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

There are themes that interweave themselves mysteriously through the years, such as that of the inevitability that consumes our age. This is reminiscent of the grand image of the wave of life in Asian painting, or of the maelstrom in E. A. Poe. There is something extremely instructive in this, for when there is no escape or hope, we are forced to stand still. Our perspective changes.

It is nonetheless remarkable that confidence animates me most profoundly. The star of fate shines through the foam of the breaking waves and tattered clouds alike. I don’t mean this only personally, but generally. During the past weeks, we reached the nadir and have gotten past it.

The efforts we must make to survive our times and gain strength take place out of sight, deep in the mineshafts. So it was in the decisive dream upon the heights of Patmos on my journey to Rhodes. Our life is like a mirror; although it is smudged and hazy, it reveals meaningful things. One day we shall enter into this world of reflections and then attain perfection. The measure of perfection that we shall be able to bear is already implied by our lives.

During the lunch break, went to the sales division of the print collection [of the Louvre], where I had ordered a few copies of etchings that were out of print. Among these was the beautiful image of a cobra, coiled and erect with its neck flared. The sales clerk, a gaunt dark-haired girl roughly in her thirties, told me that she always placed this sheet face down on the pile. When she wrapped it up for me, she bade it goodbye muttering “ sale bête ” [filthy beast].

Otherwise an amusing person. When I made a comment that she seemed to find unusual, she was taken aback for a moment, and looked me up and down and said, “ ah bon ” in acknowledgment.

During this brief visit, I leafed through the large folder of etchings by Poussin. Although I have had an English reproduction of his Heracles at the Crossroads hanging over my desk for years, it was only today that I truly realized the mighty, even regal spatiality of this master. This is absolute monarchy.

Paid a visit to the Doctoresse in the afternoon; an amethyst-tinged flight of stairs leads to her apartment. I climb the steps through violet light in the spiral whorl of a seashell. In such centuries-old houses, time itself is still part of the continuing construction process. There are small depressions, dislocations, and curvatures of the beams, and these change the proportions in a way that no architect could imagine. The Doctoresse thinks that families who rent apartments here never move out but simply become extinct in this place.

We then went out to eat on Place Saint-Michel. Had garfish served on ice and seaweed. Long strings of the plant covered the plate, and its color was extraordinary. At first glance it appeared black, but closer inspection revealed a dull, dark, malachite green, yet without any mineral hardness—one of life’s great delicacies. Accompanying this were oyster shells with their green slate mother-of-pearl encrustations amid the reflections of silver, porcelain, and crystal.

At Weber’s for half-an-hour in the evening; the Doctoresse taught me how to open the safe. She also mentioned a doctor who took pictures of the dying so as to capture and study the agonies produced by various illnesses—a thought that I found both astute and repugnant. For some minds, taboos no longer exist.

Lunch at the Morands’ on Avenue Charles-Floquet. There I also met Gaston Gallimard and Jean Cocteau.

Morand epitomizes a kind of worldly sybarite. In one of his books, I found a passage comparing an ocean liner with a Leviathan infused with the aroma of Chypre . [21] Chypre (French for Cyprus): a perfume developed in 1917 by François Coty from Mediterranean ingredients. His book about London is commendable; it describes a city as a great house. If the English were to build pyramids, they would include London in the decoration of their tombs.

Cocteau: amiable and at the same time, ailing, like someone who dwells in a special, but comfortable, hell.

With intelligent women it is very difficult to overcome physical distance. It is as though they girded their alert intellects with a belt that foils desire. It is too bright within their orbit. Those who lack specific erotic orientation are most assertive. This could be one of those chess moves that ensures the continuity of our species.

One can ask advice of a subaltern in a matter, but not regarding the ethical system fundamental to that matter.

The dignity of man must be more sacred to us than life itself.

The age of humanity is the age in which human beings have become scarce.

The true leaders of the world are at home in their graves.

In moments of inescapable disruption, individuals must proclaim their allegiance like a warship hoisting its colors.

By choosing certain circles in life, such as the Prussian General Staff, one may gain access to certain elevated spheres of inside information but exclude himself from the highest.

I sometimes spend my noon hour in the little cemetery near the Trocadéro. Moss has grown over many a gravestone and edged the names and inscriptions with borders of green velvet. Things glow in their after-image and often more beautifully in memory before they dissolve into the nameless void.

After such visits, I usually have a half-hour left over when I drink coffee in my room and read books or look at pictures. Today I admired Memling’s series on the procession of the ten thousand virgins. These paintings give a hint of the transfiguration that man can attain, as well as what the artist can perceive.

Reading matter: Fumée d’Opium by Boissière, [22] Recte: Fumeurs d’Opium , 1896 [ Smokers of Opium ]. a book that Cocteau recommended and sent to me. Furthermore, this strange story of the island of Juan Fernandez, a present from Doctor [Werner] Best.

Dropped in on the print and book dealers on Rue de Tournon in the afternoon. In the antiquarian bookshop of Lechevalier, with whom I have been corresponding for years. Admired entomological volumes, among them one by Swammerdam.

Went to the Brasserie Lorraine in the evening with Nebel and Poupet. When Poupet wants to characterize something trivial, like a book that’s creating a stir, he says, “ cela n’existe pas ” [that does not exist]. He likes to work in bed, and then in the morning when he wakes up, he continues his work where he left off. He sleeps with his books spread out around him on the bed and turns over carefully at night so as not to touch them.

In the afternoon, I met Grüninger at Countess Podewils’; he had just returned from the Pyrenees. He said he had dreamed about me. In the dream, he asked whether he should depict an ivy-covered ruin. I answered yes and added, “That suits you. I, on the other hand, want to represent an elephant.” This bothered him as a reference to Romanticism.

In the evening, went to the Grand Guignol with the Doctoresse to cheer her up. I didn’t find it as amusing as I had before the war, which is probably because horrors have replaced everyday life in the world, and so the presentation has lost its remarkable quality.

Montmartre—dark, foggy, and locked down tight by police and soldiers because of an assassination that had taken place there.

Conversations among men should be conducted like those among gods, among invulnerable beings. To duel with ideas is to use swords of the intellect that cut through matter without pain or effort. The deeper the cut, the purer the enjoyment. In such intellectual encounters, one must be indestructible.