enhance clarity.

Occasional footnotes have been added to explain particular historical references or unfamiliar linguistic features. The index of personal names (as well as nicknames and pseudonyms) will be helpful in establishing identities of persons mentioned. Brief explanations of possibly obscure concepts, foreign words and phrases, as well as translations are inserted in brackets in the text. Dates of historical events may also be included if they clarify the context. All material within square brackets is the work of the translators, not the author.

We wish to express our gratitude to Ms. Jennifer Crewe of Columbia University Press for her perseverance in undertaking this ambitious project, as well as to professors Barry Lydgate, Randall Colaizzi, and Jens Kruse for their advice on aspects of French, Latin, and German passages respectively.

Mr. Tobias Wimbauer of Hagen, Germany, whose knowledge and appreciation of Ernst Jünger and his works is as deep as it is wide, deserves special mention for his support and suggestions. He helped clarify many a puzzle.

Arrived before dawn at the railroad freight yard in Avesnes, where I was jolted out of a deep sleep. This made me aware of a beautiful dream: I was both a child and a grown man traveling along my old route to school from Wunstorf to Rehburg, a trip we always took by narrow-gauge railroad. I got out in Winzlar and followed the tracks on foot. It was night, for in the area around my father’s house I could see shots being fired, high and bright, through the darkness. But at the same time, it was also day, and to my left the fields were bathed in sunshine. One of them was covered with green seedlings, and I could see my mother waiting there, a magnificent young woman. I sat down beside her, and when I got tired, she picked up the edge of the field like a green blanket and pulled it over us.

The dream image made me very happy and warmed me for a long time afterward while I stood on the cold loading ramp and supervised the work.

March to Sars-Poteries; billeted there. I was assigned to two old ladies. One was eighty-two years old and had already seen three wars. I was able to contribute a bit of sausage to their evening meal, but it was still little better than meager. It consisted essentially of three large potatoes that had stood on the stovetop under a clay dome. This little device was called an étouffoir , probably because the food inside is steamed by closing off its air supply.

Strolled near the railroad station. In the ceramics factory, I inquired about the source of the clay that gave the town its reputation. A little beyond the tracks, I reached the pits and saw that these had been excavated from the lovely brown and white sand. I did not discover any of the fossils I was hoping to find. At the bottom of one old abandoned excavation, there were puddles that must occasionally flood with water. There I came upon willows growing at the bottom of one of the pits, taller than a man and covered with tiny, hairy roots. These sprouted like moss from the trunk and branches—a nice example demonstrating that each individual part of a plant can reproduce others. The whole organism is suffused with concentrated powers of generation. We humans have lost this art, and once our cultures display leaves and blossoms, we will never again see roots. Yet, when danger mounts in moments of sacrifice, we send out different, more spiritual organs, aerial roots, into the void—naturally at the expense of individual lives. All of us benefit from this new growth.

As I walked back, a storm of heavy wet snow dappled the landscape. Yet in the gardens, I could still see hazel and laurel blossoms covering the bare branches like swollen lilac blooms. In protected places, I noticed clusters of snowdrops. These seemed quite early, especially after the harsh winter. Here they are called fleurs de Saint Joseph [Saint Joseph’s flowers], whose day is celebrated on 19 March.

During my early morning sleep, I was in a little pharmacy where I was buying various things. Then Rehm woke me up. Before my eyes were open, I briefly noticed a paper bag labeled Braunschweiger Rubber Cement. It is always strange how we focus on such details.

Currently reading Reine [ Queen ] by Julius [ recte Jules] Lermina, a book lent to me by the lady who owns my living quarters; it rather amusingly describes the factionalism around 1815 in the style of The Three Musketeers . Here you come across passages like the following that surpass the quality of the popular novel: “There is something childlike to be found in every conspirator.” I can confirm that judgment from personal experience.

Dozed in the early morning hours and pondered exotic books like Die Geheimnisse des Roten Meeres [ The Secrets of the Red Sea ] by Henry de Monfreid. The work is bathed in the gleam of coral and mother of pearl and the delicate breath of the sea. Also pondered Mirbeau’s Le Jardin des Supplices [ The Garden of Torments ]. This garden, with its paths paved in red brick dust, is filled with green vegetation and great masses of blazing peonies. It draws its luxuriance from the countless corpses of coolies who created it under conditions of murderous toil and have moldered anonymously in its depths. This book deserves praise for clearly delineating the beauty and savagery of the world—as the two forces whose combination and interplay remind us of sea monsters. Veiled in iridescence, these camouflage the terrifying dangers of their weaponry with alluring hues. In such intense coalescing of hells and heavens, the eye cannot differentiate the details of desire and suffering any more than it can the tangled chaos of a jungle island. Here our planet reveals a most incredible drama to our spirit.