Liebe Jünger-Freunde,

nachstehender Beitrag erschien im Slate-Magazine am 23. Februar 2007. Das 
fabelhafte Photo war mir bislang unbekannt (draufklicken zum Vergrössern).
Schöne Grüsse rundum,
Ihr / Euer 
TW



http://www.slate.com/id/2160379



Ernst Jünger: Did he help Hitler rise?
By Clive James


The following essay is adapted from Clive James' Cultural Amnesia, a 
re-examination of intellectuals, artists, and thinkers who helped shape the 
20th century. Over the coming weeks, Slate will run an exclusive selection of 
these essays, going roughly from A to Z, abbreviated for these pages. (Note: 
There is no "I" in the Clive's Lives series.)

    Things like that belong to the style of the times.
    —Ernst Jünger, Caucasian Notes




Ernst Jünger was born in Heidelberg in 1895 and reached maturity just in time 
to volunteer for service in World War I, during which his bravery won him the 
Pour le Mérite, Germany's highest military decoration. After the war, his book 
Storm of Steel launched him on a literary career that amounts to as big a 
problem for the student of 20th-­century humanism as Bertolt Brecht's. In 
Jünger's case, however, the problem came from the other direction. Jünger 
emerged from the trenches as a believer in national strength, which he thought 
was threatened by liberal democracy. Though he never gave his full allegiance 
to the Nazis, he was glad to accept military rank in the Wehrmacht, and wrote 
approvingly about the invasion of France, in which he accompanied one of the 
forward units. After the plot against Hitler's life in July 1944, he fell under 
suspicion, but his prestige and his Pour le Mérite made him untouchable. Never 
an active conspirator, he thought he was fulfilling his duty to civilized 
values merely by despising Hitler. The thought of killing Hitler did not occur.

In his ­post­war years, Jünger wrote contemptuously against the apparatchiks of 
the East German regime, who found it easy to condemn him for his right-wing 
track record, describing him in their official literary lexicon as "an 
especially dangerous exponent of West German militaristic and neofascist 
literature." Having missed his first chance to identify a totalitarian enemy in 
good time, he didn't miss the second. Demonstrating powers of compression and 
evocation that could pack a treatise into a paragraph, his two collections of 
linked short essays, On the Marble Cliffs and The Adventurous Heart, are the 
easiest introduction to his literary talent and political vision. The talent is 
unquestionable. The vision is quite otherwise. But when he finally realized 
what Hitler had done in pursuit of the ideal of strength that he had himself 
cherished, even he was obliged to consider that his espousal of Darwin (the 
struggle for existence) and Nietzsche (the will to power) might have depended 
on some sort of liberal context for its rational expression. He died in 1998, 
his name much honored, with good reason, and much in dispute, for better reason.

A phrase like "the style of the times," quoted above, can be ­self-­serving, 
because it removes the obligation to place blame. Even before Hitler launched 
Germany on a catastrophic war, Jünger should have been able to assess the 
toxicity of the Nazis by the intellectual quality of some of the people who 
were trying to get beyond their reach. In retrospect, his phrase "the style of 
the times" enrolls itself among many euphemisms that served to sanitize the 
effects of the Nazi impact even on the learned professions. Jünger, as an 
Aryan, was safe from that impact. He should have cared more about what happened 
to those less privileged. A learned man, Jünger knew all their names: even the 
names of the minor figures, the spear carriers and ­walk-­ons. In the late 
1930s, in a race for a foreign chair of philology, the obscure Victor Klemperer 
was beaten to a safe seat in Ankara by the illustrious Erich Auerbach. If 
Klemperer had secured the prize instead, and got away to safety, it is unlikely 
that he would have written anything with the bold scope of Auerbach's Mimesis. 
We should not romanticize Klemperer because of what he went through: Millions 
went through it, too. But we are compelled to admire him for what he made of 
it. Fated to stay where he was, he was granted the dubious reward of 
experiencing from close up what the Nazis did to the German language; reading 
his analysis in his ­two-­volume diary, I Shall Bear Witness and To the Bitter 
End, we can only conclude that the Nazis wrecked the language they had usurped. 
They wrecked it with euphemism: They spoke and wrote the officialese of 
slaughter.

We should not delude ourselves that an Aryan ­non-­Nazi, no matter how exalted 
his intellect, could exercise the privilege of remaining uninfected. Ernst 
Jünger is a case in point: perhaps the case in point, because he was 
incomparably the most gifted writer to remain on the scene. In his wartime 
diaries, the strange usage isolated in my opening quotation keeps on cropping 
up. It centers on a single word. The word is Zeitstil, which can be translated 
as "the style of the times." In early December 1942, we find Jünger visiting 
the Russian front. He hears about dreadful things happening to Russian 
prisoners. First of all, he convinces himself that the prisoners are partisans, 
and can thus expect no quarter. When this thesis starts to look shaky, he 
convinces himself of something else: that both sides are behaving dreadfully, 
and it all belongs to "the style of the times." Later on in the same month, he 
hears from a general (the generals were always at home to Jünger, whose 
prestige was immense) that the Jews are being slaughtered. Jünger's reaction 
is: "The old chivalry is dead: wars from now on will be waged by 
technologists." Once again, it is the style of the times. And so it was, but 
not in the way he meant it.

Jünger had lent his literary gift to the idea of German militaristic renewal. 
Until the news about the extermination camps was finally and unmistakably read 
to him by a German general in 1943, no amount of horrifying truth could induce 
him fully to admit that he had made a mistake. His way out of such an admission 
was to blame the style of the times: i.e., to console himself with the belief 
that everyone was at it, led back to barbarism by the modern spirit of 
technology. The style of the times was a powerfully useful idea. It didn't even 
need to be put into words. It could be put into silence. In his elegant, 
learned, and, finally, disgraceful Notes Towards the Definition of Culture, 
published in 1948, T. S. Eliot simply declined to admit that the Holocaust 
might be a pertinent topic in a discussion of what had happened to Europe. 
Closer to the scene but equally untouched, Eliot's admirer and colleague Ernst 
Robert Curtius achieved a similar feat of inattention. If pressed on the point, 
both savants would have blamed the new technological order: the style of the 
times.

But there was no such thing as the style of the times, except in the sense that 
they themselves personified: a style of not concerning themselves with the 
catastrophic results of a political emphasis they had been given ample 
opportunity to recognize as the first and most deadly enemy of the humanist 
culture they claimed to represent. The humble Victor Klemperer, if they had 
been forcibly reminded of his name, would have been dismissed as small beer by 
both of them. Ernst Jünger would have behaved better. To give him the respect 
he has coming, he finally realized that the massacre of the Jews could not be 
wished away. But he never quite gave up on the airy notion that the style of 
the times was to blame for things like that.


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