Aladdin's Problem - Ernst Jünger

Aladdin’s
Problem
Ernst Jünger
- 130 AH -
1
It is time I focused on my problem. Who does not have a
problem?—everybody has one, and indeed several. Each
problem has its rank; the main problem moves to the cen-
ter of one's life, displacing the other problems. It incessant-
ly haunts us like a shadow, casting gloom on our minds. It
is present even when we awaken at night; it pounces on us
like an animal.
A man has a headache now and again; this is not pleas-
ant, but there are remedies. It becomes serious once he
surmises that there is something behind it—a small tumor,
perhaps. Now, the fleeting worry becomes a steady one; it
becomes the main worry.
2
Nevertheless, such a main worry is part of everyday
life. This becomes obvious when we think of the statis-
tics—for while our man is pondering his tumor, the same
worry is preying at the same time on thousands and thou-
sands of other minds on this planet. Do he and those other
people then have this worry in common? Certainly, but it
nevertheless remains his utterly private and unsharable
problem. Everything is at stake: the headache has con-
cealed the tumor, but behind the tumor there may be
something else—perhaps a carcinoma.
Then again, there may be NOTHING behind it—the
problem may be imaginary. Fear too has its fashion: today
it favors nuclear war and the carcinoma—that is, collective
and individual destruction.
Earlier, when paralysis was rampant, especially in the
upper classes, and there, in turn, among the artists, many
2 Ernst Jünger
people imagined that they had been stricken with this dis-
ease, and a few killed themselves as a result. But it is pre-
cisely when there is nothing behind it that the problem be-
comes even more sinister. Terror no longer threatens as
this or that, but in its undivided might.
3
When I stir my morning coffee and watch the swirling
of the streaks, I am observing the law that moves the uni-
verse—in the whirling of the spiral nebulae, in the eddying
of the galaxies.
Intellectual as well as practical conclusions may be
drawn from this. The sight reminds me of Newton's apple
or the steam that Watt, as a boy, saw pouring from the ket-
tle long before he invented his engine. "Food for thought,"
we say. Evidently, thinking is preceded by a harmony with
matter, which is followed by the dreamlike mood that cre-
ates thought and from which thought springs.
But what does it matter? Whether the universe whirls
or crumbles—the problem remains behind it.
4
The problem is indivisible; man is alone. Ultimately,
one cannot rely on society. Although society usually
wreaks harm, indeed often havoc, it can also help, alt-
hough not more than a good physician—up to the inevita-
ble limit where his skill fails.
Above all, no melancholy. The individual can comfort
himself by recognizing his situation. Earlier, the religions
contributed to this. Their close link to art is no coincidence,
for they are its most sublime inventions.
Now that the gods have abandoned us, we must fall
back on their origin: art. We have to gain an idea of what
or whom we represent. There has to be a workshop some-
where. A potter throws vases, pitchers, ordinary table-
Aladdin’s Problem 3
ware. His material is clay; everything emerges in the ebb

and flow of tides, then crumbles into dust, and becomes
new material for us.
Our social or moral position makes no difference in this
regard. You may be a prince or a wage earner, a shepherd,
a prostitute, or a pickpocket—but usually you are like me,
an ordinary person.
Everyone has his duty, his task. What was the idea
when we were created, what is our mission?—anyone who
gives us even an inkling of that has ennobled us.
5
Now I am no poet; I have to admit it, though I can ex-
press "what I suffer"—albeit only as a monologue. "Ex-
press": that is the right word, whatever the outcome may
be. So it all boils down to a liberation, a kind of confession
in hope of self-absolution. No other judge, no priest over
me.
My time is limited; but anyone can spend a month re-
treating into the forest or the desert. There, he can describe
or better: circumscribe his problem; it is then defined,
though not solved. Perhaps he will celebrate it in song, or
he will discover a cave and entrust his problem to the
walls with black, yellow, and red earth colors. There, it can
slumber until an archaeologist finds it and puzzles over it;
but it would be better if it remained covered up forever.
6
Now, to get down to business—first of all, personal
business. I look into the mirror or at my Liegnitz wanted
poster: Sex, male; age, thirty-seven; height, medium;
brown eyes, dark hair with graying temples.
Unusual features: right leg slightly shorter due to an
accident. No criminal record. The fact that I spent a few
4 Ernst Jünger
weeks in the guardhouse because of insubordination was

not registered.
Religion, Protestant; but since my confirmation, I have
gone to churches only on special occasions. Nevertheless, I
respect them in their innermost essence namely, as art-
works.
Occasionally, I have been tempted to leave the Church;
but I have never reached the point of making up my mind.
What held me back was not so much the thought of my
ancestors turning over in their graves as my persistent ad-
herence to tradition—I am conservative by birth and by
inclination, but primarily for convenience. Besides, leaving
the Church would damage me professionally. Nor can I
discard my manners; but I simply dose them out according
to the company and the circumstances.
I remain inconspicuous in clothing and conduct, I wear
gray suits of good cloth. I abhor any kind of thronging; at
the theater, I prefer the center of the orchestra and an aisle
seat, which I can leave quickly and unobtrusively.
At ticket counters and when boarding an airplane, I
always get at the back of the line. In fencing, I would ra-
ther parry than flinch.
I avoid quarrels and debates, but I am tireless when
conversing with a friend, male or female, even if my friend
does not share my opinion, which I withhold in society. By
the same token, I am a good listener.
7
For several weeks now, I have had a slight facial twitch
every morning; my left eyelid droops slightly. Before utter-
ing difficult words like "phenomenology," I have to think
briefly, concentrate like a runner before the start. Then
those words come out very glibly.
Those are bagatelles; I assume that I am the only one to
notice them, but I observe my interlocutors with an atten-
tiveness that has previously been alien to me. When we

discover a lacuna, we easily talk ourselves into it. The la-
cuna disturbs us like a spot on a suit, the kind of spot that
keeps getting bigger the more it is rubbed.
I sleep fitfully; my dreams are growing more vivid. Af-
ter getting up, I look at myself in the mirror in order to es-
tablish my identity and make sure that it is still I. Where
can I have sojourned? Perhaps some day I will not come
back. One emigrates from one's body and settles in a new
homeland. That would launch an adventure that is half
frightening, half enticing.
The old garb is threadbare; I should change it, I do not
feel comfortable in it. This is the condition of a snake be-
fore it sloughs its skin—daylight becomes burdensome; the
snake withdraws into its cave.
8
My family was wealthy, with an estate in the immedi-
ate principality of Liegnitz, Silesia. Their property was
considerable, their name well known. When looking it up
in an old lexicon, I find a number of bearers of that name
who distinguished themselves in war and peace, in the
army and in the government, at court and even in science
and scholarship. Further bearers are listed in the Almanac
de Gotha and in the military registers. The Pour le Merite
was awarded five times, the Black Eagle three times. As
everywhere else, there were also failures, who either went
to America, made a name for themselves as eccentrics, or
ended as suicides. One of them was even immortalized in
the Pitaval, that collection of famous criminal cases. Thus,
one has a thing or two in one's genetic makeup.
All that is long past. Wars and revolutions, liquidations
and expulsions separate us from that time. I gaze back at
two generations of emigres, refugees, and murder victims.
Today, nobody knows our name anymore. Who knows
6 Ernst Jünger
anything about the Katzbach, on whose banks we resided,

and where Father Blucher gave the French a good drub-
bing in the pouring rain. The Katzbach now has a different
name, just as I do.
When I leaf through our family history, I can imagine
how I would have lived in those days: after being tutored
at home, I would have either joined the cadet corps or at-
tended the Protestant Gymnasium, the Knights' Academy.
Then, no doubt, I would have reported as a cadet sergeant
or as a one-year volunteer in the Liegnitz Royal Grena-
diers' Regiment. That would have been followed by a mili-
tary career or the university—most likely cameralistics. In
those contexts, the family name was a good thing, but one
could not rest on such laurels; the discipline was severe.
As a rule, one could manage to hold out until the critical
period in one's military career. There was also the police
lieutenant, the district commander, the traveling wine
salesman. Eventually one could retire to one's entailed es-
tate. The landed properties offered a more or less comfort-
able livelihood.
A pronounced talent led to the Imperial Court: the gen-
eral staff or the ministries. An old novelist lovingly depict-
ed those Berlin circles; I immerse myself in his works with
nostalgia, as if I were hearing the carillon of a church that
no longer exists or that has sunk away, like the one in
Vineta.
I have been reading a great deal, perhaps too much, ev-
er since my worry began to afflict me. There is also an in-
terdependence here: first comes the worry, then comes in-
somnia, then the insomnia becomes the main worry. How
are the links connected in the chain?
9
All this might arouse the mistaken impression that I
plume myself on my pedigree; such is not the case. On the
contrary: I keep it hidden, I have stripped doff.
Nobility has become burdensome, even potentially
dangerous. That began with the "Ça ira" of the great Revo-
lution. There were recoveries, reactionary periods, major
and minor islands like Prussia, Japan, the Baltic; but there
can be no doubt concerning the decay of the aristocracy.
Anyone who seeks to fix the blame for such declines—
which I refuse to do—must start with himself. The deterio-
ration was preceded by a spiritual weakening. The latter
can be seen in people's characters—first of all, the mon-
archs. There is a limit, at which morality is no longer in-
herent in action, but instead begins moving away from it
and enfeebling it. Charisma wanes at the same time.
I can observe this process within my own family too.
The number of failures, idlers, gamblers, eccentrics, and
aesthetes increased. People become good-natured, dis-
mount from their horses, sell their forests, turn to trivia,
such as commerce, become tennis players or racing-car
drivers. You go on like that for a century, living off your
inheritance, and then you have to admit more and more
bluntly: "The Jew won't pay a penny for what you used to
have."
10
It goes without saying that I cast that off There is, to be
sure, a hitch: I mean the level on which genes remain con-
stant. Forebears lodge deeper in us than we realize. That
sentence deserves to be read twice.
In addition, there is something that I wish only to ad-
umbrate: the Silesian quality. Of our old provinces, Silesia
8 Ernst Jünger
and Westphalia are the ones that stamp the character in a

peculiar way. This is something that cannot be cast off.
However successful I may have been in staying incon-
spicuous, a touch of land and people, of the atmosphere of
the Silesian country estate remained. Recognizing it, of
course, required a special instinct. Fortunately, I have sel-
dom encountered it; my most unpleasant memory is
linked to my service in the People's Army.
11
I was assigned to a rifle regiment; it was garrisoned in
my old hometown. The barracks had survived the ravages
of time; I was wise enough to hide the fact that the bar-
racks had once borne the name of one of my ancestors—I
kept that to myself. I was also the only one who noticed
the outline of our coat-of-arms appearing under the crum-
bling plaster of the entrance archway.
I was soon cured of my misapprehension that a special
sense of brotherhood prevails in these armies. Harsh disci-
pline does not usually affect the camaraderie if everything
else is in order. Lord Nelson said that Sunday is as good a
day as any to hang a deserter; after all, the man knew he
was risking his neck. Such aphorisms could not shake Nel-
son's popularity among the bluejackets; on the other hand,
he considered it cruel to deprive a prisoner of tobacco.
People's armies are different: there is no esprit de corps,
there is only conformism; they have no history, they have
an idea. Everyone observes everyone else, lying in wait for
the slightest infraction. Even a smile can arouse suspicion.
However, unlike monarchies, the idea is not bound to the
person; it is as abstract as it is unclear, a sort of collective
feeling which produces fashions and trends that probably
ought to be heeded. The commanders are also subject to
that feeling; personal popularity is frowned upon.
I do not wish to describe the concrete assault on indi-

viduals, because the topic repels me. This attack takes
place secretly, behind the walls of prisons, behind the
barbed wire of camps. Nevertheless, it is in the interest of
the leaders to have some of it leak out.
I suffer from exaggerated objectivity. Although I was
profoundly affected, nay, came within an ace of being liq-
uidated, I could not help feeling a certain admiration dur-
ing my sleepless nights. They may have had the only reci-
pe for keeping a tight rem on the swelling masses and with
their permission at that. They demand uniformization, and
they get it. This influences even the liberal states: their fear
is their last bastion against decadence.
The intelligent individual has only two possibilities: ei-
ther to pack his bags or to climb up into the leadership
ranks.
12
The barracks did not smell of bread and leather as in
the 'old days, they smelled of chemicals. I instantly noticed
that there was no laughter. Indeed, laughter seems to be
vanishing altogether from our planet—snuffed out as in a
solar eclipse. The men were well nourished, but they stole
past one another like wraiths in the corridors. My modest
hope of vegetating here for a year was promptly dashed.
My tormentor, who had sniffed me out, was Stellmann,
the sergeant. I caught his eye at the very first roll call. It
was a roll call in full uniform, an inspection of equipment
from helmet to boots—for now, only to make sure that the
gear was complete. Nevertheless, the previous evening,
even after curfew, we had patched and tidied the already
heavily worn items. Inexperienced as I was in these mat-
ters, I listened to the instructions of the older men in the
squad. They knew what Stellmann was particularly fussy
about, and they were acquainted with what they called his
10 Ernst Jünger
"obsessions"—for example, in regard to the "kickers." The

latter, needless to say, had to have all thirty-two nails and
not even a mote of dust, and they also had to be thorough-
ly dubbined. If Stellmann pressed his thumb on the surface
or merely breathed on it, a depression would have to be
left. The seams were a difficult matter; they were not sup-
posed to be yellow, much less brown, but had to shine like
freshly broken hemp. The shine could not be produced
with a brush and soap; you had to use a coin to add the
final buff.
When I reported for roll call, I thought I had done a
pretty good job of it. We fell in, squad by squad, on the pa-
rade ground. After we had stood there for a long time,
Stellmann emerged from the orderly room. The senior
N Co reported. Stellmann inspected the squads. This took
a long time, for he was thorough. If anyone drew
Stellmann's attention, the man's name was noted, and he
had to fall in again that evening. At last, Stellmann came to
us, and then to me.
I saw him for the first time: a delicate man in a smart
uniform. He had to be a good fencer—the kind who sud-
denly lunges with his foot. His face was pale; the pallor
was emphasized by a small black beard. A certain elegance
could not be denied: a soft swaying and rolling reminis-
cent of a bird's, plus the superior self-confidence of a man
who knows his business.
I stood at attention; he ordered me to show him my
gear. All the while, he kept staring at me; he had seen
through me at first glance. And I too knew whom I was
dealing with. It feels odd being stripped by the eyes; it is
the prelude to rape.
Right off the bat, he disliked my shirt. Although I had
made sure on the previous evening that all the buttons
were sewn tight, he said that every one of them was hang-
ing by a thread, and he pulled one out—along with a scrap

of the worn linen.
In such cases, men like me have to avoid showing even
a trace of irony; I made sure not to contradict him, I re-
mained at attention, playing dead. But there are situations
in which anything you do is wrong.
Stellmann took out his thick notebook, which, normally
wedged between the second and fourth button, is part of
an officer's service uniform. He asked me what my name
was, and he wrote it down.
"Report to your patching lesson at 0500 hours!" Dis-
pensing with any further inspection, he wheeled around
and focused on the next man.
Now I had a pursuer who stalked me and would not
release me from his clutches. If the roster included an un-
pleasant perquisite, say, guard duty on the railroad to
Schweidnitz, then I could bet that I would be detailed—
and naturally, he would pick Saturdays and Sundays. It
was no use my sneaking into the second row when we fell
in: he would scour the gaps until he spotted me.
13
Thus it went on, but I do not wish to go into the afflic-
tions, which kept growing worse and worse. It was obvi-
ously hate at first sight, hate for no reason—our horo-
scopes must have been completely disparate. Or had he
sniffed the aristocrat in me, whom I had sloughed off long
ago and effaced from my memory? Although I tried to stay
free of it, I nevertheless thought about my tormentor day
and night; he remained a thorn in my side, whether or not
he was present. Once, when we crossed paths on the
stairway, I heard him whisper: "I'll get you into prison."—
it was a soliloquy and not meant for my ears. We passed
one another like two sleepwalkers.
12 Ernst Jünger
The man was universally feared and especially by me.

There was something sinister about him; military service
was merely an excuse for him to satisfy that sinisterness.
He would have been dangerous in any circumstances,
even without authority of command. This was shown
when it was dark. If the company lined up on the parade
ground in winter, it was often so dark that you could not
see your hand before your face. After the roll was called,
Stellmann had fifteen minutes left to straighten up the
squad before the captain appeared. Stellmann ordered us
to reform column and he drove us around the quadrangle
in double time; then came, "Assemble, right and left!" and
"Hit the dirt!" We had to boom down like one man falling.
He made us repeat it until we got it right: "Goddammit! I'll
throw the parade ground in your faces!"
We heard his voice; no one saw him, but everyone
trembled. He was the tamer; we were the beast.
After that mental preparation, field duty was truly re-
laxing for us. The captain was satisfied—it all went like
clockwork; Stellmann was an outstanding sergeant.
14
Thinking back, I wonder why I simply did not remain
standing when he threw us to the ground. It was dark; he
would not have seen me. All of us could have remained
standing until he had shouted himself hoarse; then the
whole fuss would have been over and done with. But
things are not that simple.
Aside from that, I had nothing against the drill per se;
this may be a rudimentary memory. There are moments of
universal consent, when everything works.
My ancestors also achieved a thing or two in that re-
spect, especially during the Baroque period. After all, run-
ning a gauntlet is no piece of cake. But there was some-
thing else next to it, below it, and above it, which, at least
in hindsight, mellows if not sanctions the suffering. It was

part of the era; this is proved by buildings and artworks—
from songs and paintings to handicrafts: pewter, silver,
porcelain. These things still comfort us today in sounds
and sights; plus the free thought of the great systems to the
point of self-irony. Once, at the mounting of the guard at
Potsdam, Frederick the Great, "Old Fritz," asked one of the
generals: "Do you notice something?" The general had no
answer, and the old king said: "There are so many of them
and so few of us." Perhaps that was the day on which
James Boswell, a Scottish liberal, indeed an anarch, was
thrilled by the spectacle.
Compared with their uniforms, which the ladies also
liked so much, ours are ugly and gray. We live in times
that are unworthy of an artwork; we suffer without apolo-
gy. Nothing will remain but the sound of Sheol. Today, co-
ercion is still approved. Yet, at the same time, grief grows,
spreading all the way to the Africans, and my melancholy
takes part in it.
15
Needless to say, I racked my brain about how to get rid
of my tormentor. A war was out of the question (it auto-
matically solves many problems). I pictured us marching
out, to the accompaniment of music, and reaching the
front. As soon as we fanned out in the skirmish line, I
would kill Stellmann. This was a delight—you have to
know your enemy. But there was no chance of war, alt-
hough everyone was talking about it; besides, in case of
war, the men on the army list stay behind in the orderly
room. They are the least expendable.
Naturally, I also thought about deserting; but there
were snags. The borders were almost impassable, and
many obstacles had to be overcome before you reached the
mine belt. Only choice men were detailed there as guards.
14 Ernst Jünger
At the very least, you had to find a buddy—but who could

be trusted? Anyone might be an agent. I rejected the idea;
I'm not one for foolhardiness.
Aside from that, the word "desertion" does not sound
appealing to me. I am backward in such matters—not, of
course, because I would honor contracts made with athe-
ists. Even atheists do not renounce an oath of allegiance,
although they may have another word for it. I was indif-
ferent to that, but not to my self-respect. Finally, I could
shoot myself at the rifle range or while cleaning my gun.
Stellmann, no doubt, would have labeled this a self-
mutilation, and he would not have been mistaken. Self-
mutilation is regarded as second only to suicide, the acme
of desertion. That is why there are extremely shameful
rules for interring suicides. Who does not know the night
of sorrow? Tossing and turning on my straw pallet, I be-
came a shadow of my former self Physical destruction was
preceded by moral destruction. In the end, such a case in-
evitably calls for prayer.
16
I cannot judge whether it helped. In any case, there was
a turn of events, whatever may have led to it.
Escalading was one of our captain's obsessions; no ex-
ercise went by without our being driven across a series of
obstacles. The captain stood there with a stopwatch. We
leaped over hurdles and ditches, clambered up scaling
ladders, squeezed underneath barbed wire. At last came
the escalade wall; it was high. That morning, I had made
good time. Normally, you climb down the other side using
only your hands; I wanted to do something extra, so I
jumped down. The result was a broken leg; the medical
orderlies had to carry me away.
When they x-rayed me at the hospital, they found a
spiral fracture. I underwent several operations; I had to
spend three months lying flat on my back, until the medi-

cal corps captain said: "The reserve can retire; your hitch is
over."
17
Accident suffered during service; that was a good dis-
charge, almost a pass key. Limping with my cane through
the garden of the convalescent home, I pondered my pro-
spects. It was fall, the asters were still blossoming, the Oc-
tober sun was shining.
If we get into a difficult situation, say, prison, we have
to resign ourselves. Even better, we can derive some bene-
fit from it. Our situation can then function as a step to-
wards our self-realization. The same is true of successes:
we should not take them for granted. They can always be
trumped.
Whenever Bertha and I played checkers during the
evenings of our first year of marriage (that was later), she
would sometimes say: "You're cunning—you turn every
windmill into something to tilt at."
The same applied here. When I returned to my compa-
ny in regard to my discharge, I had already forged my
plan. Stellmann stood at the barracks entrance; I hobbled
past him with my cane and saluted—not with my hand at
my forehead, but with an exact turn of my head. He
crossed his arms and glared at me.
Inside, I reported to the captain; he allowed me to sit.
He said: "My dear B., we have to part, I'm sorry. I'll miss
you; there's more to you than I heard from the sergeant.
But you know: duty is duty. In any case, good luck in your
future endeavors."
I rose to my feet and stood at attention: "Sir, may I re-
quest permission to remain in the army—I am still fit for
service."
16 Ernst Jünger
This had never happened before; I was tilting at a

windmill.
18
Word about my zeal had spread quickly: the colonel re-
ceived me benevolently. I was a shining example. Like
some of the older officers, he had once served "King and
Country." He enjoyed being addressed in the third person,
albeit only privately. He pointed out to me that, after his
head, an infantryman is dependent on his legs.
"Sir, if I may respond: I believe it makes no difference
in a tank or an airplane."
He liked that; he patted me on the back and rang up the
doctor. I was thoroughly reexamined and then detailed to
the military academy. Needless to say, I had to undergo
tests, but there was nothing negative in my background.
Good marks, no criminal record. Stellmann had once put
me in the guardhouse, but that can happen. It was not
raked up until later. Above all: I was politically sound.
19
One can capitalize on a leg injury as need be. It some-
times improves, sometimes gets worse—depending on cir-
cumstances, especially the weather. I benefited from it at
the military academy; I wore it like a decoration. They
were considerate toward me, especially for drills and field
duty. I made up for this in the theoretical courses. I fol-
lowed the instruction attentively, occasionally asking a
question—the kind that instructors like. I did this not just
in order to score with them, but also because I grow all the
more interested in power the higher the level on which it is
manifested.
The general spiritualization now emerging is also ex-
pressed in tactics. It is astounding to see how inventive-
ness grows in nature and in technology when existence is
at stake. This applies to both defense and pursuit. For eve-

ry missile, an anti-missile is devised. At times, it all looks
like sheer bragadoccio. This could lead to a stalemate or
else to the moment when the opponent says, "I give up," if
he does not knock over the chessboard and ruin the game.
Darwin did not go that far; in this context, one is better
off with Cuvier's theory of catastrophes.
20
So much for tactics; those are mental games. The same
holds for "Morale," which was taught as the second major
subject. In this respect, I was fortunate in having studied
social theories from early on. I had been inspired to do so
by the fate of my family. As I grew up and tried to form an
opinion, Socialism was not merely an academic subject for
me; I read its major works—often until late at night. Inci-
dentally, I also memorized. poetry, which was quite out of
fashion.
It behooves instructors to define and categorize exploi-
tation. An indispensable tool in this regard is a knowledge
of history, which most theoreticians are weak in, nay, often
lack. They are trapped in the present; this leads to adulter-
ation, even falsification.
Exploitation is inevitable; without it, no state, no socie-
ty, indeed, no mosquito can exist. It is endured and toler-
ated for centuries, often barely noticed. It can become
anonymous; one is exploited no longer by princes, but by
ideas; slaves and masters exchange faces.
I do not wish to get into that. The important thing in
teaching is to assign evil to the past, to the unenlightened
times, and, in the present, to the enemy. The exploiter is
not the enemy; rather, the enemy is the exploiter.
The instruction examination took place on a Saturday. I
was quizzed only once; I had the instruction company in
front of me and the faculty of the military academy behind
18 Ernst Jünger
me. The topic was the American War between the States. I
stuck to the assigned readings, but, almost imperceptibly,
went a little beyond them. This is a good spice, but one to
be used sparingly.
21
"What good does it do the sugar-cane slave if he is put
to work on the assembly line? He remains a Negro; he has
been pulled out of nature—and now he is controlled by
Taylor's system. We must regard every war as progress—
that is to say, as progress only within the capitalist system.
The exploitation remains; it is more refined. From our
point of view, progress is the attainment of a new level of
consciousness. "
So much for my self-quotation. I had said: "The exploi-
tation remains," but not, "It remains under all circumstanc-
es." Nevertheless, it could stimulate in this respect. The
objective analysis of the enemy includes a great deal of
self-criticism. Incidentally, I had ventured into this diver-
sion not with a pedagogical goal, but for my own pleasure.
My speech was applauded, and the things I had left out
also brought me success. After the commander had
praised me, one of the officers came up to me: "I liked
what you said about the Yankees; I'd like to pursue it per-
sonally with you." He invited me over that evening.
22
This officer, a Pole, was a young captain; he had served
in the Foreign Armies division and had then been assigned
the post of instructor at the military academy. He was a
native of Stettin (Szczecin), and his last name was Muller;
his parents had made sure to give him a good first name.
At the outset, we addressed each other respectively as
"Captain" and "Cadet Sergeant" (which I had become in the
meantime), then as Jagello and Friedrich. Jagello had a typ-
ical horseman's build: broad shoulders and hips, narrow

waist, elegant movements. Ever since the cavalry dis-
mounted, switching partly to the air force and partly to the
tanks, the old categories are no longer recognizable. Nev-
ertheless, they can be guessed at, somewhat like the signs
of the zodiac. Your choice of regiment was not mere
chance: it depended on whether you preferred riding light
or heavy horses, fighting with the sword, the epee, the
lance, or, like the dragoons, with the rifle. This was contin-
gent on both physique and character. Dragoons had made
a name for themselves in Oldenburg, cuirassiers in Meck-
lenburg, hussars in Hungary, and uhlans in Poland.
In these terms, Jagello was an uhlans. Some armies as-
signed the uhlans to the light cavalry, and others to the
heavy cavalry; they are not as lighthearted as the hussars,
or as solid as the cuirassiers, whom the prince preferred as
his bodyguards.
A Pole is inconceivable without a horse; his love for
horses exceeds even the Hungarian's. To his detriment, he
persisted in this love too long. Military history contains the
account of a final attack, in which Polish lancers rode out
against tanks.
23
This passion may explain why superiors ignored minor
irregularities in Jagello's uniform. It was gray like all the
others, but somewhat daring in its cut and cloth. While
riding, even when on duty, he wore boots with a silver
trimming. He took part in horse races, even abroad; this
was encouraged and liked. A railroad car for carrying the
horses to Nice presented no difficulties.
Jagello's features were regular and nicely chiseled the
kind of face that used to be called aristocratic. It would
have been pale had his duties not taken him outdoors so
frequently. Although a night worker, he had already exer-
20 Ernst Jünger
cised two horses by reveille: one in the manège and one in

the countryside.
He said: "Riding is indispensable if you want to be in
command. For the sake of our reflexes, we also ought to
include tennis in the duty roster. If I were a writer, I would
start the day with books and pictures—I reserve my nights
for them."
He was, indeed, well read, not just for an officer. It was
a mystery to me where he got the time. He was especially
familiar with Russian literature; here, he had a preference
for Western European motifs, say, Turgeniev's nihilistic
Bazarov or Chekhov's stories. Once, at his prompting, the
students of the military academy staged Gogol's Inspector
General.
He was almost professionally obliged to have a thor-
ough knowledge of history, it was part of his stock-in-
trade. Here too, he knew how to combine business with
pleasure, namely, by reading journals and memoirs; he
said they brought the fine structure into the skeleton.
When we met, he was reading Helbig's Russian Minions.
24
Encountering a man with a literary and historical back-
ground was a godsend in those surroundings. One timidly
touches a key and hears something that one scarcely hoped
to hear: the sound. This is followed by an—almost imper-
ceptible—smile of collusion. That was how it began, and it
evolved into almost perfect harmony. We played through
problems—such as: "Was Raskolnikov right when he
thought of himself as Napoleon?" And: "To what degree
does Napoleon exist in each of us?"
I have Jagello to thank for straightening me out in re-
gard to some of my doubts. For example, I was plagued by
the question of why we were serving—indeed zealously a
system that we both found repulsive, and why we enthu-
siastically supported the development of weapons that

would eventually blow us up too—that was the peak of
schizophrenia. Jagello said:
"Schizophrenia is a trademark of subalterns, hence it is
universal. They stay on the plain, they cannot change their
spots. Raskolnikov was schizophrenic; he was both Napo-
leon and a starving student. Had he kept his knowledge to
himself, he would have gone very far. Instead, he mur-
dered the usurer. He was already wearing inside himself
the chain in which he was sent to Siberia."
In contrast, Dostoevsky had performed and solved the
experiment on a higher stratum. The usurer was killed
here too, but the action remained in a spiritual space.
This stratum was the crucial one. You could descend to
the plain, you could leave it to its own devices, you could
enjoy it as a spectacle or interfere.
I could not quite go along with that; for after all, sooner
or later, you have to take sides and you become vulnera-
ble, as the gods themselves do in Homer. However, con-
versing with Jagello was fruitful for me, even if we did not
reach an agreement—or perhaps precisely at those times.
Jagello used to protect himself with quotations; for this
topic, he removed a well-thumbed book from the shelf. I
thought it was the Iliad—it was The Birth of Tragedy. He
read: "The problem of science cannot be perceived on the
ground of science…. Science has to be seen with the eyes of
the artist." In this regard, we were of the same opinion—
just as both of us believed that we would be redeemed ei-
ther by the poet or by fire.
25
Usually, we were still talking when it grew dark. The
room was smoky; the samovar steamed on the table. Ja-
gello loved strong tea. He loved cigarettes with long tips;
often, he would take only a few puffs—he never inhaled.
22 Ernst Jünger
He would say: "There are vices that cancel one another out.
When I smoke heavily, it affects my stomach. I prevent this
by drinking a lot of tea."
While people may become very intimate, even among
brothers, there are still taboos. We avoided them after rec-
ognizing them. One day, when there had been another
rumpus in the Sejm, I found Jagello absorbed in his news-
paper. He said: "It's so ridiculous that they can't overcome
their fiasco."
I replied: "And yet with Pomerania, they have one of
the richest soils, where prosperity was at home."
I had tried to express myself neutrally, but Jagello was
obviously disgruntled. This was a wound for him—and for
me too. The difference was that for him Poland, and for me
Pomerania, were not yet lost. Our friendship was put to a
test, which it survived.
When we travel today, not only in Europe, but also in
faraway countries, we feel that a brother lies under the
ground. He calls to us, and we have to restrain ourselves
like the sons of Korah in Psalm 88: "Prayer in great tribula-
tion and imminent mortal danger."
26
Spring had come. Our nights grew longer and longer;
sometimes, when we separated, day was already dawning
toward us. Our work did not suffer—on the contrary: we
became as alert as if we had been trained in abstracting. I
was allowed to accompany him on his early-morning
rides.
Jagello's friendship also brought a change in my career.
At the end of the military-school year, I became a lieuten-
ant; Jagello was also promoted—he was now the youngest
staff officer, and he was posted as attaché to the Berlin em-
bassy. From there, he requested me as his assistant. This
presented no difficulty; the Foreign Service offices were
generously staffed. There were no qualms about my relia-

bility or my qualifications; no one objected.
We continued our dialogues in our new relationship.
But now we had to exercise greater caution, for these em-
bassies are touchy places; the walls have ears, all dealings
are monitored. The word "friendship" strikes a sour note.
As in the old religious seminaries, the officials prefer the
comrades to go in threes during breaks rather than in twos.
27
Here too, there was a great deal to learn. Jagello
showed me several files that were not meant for my eyes,
even though he knew that I got together with old friends
and relatives. My life was pleasant, and I could take my
time.
One morning, when we were riding in the Tiergarten, I
casually said: "Jagello—I'm going to defect."
He showed little surprise: "I've sensed it for a long
time—in fact, I knew it from the very start. You're expect-
ing a great deal from me—it would have been better if you
had said nothing."
"I wouldn't and couldn't do otherwise. I suggest that in
the next situation report you write that you have devel-
oped doubts about my reliability. I'll be gone before my
recall order comes from Liegnitz."
Once again, my friend proved that he could think. He
said: "The response won't come from Liegnitz, because the
report goes to the central office—and besides, I should
have notified the ambassador the instant I had any doubts.
And above all: if you were to vanish right after that, they
would certainly conclude that I had put on the brakes—
that we had conspired together. You did study Oppen-
heimer's trial, after all."
Oppenheimer was a nuclear physicist—and one of the
schizophrenics—whose superior had been accused of this
24 Ernst Jünger
kind of complicity in a similar situation. Jagello was right:

he would have to be as flabbergasted by my disappearance
as anyone else.
So I put my papers in order, took along my documents,
and asked for political asylum in the West. All I had to do
was cross the street.
28
All things considered, this was no easy step for me—
and not only because of Jagello. After all, I was breaking
off a good career. I won't go along with phrases like "more
freedom." I am no liberal—at least not in the sense that
people have to get together and vote on the matter. One
carries freedom inside oneself; a man with a good mind
will realize his potential in any regime. Once his good
mind is recognized, he will advance anywhere, cross any
line. He does not pass through the regimes, they pass
through him, barely leaving a trace. He can do without
them, but they cannot do without him. If they are strict, it
hones his intelligence. Besides, the regimes are visibly
growing alike; good cheer is vanishing everywhere, even
the sourire is vanishing in Paris.
29
So much for my background. I would like to conclude
with an anecdote I heard from one of my ancestors; he had
witnessed the event. Steinmetz, the Prussian marshal, the
victor at Nachod and Skalitz, became intransigent, indeed
almost peculiar in his old age, like many generals who
have served honorably. At times, Blucher thought the old
man had an elephant in his head. In 187o, when Steinmetz
was put in charge of the First Army, Waldersee said that
the old man was already three-quarters crazy. And in fact,
he ordered some bizarre maneuvers and was then put sec-
ond-in-command to Prince Friedrich Karl. Naturally,

Steinmetz was deeply offended.
When the marshal was holding a conference after
Gravelotte, the prince and his retinue rode by at a certain
distance. Steinmetz took no notice. Friedrich Karl sent an
aide-de-camp to the marshal, asking him to report. The
obstinate old man refused. With a heavy heart, the king
then relieved him of his command and appointed him
governor of Silesia.
Those are old stories; Steinmetz is no longer even men-
tioned in the encyclopedia. I have brought him up because
the Prussians are surviving more strongly in the East than
in the West—not in the tradition, of course, but in the style.
Jagello was a good example. That explains why, when I
picked up my papers in Liegnitz, I could imitate the
prince—albeit only en miniature, but with success—and in
the East German People's Army at that.
It occurred before my transfer to Berlin. Coming out of
the barracks in my new uniform, I saw Stellmann on the
square, he was operating at full capacity. Saluting me cas-
ually, he turned back to the troops. He was not to get away
with that. I strode over to him:
"Don't you know you're supposed to identify yourself,
Sergeant?"
He gaped at me and grew even paler, a chalky white.
Then he pulled himself together. "Second Company, rifle
inspection, sir."
"Thank you, carry on." That was my final encounter
with him.
30
My problem is not in my profession. I have certainly
had my share of trouble here, like anyone else. At first, I
was even a washout; but I developed into what is known
as a climber. The pattern of my military career was repeat-
26 Ernst Jünger
ed in business. On the whole, it seems to me that we follow

the same law in every segment of our lives. Plainly, our
makeup is not only linear, but also cyclical. Neither ex-
cludes the other. A tire rolls across asphalt.
My desertion made headlines; I had foreseen this. Now
I could have gone on with my career in a different context;
offers came for secret services. I had a list of Eastern agents
inside my head, but I made no use of it. Betrayal of who-
ever it might be is not my thing; Jagello had likewise not
expected it of me. He could put his mind at ease. Anything
written in a newspaper is soon forgotten, thank goodness,
but it remains in the registers and may eventually resur-
face.
I was unemployed now and almost penniless. It was, as
they say, too little to live on, too much to die with. Initially,
I had a small subsidy, my relatives could contribute a little.
They opened their front doors themselves now, and they
did not look pleased when I knocked. I did a lot of walking
and got to know the mood of someone who wonders
whether or not he can afford to have his shoes resoled.
What does one do in this situation today? One smokes
opium or goes to the university. I opted for the university
after weeks of spending most of my time in bed. I went out
only to go to the library, from which I returned laden with
books.
I had old-fashioned notions about Alma Mater and the
professors. Soon I realized that I could get nothing out of
them. I often felt as if eunuchs were tussling with her-
maphrodites. Schizophrenia was trumps. The natural sci-
ences were encoded, history and the humanities politi-
cized. The theologians were still lagging behind Darwin or
even Copernicus and, swinging their train-oil lamps, they
actually plumed themselves on their boldness. Pedagogical
eros was lacking altogether; it was replaced by a kind of
complicity. Where were the times when an electrical aura

emanated the instant the professor appeared?
I would never have dreamed that I would long for the
barracks; but even when Stellmann was yelling at us, there
was still a demonic atmosphere. Not only Konigsberg was
a ruin, but also Heidelberg, Tubingen, Gottingen. They
were still dominated physically, spiritually, and morally
by the gray factory-style of the nineteenth century, wheth-
er one entered a laboratory, a school, or a hospital. Plus the
nightmarish sense that this could only be a thin skin with
something monstrous hatching underneath.
I lacked a friend to share my sorrows and yearnings,
someone to converse with. I missed Jagello; though we
lived in the same city, we were further apart than an-
tipodes.
31
But what good did it do? Our farmers say that you
can't ask an ox for more than a piece of beef. So I focused
on what was offered, and the subjects I chose were adver-
tising, statistics, computer technology, insurance, journal-
ism.
My situation improved considerably when I married
Bertha. We had met in the student restaurant. At first, our
relationship seemed casual, but soon it deepened. Bertha
was not only a good lover physically and mentally, but
also a reliable companion. Being both cultured and practi-
cal, she knew how to give our life a framework in which
we felt good. Granted, she had to break off her studies—
classical languages. Nevertheless, they came in handy: she
compiled the catalogues in a second-hand bookshop; how-
ever, she also had to help out in the store and at the cash
register.
We kept to ourselves in one of the many-storied apart-
ment houses, as if in a cell; we had no friends and only the
28 Ernst Jünger
unavoidable acquaintances. We could call ourselves hap-

py, aside from the fact that Bertha was usually quite ex-
hausted when she returned from the bookshop. This pro-
fession too calculates more with machines than with the
mind; nevertheless, the work is more draining than it used
to be—that is how we are hoodwinked by the machine
world.
I often felt sorry for her when I saw her in the evening,
as she pulled herself together at the table. I had done the
shopping, no cans, and had prepared the meal, except for
the spices; plus a glass of wine. These are happy hours; we
relish our own delight in the other's delight.
We had the weekends, and then vacations: Mallorca,
Sicily, Tunisia. Above all, my studies were gradually com-
ing to an end, and I hoped I would soon find a profession.
32
And indeed I did, although I began with a modest,
perhaps even slightly disreputable job. Let me fill in the
background.
I remember my grandfather as a small, wiry man. He
was also my godfather; I was named Friedrich after him.
He went straight from the Liegnitz Barracks into the first
of the great wars, fighting until the end—initially at the
front lines, then on Mackensen's staff. He liked talking
about the Rumanian campaign; those were still operations
in the old style. He extended the war after the Treaty of
Versailles by joining a Free Corps and distinguishing him-
self in a skirmish—at Annaberg, I believe.
This contributed to our family's holding on to its prop-
erty for another thirty years.
I am not well-versed in these dates, for, while I am en-
thralled by history, my studies only went up to 1888, the
Year of the Three Emperors. For me, that year marks the
onset of the labor pains of Titanism, the ahistorical era.
That year, Nietzsche decided to build his work "toward the

catastrophe," shortly before the breakdown in Turin.
So much for these marginalia, which touch on my prob-
lem. My grandfather did not personally benefit from the
reprieve he had helped to bring about—he was a younger
son. Furthermore, the estates sank deeper and deeper into
debt—at least until old Hindenburg's Eastern Aid. My
grandfather inherited little; the best thing he got was a
comfortable apartment near Charlottenburg Castle. In my
childhood, I often visited him there. The rooms were rela-
tively small. They contained old furnishings; and paint-
ings, some of them gifts from monarchs, hung on the walls
all the way out into the vestibule. Anything I know about
my family history I learned there. Beyond that, more gen-
eral things, for the old man liked reading memoirs and
was a good anecdotist.
I say "the old man," because that was how he struck me
back then; basically, he was still quite jaunty. This can be
inferred from the mere fact that prior to the second catas-
trophe he was thinking of donning his uniform once again.
But he was already having health problems; his prostate
was becoming troublesome, he suffered from gout, which
was revealed partly in the strangely elaborate way his fin-
gers curled around his cigarette when he smoked.
33
Given his heritage, my grandfather could have been a
stalwart reactionary; but that, as Stirner puts it, was "not
his business," or was, at best, his private business. He cul-
tivated this business in his Steglitz apartment with the old
furnishings and paintings; outside his apartment, you
could not tell. I even think that our left wing lacked people
like him. In this respect, I probably inherited a thing or two
from him. How else can I explain that after graduating
30 Ernst Jünger
from the Gymnasium, I went back to Liegnitz of my own

free will?
In any case, my grandfather resolutely put an end to
what he called "old chestnuts." He still subscribed to Das
Adelsblatt, an aristocratic gazette, but read liberal newspa-
pers—not just their business sections. He invested his set-
tlement in one of the major insurance firms, and also took
a position there. Now he wore suits of Scottish wool and
gray ties with a pearl tie pin; the medal in his lapel had
been replaced by the Rotarian cogwheel. He loved word
games and mental games, and would say: "I have ad-
vanced to the position of Rot-Arier [Red Aryan]." He treat-
ed his new name similarly, for he had discarded the old
one along with his title. "What should I do with it when I
call on a client? It would embarrass both of us and inter-
fere with business. We Iduna employees are discreet."
Following the example of Philippe Egalité he named
himself Baroh—so that his clients unwittingly addressed
him as "Herr Baron." I inherited this name from him and I
can introduce myself as Friedrich Baroh.
34
I now come to Uncle Fridolin. My father did not grow
old; the location of his grave is unknown. His name ap-
pears on my grandfather's headstone: "Missing in the Cau-
casus." He had two sisters: Friederike and Erika. Friederike
was an ugly duckling, slightly hunchbacked, but good-
natured and a perfect housewife. Erika was beautiful, she
never married, and she died during the destruction of Ber-
lin in circumstances that I prefer not to mention.
The man who chooses a wife like Friederike is heeding
a sense of realism that no imagination can dim; and he will
not be deceived. Uncle Fridolin was such a man. He too
had little to offer in the way of external assets, but he was a
reliable man. Gradually, both of them recognized one an-

other in their concealed harmony.
Later, it actually turned out that Friederike had made a
good match. She brought along a modest fortune, but
Fridolin did not find this out until he asked Grandfather
for Friederike's hand, as custom demanded. Fridolin was
actually embarrassed by their aristocratic background; it
had not determined his choice—something for which his
betrothed thought highly of him. "It was a love match," she
would say.
On the one hand, Grandfather was not displeased that
Friederike was getting hitched; but on the other hand, he
was not exactly thrilled. Whenever he wanted to shrug off
an adversity, he would lapse into the Potsdam jargon—
albeit not as grossly as Papa Wrangel, who had lived in
this neighborhood a century ago.
"That's all I needed, Fridolin Gadke, a little bookkeep-
er—and in a coffin factory to boot. But aside from that, not
bad, not bad at all we had a good talk—basically, the girl's
a lucky stiff."
35
What could they have had a talk about—and a good
one, at that? Life insurance and coffins—these topics made
for an initially vague interest, which grew as Uncle
Fridolin began to prosper.
In my Gymnasium days, I occasionally paid the couple
my obligatory respects. I did not enjoy visiting them, even
though Aunt Friederike regaled me nicely. She was very
attached to the family. They lived on one of the austere
streets between the Spree River and Alexanderplatz. Their
apartment was kept squeaky-clean and was radiant with
lack of taste. The atmosphere was thoroughly unartistic.
Conversations never got beyond the most banal subjects.
32 Ernst Jünger
Uncle Fridolin was an ordinary man such as one meets

everywhere in offices and behind counters, and promptly
forgets. He was painstakingly neat, energetic, correct. He
wore off-the-rack suits plus, as the phrase went in those
days, "cuffs and crays"—that is, removable cuffs and a tie.
I found his eyes strange, if not exactly pleasant; they
were dark and had what I would like to call a "character
gaze," the ability to see character. What I mean is a knack
for immediately grasping a person's solvency—and this
gift was quite pronounced in him; it surpassed his overall
level. Thus he would have very quickly seen through an
imposter—not only if the latter had introduced himself as
a prince or millionaire, but also as a professor or composer.
It must, however, be emphasized that my uncle did not
have the foggiest clue about the sciences or the arts. But he
did have a sense of, almost a nose for, quality and distinc-
tion.
Uncle Fridolin was good at figures and an excellent
draftsman; he had served with the Railroad Transit Corps.
His talent had soon made him indispensable there, but he
had never advanced beyond the rank of private. This did
not trouble him; he had done his stint loyally. He was still
devoted to the monarchy.
On weekdays, he would rise incredibly early—gingerly
so as not wake Friederike. He stepped into a shallow basin
and scrubbed himself from head to toe. Then he sat down
at his easel and drew. Coffins vary in size and quality; of-
ten, personal wishes of customers had to be satisfied. He
relied in part on a small library of heraldic, symbolic, and
even botanical imagery. Subsequently, he enlarged his col-
lection when he began dealing with headstones as well.
Although moderately atheistic, he did have to consult the
Bible. He refrained from officially leaving the Church be-
cause of his basic conservatism—besides, it was important

for his profession.
By the time Friederike served morning coffee (it im-
proved with time), my uncle had already been working for
two or three hours. Even when I called on them, I usually
found him at his easel. Before greeting me, he would wash
his hands and remove his sleeve protectors. We would
then converse, mostly about politics—a topic that made
him uneasy—and at best, button painting. My aunt would
question me about Liegnitz, especially when I had spent
my holidays there, and, after making my farewells, I re-
covered by taking a detour through Treptow Park.
36
I have already mentioned that my uncle began to pros-
per. Friederike's dowry helped him in this respect; he
started his own business, the well-known funeral home
Pietas. The time was favorable, coinciding as it did with a
flu epidemic. Doctors and pharmacists were up to their
ears in work; it also filled the cemeteries. The Lower Sax-
ons say: "One man's owl is another man's nightingale."
Uncle Fridolin was a dexterous planner; his business
grew visibly—not in a hectic way, but step by step. The
bad times that came later could make no dent in it quite
the contrary.
The upswing also raised my uncle's lifestyle. He gave
up his apartment and moved into the fashionable West
Side of Berlin, purchasing a house in our neighborhood, on
Fichtenberg. He now met my grandfather not only en fam-
ine but at the Rotarians. He wore custom-made suits,
Friederike wore silk frocks and, in winter, a fur coat. His
demeanor was as correct as ever; it was joined by growing
authority.
34 Ernst Jünger
37
Grandfather said: "Fridolin is presentable." Indeed,
gradually, my uncle became our piece de resistance. That too
is a statistical matter: the decline of old families. The time
comes when they either face extinction or need replenish-
ment. Power slips from their fingers; they suffer the fate of
drones or come to an arrangement. British lords, French
marquis marry billionairesses, who restore their castles.
Princesses elope with bandleaders. The Hungarians say:
"In our country, coachmen are fathered by counts and
counts by coachmen."
Regarding the nobility, there were two big thrusts: the
first, in the French Revolution; the other, in the two world
wars, which future historians will, presumably, not sepa-
rate. Salient turning points came when the entails were
broken by the Code Napoleon and then by the Weimar
Constitution, the goal being a redistribution of land. This
was made possible by the spiritual weakness of the aristoc-
racy, which was also physically liquidated in vast areas.
Numerous members of my family did not escape this fate.
Quite generally, one may say that Prussia was well rep-
resented by the nobility until the Franco-Prussian War.
Bismarck, Moltke, and Roon were paragons. The decline is
evident when we compare portraits from that war with
those from World War I—say, the portrait of Wilhelm I
with that of Wilhelm II, or that of old Moltke with that of
his nephew. But then, in my father's generation, came
Moltke's grandnephew, Helmuth James Moltke, who was
executed.
38
I close the circle: Uncle Fridolin did not contribute to
our replenishment like the Hungarian coachmen. In this
respect, he most likely did little; at any rate, Friederike did
not bear him any children. Thus, I will probably be his

heir, although this has no meaning for me; for either my
problem will be solved on a higher level, in which case I
will have no need of money, or else my problem will be
my doom. At any rate, there will be enough for a cell in a
madhouse or even in a private sanitarium.
Financially, however, we were considerately replen-
ished by Friederike's marriage in the changing times and
their catastrophes. My uncle became a lifesaver for Bertha
and me after I obtained my university degree. In choosing
my subjects, I had thought of my grandfather. But he had
died in the meantime, and even the most modest jobs in
his firm were taken. I had wasted important years in Lieg-
nitz. After Grandfather's death, we moved into his Steglitz
apartment and lived there rent-free but lavishly. I was
surprised by a tax for "residing in one's own home" and
other vexations—all in all, today's exploitation surpasses
by far the practices of absolute monarchy. The state has
become a multi-armed octopus, drawing blood in thou-
sands of ways. There was only one thing I liked more than
in the East: in your free time, you did not have to march
behind the flag and yell hurrah, and also you could read
and write whatever you wished.
There were weeks when I looked forward to Sunday—
not because I had nothing to do, for I was idle even on
workdays. But at least Sunday brought no mail with dun-
ning notices and rejections. And at breakfast, Bertha's face
was not so distressed.
We slept under one blanket, and at night, when I woke
up with a start, I mused how good it would be if we never
got up again. I reached out and felt Bertha next to me. I
was safe here; I wished that it could always be like this,
and that we, occasionally waking up, could lie next to one
another for years—centuries.
36 Ernst Jünger
Nevertheless, this period provided me with time to

read. I learned more from books than at the universities.
Day and night, I lived with the philosophers, the classics,
and also the Bible as in a mountain range with its well-
springs and valleys—so long as I was not writing and an-
swering ads or looking for a job. Bertha took over most of
my correspondence. The offers were sobering: vacuum-
cleaner companies were looking for enterprising peddlers,
chinchilla farms wanted to dispose of their animals for a
"nominal investment."
Nor did I fare any better with the heads of personnel
departments—if I so much as managed to get that far: their
psychological training in dismissing people was perfect—
from offering a cigarette to buzzing the secretary who
showed me out. "You'll hear from us as soon as something
comes up." But nothing ever did come up.
39
Going to Uncle Fridolin was almost an act of despair;
naturally, I had already thought of him. My reluctance is
shown by the number of visits I had tormented myself
with before calling on him. My lack of eagerness was
probably due in part to my memory of the days when the
family had somewhat looked down on him.
I went to see him not at his office but at his home,
which was only one block further. Aunt Friederike's coffee
was excellent now; I missed her home-made cakes, but, to
make up for them, there were petits-fours from Schilling's
Pastry Shop. We "chitchatted" at length, as the Lower Sax-
ons put it. Finally, when twilight was setting in, I came out
with my request.
My uncle showed little surprise. He looked at me with
his "character gaze," perusing me for a long time—not as
inscrutably as the heads of personnel departments, but
skeptically, like the little bookkeeper that he had been. My
aunt placed her hand on his arm. He took off his spectacles
and said:
"Friedrich—I expected this. Come to my office tomor-
row morning at eleven. Bring along your documents—
every last one of them, starting with your birth certificate."
40
The next morning, accompanied by Bertha's good
wishes, I stood outside his firm on Potsdamer Strasse.
Having come early, I spent a quarter of an hour pacing up
and down in front of the building. The bombs had spared
it. It had only been "aired out"—and not until the final
days of the Reich Chancelery. My uncle had redone the
rooms for his needs and added a new facade. No show
window—whatever belonged to the final arrangements
could be seen in the branch offices. There was a sign at the
entrance:
PIETAS
Funerals
Above it, two silver palm fronds. There were no other
firms in the building, only an apartment for the concierge.
The latter was indispensable, for many calls came at night.
At the stroke of eleven, I entered his office. I was led
not into the waiting room but directly to my uncle. "Herr
Gädke is expecting you," said the secretary when I gave
her my name. She pressed a button; my uncle opened the
door and ushered me in. His office was plain, but roomy,
with a big desk on which there was little paper—all incom-
ing items were processed instantly. No pictures, only a few
diplomas and the portrait of the old kaiser in uniform.
"Some customers are offended, but I don't care."
After a quick handshake, my uncle put on his specta-
cles and delved into my credentials; they formed a thick
file, which Bertha had put in order. There was nothing
amiss in my transcripts—I had done well, indeed, to some
38 Ernst Jünger
extent, very well in the Gymnasium, the university, and

also the military—until my desertion. This was a blemish
more in my eyes than in Fridolin's.
My uncle read everything carefully, even my swim-
ming certificate and my certificate of membership in the
Dynamo Athletic Club in Liegnitz. I saw him nodding his
approval several times. Then he took off his spectacles:
"And how are your finances, Friedrich?"
Bertha had thought of that too. I was able to produce
bills, receipts, and dunning notices. The bottom line did
not look good. My uncle reimmersed himself and shook
his head.
"So, more than I thought."
A silence ensued. Finally, he said:
"I will hire you all the same. Leave the bills here; I'll set-
tle them, and you'll also get an advance on your salary. I
don't like someone to start out with debts. Mind you: it's a
loan."
That was a burden off my mind; it was more than I had
hoped for. I thanked my uncle; he shook my hand and
said:
"The day after tomorrow is the first of the month; you
can begin then. Don't get me wrong: it's on the basis of
your credentials. The fact that we are family and that you
are even our next of kin is a different kettle of fish. As your
uncle, I would have given you the money. But in the office,
I am no uncle and you are no nephew; that's what I've al-
ready told Friederike."
41
Sergeant Stellmann had expressed himself in similar
terms, but more robustly. One of his mottoes was: "I'm a
kind-hearted man—but on duty I'm a bastard. And I'm
always on duty."
Well, it was not as bad as all that. Ultimately, I count

Stellmann among my benefactors. Walking back from
Potsdamer Strasse to Steglitz, I stopped off at Rollenha-
gen's and spent part of my advance on a lobster and a bot-
tle of champagne. The nicest thing of all was that Bertha's
face was at last cheerful again. We could now save our
furniture from being repossesed.
She had also regained her sense of humor: when we
took a nap after the banquet, she said: "You can now stop
looking as if you'd seen a ghost."
She was already alluding to my job.
42
At 8:00 A.M. on the first of the month, I began my new
job. Uncle Fridolin informed me about my duties; there
was truly no question of nepotism. He concluded: "You
will start at the bottom and work your way up." Then he
introduced me to the chief executives.
I was now a manager at Pietas. "Manager" is a make-
shift title, which can mean anything and nothing. It corre-
sponds to the military title "for special services." I was a
factotum, a maid of all work, constantly busy, even Sun-
days and after hours. The concierge would telephone me
in emergencies—and everything in this business is an
emergency. Furthermore, death comes mainly at night.
Now "at the bottom" did not mean that I had to lay
hands on the coffins—there was a special squad for that,
the burial men, and they caused me enough trouble. Pall-
bearers and gravediggers are a strange guild, they are bor-
der crossers of a kind. While they may not philosophize
like Hamlet, they are nevertheless concerned with the
question of what remains of us. Usually only a couple of
bones in the grave or ashes in the urn—that was their con-
clusion.
40 Ernst Jünger
But my job was to deal with their functions, not their

thoughts. I benefited from my experiences in Liegnitz. All
in all, it's always good to have performed rigorous service
somewhere. I had to check their suits, their slow, regular
pacing, their measured, even slightly sacral movements,
their postures down to the mimicry, their solemn faces. It
was important that they should not report for work in a
tipsy state. Unfortunately, before arriving, they tended to
wet their whistles—and rather copiously at that. After a
funeral, it was customary—even if they did not take part in
the funeral feast, they could usually count on a libation.
All in all, I generally got along with them.
43
Thus I often had to deal with cemeteries and cremato-
riums. I also had to go to their administrations, to churches
and registry offices, to suppliers and newspapers. At first, I
could barely cope with it all.
Needless to say, given the size of Uncle Fridolin s firm,
I had to take care of only one sector; the work was divided
among the cemeteries. However, three of them, including a
large one, were more than enough. I had relatively little
trouble with a Jewish graveyard that had escaped being
plowed under. It was small, and a religious organization,
the khevra kadisha (burial society), did the bulk of our work.
This was good, partly because special prescripts had to be
strictly observed. No flowers were allowed; Jews lay
stones on a grave. I particularly liked this place because of
the old, mysterious headstones. Inscriptions that we can-
not read inspire a deeper level of thinking—there was a
touch of Zion and Babylon to it.
Life in an office was new to me. I got accustomed to it
within a year. There are two rules for such work; one: plan;
the other: delegate. Little by little, I cut back on the paper-
work and made more use of the telephone. This saved a lot
of time and a lot of errands. I also knew the partners now,

and when my uncle saw that I was proving myself, he
gave me a secretary. She prepared the incoming papers; on
some I only made a few jottings, chiefly figures; she would
call the administrations. Sermon, chapel, flowers, and so
forth were then automatically taken care of. Finally, even
these jottings were dropped; a small machine stood next to
the telephone: I pressed buttons as Bertha had done on the
cash register.
44
After a year, I was also relieved of making house
calls—they are my least pleasant memories. Usually, I was
expected, for the bereaved turned to the tried-and-true
Pietas after the initial shock. This obtained even for state
funerals. The name of the firm, with the palm fronds, ap-
peared between newspaper obituaries and in every sub-
way car. The more lavish the funeral was to be, the more
readily they thought of us. Before the war, Uncle Fridolin,
together with Grandfather, had started a burial fund; it too
flourished, but he terminated it. He said: "That's something
for little people"—let them go to his competitors.
I began sighing even before those visits, when I knotted
my silver necktie and slipped into my frock coat. What
was I in for this time? Who would open the door—the
ghostly widow or the weeping maid? No hush can be
deeper than in a house where someone has died and the
mirrors are draped. I would get involved in turbulent
scenes, watch the family standing around the deathbed,
and have to prompt anyone who would not reply. Nor
was there any lack of infamy: the heirs already bickering in
the next room, the creditors mobbing the door as they had
done after Balzac's demise, the ill-concealed delight of the
successor in the store, the office, the conjugal bed, rubbing
his hands.
42 Ernst Jünger
45
One thing was not as bad as I had pictured it: the close
bond between tragedy and business. Whenever I entered
as the harbinger of Charon's boat, followed by my assistant
with his tape measure, I actually sensed a feeling of relief
among the mourners. The chaos was beginning to ease—I
could take over some of their worries. And also, the mo-
ment comes when, hard as it may be to say farewell, one
wishes that the dead person were under the ground.
Then again, I could not neglect business. Once, when I
submitted an order to Uncle Fridolin, he said: "They would
have been more than willing to spend twice as much for
their father and they are even obligated to do so: he was a
general. After all, we're not running a charity here."
I took his words to heart; on the other hand, I could not
exploit the bewilderment of the bereaved. Gradually, I
struck a balance.
Why did I care less and less about these visits the more
routine they became? The answer would require a bit of
soul-searching, for I would not wish to present myself to
myself as a good person. Nevertheless, the work was
stressful. My situation was roughly that of a thespian who
has to perform in dramas every evening. At first, he is pas-
sionate, then it becomes a daily habit; it imbues his lan-
guage, his gestures, his acting—the mask becomes con-
stant.
That was what happened to me. Now, when I went to
the homes of the deceased, I had no stage fright; this de-
velopment was harmful to my character.
46
It was Bertha rather than I who noticed the change. She
said, when I came home exhausted: "You can stop looking
as if you've been to your own funeral!" And she was no

longer trying to be funny.
When I started neglecting her, my work was only part-
ly to blame. At breakfast, I was already leafing through the
newspaper and skimming the obituaries. It was possible
that an important death had eluded us. Next I drove to
Potsdamer Strasse (for I now owned a car), telephoned,
made house calls, and came back in the evening, often tar-
dily. Usually, I read until late at night, since, for me, a day
without books is a lost day.
Bertha had to understand that I could not devote as
much time to her as back then, in the tiny room where we
had huddled together, comforting one another. Poverty
unites, prosperity divides. Mercury is detrimental to love.
Once I got the hang of my work, I developed a gam-
bling addiction. Anyone who has been accompanied by
success even once in a lifetime is familiar with that addic-
tion. You now enter your office in a good mood instead of
with a heavy heart as in the past. Things go smoothly. The
way an expert card player shuffles and fans the cards—the
sheer act of watching is a delight.
47
The atmosphere in our refined apartment grew cooler;
we treated one another gingerly. Our alienation expressed
itself in trivial matters—say, a necktie that she did not like.
Yet she was the one who had given it to me. But it did not
go with my suit.
I never allowed an argument to develop, though I am
particularly touchy at breakfast. But this was not to her
liking either. She would say: "Friedrich, I think you're be-
coming too glib. Oh, I know: The customer is always
right."
I realized it—my work was rubbing off on my charac-
ter. In marriage too, an acute attack is better than a chronic
44 Ernst Jünger
disorder; a knock-down, drag-out fight clears the air, and

the reconciliation restores domestic peace.
However, I have to do some more thorough soul-
searching and ask myself whether my change was not in
fact consistent with the core of my being rather than mere-
ly symptomatic of an occupational disease.
48
Have I already mentioned that I view myself as capable
of getting along with any woman provided I do not find
her inherently repulsive? Bertha had realized that too. She
once said to me when we were lying side by side: "I believe
you love me less because I am I, than because I'm a wom-
an—isn't that insulting to me?"
That was the age-old question of which is preferable:
the wine or the beaker? I prefer the wine. The King of Thu-
le drank from a golden beaker, which his beloved had giv-
en him; but he tossed it into the sea, gave it back to the
mother. There are also earthenware beakers, and perhaps
the wine tastes better from them; knowledge and culture
are more likely to do damage to love. This is a problem
that even the gods argue about; I cannot solve it.
That night, I kept the answer to myself an embrace is
the best argument. Now I am not saying that Bertha could
not have kept up her side of the conversation and not only
because the studies that she had broken off for my sake
had been classical languages and therefore mythology as
well. She resumed them later on.
49
To deal with Bertha's question in detail, I have to enlist
the aid of mythology. Our psychologists and characterolo-
gists, often without realizing it, have their roots there too. I
get less from their measuring skills than from a chapter of
Plutarch or Vico.
What tied me to Bertha was not just taste but also pas-
sion. We owe this distinction to Stendhal; it was he who
established it. But when passion grew weaker, good taste
prevented our having a quarrel a la Strindberg. Nor did
another man, another woman emerge. We drifted apart,
and this caused both of us distress—certainly Bertha won-
dered, just as I did, to what extent it was her fault.
She did not hold back with the small overtures at
which women are better than we. For example, dates,
which we forget more easily than they do—why were
there flowers on the table today? Right—it was the anni-
versary of our first night together. Then again, a favorite
dish would be on the table, or else she was wearing the
cheap jewelry that I had given her in our student days, and
her hairdo was the same as back then. These were memo-
ries of the old times, but only memories.
50
We would have drifted apart even without my work,
which occupied me more and more, ultimately affecting
my health, especially when the firm rose to sudden notori-
ety. If anyone was at fault, it was I—because of my charac-
ter, which was exposed by my profession; however, time
would have done the same, even under different circum-
stances. As a moralist once said: Aging makes not only our
profiles but also our characters more distinct.
I wonder whether, in regard to eros, I fit into one of the
prevailing typologies. If I were to fill out a test question-
naire, I would be the paragon of a normal spouse. I cannot
oblige with any surprise, any physical or mental deviation.
One should not be content with that; statistics are de-
vised for parochial minds. What does, say, the question
"What is your favorite color?" mean to someone who feels
good in a fog or who is delighted by a palette, an opal, a
rainbow, a sunset in Manila? Besides, under every normal
46 Ernst Jünger
stratum, we come upon a more deeply universal stratum,

the human one. Man remains the enigma per se.
After putting aside the books, I reached a conclusion:
You are an erotic nihilist. What does that mean? To put it
tritely: the kind of woman I like best is the one whose
presence does not disturb me, who is simply not there.
This, as I have said, is a very general case, and that was
what disturbed Bertha about me.
Now I could get out of the predicament by claiming
that I may even be an erotic idealist. A beloved's presence
would be disturbing insofar as it interfered with. Aphro-
dite. The final chamber remains locked, and only a ray of
light flashes through. That is the secret reason for so many
disappointments.
The yearning for a new life can become very strong. I
am thinking of the influence that the Provencal love cult
exerted on the Renaissance. La vita nuova—nine-year-old
Dante is transformed by Beatrice, as Petrarch by Laura; the
poem is for human beings what a flood is for the cosmos: a
response to vast distances.
However, I do not wish to play the metaphysical swain.
Aphrodite may be missing or veil her face: the Great
Mother is always there. Love changes to the extent that
materialism progresses.
My nihilism is based on concrete experiences. And, as
so often, it was the first encounter that served as a model,
preshaping the subsequent ones.
51
It is, above all, the gods who change. Either they as-
sume different forms and faces, or they vanish altogether.
But similarities always remain, no matter how many gen-
erations are produced. It is the same as with breeds of an-
imals.
I regard it as a mistake to call Dionysus a god; I contest

it. He has a place on Mount Olympus as a close relative,
also as a guest of honor. Dionysus is more than a god and
less—he is earth exposed, nature revealed. He is a demon,
a polymorphic Titan. This is not contradicted by one of the
myths about him which says he was torn to shreds by the
Titans—that is simply the way they are. Dionysus himself
is torn, he tears, he is overpowering. His place is not so
much on Olympus as in Eleusis, between Persephone and
Demeter.
I therefore feel that Old Gunpowder-Head was wrong
to put Dionysus as a god opposite Apollo—theirs was ac-
tually an encounter between Titanic-demonic and divine
power. Still, Gunpowder-Head did understand that this
conflict brought forth two kinds of art, especially two
kinds of music. He returned to Dionysus. Rather than ex-
patiating on this, I wish to focus on the present. The fact
that we, largely in a passive manner, are participating in a
fall of the gods is obvious as far away as India and New
Guinea. Titanic forces in mechanical disguise are supplant-
ing the gods. Wherever Zeus no longer rules, crown, scep-
ter, and borders are becoming senseless; with Ares, the he-
roes are making their farewells; and with Great Pan, na-
ture is dying. Wherever Aphrodite is waning, there is
promiscuous interbreeding.
The power of Dionysus testifies to the fact that he alone
survives. He is the master of festivities in palaces and
among the masses, he is at home with princes and beggars.
His light enchants the mayfly, which burns itself on him.
52
Aside from being the place where Stellmann used to
drill us so hard, the Liegnitz Culture Park was still as un-
pleasant as could be. Its very name was paradoxical. On
weekdays, it served as a training ground when the area in
48 Ernst Jünger
front of the barracks was occupied; and on Sundays, it was

used for parades. The lawn was worn down, flowers were
out of the question. At the center of the park stood a gigan-
tic shell, a dud, commemorating, as the inscription on the
pedestal explained, the conquest of the city. An avenue
lined with trees and statues led to this monument. The
statues were the artworks, some in plaster, some in con-
crete. Naturally, they were not meant for eternity. As Zhi-
galev demands in his program, the elites were liquidated
from time to time. The heads of statues, as I witnessed
twice, would then be replaced. Likewise, names were de-
leted and dates changed on street signs and in reference
books—in short, there was no more history, just stories.
How could it be that this wasteland was so marvelous-
ly transformed for a night? It was a Friday, the First of
May. This is a day of festivities and mysteries throughout
Europe. In Wurzburg, the devil drove through the city in a
splendid carriage. The witches danced on Mount Brocken;
Brunhilde was seen in the Valley of the Bode. The poor
souls haunted the rivers, infernal bells tolled. In my native
Silesia, the people said: If you see a falling star on that
midnight, you should dig in your garden; you will find a
treasure.
53
Now the pageants had become obligatory, but the day
had remained, for every regime lives on mythology, albeit
in a diluted form. The crowd must have been inspired by a
memory which, after the flags were rolled up, drove them
out into the countryside, toward the true master of festivi-
ties. He must have, if not appeared, then at least entered;
the metamorphosis was extraordinary. I too was over-
come, despite my sadness when arriving.
A fog had risen, as often around this time. Stars were
probably shining above it, but people and things could be
seen only through a dense veil, almost unsubstantially.

Music was being played in the taverns of the city, but the
only sound that penetrated the Culture Park was the dith-
yramb of a drum, like the strokes of a faraway gong.
I walked along the great avenue. The statues too had
changed; they were neither artworks nor their mockeries.
The Party chairman had become Hercules, the hangman
had become the ultimate benefactor, the Indian god. Even
the concrete revealed its secret: its atoms were also those of
marble—indeed, those of our hearts, our brains. An utter
hush prevailed: the throngs had scattered throughout the
park. They were performing a grand consummation of
marriage.
Now I ought to speak about the encounter I had; but
words fall me for the ineffable. Merely breaking the silence
would be betrayal. Nothing similar has ever been granted
to me again. I do not even know if we touched. However,
my nihilism is based on facts.
54
Let us get back to my job. As I have said, I was a climb-
er. There was a surprise—not merely because business was
thriving; it was as if a base were being raised to a higher
power: a jackpot.
When checking through my papers, Uncle Fridolin had
paid special attention to my degree in statistics and media.
Indeed, both subjects are important: our dealings rest on
statistical foundations, and our needs are aroused by me-
dia. The Romans were different: they dealt in hard facts,
allowing everyone to form his own opinion. For example, t
made no difference to them whether the Jews believed in
the Twelve Gods; the Romans nailed no theses on the por-
tals of the Temple of Zion; they merely erected a statue of
Caesar in front of it. In our culture, opinions precede
50 Ernst Jünger
facts—that is why media, coupled with statistics, is such

an important subject.
Needs are both real and metaphysical; they are geared
to life in this world and in another world. The two cannot
be sharply separated: they overlap in dreams, in intoxica-
tion, in ecstasy, in the great promises.
The art of arousing new needs covers a wide range
from the apostle Paul to Edison's inventions. A need can
be recognized suddenly or it can spread gradually. Take
tobacco: it has come a long way from the first cigar of the
Conquistadors to the international power of the cigarette
industries.
Why was it that within a few years, Uncle Fridolin's
modest firm enjoyed that incredible, virtually uncontrolla-
ble boom?
55
It began, as so often, with car trouble. Together with
Kornfeld, the sculptor, and Edwin, the chauffeur, I was
driving to Verdun, the Capitale de la Paix, where we had
some business. Edwin was a good driver, but unreliable—
an "airhead." I am quoting my uncle who had threatened
him several times, saying that "the fifteenth is going to be
the first." He also said: "Edwin is the sort who calls in sick
on a Monday." That was true, but Edwin made up for it
during the week.
And today was Monday; we had spent the night at
Kleber's in Saulgau and tasted the wines that thrive along
the Neckar. Edwin had neglected to fill the tank; we ran
out of gas on one of the hills outside the Black Forest. It
was a lonesome place; no car passed, so Edwin had to take
two canisters and go on the road. Actually, we did not
mind our sojourn; it was a beautiful morning—we were in
the mood for a stroll, a pipe, and a good conversation. A
chapel stood on the hill; it reminded me of the chapel on
Mount Wurmling near Tubingen—Uhland wrote a beauti-

ful poem about it. A gray wall enclosed the chapel
grounds; we entered through the gate and found ourselves
in a deserted cemetery. Kornfeld said: "Lo and behold—the
lure of the relevant."
Kornfeld was a renowned sculptor, but he no longer
practiced. He said: "We sculptors are like the butterfly col-
lectors who hang up their nets because the butterflies are
dying out. For us, it is heads that are growing rare. We
would have to go to the Africans, and even they…"
He added: "For me, a tyranny would be advantageous,
though naturally, I can't say that out loud."
"But Herr Kornfeld—our experiences would tend to
confirm the opposite."
"My dear Baroh, you are confusing tyrants and dema-
gogues—that is a common error in our time. The dema-
gogue stirs one and the same dough; he is a pastry chef, at
best a plasterer and painter. The tyrant supplies individual
shapes. Down to his bodyguards. Think of the Renaissance
tyrants ruled everywhere, from every small town up to the
Vatican. That was the great era for sculptors, for art in
general."
That gave me food for thought. In any case, Old Gun-
powder-Head would agree. "Caesar Borgia as pope."
Kornfeld had worked chiefly in marble; he had also
studied the ancient kinds, touring the Greek islands in
quest of forgotten quarries. One of his favorite books was
President de Brosses's Confidential Letters, which so often
talks about marble. Critics and academics are reluctant to
mention Kornfeld's name; nevertheless, it pops up precise-
ly when it is ignored. The museums contain some good
heads of his. But ever since he put down his chisel, he had
been doing architectural consultation and designing parks,
52 Ernst Jünger
gardens, and cemeteries. Our trip was linked to such a

commission.
No one had been buried on this hill for a long time,
and, as Kornfeld said, the place was about to be plowed
under. Soon the countryside would consist purely of roads
and gas stations. We peered at the headstones, deciphering
the inscriptions. One of the deceased had been a hundred
years old. We had to lift the ivy off a humble monument
and saw that it commemorated the single military casualty
that the village had suffered in one of the campaigns of the
previous century; the Iron Cross surmounted his name.
The headstones of the parish priests were lined along
the wall of the chapel. The dates reached all the way back
to the Thirty Years' War. Chalice and wafer were reiterated
in red sandstone from Baroque style to Art Nouveau. A
sovereign judge, a seminarian, a man who had been struck
by lightning, many children, but mostly peasants who had
tilled the soil. Perhaps their families had died out, but the
stone preserved their names, stirring the reflections of
strangers who, like us today, happened to pass by. They
had even memorialized a tightrope walker who had
plunged down in the village square.
56
When Edwin had returned with the canisters, and we
were driving back to the highway, Kornfeld said:
"Now that was a graveyard worthy of its name. When I
think of the cemetery in my hometown, where I may end
up: a switchyard, worse than in New York."
He expounded: "You see, I maintain a family vault that
I inherited, it dates back to my great-grandfather. I don't
know how much longer I can afford it. No year goes by
without my being pestered by the administration. The very
word 'inherit' annoys people today like 'destiny' or 'the
Good Lord.' I'm afraid that the North German lowland has
become a seismic area. Now one headstone wobbles, now

another, although they're located along the wall and most
likely wobble only when some sort of violence is inflicted
on them. I get bills from stone masons, cemetery garden-
ers, miscellaneous fees yet one hundred twenty years ago,
my great-grandfather paid for the spot once and for all—
and in gold. Evidently, more land speculators are at work
there than death watchers; that's why most of the old fami-
lies are giving up their rights."
Kornfeld went on: "The family vaults are then replaced
by rows of uniform stones. Those people arrogate authori-
ty for themselves even in questions of taste. But just take a
look at the Campo Santo in Genoa. It teems with examples
of poor taste—and they all combine into a wonderful tab-
leau."
I had to agree. The ahistorical person knows no peace,
especially eternal peace. He has adjusted even his graves
to his chauffeur style. Like all structures, they are meant to
last thirty years. The mourners are content with a standing
order at a gardening center. Such is their piety. I was ac-
quainted with it from my job.
"That's the way it is," said Kornfeld, "the old washer-
woman who saved up for her funeral, taking her shroud
from her chest every Sunday in order to caress it—you'll
find her only in half-forgotten poems."
He mused: "And yet something has remained—you
discover it when you scratch the polish: a grieving in No-
vember, when the leaves are falling and yet seeds are al-
ready stirring in the earth. Believe me: a loss is felt here, a
need slumbers here, unsettling everyone, moving every-
one."
57
That was how it began, during the drive to Verdun, to
one of the great cemeteries. The conversation lodged in our
54 Ernst Jünger
memories; we felt we had touched on an important issue.

We then saw a great deal of one another in Berlin, socially
too, and developed the theme.
I would like to say to our credit that we initially did not
think of business. Kornfeld planned as an architect and
artist; his ideal had long been to create harmonious land-
scapes outside the workaday world. They were meant to
inspire pure well-being and meditation—and perhaps also
have ritual meaning—preferably both in unison. He fre-
quently quoted a forgotten historian, von Rotteck: "A
compilation of burial customs would be the counterpart of
a collection of theories of immortality."
Richly illustrated works, from Vitruvius and Piranesi to
Lenôtre and Prince Puckler, were to be found in Kornfeld's
library, which led into a map room. I enjoyed being in
these rooms. The work wing also included a studio and a
drafting room, with an array of marble steps set into the
walls. A garden led down to the Spree. In the garden, there
were sculptures from the period when Kornfeld had been
an active sculptor. Now he employed draftsmen, who also
worked for Pietas from time to time. It was in the context
of such a commission that I had made his acquaintance.
As regards myself, I was initially moved by only a
vague passion. What appealed to me was something gen-
eral, which I could serve if only by contributing a single
stone. With that stone, I would confirm that the Pharaoh is
immortal, and everyone carries a pharaoh inside himself.
I thought of great buildings, Kornfeld thought of for-
ests and plains near the Polar Circles. We were united by
the conviction that we were on the trail of a yearning. If a
need is to be aroused, it has to exist; one cannot talk people
into it. Only that which slumbers can be awakened.
We had an idea, but, like any inventor, any author, we
had to go and find a reliable partner in order to make it
come true. Clearly, we first turned to Uncle Fridolin, but

he flatly refused. He was a good businessman, but averse
to fantasies and with no appreciation of art. Furthermore,
he did not much care for the thought of eternal resting
places. After all, his livelihood depended on as many buri-
als as possible, virtually in rotation. Like many conserva-
tives, he was at the cutting edge when it came to business.
Thus, he viewed cremation as a great advance, although he
rejected it personally.
58
Sigi Jersson was one of my new friends, perhaps the
only one to whom I can really apply that word. We had
met in a Jewish cemetery that had been opened only re-
cently. The headstones gave me pause to think: each was
shaped like an open book with one or two names inscribed
in it; underneath stood a list of the missing—not people
who had fallen in battle, but people who had been deport-
ed and murdered. Sigi's father was one of them.
We exchanged only a few sentences; but with a genuine
affinity, this often suffices to begin a friendship. It can be a
wink, an ironic silence that reveals a spiritual rapport. And
here there was a lot that had to be veiled.
Sigi visited me in Steglitz, and I visited him in his bun-
galow at Wannsee Lake, in the Western sector of the city.
Bertha was not edified by this acquaintanceship, which
contributed to our drifting apart. "He's not your kind—did
you see the way he eats asparagus?" This hardly troubled
me; after losing Jagello, I was starved for conversation
with a historical and literary grounding. Sigi could oblige
with both. I could tell from my very first visit to his library
that he possessed an inner order. For literati, books are the
costumes by which they judge one another. Hume, Machi-
avelli, Josephus Flavius, Ranke in long, brownish golden
56 Ernst Jünger
rows—there is a mood in which books directly radiate

substance.
In time, I needed these visits as much as an old Chinese
needs opium. Exhausted, I drove from my dreary office on
Potsdamer Strasse to my new friend, if only for a few
minutes, and when I left, I was refreshed. Occasionally, I
missed dinner and stayed past midnight. Bertha conjec-
tured that I had strayed from the path of virtue and in a
way, I had.
Inevitably, we also exchanged personal memories. In
our century, almost everyone who has escaped has an od-
yssey behind him. Sigi came from a family that had lost
everything and then become wealthy again. They must
have had a natural relationship to money. In this regard,
Sigi was no chip off the old block; he was considered a
sponger by his rich kinfolk, but his life was free of care, for
he had married within the family.
Sigi's wife was a Jersson by birth, the only daughter of
the well-known banker. Her name was Rea, she had dark
hair and a very delicate figure. She could have come
straight out an Egyptian frieze as one of the slave girls
stretching out their arms to offer Pharaoh a gift. Thus,
when we were sitting in the library, she would come in,
serve fresh tea, and empty the ashtray. I could imagine her
breasts. She entered and vanished like a shadow; all that
was lacking was for her to knock as on the door of a cham-
bre separee, where one does not wish to disturb a loving
couple.
59
Indeed, he and I soon grew intimate. Our conversations
attained the proper detachment. Strangely enough, it was
precisely the skeptical minds that contributed to it: Mon-
taigne, Stendhal, also Lichtenberg—and, among the phi-
losophers, Schopenhauer and Old Gunpowder-Head. Of-
ten, hints sufficed, sometimes we became impulsive. One

midnight, we embraced and began using the familiar form.
Our intimacy was different from the one I had had with
Jagello—there was always a touch of skepticism, as if we
were poking fun at ourselves. Self-irony is deeply rooted
in Jews; it has contributed to their survival. When your life
is at stake, the comic role is preferable to the tragic one.
Fortune and reputation can be regained, but not life.
Sigi enjoyed discussing such topics. He once said: "If he
hadn't done such a good job of helping to boot out the kai-
ser, then my old man would be alive today."
Sigi's father had run one of the major newspapers. His
name, as I have mentioned, was inscribed on one of the
marble books.
It had been a strange, yet perhaps not entirely unusual
circuit from the Konigsberg Councilor of Commerce to the
liberal father and then to Sigi, who had not only frequent-
ed revolutionary circles, but also agitated in them. That
period had left him with a precise knowledge of the lead-
ing figures and the political entanglements, as well as
semi-military habits like riding horseback in the Tiergarten
every morning.
Overnight, Sigi had discovered conservative tendencies
in himself; it took place by one of those meandering routes
that seem arbitrary, yet lead to a specific destination. He
had studied the trial of a pastor named Schulz, who, partly
because of his book, Proof of the Infinite Difference between
Morality and Religion, had been tried by the Prussian Su-
preme Court. Sigi had unearthed this trial in the diaries of
old Marwitz, which in turn had led him to Friedrich Wil-
helm II, a weak and vice-ridden monarch, under whom the
kingdom of Prussia had achieved its greatest expansion.
When I first met Sigi, he was absorbed in Vehse's Tales of
58 Ernst Jünger
the Court; he confirmed Heine's opinion of the book: "Pure

caviar."
Through his new publications, Sigi had, surprisingly,
increased his literary renown; the conservatives like it
when an outsider joins their ranks. The switch from the
extreme left wing to the right wing is not rare in history: it
seems to make people's characters sharper, more incisive.
It is the switch from idea to pragma, from opinion to facts.
It is repeated in both universal and personal history and
must reach deep into the material dimension.
60
I hope that my jottings have not jumbled the times too
greatly. Often I cannot tell whether I met someone before,
during, or after a catastrophe—indeed, I confuse catastro-
phes with one another. My memory is tied less to places
and dates than to the plasmatic substance.
Why did I bring up Sigi? Right: because of Kornfeld
and our conversation when our car ran out of gas near the
Black Forest cemetery. After returning from Verdun, the
capital of peace, I dropped in on Sigi, whom I hadn't seen
for a week. In telling him about the trip, I happened to
mention Kornfeld's anxieties about the eternal repose of
his ancestors and then came to the leveling of old memori-
al places and the general decline of the cult of the dead.
"They should rig up the moon as a mausoleum."
Actually, I had expected an ironic retort, the kind that
Sigi loved, but I saw that he grimaced as if I had surprised
him with a magic trick from a top hat. Rea had to bring
fresh tea. As she was pouring it, he said: "I've reserved a
spot for you." And when she had left:
"Friedrich, you don't realize what you've just said: that
is the countermove to the motor world."
But then irony came into play after all:
"And it's also good business."
He must have had a Chasidic rebbe among his ances-

tors.
61
Sigfried Jersson, the great banker, had asked Kornfeld
and myself to meet with him: we sat together in his office.
Soundproof walls, double windows and doors; no noise
penetrated.
A man's taste is revealed, at first sight, by the paintings
or, if the walls are bare, by the proportions—indeed, even
more strongly by the latter: the invisible harmony domi-
nates. This was the case, and I did not feel that something
was missing. The main price of such an arrangement is the
complete insulation.
Old Jersson was dressed like one of the senior members
of the Jockey Club. He would have fitted in there physiog-
nomically as well. His Berlin office was only a dependance,
but he was often here, for he loved the city. It was rumored
that he had once chartered one of the fastest planes in or-
der to take a check to New York; the interest accruing in
several hours was greater than the expense. Perhaps this
was merely an anecdote, like those told about Rothschild.
Whenever he wanted to peruse a document, he would
use his monocle, which was attached to a black ribbon. He
did so now as he picked up the presentation that Kornfeld
and I had written at Sigi's prompting. It was the only pa-
per lying on the desk. His viewing.2 no doubt, a gesture,
for it was obvious, as his quest revealed, that he had pe-
rused the contents meticulous I nurtured no great hopes.
His invitation was probably sparked by a certain curiosity,
or else the banker wanted to do his nephew a favor. Occa-
sionally, such potentates start a firm for poor kinsmen,
even lithe business runs purely at a loss. Sigi had once told
me: "The old guy often doesn't know what to do with his
money. He then drives new nails in to hang it up."
60 Ernst Jünger
By inviting us, Jersson probably meant to determine

whether we were personally reputable or Bohemians with
fantastic ideas to Sigi's taste. That was what his questions
boiled down to after he sized us up through his monocle. I
could introduce myself as having a degree in sociology
and as one of the directors of Pietas. This was not disad-
vantageous. I noticed that he had had the firm investigat-
ed. So our meeting was probably more of a personal intro-
duction, for the banker was also informed about Korn-
feld—he asked him several questions concerning geology,
which was not a random move, for Jersson had also made
quite a name for himself in petroleum and he often dealt
with prospectors.
The oil magnates have taken on the role of kings—their
nets encompass lands and seas.
The meeting lasted three quarters of an hour, and had
been tailored to that timespan, for a secretary appeared
without being summoned and saw us out.
Two robust men followed us all the way to the street;
they had searched us for weapons when we had entered.
As we left, Jersson shook our hands. He said: "My son-in-
law is a master of the unprofitable arts, but sometimes a
blind chicken can peck up a kernel."
62
Nevertheless, I was surprised that we were invited
back. This time, Uncle Fridolin was also there. The banker
had flown in from New York and landed on the roof; he
presented the summary of his reflections:
"Gentlemen—I have no interest whatsoever in pipe
dreams or in running a pious establishment. Funerals have
always been a sound business and could become a big
business in these times; a genuine and widespread need
exists. After reviewing the documents drafted by Messrs.
Kornfeld and Baroh, I am prepared to form a company; I
would advance the initial capital. I would not like the

name of my bank linked to it; I suggest that Herr Fridolin
Gädke should sign for the firm. I will have the necessary
contracts drawn up and submitted to you by the end of the
week."
That was the birth of the firm of Terrestra, under whose
aegis our Pietas continued a modest existence, although
the impulses radiated from the latter. Jersson then outlined
his conception of the development.
First a piece of land had to be found—one that was as
cheap as possible, perhaps even gratis. Participation by the
owners could even be considered. Jersson was familiar
with this procedure from his oil explorations. It would be
followed by the purchasing or leasing of land and the sign-
ing of contracts with the government. Once all that was
settled, the promotional campaign had to be launched and
the merchandise offered. Jersson reckoned with a large
demand. It should not only cover the initial investment,
but also add to the working capital.
Business is, after all, other people's money, and that's
what bankers live on. Nevertheless, I was amazed by how
precisely this banker had recognized the need. Jersson
considered Kornfeld the right prospector; he could use the
airplanes that were occupied in the petroleum sector, per-
haps even some of the excavating and drilling equipment.
In conclusion, Jersson said: "In a burial, the main point
is the digging—it would be good if we could be spared as
much of it as possible by doing the proper groundwork."
He was obviously picturing what the Swabian calls a
"mown meadow." He did not go into detail. Yet we
learned how important precisely that tip was.
63
I ought to describe the ongoing development of Terres-
tra, although I have been only marginally involved ever
62 Ernst Jünger
since my problem began to afflict me. First, a new office

building was put up. Uncle Fridolin had lost his skepti-
cism; he was now as keen as mustard. If Jersson was a ge-
nius in financial matters, my uncle was quite gifted. Jers-
son was the strategist, Fridolin the tactician. He had again
reached a new level; this was expressed in his behavior, his
modern comforts, and also physiognomically. As Ter-
restra's reputation grew, he accordingly changed cars; he
kept an airplane and gave large dinners. My new office
was as spacious as a ballroom, its floor was covered with a
Kirman. I had the walls padded with red leather and lined
with bookcases containing black binders. When Bertha
first visited me there, she said: "Your new style reminds
me of a limbo."
There was something to that. I had to cope with the
mortuary pomp that conceals the misery, the ephemeral-
ness of the world. Despite the routine, it rattled me. At
times, between two visitors, a rumbling came from the si-
lence, like the distant thunder of Doomsday. Bertha had
already been averse to my joining Pietas. She might have
thought of the Nobis Tavern: this is the inn at the edge of
the world, where the dead drink together, swapping their
experiences before descending into the depth. Although
Kornfeld was still reconnoitering, we began our advertis-
ing campaign, accepting deposits in the manner of build-
ing and loan associations.
It was my job to advise the promotion department; on-
ly a selection of the mail reached my desk. Most of it was
processed in the secretary's office, through telephone calls
and printed matter. I received inquiries from churches,
sects, associations, and important individuals. I also re-
tained the job of offering advice in heraldic matters; this
was consistent with my historical interests. Even if the old
families no longer played a role in society and had re-
nounced their titles, they nevertheless wanted to be buried

in a manner appropriate to their social standing.
Since the reputation of Terrestra soon spread beyond
the borders, I had to keep pace with, indeed prepare for,
the wishes of a worldwide clientele. This changed my
nightly readings; I studied works like Klemm's Universal
Cultural History of Mankind, De Vries's Jewish Customs and
Symbols, the Reverend Andreas's Past and Present Funeral
Customs of the Various Nations, and so on.
The throng of eccentrics, some of whom wanted absurd
arrangements, was astonishing; but I do not care to go into
detail. Compared with their wishes, Marie Bashkirtseff's
famous chapel was child's play. Since most of those people
were very rich, we established a special department: Curi-
osities.
64
What Bertha had said about limbo gave me food for
thought in other respects. It appeared as if we were assum-
ing the role of a priesthood or at least an order. Nor was
this contradicted by the fact that we were running a busi-
ness. This was so from the very outset, but it was not the
main thing, as Monsieur de Voltaire says. If we keep close
tabs on a conjuror and expose his trick, there is neverthe-
less something to it: he has performed manipulations bor-
dering on miracles. A curtain rises, and someone appears
in a tuxedo and a top hat; but behind him there are more
curtains.
We had recognized a profound need. The demand can
barely be met. Every morning, stacks of letters arrive and
are distributed to the offices. Ever since my problem began
gnawing at me, I have been idly daydreaming for hours on
end. My eyes alight on the dark binders: an entire shelf is
categorized under the label URN. This is an important ob-
ject for us.
64 Ernst Jünger
I pull out a binder and leaf through it. A young cerami-

cist has handed in a suggestion. On the edge of the paper,
Uncle Fridolin has written the word "Important!" The ce-
ramicist points out that the traditional round shape of the
urn, although age-old, is impractical. More than anything,
one would like to find out whom this urn contains, and
one would also wish to know the birth and death dates of
the deceased and see a motto, a coat-of arms, a symbolic
ornament. A profile of the departed ought to be considered
as well. This could lead to a new genre of artworks. Korn-
feld had written on the edge of the paper: "Let's hope that
collectors don't take it up?"
All this, according to the ceramicist, could be read more
easily on a flat surface than on a curve; he therefore pro-
posed manufacturing urns in the shape of dominoes, and
he submitted drawings. We might, he said, consider the
outline of a house—something similar already existed in
Peru.
The correspondence about this matter fills a large vol-
ume. But why did Uncle Fridolin commit himself so deep-
ly to this idea? Aesthetic considerations were the furthest
thing from his mind. The old Pietas company was as taste-
less an establishment as could be. However, an airplane
could carry a lot more urns in this new shape than in the
usual shape. They could also be stored together seamlessly
along the wall of a columbarium without leaving any gaps.
Thus Terrestra could offer a resting place ad perpetuitatem
at a price below that of a normal Berlin funeral.
65
I note this detail as an example of blending religion and
economics. One could write a book about the history of
Terrestra—incidentally, several such books are already in
progress. I will therefore be brief.
Kornfeld had completed his reconnaissance within a

year, after traveling through all continents and to such is-
lands as Malta and Crete. Nor did he omit Easter Island.
First, he had to cross out several possibilities—either be-
cause of the expense or because they were not consistent
with piety. Regarding the latter, he found that it was espe-
cially pronounced among the Etruscans. They were intent
on keeping a family together—they therefore set up cham-
bers with comfortable resting places in large hills or under
the ground. The walls were adorned with pictures show-
ing the dead feasting and quaffing together, enjoying
themselves at play and in love, or hunting. There was no
pain, no judgment for the dead, no hell, nor any gravity at
these subterranean banquets. However, this would have
required moving great amounts of earth, which flouted
Jersson's guidelines. Still, the mood was worth emulating.
It had been preserved in the funeral towers that the Ro-
mans, as successors to the Etruscans, had built in their
Asian provinces. There are also suggestions of that mood
in the Kidron Valley.
Furthermore, Kornfeld excluded any reminiscences of
pyramids and catacombs. In Palermo, he had visited the
Capuchine Tomb. There, thousands of fully-dressed
mummies lay along, stood at, hung from the walls; it was a
spectral world. Among the Etruscans, you feel relieved
when you descend; but here, when you see the light again.
Nevertheless, Kornfeld had been inspired: he saw how the
shape of the body, including its physiognomy, can be pre-
served without any invasive procedures. We know that
repulsive, indeed scandalous things had occurred among
the Egyptians. The Capuchines, however, buried their
dead fully clothed in hot dunes and then, one year later,
transferred them to their tombs. You felt you ran into them
at the Quattro Canti.
66 Ernst Jünger
66
Although I could now take very good care of Bertha
and fulfill her every wish, she stuck to her modest lifestyle.
Having completed her studies, she was preparing for a
teaching position. She had moved into a larger apartment
only because her old one had become too small for all her
books. Books and travels—those were the things she
splurged on. Twice a year, she drove to Greece in her little
car. Recently, these trips had extended to the Ionian Coast
as well as the Anatolian interior. She had visited Sardis,
the residence of Gyges and Croesus, on the ancient golden
river, the Pactolus.
When my problem started afflicting me, I went to see
her and also spent the night. I slept fitfully, and it was
good feeling her next to me, when I suddenly awoke as if
plunging from a height. She then switched on the lamp;
we chatted, not about my problem, but about her travels; I
had her read aloud to me. Now that we had become
friends, I understood her better there was still some eroti-
cism, but of a different kind.
She enjoyed hearing my accounts of Kornfeld's investi-
gations. After all, historical, especially archeological inter-
ests are closely interwoven with graves; basically, the
world is a grave into which the ages descend and from
which they rise again like asphodels. These processes are a
sowing and reaping, and Orpheus lives in every historian.
Once, right after returning from Asia Minor, Bertha
said: "It's obvious why Kornfeld visited Knossos, Mycene,
and Troy—but why hasn't he been to Cappadocia? That
would be the Promised Land for you people."
67
This was the second major turning point in the history
of Pietas-Terrestra, if I may call our car trouble near the
Black Forest churchyard our first major turning point.

When Kornfeld heard about Bertha's suggestion and
conned the literature from Herodotus and Pausanias down
to the latest travel guides, he hired an airplane, and the
three of us flew to Urgup in the middle of Anatolia.
There, with the help of local guides, we wandered
through an underground world. It has been known for a
long time and it was also opened to tourism in the modem
era; but it has never been explored to its full extent. The
first person to mention it was Sieur Paul Lucas, a French
traveler in the age of Louis XIV. His account, like Marco
Polo's description of China, was considered a wild fancy.
Who can believe in subterranean cities with churches,
streets, marketplaces, stables, granaries—in complexes to
which whole nations have retreated at various times?
Tools and weapons can be found there, from stone axes to
machine guns, steel helmets, and gas masks. Mammoth
hunters, Hittites, Assyrians, Phrygians, Lydians, Persians,
Turks, magi, Christians, and Muslims have left their traces
here.
Whenever we chance upon such a settlement, which
has existed uninterruptedly since prehistoric times, we
may assume that the earth has been especially gracious:
this high plateau is formed out of a tuffa that can be bro-
ken with shovels, yet soon hardens into rock upon being
exposed to air. In this respect, it even outdoes molasse.
The corridors, made secure by rolling doors resembling
millstones, lead to rooms and chambers that, lying over or
under one another, stretch on for very long distances. As I
have said, they have been only partially explored.
Kornfeld instantly realized that this and no other place
on earth was the proper site for Terrestra. The house, built
over millennia, was prepared; only the furniture was miss-
ing.
68 Ernst Jünger
68
But that was not all. In front of these underground cit-
ies, there is a forest of towers, at the sight of which Sieur
Paul Lucas was utterly astonished: an enormous mass of
cones shaped like sugarloaves and often as high as the
Castle of St. Angelo. There are well over a hundred thou-
sand; the Turks call them the "chimneys of the fairies."
Hermits and monastic orders established themselves in
some; a few served as dovecotes, while others are still in-
habited today, containing, for instance, a police station. A
teahouse had also been set up, and we relaxed there after
ascending from the underworld.
As I have said, these towers have been known and also
described for a long time; in Kornfeld's library, I came
across a six-volume opus by Guillaume de Jerphanion: The
Rock Churches of Cappadocia.
Kornfeld enlightened me about the geological origins
of these formations; I am not sure that I fully understood.
According to him, the high plateau was once covered, or
rather coated, by a thin, hard stratum; water had seeped in
through cracks, disintegrating the friable subjacent rock.
Sandstorms had completed the job, grinding the cylinders
into shape. It is owing to their caps, which protect them
like helmets, that the towers have survived for millennia.
This explanation made it clear to me why the majority
of these towers looked like mushrooms with black caps
and sand-colored stems, while others, which were not yet
completely detached, formed chains.
Thus, along with halls, grottoes, and caverns, there
were also unlimited numbers of tumuli beckoning to Ter-
restra.
69
In this way, the first stage of the undertaking was com-
pleted according to Jersson's guidelines, and far more fa-
vorably than we had hoped. We could now focus more
strongly on promotion.
To start with, we had to think about acquiring the land.
A lease would have to be obtained for an unlimited time
or, as the phrase goes, "in perpetuity"; for that was the only
possibility in keeping with Terrestra's plan and its unique
offer. Fortunately, the terrain, although gigantic, was a
wasteland. Here too we had unexpected luck.
Once again, a military regime had taken the helm in
Anatolia; the name of the general who controlled the good
and bad weather was Humayum. There were old connec-
tions with him, partly through a bank that Jersson main-
tained in Istanbul. The general was in a quandary both at
home and abroad; oil and foreign currency were lacking,
the prisons were overcrowded. He had to be on good
terms with the democracies. As a result, we could look
forward to striking a deal with him.
Actually, I was supposed to negotiate it. The banker
knew that I had studied media; furthermore, aside from
Kornfeld, I was the one most familiar with the plan. But I
had to refuse, for by then I was already doing only half a
job, although I was still accessible.
How was it that he decided on Sigi? After all, the bank-
er had no lack of promoters who had proved their worth
in the petroleum trade. Sigi lived a Bohemian life and des-
pised business; he had been active for only a few weeks,
playing the role of a sort of government minister. Perhaps
Jersson merely wanted to hand his nephew and son-in-law
a job on the Terrestra payroll. It could do no harm, for the
general was bound to accept our offer.
70 Ernst Jünger
Be that as it may, Sigi was a good choice. He had a Le-

vantine vein; in corruption, it usually goes a lot further
than Hanseatic scrupulousness. Besides, in his pocket, he
had a Swiss check made out for a princely sum for charita-
ble purposes—a further sign that Jersson's trust in him had
grown.
70
I have no idea how much Sigi embellished the report
on his mission; he had a theatrical gift. Humayum was ra-
ther corpulent for a general. He wore no stars, there was
no decoration at his throat; but he did sport a palette of
parti-colored ribbons, as is customary in these higher
ranks. Coins and stamps showed him in profile; the artists
had stylized his profile into that of an eagle.
The conversation had started in the general's home and
had concluded during a horseback ride around the old city
walls of Istanbul.
The general had begun with the question:
"So you want to import corpses? Don't you feel we
have enough of them already? Wouldn't that be carrying
coals to Newcastle?"
"General, we are supplying them for free. And besides,
they will bring you a good return."
The discourse would have been worthy of the quill of a
Goldoni, but I do not wish to elaborate on it. Contact be-
tween idea and business is unavoidable, but one should
secrete the details—they had already tormented me during
my house calls for Pietas. What's more, Sigi had a feeling
for cynical comments and Humayum for pungent remarks.
A dictator appreciates both; they make him look as if he
would stop at nothing.
That is why I want to get to Sigi's results immediately.
The general had been convinced of the importance of the
plan "right off the bat"—if only because it was backed by
the mighty Jersson. The installations alone would open up

a territory that had previously been visited purely by tour-
ists. Many hands would be needed. Men and women who
eked out wretched livelihoods here or became guest work-
ers in Western countries would earn a living in situ. Rivers
that had long since dried up would once again yield gold.
That was only the start. If Terrestra succeeded in creat-
ing a huge religious site here, a central cemetery for the
planet, then not only the dead would come—it would turn
into a place of pilgrimage, for greater and greater hosts of
the bereaved and the devout.
The check had also buoyed up Humayum's optimism.
He shook Sigi's hand: "Dear friend, my best to your uncle; I
am with you—you can send a telegram to the pope."
71
Sigi had soon tired of his job; he returned to his Prus-
sian biographies. His uncle had provided him with a
handsome commission.
The signing of the papers was followed by a flood of
applications. They covered a lot more than the advance
payment before a single spit had been turned. Promoters
from the oil trade drafted pamphlets, which were sent out
into the world. These men gave free rein to their sense of
humor. For example: "We cannot promise you eternal
bliss, but we can promise you eternal rest." Or:
"Would you like to be united with your loved ones for-
ever?" Also: "We offer protection in our towers and vaults,
for the living as well." Secondary businesses were already
crystallizing; travel agencies, airlines, insurance compa-
nies, hotels, emergency accommodation in case of a catas-
trophe. It was good that we had Jersson backing us: it all
went far beyond the capacity of Pietas. On the other hand,
it is amazing how simple a business becomes when it ex-
72 Ernst Jünger
pands on a large scale. Uncle Fridolin was not up to it; he

had a knack for details, but not for simplicity.
Soon, orders arrived. The first letter that comes to mind
was from a woman living on a government pension in a
small town near Hanover. She had always been haunted
by the nightmare "that the gravediggers would dig her up
again"—now she offered her life savings for a modest plot
in Terrestra. She also wanted to take along her daughter,
who had been dead and buried for years now. My uncle
did not know Saint Lactantius even by name; but in this
case, he followed the saint's maxim: "We cannot neglect
our obligation to bury anyone, even strangers; for it there
are no kinfolk, they are replaced by humanitarianism." The
woman and her daughter received free graves and free
airfreight. A good beginning; it was written up in the
newspapers.
That was small potatoes; the first large crop was
brought by a Brazilian sect, which purchased one of the
subterranean halls. They all wanted to be with their guru.
They also set up a chapel there. It promised to draw many
periodic visits.
The churches smelled competition. They, in turn, of-
fered sites—but how could they vie with Terrestra. When-
ever a new municipal councillor took office, he did not feel
bound by any contract; the soil turned into capital. Parking
lots and high-rises covered the old ground; the graves
were demolished by excavators.
One of our departments had the task of purchasing rel-
ics, another had to computerize standard reference works
like Who's Who and the Almanac de Gotha; whenever some-
one with a rank and name passed away, Terrestra offered
its services. Some people had already signed contracts
with us and had viewed their future sites during a vaca-
tion trip.
The demand for towers was surprising—but luckily we

had any number of them. One fortunate detail was that
families, clans, and other groups did their own furnishing
and decorating; it reduced our workload. A primal instinct
was rearoused. Supposedly, even elephants head toward a
common graveyard when the end is nigh.
72
I also benefited personally from my insurance back-
ground. Terrestra soon appeared to be growing exuberant-
ly. Travel agencies for the living became larger than those
for the dead. Then the hotels, the carpenter's shops, the
stonemason's studios, both in situ and in various countries,
all the way to the orchid gardens in Singapore.
Permanent services had to be established—say, for
placing wreaths on specific dates or for eternal lights and
other ritual objects. The Chinese, who soon became our
best clients, wanted small oblations to be served, and they
also set great store by protection against spirits. Despite
Uncle Fridolin's resistance, I had made sure that no ma-
chines were used; for their final journey, the dead were to
be carried on shoulders, and no electric light was to burn
in the vaults. Many hands had to be employed, which
pleased the general. In his opinion, unnecessary work is of
greater social benefit than necessary work, which is inevi-
table and emerges of its own accord. But we were supply-
ing him with the construction of pyramids.
Although the burials have already commenced, we are
still setting up shop. The process resembles that of the oil
business; but while the latter robs the earth, we enrich it—
and all the way to the frontier of time, beyond which a
dead planet will orbit around the sun.
Tombs that no one tended anymore were earmarked
for being walling up, and a mere rumor about the method
involved would scare off any grave robber. Here too, Jers-
74 Ernst Jünger
son's genius has proved itself. For the capping, he wants to

use a layer of refuse: not only will it cost nothing, but Ter-
restra will reap high profits by recycling it. Truly a man
who knows how to sail in every wind.
73
Construction of the central airport is complete; it is
ringed by hotels, banks, office buildings. At the end of the
runways there are storehouses for freight. From there,
conveyor belts lead to a second complex. The latter is the
size of a medium city. This is where the procedures begin
with which we are familiar from Pietas. They occupy all
the dealers, artisans, and artists who have mortuary obli-
gations.
The path continues to the religious sites. Options for
freethinkers and sun worshipers have already been grant-
ed; however, the old and venerable communities are also
involved. We were surprised by the requests for new
graves for people already buried—and not just individu-
als. A growing majority seems to be dissatisfied, even de-
pressed, especially in the industrial countries. People do
not even wish to be buried there anymore.
During their final journey, the dead are carried along
an avenue of cypresses; it ends at a gate. The gate does not
bear Dante's inscription; rather, in many languages, alpha-
bets, and ideograms, it says: "Room for every hope."
We soon realized that a single gate was not enough.
74
The further the plan was implemented, the less I partic-
ipated mentally and physically. That is the fate of all Uto-
pias—the way a Leonardo and even a Jules Verne envi-
sioned human flight was different from the way we have
made it come true. We live more strongly in dreams; this is
where our strength pours forth and stops. My nihilism

contributed to my bad mood.
I had conceived a necropolis on a global scale, a shore
for Charon's boat, and the restoration of their dignity to
the dead. Culture is based on the treatment of the dead;
culture vanishes with the decay of graves—or rather: this
decay announces that the end is nigh.
I still consider it a good idea to exorcise the dead and to
create a site for them before progress wipes us out—and
besides: such a place would make sense despite, indeed
precisely because of, that destruction.
I was irked by the business that kept thriving more and
more, to the delight of Jersson and Uncle Fridolin, while
prompting Sigi to crack macabre jokes. He had read
somewhere—in the Talmud, I believe—that on Judgment
Day, the believers will awaken in their graves and head
toward Zion, and he pictured the march of the dead from
Terrestra. From there, it was not far to the Temple.
My complaint must have also had physical causes or
affected my body. I suffered from insomnia, but day-
dreamed constantly at home and at the office. When I had
bad headaches, I found food repugnant; I drank all the
more. I felt as if I had stepped outside my own body; it
was only at night, when, holding a candle in my left hand
as I drunkenly gazed at my image in the mirror, that I rec-
ognized my identity. I would then feel as if I were becom-
ing too powerful for myself.
I seldom visited Bertha; I was afraid she would hear
my soliloquies. She wanted me to consult a doctor—a psy-
chiatrist, of course. I would have been fair game for him,
he would have sent me from one colleague to another all
the way to the madhouse. But for that, I have no need of a
Holy Helper.
76 Ernst Jünger
75
So far, my story is a statistical matter, under the sub-
heading: Personal success after difficulties in war and civil
war. These ascents occur not only in business, but also in
art and science. Like a winning lottery ticket, they presup-
pose an enormous number of losers.
Nor do I consider unusual that stage of nihilism in
which I abide as in a waiting room, half bored, half expect-
ing the warning bell. Individuals become passengers, and
it is surprising that the waiter still takes their order? Given
the sinister way in which our world is changing, almost
everybody ought to be familiar with this mood, in which
one begins to doubt rationality. Perhaps the whole thing is
a ghostly dream.
Fear only intensifies the confusion. The individual per-
son has always experienced that; but we are not yet famil-
iar with titanic dimensions. When an illness becomes seri-
ous, and destruction looms, we fall prey to despair. This
applies even more to mental disorders than to physical
ones. What, in contrast with that, are wealth and success,
such as I have gained at Terrestra? They are actually bur-
densome, and so is society—one seeks a hole to creep into.
Frederick III, German Emperor, King of Prussia, ruled
for ninety days before succumbing to his cancer of the lar-
ynx. I can picture Bismarck going to the monarch's bed
and submitting documents for him to sign. What are prov-
inces, the Black Eagle, unrest in the Silesian mining dis-
tricts, compared with the small knot in the throat—the kai-
ser no longer listens to the chancellor, he pays heed only to
clearing his throat, torturously forcing the mucus through
the tube. Man is alone.
76
However: madness is only part of my problem. It
would be an ordinary case. As such, it would again be a
statistical matter, and I would have to put up with it for
better or worse. I am mulling over another possibility. It is:
"Madness or more?" Bertha thinks I have to overtrump—
this is in keeping with my character. Fate has set up a hur-
dle for me. Behind it, the abyss; perhaps I can leap across
both.
I have to make sure that my notes do not crisscross, for
I am traveling on two tracks: along the curves of my fever-
ish dreams and also in reality. Collisions threaten, but per-
haps the convergence will work out. After all, parallel lines
supposedly meet at infinity. Could this be also possible in
time—that is, in life, even if only in echoes? The dream
vanquishes reality; it transforms it into poetry, into an art-
work. I believe that this is how every great turning point
has been reached. It was preceded by madness. Moham-
med strikes me as a good example.
A loss of individuality may be an additional factor.
Doctors have a special term for that. I have not yet men-
tioned my grandmother, who died long ago, but who visits
me in dreams. It is chiefly to her that I owe my intimate
knowledge of our family history, which goes back all the
way to legendary times, and whose figures are so fully
merged with mine that I sometimes sense as awake: that
was not I, that was my father or grandfather, perhaps even
an anonymous forebear.
77
Something wishes to alight—an eagle, a nutcracker, a
wren, a jester? Why me of all people? Perhaps a vulture—I
have liver problems now too.
78 Ernst Jünger
There are transitions in which dream and reality fuse—

as a rule, shortly before one falls asleep, and also before
one awakens.
Now I have to keep a cool head like a captain whose
ship has gone off course. The ship is my world. The control
room is still safe even if water has penetrated one of the
watertight compartments or fire has broken out in it. I can
still make decisions, which, as in a will, are valid and effec-
tive even after death.
My complaint is not housed in my brain. It is lodged in
my body and, beyond that, in society—the cause of my
illness. I can do something about it only when I have iso-
lated myself from society. Perhaps society itself will help
by casting me out. Perhaps I will soon be interned. I am
still cautious, even with Bertha. I also have to pay heed to
my soliloquies—when I recently said, "But I want to enter
a prison, not a sanatorium," she was momentarily taken
aback.
In a cell, I could keep elaborating, working on the ma-
terial without disruptions from the outside. Whether or
not this effort will produce results is beside the point; I
watch over and preserve the treasure in the cave, in soli-
tude—all by myself. Then I could step forth like an ancho-
rite from his fantastic world. However, my reclusion
would be closer to fiction, to poetry, and stronger than ac-
tual events.
Let the world go under; it is mine, I destroy it in my-
self. As the skipper, I could steer the ship into the reef—
this would not mean awakening, it would mean sinking to
a new depth of dreaming. The cargo would then be all
mine. Even Alexander was more powerful in his dreams
than at Issus—India was not enough for him.
Something flies up, riches pour in. I have to decide how
to cope with them. But it shall not be in Aladdin's manner.
78
Headaches, seizures, visions, strange voices, unex-
pected encounters, voluntary or forced isolation. Mad-
houses are the monasteries of our world. Whatever hap-
pens in laboratories is the work of the lay brothers and
nothing more.
The lay brothers carry out orders; they know not what
they do. Even in the realm of great politics, where millions
of lives are at stake, the wretchedness of the actors is obvi-
ous. By what principles are they selected?
Aladdin was the son of a tailor in one of the countless
cities of China, a playful boy—but only he could dig out
the treasure. How was it that the Mauretanian, a man of
profound knowledge, could hit upon this dreamer? He
employed magical writings, the sandbox, mantic and as-
trological skills.
I do not regard Phares as a magus. I am unsettled by
him, but I do not feel damaged. Naturally, we become
suspicious when someone walks in and offers us a blank
check. This is a major theme in fairy tales, legends, and re-
ligion. The issue is the decision between mental and physi-
cal, between spiritual and concrete power—in a word, the
issue is salvation.
Perhaps it was an ordeal for which Phares led me into
his grotto. It bordered on the Terrestra territory; the walk
or the vision must have occurred at the time that the busi-
ness with the dead left me extremely dissatisfied. Inci-
dentally, our treasure chambers cannot be compared to
Aladdin's—they are bursting with energy. Aladdin's lamp
was made of pewter or copper, perhaps merely clay. Gal-
land's text reports nothing about this matter—all we learn
is that the lamp hung from a grotto ceiling. It was not lit,
but rubbed, to make the genie appear. He could put up
palaces or wipe out cities overnight, whatever the master
80 Ernst Jünger
of the lamp commanded. The lamp guaranteed dominion

as far as the frontiers of the traveled world from China to
Mauritania. Aladdin preferred the life of a minor despot.
Our lamp is made of uranium. It establishes the same
problem: power streaming toward us titanically.
79
So Phares is no magus? Then what is he? Perhaps a
suggester of extraordinary power? He shows a pebble and
transforms it into gold. Yet does not every pebble contain
gold just as every woman contains Helen of Troy? All we
have to do is advance to the godhead.
We must also ponder whether we are dealing with au-
to-suggestion. A deep desire projects its dream image into
the world. It intensifies, supplants, concentrates reality.
For the people around you, you become a pathological
case, unless you convince them. They even desire this.
Genesis must be based on very ancient lore. Reading it
is like looking at a new building constructed on the ruins,
and with the rubble, of a pre-Babylonian palace. We can
leave Jehovah aside. But the rib that could not have been
made up. Adam is the perfect human being, neither male
nor female, but androgynous like the angels—he had the
female branch off from him as a dream image. Our desire
is merely the perception of loss—a shadow of that first de-
sire, which bore fruit.
80
A nebulous yearning for other worlds is as ancient as
man himself. Today it has technological features; our ex-
pectations of alien guests and their landing have been
haunting our imaginations for some time now. We must
take this seriously, firstly as a symptom.
Bizarre aircraft are depicted, challenged, exposed as
mirages. They serve as a bait and a mechanism for the im-
agination; on the other hand, they indicate wishful think-

ing. The automatic apparatus is consistent with the spirit
of the times. The end of the world, a vision at every mil-
lennium, likewise presents itself as a technological catas-
trophe.
How bizarre that alien guests are expected now of all
times, when astronomical investigations seem to have
demonstrated that the stars not only are not, but cannot be,
inhabited. This simply indicates the depth of our yearning.
People feel more and more strongly that pure power and
the enjoyment of technology leave them unsatisfied. They
miss what used to be angels and what angels gave them.
A propos, I do not think that technology contradicts the
great change. It will lead to the wall of time and it will be
intrinsically transformed. Rockets are not destined for al-
ien worlds, their purpose is to shake the old faith; its here-
after has been shown wanting.
81
My encounter with Phares was preceded by a growing
disquiet or agitation. The disturbances were both optical
and acoustic. We must distinguish between the external
and the internal images that we regard as mirages; yet they
can assume shapes that ultimately convince. In the deserts,
the transition was produced by mortification of the flesh.
In my case, it was involuntary; I had lost my appetite long
ago. For years, I have been convinced that we are living in
a desert, with technology contributing more and more to
its size and monotony. And, incidentally, that the imagina-
tion is provoked by monotony.
Whenever I was writing, at the Terrestra office or, even
better, at home, and I closed my eyes, the afterimage of the
page and its letters appeared to my mind's eye. This is a
universal experience; the script becomes illegible, it looks
ornamental.
82 Ernst Jünger
However, the sentences that appeared to me were legi-

ble, yet they did not correspond to my text—
communications virtually dictated in automatic writing.
They were mostly unpleasant. "Your hands are dirty" or:
"The dogs are calling you." Also: "Think of Liegnitz" and:
"You misunderstood Bertha." Often I could not tell wheth-
er I was hearing or reading these things.
It was the same with the visions: they followed a men-
tal clouding that turned into daydreams. Gradually, eve-
ryday life became less persuasive and dreams more so.
I sensed a world to which Phares would lead me, and I
heard his voice: "Soon you will learn what you do not
know yet."
82
Why did he address me of all people? Were there con-
tacts? I recall the Liegnitz park and my basic nihilistic
mood. Nihilism must not be followed by any new ideal-
ism—it would be doomed from the very outset or it would
lead, at best, into a romantic cul-de-sac. The break must be
radical.
And then the world of graves. I have noticed that con-
stant dealings with the dead lend a spiritualistic aura to
even the lower forms of work. This aura has concentrated,
perhaps partly because Terrestra succeeded as something
more than simply an extension of Pietas. Graves are the
beginning of humanity and not just of culture.
Be that as it may, my encounter with Phares must have
been prepared, albeit in a dreamlike way. As we ex-
changed greetings, I already had a strong sense of déja-vu.
83
Happiness is imparted to us only fleetingly. In eupho-
ria, time passes us without a trace; it is annihilated by high
degrees of pleasure and knowledge. On the other hand,
pain and time are inseparably blended. This touches on the

imperfectness of Creation; the religions have recognized
this. A few blame the gods, others mankind, still others
fate. We live in a world without peace.
How was it that the moments of happiness in Phares's
garden increased? I almost said, "expanded"—but that is
not the apt word; bliss knows no measurable time.
I should have been surprised that the garden had trees
and flowers, but not animals. Phares said: "We can inte-
grate them, but we do not bother." Now whom did he
mean by that "we"? Himself and his ilk or even himself
and me?
If the garden had no animals—then why blossoms in
their marvelous splendor, such as one senses behind the
rose and the hibiscus shortly after awakening? The garden
lacked bees and butterflies, for which their labella and ca-
lyxes are formed, and even the pollinating wind. Perhaps
it was the fragrance that united them, or else they faced
one another like magnetic mirrors. I could sense their
strength even in the darkness, indeed more sharply then.
"Phares said"—but did he actually speak? I saw him
move his lips, I could understand him from far away, in
thunderstorms and naturally also in dreams, with my in-
ner ear. So I do not know whether I heard him or whether
he spoke. I mused about it for a long time and my guess is
that he knows the primal text, of which all human as well
as animal languages are merely translations or effusions.
As are the rustling of forests and the murmuring of well-
springs; the souls of plants are still closest to the divine
world. They convince as metaphors.
Phares probably aims at bridging, if not overcoming,
dualism and reaching back through the dichotomies in-
cluding the divisions into plants and animals or into sexes;
but first, the foundations of good and evil had to be shak-
84 Ernst Jünger
en. Then the barrier between men and gods could also col-
lapse.
I could already feel that our encounter satisfied my ni-
hilism. I could tell by symptoms too—especially a new af-
fection that both surprised and delighted Bertha and me. It
was as if we had never known one another before.
I noticed in general that the people I dealt with as well
as strangers I encountered in the street had more to say to
me than a bit earlier. And even Terrestra appeared to me,
indeed in a new light, as a worthwhile task.
84
My being animated by a new spirit is something I per-
ceive in the fact that I have jumped ahead, for I am still
with my problem—say, with the decisions demanded of us
by the power that streams toward us. Aladdin could limit
himself to comfort; with Budur he had nothing more than
a happy marriage. That is how simple minds behave: they
remain untouched by stronger temptation. Even concern
about society, say, "the welfare of the fatherland," on
which they could focus their power, is alien to them. I
thought about that, albeit only for an instant, but my nihil-
ism leads to other considerations.
A description that designates itself as a problem can of-
fer no solution. Deeds and images still attack one another.
"I am in action," Jellicoe radioed to the Admiralty when it
demanded reports from him during the naval battle.
Today, solutions are really white lies, for they do not
belong within the framework of our times: perfection is
not their task. The approach can only be gradual. Alad-
din's problem was power with its delights and dangers;
yet it seemed to me that Phares had nothing in common
with the genie of the lamp. It makes a difference whether
demons or messengers knock at the door.
85
The initial contact was fairly banal; it resulted from one
of the letters that arrived at Terrestra. The precipitous de-
velopment of the firm required more and more advertising
for open positions. It is an old experience that mid-level
positions are easy to fill. But top-level positions are a dif-
ferent story. The China market had soon reached first
place. It began with inquiries and orders from the periph-
eral areas: Taiwan, Korea, Singapore, scattered communi-
ties in South East Asia, New York's Chinatown. Plus the
Chinese restaurants, the silk and porcelain boutiques in all
the big cities around the world. Their proprietors along
with their staffs wanted to do something for themselves
and their ancestors. A coffin was once again considered a
nice present.
Then, with the return to capitalism and the loosening of
borders, the flood of mail came from the Middle Kingdom
itself. It was overwhelming. We needed a senior executive
who both had special experience and was a genius at
planning.
In such cases, it is hard to choose. Some people waste
their time and energy on secondary stipulations, others
wreak havoc with outlandish ideas. The category to which
each belonged was usually apparent in the applications,
which were read by various people in the company, in-
cluding graphologists; I received the digests.
Thus, Phares's application likewise reached my desk af-
ter being routed through numerous offices. Good
knowledge of languages, many years in the Far East, excel-
lent penmanship. Several passages were painted in ideo-
grams. This was not unusual, for some of the applicants
were Chinese. We had special readers for them.
The question about nationality was answered with:
"Cosmopolitan." Place of residence: "Adler's Hotel." While,
86 Ernst Jünger
or rather before, reading it, I saw that the letter was ad-
dressed to me personally. The impression was that of an
afterimage: we close our eyes, and the inner text appears. I
read it like a painting and discovered unmistakable en-
grams—for instance, among the positions previously held:
"Landscape gardener in Liegnitz, Silesia." Some details
could be known only to Bertha and myself, others to my-
self alone.
I remembered the signs as if I had carved them into a
tree trunk years ago. Now they became visible; I did not
notice that they were in the Chinese text. But I grew more
and more dumbfounded as I read the letter if it was a
dream, then it was no ordinary one. It dawned on me that I
could not invite the sender to come to my office, for I was
the recipient of the invitation—so I immediately dropped
what I was doing and walked through the Tiergarten to
Adler's Hotel. It was a spring morning, and I was gratui-
tously cheerful—elated.
Wilflingen, January 6, 1982
AFTERWORD
THE PARABLE OF
ALADDIN'S PROBLEM
Martin Meyer
A major influence on the German novelist Ernst Jünger

was the philosophy of Swedenborg, who presented his
cosmic spirituality in De commercio animae et corpods (1769):
God must envelop all spiritual things in visible garments,
for that is the only way a finite human being can perceive
the intention of Creation. Hence, matter must also be
viewed as the reflection of the spiritual. The soul is the or-
gan that must forge the link between the phenomena and
their divine origin—but it can only be the soul of an initi-
ate, whose "internal breathing" carries thoughts. In this
manner, the mystical experience of intuition "reconstructs"
the primal images. What we have here is the neo-Platonic
notion of the soul.
Jünger, haunted by the issue of matter in the modern
materialistic world, rejected any metaphysical deprecation
of that concept. And that was the start of the "problem"—a
term he even considered worthy of being used in a title:
Aladdin's Problem, initially published in 1983. At first, this
brief four-part novel seems to have little to do with a met-
aphysical "appreciation" of matter. In his habitual way, the
author introduces a first-person narrator who, although
not yet forty, has already dealt with and transcended a
number of experiences. Friedrich Baroh begins his story by
88 Ernst Jünger
mentioning a "problem," one that bedevils him, casting

gloom on his existence. He is forced to spend more and
more time mulling over it, whereby his everyday life be-
comes secondary to this preoccupation. He therefore re-
calls his past, filling us in on his background. However, we
learn nothing about the nature of his problem.
Baroh has served in the Polish People's Army—
originally as a soldier, bullied by a vicious sergeant; then
as an officer. In the military, he makes no waves, living as
what Jünger labels an "anarch," conforming unenthusiasti-
cally to the system; he spends quiet hours with a friend, a
Polish officer, meditating on historical events and on their
causes and premises. One day, Baroh flees to the West,
where he attends university, marries, and eventually be-
comes an executive trainee in his uncle's funeral parlor.
After realizing that people without history have no
peace and that even our graves fit in with the "chauffeur
style," Baroh attempts to compensate for this lack. He
starts deepening his knowledge of funeral customs and—
in "a countermove to the motor world"—he founds Terres-
tra. His firm offers interested clients resting places for all
eternity, permanent gravesites. Terrestra buys an extensive
and intricate catacomb system in Anatolia; and before
long, business is booming. "A primal instinct was rea-
roused."
But ultimately, success merely increases Baroh's frus-
tration, and the fewer the demands placed on him, the
more his problem gains the upper hand. In the last part of
the novel, he admits, or at least hints at, the location of his
pain.
My complaint is not housed in my brain. It is lodged in
my body and, beyond that, in society—the cause of my
illness. I can do something about it only when I have iso-
lated myself from society. Perhaps I will soon be interned.
Baroh is spared this fate not only by camouflaging his

existence as an outsider. In the end, he also finds salvation.
He tells about "messengers" knocking on the door. The re-
sponse to his vague yearning for the absolute are voices
and inspirations.
Something wishes to alight—an eagle, a nutcracker, a
wren, a jester? Why near me of all people? Perhaps a vul-
ture—I have liver problems now too.
The delicately ironical allusion to myth does not cloak
the issue for long. Baroh, now living in an expectant mood,
receives a letter of application from a man named Phares.
He knows—although he cannot really know it—that this
person will initiate him into the mysteries of a world that
conceals meaning behind the phenomena. For Phares, we
are told, is conversant with the "primal text, of which all
human as well as animal languages are merely translations
or effusions."
Now we understand what this "problem" is all about:
the narrator is tormented by the both personal and social
dilemma of having to live in a nihilistic culture that, in the
wealth of available knowledge, has lost all connection to
"meaning": "Aladdin's problem was power with its de-
lights and dangers." And also: "Aladdin too was an erotic
nihilist…."
What does that mean? The Aladdin metaphor, often
encoded, often merely whispered in a subordinate clause,
keeps recurring throughout Ernst Jünger's late works. On
December II, 1966, in Lisbon, the author, thinking about
secular and spiritual treasures, notes:
As for other treasures, like that of the Nibelungs, only
legend knows about them. They rest in the depths: hauling
them to the surface can spell disaster, as described in Ger-
manic myths or Oriental fairy tales. What they mean is the
world's hoard, from which we live, albeit only on the in-
90 Ernst Jünger
terest, only on an effulgence that comes from an unattain-

able distance. Even the sun is merely a symbol, a visible
reflection; it belongs to the temporal world. On the other
hand, every treasure that is gathered on earth remains a
simile, a symbol. It cannot suffice; hence, our ravenous,
our insatiable hunger.
The story that best reflects this conflict, if not explicitly,
then allegorically, is Aladdin's Problem. What has Baroh
learned? That after 1888, Germany's Year of the Three Em-
perors, History flows into the Post-History of "Titanism."
("Titanism" is the adaptation of ancient myth to modern
reality. The Titans, issuing from the union of Gaea and
Uranus, are representatives of the primal cosmic powers.)
What else has Baroh learned? That this Titanism subju-
gates all material and spiritual resources in order to rule
over the "temporal world" as a demiurge. That the "primal
text" thereby turns more and more into silent hieroglyph-
ics. "Aladdin" is Jünger's "worker"—the "titanic" agent,
who mines and controls the energies of the earth, deluding
himself into believing that eventually he will achieve per-
fection by containing and contenting all needs. This is in-
timated but not "explained" in the first edition of the novel.
The second version, published here by Eridanos, then adds
a passage right before the next-to-last paragraph of Chap-
ter seventy-eight. The reliance on allegorical power did not
suffice; now this truth is pinpointed:
Aladdin's lamp was made of pewter or copper, perhaps
merely clay. Galland's text reports nothing about this mat-
ter—all we learn is that the lamp hung from a grotto ceil-
ing. It was not lit, but rubbed, to make the demon appear.
He could put up palaces or wipe out cities overnight,
whatever the master of the lamp commanded. The lamp
guaranteed dominion as far as the frontiers of the traveled
world—from China to Mauritania. Aladdin preferred the
life of a minor despot. Our lamp is made of uranium. It

establishes the same problem: power streaming toward us
titanically.
What must happen not only to keep matter from being
utilized for the destruction of humanity and its planet, but
also to have it go through a process of "spiritualizing," of
harmonizing? The author supplies no answer to this ques-
tion anymore that he did in Eumeswil, a novel he published
six years before Aladdin's Problem. However, at the end of
the latter story, he brings in Phares, whose task it is to en-
courage Baroh to cope with his skepticism. This mysteri-
ous personage already appeared in Jünger's earlier fiction
Heliopolis—as commander of the space ship that carries
Lucius de Geer toward the infinite edges of the universe.
Phares is a bringer of light. His name comes from the
French word phares, meaning "beacons, lighthouses." "Les
Phares," a poem in Charles Baudelaire's The Flowers of Evil,
celebrates eight artists whose works, like beacons, illumi-
nated the darkness of the world. In Aladdin's Problem,
Phares once again stands for an unknown power beyond
the shocks and tremors of the world of life. He is an emis-
sary who is familiar with the primal text; a mentor with
Gnostic instruction. For the Gnostics of Late Antiquity,
knowledge appears when the "call" is heard: this "call," as
Irenaeus explains, draws both salvation and liberation
from the fetters of the world. It is precisely this "call" that
Friedrich Baroh ultimately follows.
Nevertheless, he is left with the feeling that all earthly
things suffer from the imperfectness of Creation. The final
station on this road is death. Death claims not only the in-
dividual existence but also the historical eras:
After all, historical, especially archaeological interests
are closely woven with graves; basically, the world is a
grave…
92 Ernst Jünger
Such are Baroh's musings when he is about to do com-

merce with the human need for permanence. "A resting
place ad perpetuitatem": the formula pops up again. As a
narrative, Aladdin's Problem elaborates on the insight that
even "eternal" rest is disrupted by the incessant hustle and
bustle, the endless upheavals in the Age of Titanism. Actu-
ally, Jünger has been explaining this theme since his early
journals. Thus, in September 1943, he talks about a book he
has perused, Maurice Pullet's Thebes, Palais et Necropoles
(Thebes, Palaces and Necropolis):
While reading, I again realized how thoroughly, albeit
on a lower level, our museum-like existence corresponds
to the cult of the dead among the Egyptians. Our mummy
of culture parallels their mummy of the human image, and
our anxiety about history matches their anxiety about met-
aphysics: we are driven by the fear that our magical ex-
pression could go under in the river of time. Our resting in
the bosom of the pyramids and in the solitude of caverns
amid artworks, writings, implements, icons of God, jewel-
ry, and rich funereal goods is aimed at eternity, albeit in a
more subtle fashion.
His awareness of being involved in a gigantic historical
catastrophe led Jünger's reflections toward an "anxiety
about history." Exactly forty years later, he was as agitated
as ever about the "chassis" of civilization. However, by the
time he penned Aladdin's Problem at the age of eighty-five,
this angst had gained a sharper metaphysical, and ulti-
mately also a personal profile. The author's own mortality
was casting its shadow, as he implies in 1984, in Author and
Authorship: Time is the great, indeed the only source of
tragedy. The vanquishing of time is the great task, one that
only leads to symbols. Time overpowers, it cannot be over-
come.

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Aladdin’s

ware. His material is clay; everything emerges in the ebb

weeks in the guardhouse because of insubordination was

tiveness that has previously been alien to me. When we

anything about the Katzbach, on whose banks we resided,

and Westphalia are the ones that stamp the character in a

I do not wish to describe the concrete assault on indi-

"obsessions"—for example, in regard to the "kickers." The

ing by a thread, and he pulled one out—along with a scrap

The man was universally feared and especially by me.

in hindsight, mellows if not sanctions the suffering. It was

At the very least, you had to find a buddy—but who could

spend three months lying flat on my back, until the medi-

This had never happened before; I was tilting at a

at stake. This applies to both defense and pursuit. For eve-

ical horseman's build: broad shoulders and hips, narrow

cised two horses by reveille: one in the manège and one in

siastically supported the development of weapons that

generously staffed. There were no qualms about my relia-

kind of complicity in a similar situation. Jagello was right:

ond-in-command to Prince Friedrich Karl. Naturally,

ed in business. On the whole, it seems to me that we follow

complicity. Where were the times when an electrical aura

unavoidable acquaintances. We could call ourselves hap-

That year, Nietzsche decided to build his work "toward the

from the Gymnasium, I went back to Liegnitz of my own

reliable man. Gradually, both of them recognized one an-

Uncle Fridolin was an ordinary man such as one meets

cause of his basic conservatism—besides, it was important

not bear him any children. Thus, I will probably be his

Nevertheless, this period provided me with time to

extent, very well in the Gymnasium, the university, and

Well, it was not as bad as all that. Ultimately, I count

But my job was to deal with their functions, not their

of time and a lot of errands. I also knew the partners now,

as if you've been to your own funeral!" And she was no

disorder; a knock-down, drag-out fight clears the air, and

stratum, we come upon a more deeply universal stratum,

I regard it as a mistake to call Dionysus a god; I contest

front of the barracks was occupied; and on Sundays, it was

seen only through a dense veil, almost unsubstantially.

facts—that is why media, coupled with statistics, is such

Mount Wurmling near Tubingen—Uhland wrote a beauti-

gardens, and cemeteries. Our trip was linked to such a

become a seismic area. Now one headstone wobbles, now

memories; we felt we had touched on an important issue.

come true. Clearly, we first turned to Uncle Fridolin, but

rows—there is a mood in which books directly radiate

ten, hints sufficed, sometimes we became impulsive. One

the Court; he confirmed Heine's opinion of the book: "Pure

He must have had a Chasidic rebbe among his ances-

By inviting us, Jersson probably meant to determine

would advance the initial capital. I would not like the

since my problem began to afflict me. First, a new office

nounced their titles, they nevertheless wanted to be buried

I pull out a binder and leaf through it. A young cerami-

Kornfeld had completed his reconnaissance within a

Black Forest churchyard our first major turning point.

Be that as it may, Sigi was a good choice. He had a Le-

the mighty Jersson. The installations alone would open up