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

Then Café de la Paix. Took stock of the situation as it comes into focus more clearly.

Toward morning, dreams of earthquakes—I saw houses swallowed up. The scene was as confusing as a maelstrom and threatened to make me dizzy and even lose consciousness. At first I struggled against the urge, but then I threw myself into the vortex of annihilation, as into a swirling shaft. The leap produced desire, which was part of the horror, yet also transcended it as the body dissolved into malevolent, fragmented music. Sadness prevailed, as when a flag is lowered.

Had a further conversation about the situation with Ziegler in the Ambassador. Also talked about second sight, a trait inherited in his wife’s family. She saw the explosion of the zeppelin [11] Reference to the explosion of the hydrogen-filled passenger airship Hindenburg in Lakehurst, New Jersey, in 1937. three hours before it was announced on the radio, as well as other things. Yes, there are strange springs that feed our knowledge, for she also saw Kniébolo [12] Kniébolo: E. J.’s pseudonym for Hitler, an invented name that echoes diavolo (devil). lying on the floor, his face spattered with blood.

At the table, I joked around with a beautiful three-year-old child I had grown fond of. Thought: that was one of your own children, unbegotten and unborn.

In the evening I accompanied the sisters to Montmartre, which was glowing like a volcanic crater. They complement each other like a centaur, a twin being in spirit and flesh. While half asleep I ardently entered into the spirit of language. The consonant groups m-n m-s m-j that express the exalted, the masculine, and masterful became especially distinct.

I met Morris on the Place d’Anvers, a man still mentally alert and physically active at age seventy-six. He has spent his life guiding rich Englishmen, Americans, and Scandinavians through the city. He has intimate familiarity with all of its far-flung districts. His experience is also extensive in clandestine matters, in the vices of the rich and powerful. Like the face of all who have passed through such regions, his own betrays a somewhat demonic aspect. While we ate together on the Boulevard Rochechouart, he gave me a lecture on various techniques of making amorous advances. At a glance, he can tell women who expect money from those who don’t, almost infallibly. I find that a rather coarse trait. Despite all his debauchery, I found something pleasant, even lovable in him. At the same time, I also sensed an icy chill in this person, who has spent years unattached relying on himself alone in this metropolis.

Strolled with Madame Scrittore to the Place du Tertre opposite the old Mairie near Sacré Coeur. I showed her a mullein flower blooming in a dry crevice in a wall. She said she thought it had grown thanks to “ collaboration du Saint-Esprit ” [collaboration with the Holy Spirit]. Conversation about the men who are good husbands and bad lovers. In such cases, women tend to take comfort in the thought that “I have always led a double life.” I wondered about the reason for such confidences. It can probably be attributed to the loneliness felt by two people who live near each other—a loneliness imbued with something terrifying.

Men live there as if suspended over chasms lightly covered with flowers but which conceal snakes and small carcasses in their depths. But why? Ultimately, only because they instill fear and mistrust. If we possessed perfect, divine understanding, our fellow human beings would reveal their secrets to us like children, without suspicion.

We ate together in a wine bar on the Place d’Anvers. Here I allowed myself the pleasure of interrogating my companion about details of French history, such as the heraldic significance of the lilies. At the next table, there sat a married couple, obviously “people who smell well-educated,” as the Chinese say. They were becoming increasingly disturbed by our conversation. Several times the man had to restrain his wife with effort when she wanted to interrupt and give me a piece of her mind.

Bastille Day. The streets were very crowded. When I crossed over the Place des Ternes in the evening, I felt someone touch my hand. A man carrying a violin under his left arm gripped my hand powerfully as he passed, while giving me a silent but genial look. There was something strangely invigorating about it, and it immediately improved my melancholy mood.

The city as sweetheart. Her streets, her squares, as bounteous places where we are surprised by gifts. I get special joy from seeing loving couples who walk with their arms around each other and occasionally pull each other closer for a kiss.

Went to the flea market with Speidel in the afternoon. I spent several hours in this jumbled maze in the kind of mood produced by reading Aladdin and the Magic Lamp . A place where East and West mingle and combine in the most outlandish way.

The impression of this fairytale world is evoked by all the treasures of metalwork, stones, pictures, fabric, and antiquities mixed in with a lot of rubbish. Treasures can be found in cheap market stalls, precious items among the piles of bric-a-brac.

This is the final collecting point for things that have spent their dreamy lives for years, decades, and centuries among families and households. They pour out of the rooms, the attics, and the storage rooms and bring anonymous memories with them. They fill the whole market with the emanations of household gods.

My transfer to Paris left a lacuna in these entries. Even more than that, the events in Russia are responsible for it; these started around the same time and evoked a kind of mental exhaustion, not just in me. It seems that this war is deteriorating in stages organized according to the rules of some unidentified dramatic structure. Of course this sort of thing can only be guessed at because events are sensed by those who are living through them in all their anarchic spirit. The maelstroms are too close, too violent, and nowhere, not even on this ancient island, are there any places of safety. The breakers are surging into the lagoons.

At noon Speidel and I went to see Ambassador de Brinon, on the corner of Rue Rude and Avenue Foch. They say that the little palais where he received us belongs to his Jewish wife, but that did not prevent him from making jokes at table about the youpins [Yids]. There I made the acquaintance of Sacha Guitry, whom I found very pleasant. His dramatic side also far outweighs his artistic side. He possesses a tropical personality of the sort I imagine Dumas Père had. On his little finger there gleamed a monstrous signet ring with a large embossed monogram SG on the gold surface. I conversed with him about Mirbeau, and he told me that the man had died in his arms as he whispered into his ear: “ Ne collaborer jamais !” [Never collaborate!] I am recording this for my collection of last words. What he meant was collaborating on comedies, for in those days, the word did not have the odor that it does now. Sat next to the actress Arletty at table. At the moment, she can be seen in the film Madame Sans-Gêne [ Brazen Lady ]. Just the word cocu [cuckold] is enough to make her laugh, which means that in this country she is almost always in a state of merriment. Orchids in a vase: smooth, stiff, with a lip that divides into trembling feelers. Their color, a shimmering white luster, as though enameled for insects’ eyes in the jungle. Lasciviousness and innocence are wondrously united in these blossoms.