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

In the afternoon at Madame Boudot-Lamotte’s where Cocteau read aloud his new play Renaud et Armide . It was a magical combination of supple and melodious sound, and he was more than up to the task. His lilting voice had both lightness and strength and was especially fitting when describing how the sorceress Armida enchants and snares the bewitched Renaud. He let out cries of “ file file file ” [run run run], launching them into the air like autumnal gossamer.

There, in addition to Gaston Gallimard, I met Heller, Wiemer, the Doctoresse, and the actor Marais, a plebeian Antinous. Afterward, conversation with Cocteau while he recounted amusing anecdotes about a play that used painted human hands representing snakes rising up out of a basket on stage. Actors then lashed out at these beasts with sticks, but it happened that when one of the snakes was struck particularly hard, “ merde! ” [shit] was heard from beneath the trap door from a bellowing extra.

In Drouant, near the Opéra. It’s one of my old failings that the days when I especially love my neighbors and those when I actually express this to them rarely coincide. At times the spirit of contradiction grips me powerfully.

Dreams at night—in deepest sleep, the meaning of the chambers became apparent to me. They bordered on the room where I was sleeping, and each had a door: one for the mother, one for the wife, for the sister, the brother, the father, the mistress. And in the silent power and influence of these rooms, in their overwhelming nearness and grand detachment, there lay something both solemn and fearfully clandestine.

“—and then the mother entered.”

At the Ritz in the evening with the sculptor Breker, who had invited me and his wife, an intelligent Greek woman—a true bohemian. Madame Breker devoured our appetizer of sardines without leaving a trace: “ J’adore les têtes, vous aussi? ” [I just love the heads, don’t you?] Nebel was there as well, again with his typical Parnassian joviality. When it comes to things he likes, he possesses a delicate touch, as though he were lifting a curtain with a smile to reveal precious objects.

He called our modern savagery unique, insofar as it maintains no belief in the indestructibility of the human race and, in contrast with the Inquisition, is determined to destroy and obliterate us all forever.

His case, incidentally, was decided with leniency: he was transferred to Étampes.

In the morning, Jessen called on me in my room in the Majestic. As soon as I saw him, I remembered those good, or rather, precise predictions that I had heard about him a year ago when most people had not given any thought to a Russian war. The value of a clear, highly focused intellect that perceives the inherent logic of things is evident. You can see that in him, in his eyes, and especially upon his brow you see evidence of a consummately rational intellect. Men like him and Popitz, who was also present at the time, are the last specimens that German idealism has driven into this desert.

New predictions. We talked about the rigidity that has made itself felt since the beginning of this year. I perceive it very clearly, as if I carried a gauge inside me that measures currents and countercurrents.

Then Valentiner, a son of the U-boat captain, the old Viking. As a corporal here, he has a minor post as an interpreter for the airmen. He spends most of his time with books or with friends in a studio that he has rented in a garret on the Quai Voltaire. He invited me there, and I had the feeling that the visit was going to be the first in a long friendship. It was gratifying to note his intellectual courage when he entered the room.

Stokers in a boiler room where pressure of a million atmospheres throbs behind the escape valves. The manometers rise gently beyond the last red line on the gauge. Things are suddenly silent. Flames flare up behind the tempered glass.

Finished reading La Faustine by Edmond de Goncourt. A few weeks ago, I bought a copy of the book signed by the author from Berès. As I read it, I was slightly displeased whenever I came upon a fact that I was familiar with from Goncourt’s journals. Things like that can be annoying in artistic works, which should incorporate life experiences more profoundly and unobtrusively. Otherwise they remind us of the sort of picture that disrupts painted imagery with an overlay of collage.

A word about the author’s method of connecting with the reader: In his preface, Goncourt invites his female readers to send him documents humains [personal documentation] revealing private details of their lives that could be useful to him as an artist. This gesture is improper; it oversteps the boundaries of the genre that should constrain the work.

Faustine shows little composition, and the characters make entrances where they are not necessary, but the author happens to need them. Furthermore, the decadence is so far advanced that it is tolerable only in very well-written descriptions.

New poems by Friedrich Georg arrived from Überlingen. In “Zelina,” I recognize his old love for female tightrope walkers and circus performers. I had already known “Peacocks,” so full of bright sunshine, as though reflected from faceted gems, and the poem “Sundial.” A man’s true masculinity does not begin to show until he has reached his fortieth year.

This morning’s dreams were of a pond or lagoon edged in stone. I stood there to watch the creatures in the water. Birds would dive beneath the surface and fish would jump out. I listened to a gray speckled coot as it swam over the rocky bottom. Stone-gray fishes rose to the surface, dreaming and becoming ever more visible. I watched this from my vantage point on domes that protruded from the water’s surface and twice gave way underneath me: I had been standing on the shells of tortoises.

At Speidel’s this morning. There was a large crowd in his outer office because of the Sunday signatures. He had just returned from headquarters and showed me the notes he had made on the files. These altered my opinion that strategies of elimination—those efforts to murder by shooting, starving, and exterminating—are produced by a general nihilistic tendency in our age. Of course that is also true, but behind the swarms of herrings, there are sharks driving them on.

No doubt there are individuals responsible for the blood of millions, and they go after bloodshed like tigers. Aside from their vulgar instincts, they have an inherently satanic will that takes cold pleasure in destroying human beings, perhaps even humanity. A deep sorrow seems to come over them, a wail of fury when they sense that some power prevents them from devouring as much as their lust demands. You can see them preparing massacres when these seem unnecessary, even when they threaten their own security. It was horrible to hear what Jodl reported about Kniébolo’s objectives.

Let’s not forget that many Frenchmen support such plans and are eager to provide the hangman’s services. But here in our organization there are regulations in force that restrain the participation of our partners and even put a stop to clandestine activities. Most of all, it is crucial that any semblance of humanity be diligently avoided.

Went to the X-Royal in the afternoon with the Doctoresse. After that, to visit Valentiner on the Quai Voltaire. An ancient elevator supported by a cable alarmed us all the way up as it let out creaking wails of protest. In the garret, we found several little rooms full of old furniture; books were strewn about on tables and easy chairs. The owner received us in casual civilian attire. Whenever time permits, he sneaks off to this hideaway and changes his life with a change of clothes as he wiles away the hours in reading and introspection or in the company of friends. The degree to which he succeeds is a testimony to his freedom and imagination. In this place Cocteau felt himself reminded of times he had spent similarly during World War I. We enjoyed fine conversation in his little lair and were able to gaze out over the ancient roofs of Saint-Germain-des-Prés.