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

Riley’s attitude, and even his fate, are proof of the power that rational belief still possesses. In the midst of the most horrible suffering, trust directs itself to God and his guidance as though to an effective system of curves in a superior form of higher mathematics. For an intelligent being like Riley, God is the highest intelligence that inhabits the cosmos. Mankind is sustained all the more powerfully, the more logically he thinks. That is reminiscent of the “strongest battalions” of Old Fritz. [53] Affectionate nickname for Frederick the Great, King of Prussia (1740–1786).

Scholz picked me up in his car at eleven o’clock for the return trip to Paris. Perpetua waved to me in the darkness by making circles with the flashlight.

During the trip, read about the Panama scandal, then a biography of the Berlin entomologist Kraatz, and last, a collection of classical letters; among these Pliny’s appealed to me most of all. Whenever I glanced up, I caught a glimpse of the way fields and gardens were laid out, inspiring in me new aesthetic ideas for the design in Kirchhorst.

Rehm and Valentiner welcomed me at the station in Paris even though the train was delayed. I went to Valentiner’s studio for a cup of tea and to contemplate the ancient roofs, which after a rainstorm stood out in glistening clarity.

Today’s mail brought a letter from Grüninger with some new capriccios . As I read it, I thought again about this intellect and its sense of the geometric expansion of power. Such types are perhaps unknown in other cultures, although foreshadowed by Dostoevsky. When Bolshevism is measured against the strongest of these fictional characters, its decline is obvious.

It is certain that only such characters who understand the fundamentals of power on which the world is based, and are dictated to “from above,” are capable of confronting the horrible popular revolution that is destroying the world. They are like snakes who have joined a swarm of rats bent on gnawing everything to bits. Where others retreat, they are attracted. Calmly, and with satanic joy, they approach the terrifying ceremonies used by the lemures to spread their horror, and they join in the game. They are also drawn to the Muses as Sulla was. That is the essence that Pyotr Stepanovich recognizes in Stavrogin.

In the clandestine power struggle in this area, it was Grüninger who delayed—not to say prevented—Kniébolo’s attempts to establish himself and his agents here by about a year. Like Stavrogin, such characters fail because the rot attacks even the small class of leaders that would be necessary to shield the operations—in this case, the generals.

In the afternoon, went to Plon on Rue Garancière with Poupet who seemed to be ailing. He described the most beautiful dedication he’d ever read in a book: “À Victor Hugo, Charles Baudelaire.” Absolutely, for no invention can attain that profundity of substance. In this sense, to make a name for oneself means to give it substance by giving each of its letters the greatest weight and importance.

The same applies to language in general. Anyone can say “more light,” [54] Reference to Goethe’s last words. but only in the case of Goethe do those two syllables contain such richness. Thus, the poet bestows with language what the priest does with wine. In doing so, the poet contributes something to all.

In the evening sat in the Raphael reading Routes et Jardins [55] E. J.’s own Gärten und Strassen [ Gardens and Streets ] had recently appeared in French. over a strong grog. I find the translation by Betz a little too polished, but it reads smoothly.

When I think about the difficulties of my situation compared with other people—especially those in the Majestic—I often get the feeling: “You are not here for no reason; fate will untie the knots it has tied, so rise above worries and see them as patterns.”

Thoughts like that seem almost irresponsible. Of course, when we face dangers in dreams, it is certain that waking up will dissolve them into smoke—but by day, we are not permitted to see though the charade too clearly. We have to take it seriously, or people will take advantage. We must dream along with the rest, for better or worse.

Someday we will be astonished by the fact that the living do not see us, just as we are puzzled that no signal from the spirit world reaches us today. Perhaps these realities are aligned, but with different modes of seeing like the reflecting and opaque sides of a looking glass. The day will come when the mirror is turned around, and its silvered side is covered in the black crepe of mourning. We can only gain the night when we have penetrated it with our antennae.

On the Quai Voltaire this afternoon. The sight of the ancient roofs is wonderfully relaxing for the mind. It tarries there far from our fragmented age. In addition to Valentiner, I met Rantzau, Madeleine Boudot-Lamotte, Jean Cocteau, and the actor Marais.

During our discussions about plants, Cocteau told me the most wonderful poetic description for Zittergrass [quaking grass]: le désespoir des peintres [the painters’ despair].

Between two and four this morning the English flew over the city dropping bombs within the river bend of the Seine. I awoke at four from dreams of islands, gardens, and animals and kept dozing, but was jolted awake now and then when one of the airplanes approached under fire. But I stayed asleep during these events, as I monitored the danger. When dreaming, it is almost possible to think that you are in control.

The crack of the shrapnel in the empty streets—like that of meteorites on a lunar landscape.

Went to Parc de Bagatelle [56] Parc de Bagatelle is an arboretum on the grounds of Chateau Bagatelle in the Bois de Boulogne in the western suburbs of Paris. E. J. often refers to this favorite spot simply as Bagatelle. in the afternoon, where I admired a range of clematis species whose blue and silver-gray star-shaped blossoms decorated the wall. The roses were already in bloom. I noticed especially a Mevrouw van Rossem. The bud was still closed and showed at its base a hue of tea rose yellow with flaming veins of peach-red radiating out toward its point. It resembled a delicately curved breast pulsating with red wine, its aroma sweet and pungent.

Took an afternoon walk to the Place des Ternes, with its clock on the pharmacy. Then, to the Majestic. Today, I move among officers as formerly among zoologists in the aquarium in Naples. We each perceive the same situation and take completely different sides.

In the evening, I met Henri Thomas at Valentiner’s for the first time.

Kossmann, our new boss, told me that our old comrade N. had committed suicide recently. On the shooting range where he was in charge, he suddenly took his drawn pistol, put it to his head, and pulled the trigger.

Although more than ten years have passed since my last encounter with N., even back then I noticed the pressured, mercurial, exaggeratedly ethical component of his character. In personalities like this, suicide is as predictable as the breaking of overstretched strings on a violin.

In the Bois de Vincennes. I was thinking about my walks and my worries of last year and paid a call on the woman who was my old concierge who lives opposite the fort. You talk to these simple people the way you talk to children, without creating any subtle disparity between words and their meanings. In times like these, it is desirable to keep a small coterie of such people. There are situations in which they can be more helpful than the rich and powerful.