Written by Federico Campagna, 22.08.2014

“We were both Waldganger. We preferred the forest to the city.”

Albert Hofmann on Ernst Jünger

103 Years

In 1895, the year Ernst Jünger was born, Wilhelm II was holding the reins of the German Empire, while Wilhelm Rontgen experimented with the first X-rays machine. In 1998, when Jünger died at the age of 103, Pathfinder had already landed on Mars and Google was about to launch its campaign to conquer the digital world. In the course of his life, fit for a Biblical patriarch, Jünger survived two world wars, twice witnessed the passage of the Halley comet, and took part to the full unfolding of modernity. Yet, it would be fair to say that he was scarcely ever there. Whether fleeing to the Algerian desert, fighting in the mud in La Somme, or secluded in his hermitage in High Swabia, Jünger shared with monks and dandies the ability to be in the world, while remaining at an observant distance from it. He was a theoretician in the original meaning of the word: in a contemplative position even in the heat of battle.

It was as if sliding along an orbit around the present that Jünger managed to turn his perspective almost at 360 degrees, moving from the revolutionary conservatism of his youth, to the extreme existential anarchism of his old age. It was also for this reason that my first encounter with his work left me at once fascinated and skeptical. Jünger, the anarcho-nazi? How could anyone take this man seriously?
Yet, how could I remain indifferent to the flying architecture of his prose, the blade of his thinking, and the charm of his life? I learned to love Jünger against my ingrained ideological judgement, like a slowly acquired taste. Over the years I’ve kept returning to Jünger’s toolbox, and every time, without fail, I’ve found in it new weapons and methods to apply to my own existence.

Every good weapon has magic qualities; by merely looking at it we feel ourselves wonderfully strengthened” (1)

I deem myself lucky to be in the UK today, on the eve of a long overdue rediscovery of Jünger’s work in the English language. Seeing his books finally republished in English by Telos Press (2) reminds me of the pleasure of showing a friend one of my favourite films, which they had somehow missed until then. In the following pages I will attempt to compose something akin to subtitles to a trailer of Jünger’s life and works. It will be a strange, short film, full of action, horror and of metaphysical stillness.
I hope you will enjoy the vision.

Total Mobilisation

Despite his long career as a soldier, Jünger’s lifelong enemy was an entity that had no face, and wore no uniform. First identified by Nietzsche, the modern Linnaeus of the Western soul, Nihilism haunted Europe and Jünger’s life with the persistence of a persecutor. From the simple devaluation of all values, Nihilism took hold of the Modern world by inoculating its terrifying emptiness deep inside the social body. Infected by its virus, the social organism convulsed between phases of resigned decay, and outbursts of active nihilist fever. Still today, after the end of Modernity, the oscillation between catatonia and panic remains a pendulum swinging closely over our daily lives.

However, when 18 years-old Ernst run away from his father’s house to join the Foreign Legion in Sidi Bel Abbes, Nihilism wasn’t yet the ‘uncanniest of guests’ at the doorstep of his conscience. His life then was that of a romantic teenager, thirsty for chivalrous adventures in exotic lands. The following year, at the break of the First World War, it was still as a young romantic that Jünger volunteered to join the Fusilier Regiment and, shortly afterwards, the assault Shock Troops.
His perspective on life was to change irremediably. Sent to the Western front, Jünger landed on a lunar landscape, where tempests of fire swept craters overflowing with corpses, and a human life was lighter than a cloud of chlorine gas. Repugnance mixed with the sublime, while homicidal frenzy melted into suicidal catatonia.

Here, and really only here, I was to observe that there is a quality of dread that feels as unfamiliar as a foreign country. In moments when I felt it, I experienced no fear as such but a kind of exalted, almost demoniacal lightness; often attended by fits of laughter I was unable to repress. […] The ability to think logically and the feeling of gravity, both seemed to have been removed. We had the sensation of the ineluctable and the unconditionally necessary, as if we were facing an elemental force.” (3)

The author barely survived the experience, having been wounded in combat fourteen times over five years of war.

Although his bravery as part of the Stoßtrupp gained him the highest military decoration, and the publication of his war memoir Storm of Steel (4) propelled him to immediate fame, the experience of WWI had on him a much more profound effect than a medal and a writing career. In the trenches he had not only witnessed the utter degradation of the human body and mind; he had also experienced first-hand the coming kingdom of Technic. In the first ‘war of materials’, humans had failed to keep up with their technological equipment, and had turned into faulty appendixes to their weapons. Over the ‘fields of wrath’ of the Western front, active Nihilism had offered the first taste of its ‘Total Mobilisation’ of the world.

In his 1932 book The Worker (5), Jünger described the dawning world of Technic using a combination of epic and horror, apocalypse and ecstasy. A new age of the Titans was arising, and the world was soon to yield to their dominion. Humans no longer reigned, and the rule of Technic demanded their innermost depths as a sacrifice to the Total Mobilisation – firstly, by transforming all human activity into Work. Even the feature of their faces had to change, turning metallic and mechanical, like cyborgs ante-litteram. Individuals – those relics of the bourgeois era – were to give way to a new ‘human type’, already emerging among the factory workers and the soldiers of trench warfare. The battlefield had become a factory, and the factory a battlefield: the metaphysics of Technic was soon to drown the world under a millenarian flood.

One of the features of a fundamental creative energy is the ability to petrify symbols into an infinite repetition which resembles the process of nature, as in the acanthus leave, the phallus, the lingam, the scarab, the cobra, the sun circle, the resting Buddha. In worlds so constituted a foreigner doesn’t feel awe but fear, and still today it is not possible to face the great pyramid at night, or the solitary temple of Segesta, sunk in the sunlight, without being scared. Evidently the human type which represents the form of the Worker is moving towards such a kind of world, clear and closed upon itself like a magic ring; and as it grows closer to it, the individual increasingly turns into the type.” (6)

Reading The Worker today, one feels the melancholia of those who have passed to the other side of science-fiction. The future described by Jünger has already taken place, and its grip is tightening around us by the day. However, there appears to be no trace of the shimmering gleam which Jünger imagined would accompany its triumph. The light of the late capitalist spectacle spreads an opaque film on all that it touches. The type of the Worker has indeed eradicated the bourgeois concept of the individual, but instead of bathing humans in a heroism which transcends fear, it has sunk them in an epidemic of depression and anxiety. Similarly, the age of drone warfare has brought to perfection the clash of Titans which had first taken place in WWI, but Jünger’s metaphysical revelations in the face of destruction have left their place to bored operators staring at long-distance murder though their terminals’ screen.
The apocalypse of the individual befell us, and it was as miserable as it was underwhelming.

On The Marble Cliffs

Jünger spent most of the 1920s writing political pamphlets for the Conservative Revolutionary Movement – which included authors such as Thomas Mann, Carl Schmitt and Martin Heidegger – while also occasionally flirting with Ernst Niekisch’s National Bolsheviks. The publication of Storm of Steel had gained him a prominent position as a public intellectual, and it had also won him the admiration of a then minor political leader, Adolf Hitler, who repeatedly but unsuccessfully tried to be introduced to him. Contrary to a common misconception, Jünger never took part to or supported the Nazi party. When in 1927 Goebbels offered him a parliamentary seat, he laconically replied that he would “rather write one good poem than represent sixty thousand idiots.” In 1933, when Hitler became chancellor, he refused again a seat in the Reichstag, and insisted that the Nazi Party would never publish any of his writing on their official newspaper Volkisher Beobachter. As Goebbels recalled in his diaries, “we laid bridges of gold before him, which he refused to cross”.
After the Nazis took power, Jünger abandoned Berlin and withdrew to an isolated life in the province, interrupted only by international travels. He developed his passion for botany, marine zoology and entomology to academic standards, and limited his publications to a minimum.

When he did finally publish again, in 1939, he put his life at stake. On The Marble Cliffs (7) described the assault of the barbaric Chief Ranger – a thinly disguised caricature of Hitler – and of his hoard of savages against the peaceful city of Marina. Their assault is successful, and Marina sinks in a nightmare of tyranny, violence and terror. In this novel it also made its first appearance the magnetic force of anarchy, which Jünger already identified, though somewhat hermetically, as the only possible alternative to Nihilism.

Between full-blown nihilism and unbridled anarchy there is a profound difference. Whether the abodes of men shall become desert or primeval forest depends upon the outcome of this struggle.” (8)

Within two weeks of its publication, the novel had sold over fourteen thousand copies, and its growing success was unnerving the highest hierarchies of the Nazi party. When Philipp Bouhler – who had made a name for himself as the promoter of the Aktion T4 ‘involuntary euthanasia’ program – requested that the book be banned, Hitler not only replied that his favourite author had to be “left alone”, but shortly afterwards decided to put Jünger in charge of censorship in occupied Paris.

Once again Jünger became a soldier – and again, perhaps surprisingly, a volunteer – though this time his lodgings were in the luxury Hotel Raphael, near the Arc de Triomphe. He used his military position to ease the grip of police control over the French Resistance, destroying the more compromising correspondence intercepted by his office to keep it away from the eyes of the Gestapo. In the evenings, he took part to the cultural life of the city, meeting with artists and authors such as Picasso, Cocteau, Celine and Brecht. Years later, after the end of the war, it was Brecht who raised his voice in Jünger’s defence, asking, in Hitler’s exact words, that he be “left alone” by the new censors.
As he got involved in the Parisian life, he also created a distance from it, as it was in his style. Watching the heavy allied bombings over the city from the terrace of his hotel, for example, he could only acknowledge how the spectacle of devastation “looked rather like stage-lighting in a shadow theatre”.

Jünger contributed to the opposition to the regime, producing and distributing a number of anonymous pamphlets – later collected in the volume The Peace (9) – in which he denounced the horrors of Nazism, demanded an immediate end to the war and proposed the creation of a European Union. The necessity to move beyond nation states will be a recurring theme in Jünger’s work from then on, from his essay The World State (10) to the political imagination of his later science-fiction works. As he abandoned the fatherland defined by national borders, Jünger sought a new homeland in the ‘wilderness’ that each individual carries inside themselves. It was the beginning of his ‘forest passage’, and of his anarchic turn.

Although his role in the 1944 plot to kill Hitler was only indirect, in the eve of the event he was removed from his office and ‘dishonourably discharged’ from the army. The revenge of the regime found crueler, more transversal ways to reach him. A few months later, his 18 years old son was imprisoned for ‘subversive discussions’ and sent to a penal battalion, headed for sure destruction. With tragic irony, he was killed in combat ‘on the marble cliffs’ near Carrara, in occupied Italy. The remains of his mauled body reached his father only seven years later.

Into The Forest

After the end of the war, Jünger withdrew completely from metropolitan life. He moved to a mansion in High Swabia, which was given to him by the relatives of one of the officers involved in the 1944 plot. As American capitalism covered the Western hemisphere with its festoons of bright and empty promises, Jünger furthered his exploration of the darkness lying under the surface of its age. His science-fiction novel Heliopolis (11), published in 1949, described with uncanny precision the outlines of a world already entirely dominated by Technic. The difference between The Worker and Jünger’s later production is staggering, but it can be understood within the perspective of Jünger’s endless orbit around the present. While in The Worker the age of Nihilism was observed at its dawn, when the rising light transfigures in magical forms all that it touches, Heliopolis described the nuclear midday of Nihilism, when all shadows vanish under the radiating sun of Technic. Nihilism was no longer an ‘uncanny guests’: it had become the norm.

The idea that the Western world had finally reached the zero meridian of Nihilism returned in his 1950 essay Beyond The Line (12), which he wrote for Heidegger’s 60th birthday, and to which the German philosopher – who had already dedicated two lecture courses to Jünger in the 1930s – replied a few years later with the essay Over The Line. Despite his bleak diagnosis, Jünger maintained a subtle vein of optimism. The worst had already come, and it could no longer haunt humans as an anxious dream. The time was ripe to look at the future with the eyes of a strategist rather than with those of a prophet of doom. The question was no longer ‘when will Nihilism envelop us entirely?’, but ‘how can we find an outside, now that Nihilism has surrounded us?’.

The necessity to create a strategy of existential autonomy will run as a common thread through the rest of his work, until his death. His occasional predictions – such as his description of smartphones and gps in Heliopolis in 1949, of spy-drones in The Glass Bees (13) in 1953 and of the internet and virtual reality in Eumeswil (14) in 1977 – can be considered as the mere byproduct of his strategic reconnaissance of the present and the future.

For the first step of his exploration, Jünger borrowed a word that had its prehistory in an old Icelandic custom: der Waldgang – The Forest Passage (15).

A forest passage followed a banishment; through this action a man declared his will to self-affirmation from his own resources. This was considered honourable, and it still is today, despite all platitudes. In those times, the banishment was usually the consequence of a homicide, whereas today it happens to a man almost automatically, like the turning of a roulette wheel. None of us can know today if tomorrow morning we will not be counted as part of a group considered outside the law.” (16)

The forest of the Waldganger (‘forest fleer’ or ‘forest rebel’), however, no longer lied on the physical edges of the city. The route outside contemporary civilisation, outside Technic and its terrors, lead to a person’s inner Wildnis (wilderness) – perhaps the only possible outside left to individuals. A Waldganger could be any person strolling on the pavement of a contemporary city, dressed not unlike any of his/her neighbours, and not recognisable as a ‘forest rebel’ by any of his/her outer features. Jünger’s figure partly resembled the ‘prudent man’ portrayed by the 17th century baroque author Baltasar Gracian (17), who strategically advised against eccentricity in one’s appearance, as it could hinder the development of one’s inner autonomy and the possibility of effective subversive action. Jünger compared the Waldganger to the ‘grand spy’, disguised in the enemy’s uniform only to be in a better position to strike his opponent.

Yet, the Waldganger was also a figure of resistance, and one of Jünger’s acknowledged sources of inspiration was a young German social democrat who shot down a dozen Nazi Storm Troopers at the entrance of his apartment.

If we assume that we could have counted on just one such person in every street in Berlin, the things would have turned out very differently than they did. Long periods of peace foster certain optical illusions: one is the conviction that the inviolability of the home is grounded in the constitution, which should guarantee it. In reality, it is grounded in the family father, who, sons at his side, fills the doorway with an axe in his hand.”(18)

As they fled towards their own inner wilderness, individuals accessed the source both of their existential autonomy, and of the possibility of emancipatory violence. Unsurprisingly, Jünger was never a pacifist, and his strategic advice against a direct, violent attack to the State was ground exclusively in his considerations over the overwhelming asymmetry of forces in the field. Even though Jünger repeatedly declared that he would never repudiate his early, heroic works such as Storm of Steel, his later production suggests a more subtle, prudent course of action. While in his war memoir the discovery of an inner depth occasioned in the mist of the near-apocalypse of the battlefield, in the actual apocalypse of accomplished Nihilism the individual only needs an act of will to turn their gaze inwards, and – to paraphrase Max Stirner (19) – to ‘set their affair’ on their own ‘creative nothing’.

Even simply by reading through the wealth of erudition and the stylistic beauty of Jünger’s writing, it is evident how his escape from contemporary civilisation was never a movement towards self-punishing poverty. Jünger rejected the empty promises of society not beacuse of their luxurious surfaces, but because he was aware of their inner poverty. As in all ancient mythology, the wealth that lies in the heart of the forest is the prize which awaits the hero who dares to enter its dark shadows. According to Jünger, wealth, not poverty, should be the aim and the foundation of any philosophy worthy of its name – and, especially, of any true emancipatory theology.

A true theologian is someone who understands the science of abundance, which transcends mere economy, and who knows the mystery of the eternal springs, which are inexhaustible and always at hand. By a theologian we mean someone who knows – and a knower in this sense is the prostitute Sonya, who discovers the treasure of being in Raskolnikov and knows hot to raise it to the light for him.”(20)

Jünger’s tension towards those ‘eternal springs’ and ‘forests’ which alone can provide a safe haven from Technic and Nihilism, also influenced his durable and active interest in drugs. In his 1970 book Approaches (21), Jünger recalled his numerous experiences with substances spanning from hashish and cocaine, to opium and mescaline. LSD – which he tried on several occasions with its inventor Albert Hofmann, himself a Jünger fan – made a profound impression on him, and he valued it above all other drugs as a powerful tool to access that ‘excess’ which shares the same dangers and tensions with the way to the forest.

I exceed, I go outside, I go further afield, both from my own boundaries and from the social corral. Excessus means trespassing – and it is connected with the threat, sooner or later, of being excluded.”(22)

The Anarch

The 1970s and 1980s were two wonderfully productive and radical decades for the already elderly author. While in The Forest Passage he had sketched the outlines of the transitional character of the Waldganger, in his 1977 science-fiction novel Eumeswil he developed this melancholy figure to the full ripeness of the Anarch.

Set in an imaginary city-state named after the ancient diadoch Eumenes, the events narrated in the book take place after the collapse of the World State, which had followed the last great war between nations. The protagonist, Manuel Venator, a young historian of ‘unobtrusive appearance’, serves as night steward at the private bar of the city’s dictator, the Condor. His proximity to the tyrant is invaluable to him as a historian, but it also encourages him to seek a deeper autonomy than the mere assertion of ideological independence. The closer he lies to the centre of control, and the more he adapts his camouflage to the formality of his assigned role, the higher a chance he creates for himself to effectively escape the grip of power.

If an enterprise is to be concealed from society, there is a proven method: you secrete it in some undertaking that society approves of, indeed regards as commendable.”(23)

They found no mischief in me. I remained normal, however deeply they probed. And also straight as an arrow. To be sure, normality seldom coincides with straightness. Normalcy is the human constitution; straightness is logical reasoning. With its help, I could answer satisfactorily. […] Thus they were unable to penetrate my fundamental structure, which is anarchic. […] For everyone is anarchic; this is precisely what is normal about us.”(24)

Paradoxically, argues Jünger, it is those proclaiming their autonomy with the loudest voice, who more easily fall prey to an illusion of freedom, and to the hold of tyrannical control. Throughout the book, Jünger uses the figure of the anarchist – as opposed to the Anarch – as an example of this strategic fallacy. Traditional anarchists, claims Jünger, through their conspicuous and ineffective opposition make themselves “serviceable in many ways and also useful for the police”.

The anarchist is dependent – both on his unclear desires and on the powers that be. He trails the powerful man as his shadow; the ruler is always on his guard against him. […] The anarchist is the antagonist of the monarch, whom he dreams of wiping out. He gets the man and consolidates the succession. The -ism suffix has a restrictive meaning; it emphasises the will at the expense of the substance. […] The positive counterpart of the anarchist is the Anarch. The latter is not the adversary of the monarch but his antipode, untouched by him, though also dangerous. He is not the opponent of the monarch, but his pendant. After all, the monarch wants to rule many, nay, all people; the Anarch, only himself.”(25)

[The Anarch] is as sovereign as the monarch, and also freer since he does not have to rule.” (26)

The Anarch, as embodied by Venator, is a less idealistic development of the Waldganger. While the Waldganger can play a role on the eve of the triumph of Nihilism, the Anarch is best equipped to survive the endless afternoon of its established kingdom. Eumeswil, perhaps not dissimilarly from our contemporary world, exists in a state of perennial civil war, in which traditional authority has expanded into all-encompassing bio-power, while the emptying of all meaning and possible alternatives complements total-policing in ensuring absolute political stillness. At that stage, any attempt at open resistance would be suicidal, at best futile, and in any case immediately swallowed by its opponent – as it is so often the case in today’s late capitalism. In Eumeswil, the Waldganger appears as a remote possibility, which could arise only in the case of a sudden turn of events – an eventuality for which Venator prepares himself through the clandestine construction of a bunker/armoury, far from sight. Daily life, however, offers a different type of possibility for resistance. In the perfectly hedo-nihilistic emptiness of Eumeswil – which at times resembles the atmospheres of Italy under Berlusconi – rebels are not those who parade their anarchist garments, but those who are able to disappear completely. Through his vanishing, the Anarch reclaims the necessary space – mental, if not physical – to be able to retain the necessary autonomy to access the inner ‘wilderness’ of his own ‘creative nothing’ – as well as to violently strike back at power, whenever possible. It is not surprising that Max Stirner himself makes a lengthy appearance towards the end of the book, summoned by Venator through the internet-cum-virtual-reality technology of the Luminar.

Once again, Jünger’s judgement of technology avoids oversimplification. In Eumeswil, both the underground world of the ‘catacombs’ – where invisible scientists work relentlessly at the production of new, reality-changing technology – and the far and mysterious ‘forest’ – which embodies the ever-lasting primordial energy – coexist as symbols of eternal cosmic forces. While the Nihilism which engulfs the city has taken hold of the fearful, bourgeois soul of most of its inhabitants, the Anarch alone retains access to both the catacomb and the forest which perennially exist at his heart.

The importance of accessing the ever-existing cosmic wilderness, returns in connection to the figure of the Anarch in Jünger’s 1983 novella Aladdin’s Problem (27). The book begins with Friedrich Baroh, an Anarch serving as an officer in the Soviet Army, fleeing Eastern Germany to West Berlin. There, he starts a small funeral house, which thanks to his uncle’s capital he manages to develop into the multinational corporation Terrestra. His business idea is typically Jüngerian: in a relentlessly nihilist age, where even graves are temporary, humans long for the stability of an eternal burial. The protagonist buys a field of wild land in Cappadocia – large enough to house the mortal remains of the world’s population – and there sets up a huge, eternal graveyard for those who can afford it. “This is the answer to the motorised world” observes one of Friedrich’s friends. As his empire expands and the burial site progressively turns into a metropolis, his dissatisfaction also grows, and his mental balance starts to break. He is facing ‘Aladdin’s problem’: the empty thirst for power at the heart of the Faustian spirit, aimlessly dragging Modernity along its Nihilist route. Friedrich treated death and the depths of the Earth merely as a ‘standing reserve’ – to borrow Heidegger’s expression – rather than as the immediate symbol of Chtonian cosmic forces. He forgot the way to the forest, and remained wandering in the desert: away from the forest, even anarchy sinks down the circles of a nihilist hell.

Aristocracy

In the course of his long life, Jünger authored and published over fifty volumes. In these pages, I could only superficially present some of his works – those which I believe best express both his qualities as a writer and a thinker, and his intellectual progression through and beyond Modernity. I have also tried to provide the coordinates to the location of some of his fundamental ideas, which I believe might prove of greater relevance today than when they were first produced. I began by talking of Jünger’s work as a toolbox, and again I’d like to invite the reader not to stop at the beauty of Jünger’s style, but to test the usefulness of his concepts against his/her own daily existential struggles.

As well as his ideas, Jünger’s method also constitutes, in my opinion, an important contribution to contemporary existential strategies. As he once explained in an interview (28), his writing was almost the precise reflection of his observations of the world around him. Combining the attitudes of a botanist and of a philosopher, Jünger used to proceed from a particular observation of a social detail, to an analogy with a natural equivalent – often from botany or entomology – to the exploration of the metaphysical roots of its structure. In line with other great post-romantic German thinkers, Jünger reached back to Goethe as much as to Nietzsche. Despite his astonishing erudition, Jünger never aspired to become a scholar. Like his two predecessors, he was first of all a writer, a person, a true Anarch of knowledge. He dared exploring the world, both in its immediately visible appearance and in its supremely visible form, on the basis of an excessive idea of freedom, which surpassed the borders of academic specialism as well as of ideological allegiance. Like the very best anarchist thinkers, Jünger’s idea of anarchy can be summed up as a desire for an aristocracy of all – firstly, an anarcho-aristocracy of the gaze, and of the mind.

Reading Jünger today can be much more than a dry review of the curious works of a dead writer. Jünger remains one of the most accomplished craftsman to date of those magic lenses through which it is possible to examine in depth our experience of the world and our ever-shifting position within it. In his inexhaustible generosity, Jünger might even exceed the figure of the mere writer. As he offers us some of the things that we need to make better sense and actively deepen our enjoyment of our lives, his place can hardly be on our bookshelves. Upon consideration, we might decide that his place is rather on our side, as a friend.

NOTES

1 Ernst Jünger, On the Marble Cliffs, Penguin, 1970, p.68

2 Telos Press has published so far the English translations of On Pain (2008), The Adventurous Heart (2012), and The Forest Passage (2014)

3 Ernst Jünger, Storm of Steel, Penguin, 2004, p.93, p.95

4 Ernst Jünger, Storm of Steel, Penguin, 2004

5 Ernst Jünger, Der Arbeiter, Hanseatische Verlagsansalt, 1932. This book has never been translated in English.

6 Ernst Jünger, Der Arbeiter – my translation from the Italian edition, L’Operaio, Guanda, 2010, p.207-208

7 Ernst Jünger, On the Marble Cliffs, Penguin, 1970. The English edition of this book has been out of print for decades.

8 Ernst Jünger, On the Marble Cliffs, Penguin, 1970, p.82

9 Ernst Jünger, The Peace, Henry Regnery Company, 1948. The English edition of this book has been out of print for over half a century.

10 Ernst Jünger, Der Weldstaat, Klett Verlag, 1960. This book has never been translated in English.

11 Ernst Jünger, Heliopolis, Heliopolis Verlag, 1949. This book has never been translated in English

12 Ernst Jünger, Uber Die Linie, first published in Anteile. Martin Heidegger zum 60 Geburstag, Vittorio Klostermann, 1951. This text and Heidegger’s response have never been translated in English.

13 Ernst Jünger, The Glass Bees, New York Review Books, 2000

14 Ernst Jünger, Eumeswil, Marsilio Publishers, 1994. The English edition of this book has been out of print for over a decade.

15 Ernst Jünger, The Forest Passage, Telos Press, 2014

16 Ernst Jünger, The Forest Passage, Telos Press, 2014, p.37

17 see Baltasar Gracian, The Pocket Oracle And Art Of Prudence, Penguin, 2001

18 Ernst Jünger, The Forest Passage, Telos Press, 2014, p.73

19 see Max Stirner, The Ego And His Own, Verso, 2014

20 Ernst Jünger, The Forest Passage, Telos Press, 2014, p.63

21 Ernst Jünger, Annäherungen. Drogen und Rausch, Klett Verlag, 1970. This book has never been translated in English.

22 Ernst Jünger, Annäherungen. Drogen und Rausch, Klett Verlag, 1970 – my translation from the Italian edition, Avvicinamenti, Guanda, 2006, p.188.

23 Ernst Jünger, Eumeswil, Marsilio Publishers, 1994, p.132

24 Ernst Jünger, Eumeswil, Marsilio Publishers, 1994, p.41

25 Ernst Jünger, Eumeswil, Marsilio Publishers, 1994, p.42-43

26 Ernst Jünger, Eumeswil, Marsilio Publishers, 1994, p.155

27 Ernst Jünger, Aladdin’s Problem, Marsilio Publishers, 1996. The English edition of this book has been out of print for over a decade.

28 as part of the German documentary for television, Neunzig Verweht – der Schriftsteller Ernst Jünger

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anarch Ernst Junger eumeswil forest passage nihilism

technic

∗ Alain de Benoist, “Types et figures dans l’oeuvre d’Ernst Jünger: Le Soldat du front, le Travailleur, le Rebelle et l’Anarque,” was originally presented as a lecture in Rome in May 1997. The translator wishes to thank Alain de Benoist for permission to translate and publish this essay and for his comments on the translation. Thanks also to Michael O’Meara for checking and editing the translation.

In Ernst Jünger’sIn Ernst Jünger’s writings, four great Figures appear successively, each corresponding to a quite distinct period of the author’s life. They are, chronologically, the Front Soldier, the Worker, the Rebel, and the Anarch. Through these Figures one can divine the passionate interest Jünger has always held toward the world of forms. Forms, for him, cannot result from chance occurrences in the sensible world. Rather, forms guide, on various levels, the ways sensible beings express themselves: the “history” of the world is above all morphogenesis. As an entomologist, moreover, Jünger was naturally inclined to classifications. Beyond the individual, he identifies the species or the kind. One can see here a subtle sort of challenge to individualism: “The unique and the typical exclude one another,” he writes. Thus, as Jünger sees it, the universe is one where Figures give epochs their metaphysical significance. In this brief esposition, I would like to compare and contrast the great Figures identified by Jünger.

* * *

The Front Soldier (Frontsoldat) is first of all a witness to the end of classical wars: wars that gave priority to the chivalrous gesture, that were organized around the concepts of glory and honor, that generally spared civilians, and that distinguished clearly between the Front and the Rear. “Though once we crouched in bomb craters, we still believed,” Jünger said, “that man was stronger than material. That proved to be an error.” Indeed, from then on, the “material” counted more than the human factor. This material factor signifies the irruption and dominion of technology. Technology imposes its own law, the law of impersonality and total war—a war simultaneously massive and abstract in its cruelty. At the same time, the Soldier becomes an impersonal actor. His very heroism is impersonal, because what counts most for him is no longer the goal or outcome of combat. It is not to win or lose, live or die. What counts is the spiritual disposition that leads him to accept his anonymous sacrifice. In this sense, the Front Soldier is by definition an Unknown Soldier, who forms a body, in all senses of the term, with the unit to which he belongs, like a tree which is not only a part but an exemplary incarnation of the forest.

The same applies to the Worker, who appears in 1932, in the famous book of that name, whose subtitle is: “Dominion and Figure.”1 The common element of the Soldier and Worker is active impersonnality.

They too are children of technology. Because the same technology that transformed war into monotonous “work,” drowning the chivalrous spirit in the mud of the trenches, has also transformed the world into a vast workshop where man is henceforth completely enthralled2 by the imperatives of productivity. Soldier and Worker, finally, have the same enemy: the contemptible bourgeois liberal, the “last man” announced by Nietzsche, who venerates moral order, utility, and profit. Also the Worker and the Soldier back from the Front both want to destroy in order to create, to give up the last shreds of individualism in order to found a new world on the ruins of the old “petrified form of life.”

However, while the Soldier was only the passive object of the reign of technology, the Worker aims actively to identify himself with it. Far from being its object, or submitting to its manifestations, the Worker, on the contrary, seeks in all conscience to endorse the power of technology that he thinks will abolish the differences between the classes, as well as between peace and war, civilian and military. The Worker is no longer one who is “sacrificed to carry the burdens in the great deserts of fire,” as Jünger still put it in the The Forest Path,3 but a being entirely devoted to “total mobilization.”4 Thus the Figure of the Worker goes far beyond the Type of the Front Soldier. For the Worker—who dreams all the while of a Spartan, Prussian, or Bolshevik life, where the individual would be definitively outclassed by the Type—the Great War was only the anvil where another way of being in the world was forged. The Front Soldier limited himself in order to embody new norms of collective existence. The Worker, for his part, intends to transplant them into civilian life, to make them the law of the whole society.

The Worker is thus not merely the man who works (the most common meaning), any more than he is the man of a social class, i.e., of a given economic category (the historical meaning). He is the Worker in a metaphysical sense: the one who reveals Work as the general law of a world that devotes itself entirely to efficiency and productivity, even in leisure and rest.

The elements of Jünger’s worldview—his aesthetic and voluntarist conception of technology, his decisionism of every moment, the opposition of the Worker to the bourgeois, the Nietzschean will “to transvalue all values” which already underlay Jünger’s “soldatic nationalism” of the Twenties—are sometimes summarized with the phrase “heroic realism.” However, under the influence of events, Jünger’s reflection would soon undergo a decisive inflection, which took it in another direction.

The turn corresponds to the novel On the Marble Cliffs,5 published in 1939. The heroes of the story, two brothers, herbalists from the Great Marina who recoil in horror at the inexorable outcome of the Great Forester’s enterprise, discover that there are weapons stronger than those that pierce and kill. Jünger, at that time, was not only informed by the rise of Nazism, he was influenced by his brother, Friedrich Georg Jünger, who in a famous book6 was one of the first to work out a radical critique of the technological framework.7 As children of technology, the Soldier and especially the Worker were on the side of the Titans. Yet Ernst Jünger came to see that the Titanic reign of the elemental leads straight to nihilism. He understood that the world should be neither interpreted nor changed, but viewed as the very source of the unveiling of truth (aletheia). He understood that technology is not necessarily antagonistic to bourgeois values, and that it transforms the world only by globalizing the desert. He understood that, behind history, timelessness returns to more essential categories, and that human time, marked off by the wheels of the watch, is an “imaginary time,” founded on an artifice that made men forgetful of their belonging to the world, a time that fixes the nature of their projects instead of being fixed by them, unlike the hourglass, the “elementary clock” whose flow obeys natural laws—a cyclic not a linear time. Jünger, in other words, realized that the outburst of the Titans is first and foremost a revolt against the gods. This is why he dismissed Prometheus. The collective Figures were succeeded by personal ones.

Against totalitarian despotism, the heroes of On the Marble Cliffs chose withdrawal, taking a distance. By this, they already announced the attitude of the Rebel, of whom Jünger would write: “The Rebel is . . . whoever the law of his nature puts in relation to freedom, a relation that in time brings him to a revolt against automatism and a refusal to accept its ethical consequence, fatalism.”

One sees by this that the Figure of the Rebel is directly connected to a meditation on freedom—and also on exclusion, since the Rebel is equally an outlaw. The Rebel is still a combatant, like the Front Soldier, but he is a combatant who repudiates active impersonnality, because he intends to preserve his freedom with respect to the cause he defends.

In this sense, the Rebel cannot be identified with one system or another, even the one for which he fights. He is not at ease in any them. If the Rebel chooses marginalization, it is above all to guard against the forces of destruction, to break the encirclement, one might say, using a military metaphor that Jünger himself employs when he writes:

“The incredible encirclement of man was prepared long ago by the theories that aim at giving a flawless logical explanation of the world and that march in lockstep with the development of technology.”

“The mysterious way goes towards the interior,” said Novalis. The Rebel is an emigrant to the interior, who seeks to preserve his freedom in the heart of the forests where “paths that go nowhere” intersect.

This refuge, however, is ambiguous, because this sanctuary of organic life not yet absorbed by the mechanization of the world, represents— to the precise extent that it constitutes a universe foreign to human norms—the “great house of death, the very seat of the destructive danger.” Hence the position of the Rebel can only be provisional.

The last Figure, whom Jünger calls the Anarch, first appeared in 1977 in Eumeswil,8 a “postmodern” novel intended as a sequel to Heliopolis9 and set in the third millennium. Venator, the hero, no longer needs to resort to the forest to remain untouched by the ambient nihilism. It is enough for him to have reached an elevation that allows him to observe everything from a distance without needing to move away. Typical in this respect is his attitude toward power.

Whereas the anarchist wants to abolish power, the Anarch is content to break all ties to it. The Anarch is not the enemy of power or authority, but he does not seek them, because he does not need them to become who he is. The Anarch is sovereign of himself—which amounts to saying that he shows the distance that exists between sovereignty, which does not require power, and power, which never confers sovereignty.

“The Anarch,” Jünger writes, “is not the partner of the monarch, but his antipode, the man that power cannot grasp but is also dangerous to it. He is not the adversary of the monarch, but his opposite.” A true chameleon, the Anarch adapts to all things, because nothing reaches him. He is in service of history while being beyond it. He lives in all times at once, present, past, and future. Having crossed “the wall of time,” he is in the position of the pole star, which remains fixed while the whole starry vault turns around it, the central axis or hub, the “center of the wheel where time is abolished.” Thus, he can watch over the “clearing” which represents the place and occasion for the return of the gods. From this, one can see, as Claude Lavaud writes regarding Heidegger, that salvation lies “in hanging back,  rather than crossing over; in contemplation, not in calculation; in the commemorative piety that opens thought to the revealing and concealing that together are the essence of aletheia.”10

What distinguishes the Rebel from the Anarch, is thus the quality of their voluntary marginalization: horizontal withdrawal for the first, vertical withdrawal for the second. The Rebel needs to take refuge in the forest, because he is a man without power or sovereignty, and because it is only there that he retains the conditions of his freedom. The Anarch himself is also without power, but it is precisely because he is without power that he is sovereign. The Rebel is still in revolt, while the Anarch is beyond revolt. The Rebel carries on in secret—he hides in the shadows—while the Anarch remains in plain sight. Finally, whereas the Rebel is banished by society, the Anarch banishes himself. He is not excluded; he is emancipated.

* * *

The advent of the Rebel and Anarch relegated the memory of the Front Soldier to the background, but it did not end the reign of the Worker. Admittedly, Jünger changed his opinion of what we should expect, but the conviction that this Figure really dominates today’s world was never abandoned. The Worker, defined as the “chief Titan who traverses the scene of our time,” is really the son of the Earth, the child of Prometheus. He incarnates this “telluric” power of which modern technology is the instrument. He is also a metaphysical Figure, because modern technology is nothing other than the realized essence of a metaphysics that sets man up as the master of a world transformed into an object. And with man, the Worker maintains a dialectic of possession: the Worker possesses man to the very extent that man believes he possesses the world by identifying himself with the Worker.

However, to the precise extent that they are the representatives of the elementary and telluric powers, the Titans continue to carry a message whose meaning orders our existence. Jünger no longer regards them as allies, but neither does he regard them as enemies. As is his habit, Jünger is a seismograph: he has a presentiment that the reign of the Titans announces the return of the gods, and that nihilism is a necessary part of the passage towards the regeneration of the world. To finish with nihilism, we must live it to its end—“passing the line” which corresponds to the “meridian zero”—because, as Heidegger says, the technological framework11 (Ge-stell) is still a mode of being, not merely of its oblivion. This is why, if Jünger sees the Worker as a danger, he also says that this danger can be our salvation, because it is by it and through it, that it will be possible to exhaust the danger.

* * *

It is easy to see what differentiates the two couples formed, on the one hand, by the Front Soldier and the Worker, and on the other, by the Rebel and the Anarch. But one would be wrong to conclude from this that the “second Jünger,” of On the Marble Cliffs, is the antithesis of the first. Rather, this “second Jünger” actually represents a development, which was given a free course, of an inclination present from the beginning but obscured by the work of the writer-soldier and the nationalist polemicist. In Jünger’s first books, as well as in Battle as Inner Experience 12 and Storm,13 one actually sees, between the lines of the narrative, an undeniable tendency toward the vita contemplativa. From the beginning, Jünger expresses a yearning for meditative reflection that descriptions of combat or calls to action cannot mask. This yearning  is particularly evident in the first version of The  Adventurous Heart,14 where one can read not only a concern for a certain literary poetry, but also a reflection—that one could describe as both mineral and crystalline—on the immutability of things and on that which, in the very heart of the present, raises us up to cosmic signs and a recognition of the infinite, thus nurturing the “stereoscopic vision” in which two flat images merge into a single image to reveal the dimension of depth.

There is thus no contradiction between the four Figures, but only a progressive deepening, a kind of increasingly fine sketch that led Jünger, initially an actor of his time, then a judge and critic of his time, to place himself finally above his time in order to testify to what came before his century and what will come after him.

In The Worker, one already reads: “The more we dedicate ourselves to change, the more we must be intimately persuaded that behind it hides a calm being.” Throughout his life, Jünger never ceased approaching this “calm being.” While passing from manifest action to apparent non-action—while going, one might say, from beings to Being— he achieved an existential progression that finally allowed him to occupy the place of the Anarch, the unmoving center, the “central point of the turning wheel” from which all movement proceeds.

APPENDIX: ON FIGURE AND TYPE15

In 1963, in his book entitled Type—Name—Figure,16 Jünger writes: “Figure and Type are higher forms of vision. The conception of Figures confers a metaphysical power, the apprehension of Types an intellectual power.” We will reconsider this distinction between Figure and Type. But let us note immediately that Jünger connects the ability to distinguish them with a higher form of vision, i.e., with a vision that goes beyond immediate appearances to seek and identify archetypes.

Moreover, he implies that this higher form of vision merges with its object, i.e., with the Figure and the Type. Furthermore, he specifies: “The Type does not appear in nature, or the Figure in the universe. Both must be deciphered in the phenomena, like a force in its effects or a text in its characters.” Finally, he affirms that there exists a “typifying power of the universe,” which “seeks to pierce through the undifferentiated,” and which “acts directly on vision,” causing an “ineffable knowledge: intuition,” then conferring a name:

“The things do not bear a name, names are conferred upon them.”

This concern with transcending immediate appearances should not be misinterpreted. Jünger does not offer us a new version of the Platonic myth of the cave. He does not suggest seeking the traces of another world in this world. On the contrary, in The Worker, he already denounced “the dualism of the world and its systems.” Likewise, in his Paris Diaries,17 he wrote: “The visible contains all the signs that lead to the invisible. And the existence of the latter must be demonstrable in the visible model.” Thus for Jünger, there is transcendence only in immanence. And when he intends to seek the “things that are behind things,” to use the expression he employs in his “Letter to the Man in the Moon,” it is while being convinced, like Novalis, that “the real is just as magical as the magical is real.”18 One would also err gravely by comparing the Type to a “concept” and the Figure to an “idea.” “A Type,” Jünger writes, “is always stronger than an idea, even more so than a concept.” Indeed, the Type is apprehended by vision, i.e., as image, whereas the concept can be grasped only by thought. Thus to apprehend the Figure or the Type is not to leave the sensible world for some other world that constitutes its first cause, but to seek in the sensible world the invisible dimension that constitutes the “typifying power”: “We recognize individuals: the Type acts as the matrix of our vision. . . . That really shows that it is not so much the Type that we perceive but, in it and behind it, the power of the typifying source.”

The German word for Figure is Gestalt, which one generally translates as “form.”19 The nuance is not unimportant, because it confirms that the Figure is anchored in the world of forms, i.e., in the sensible world, instead of being a Platonic idea, which would find in this world only its mediocre and deformed reflection. Goethe, in his time, was dismayed to learn that Schiller thought that his Ur-Plant (Urpflanze) (archetype) was an idea. The Figure is often misunderstood in the very same way, as Jünger himself emphasized. The Figure is on the side of vision as it is on the side of Being, which is consubstantial with the world. It is not on the side of verum, but of certum.

Let us now see what distinguishes the Figure and the Type. Compared to the Figure, which is more inclusive but also fuzzier, the Type is more limited. Its contours are relatively neat, which makes it a kind of intermediary between the phenomenon and the Figure: “It is,” says Jünger, “the model image of the phenomenon and the guarantor image of the Figure.” The Figure has a greater extension than the Type. It exceeds the Type, as the matrix that gives the form exceeds the form.

In addition, if the Type qualifies a group, the Figure tends rather to qualify a reign or an epoch. Different Types can coexist alongside each other in the same time and place, but there is room for only one Figure.

From this point of view, the relationship between the Figure and the Type is comparable to that of the One and the many. (This is why Jünger writes: “Monotheism can know, strictly speaking, only one Figure. That is why it demotes the gods to the rank of Types.”) That amounts to saying that the Figure is not only a more extensive Type, but that there is also a difference in nature between the Figure and the Type. The Figure can also give rise to Types, assigning them a mission and a meaning. Jünger gives the example of the ocean as an expanse distinct from all the specific seas: “The Ocean is formative of Types; it does not have a Type, it is a Figure.”

Can man set up a Figure like he does a Type? Jünger says that there is no single answer to this question, but nevertheless he tends to the negative. “The Figure,” he writes, “can be sustained, but not set up.” This means that the Figure can be neither conjured by words nor confined by thought. Whereas man can easily name Types, it is much more difficult to do anything with a Figure: “The risk is more singificant, because one approaches the undifferentiated to a greater extent than in naming Types.” The Type depends on man, who adapts it by naming it, whereas the Figure cannot be made our own. “The naming of Types,” Jünger stresses, “depends on man taking possession. On the other hand, when a Figure is named, we are right to suppose that it first takes possession of man.” Man has no access to the “homeland of Figures”: “What is conceived as a Figure is already configured.”

Insofar as it is of the metaphysical order, a Figure appears suddenly. It gives man a sign, leaving him free to ignore or recognize it. But man cannot grasp it by intuition alone. To know or to recognize a Figure implies a more profound contact, comparable to the grasp of kinship. Jünger does not hesitate here to speak about “divination.” A Figure is unveiled, released from oblivion, in the Heideggerian sense—released from the deepest levels of the undifferentiated, says Jünger—by the presence of Being. But at the same time, as it reveals itself, as it rises to appearance and effective power, it “loses its essence”— like a god who chooses to incarnate himself in human form.

Only this “devaluation” of its ontological status makes it possible for man to know what connects him to a Figure that he cannot grasp by thought or by name. Thus the Figure is the “highest representation that man can make of the ineffable and its power.”

In light of the preceeding, can one say that the four Jüngerian Figures are really Figures and not Types? In all rigor, only the Worker fully answers the definition of a Figure insofar as he describes an epoch.

The Soldier, the Rebel, and the Anarch would instead be Types. Jünger writes that, for man, the ability to set up Types proceeds from a “magic power.” He also notes that nowadays this human aptitude is declining and suggests that we are seeing the rise of the undifferentiated, i.e., a “deterioration of Types,” the most visible sign that the old world is giving way to a new one, whose Types have not yet appeared and thus still cannot be named. “To manage to conceive new Types,” he writes, “the spirit must melt the old ones. . . . It is only in the glimmer of the dawn that the undifferentiated can receive new names.” This is why, in the end, he wants to be confident: “It is foreseeable that man will recover his aptitude to set up Types and will thus return to his supreme competence.”

1  Ernst Jünger, Der Arbeiter: Herrschaft und Gestalt  [The Worker: Dominion and Figure ]

(Hamburg: Hanseatische Verlagsanstalt, 1932).

2  The French is “arraisonne.”  Here the verb arraisonner  has the sense of “to enthrall,”

with the dual sense of “to capture” and “to captivate.” Later in this essay,

Benoist uses “arraisonnement”  as equivalent to Heidegger’s “Gestell”  or “Ge-stell,”

which is usually translated into English as “enframing.” According to Heidegger,

the Gestell  is the view of the world as a stockpile (Bestand ) of resources for human

manipulation. Heidegger calls the Gestell  the “essence” of technology, because it is

the worldview that makes modern technological civilization possible. See Martin

Heidegger, “The Question Concerning Technology,” trans. William Lovitt, in Martin

Heidegger, Basic Writings , ed. David Farrell Krell, 2nd ed. (New York: Harper,

1993)—TOQ.

3  Ernst Jünger, Der Waldgang  [The Forest Path ] (Frankfurt am Main: Vittorio Klostermann,

1951)—TOQ.

4  Ernst Jünger, Die totale Mobilmachung  (Berlin: Verlag der Zeitkritik, 1931); English

translation: “Total Mobilization,” trans. Joel Golb and Richard Wolin, in Richard

Wolin, ed., The Heidegger Controversy: A Critical Reader  (New York: Columbia University

Press, 1991)—TOQ.

5  Ernst Jünger, Auf den Marmorklippen  (Hamburg: Hanseatische Verlagsanstalt,

1939); English translation: On the Marble Cliffs: A Novel , trans. Stuart Hood (London:

John Lehman, 1947).

6  Friedrich Georg Jünger, Die Perfektion der Technik  [The Perfection of Technology ]

(Frankfurt am Main: Klostermann, 1946); English translation: The Failure of Technology:

Perfection Without Purpose,  trans. F. D. Wieck (Hinsdale, Ill.: Henry Regnery,

1949).

7 “l’arraisonnement technicien” —TOQ.

8  Ernst Jünger, Eumeswil  (Stuttgart: Klett-Cotta, 1977); English translation:

Eumeswil , trans. Joachim Neugroschel (New York: Marsilio, 1993).

9  Ernst Jünger, Heliopolis: Rückblick auf eine Stadt  [Heliopolis: Review of a City ]

(Tübingen: Heliopolis, 1949)—TOQ.

10  “‘Жber die Linie’: Penser l’Рtre dans l’ombre du nihilisme” [“‘Over the Line’:

Thinking of Being in the Shadow of Nihilism”], in Les Carnets Ernst Jünger  1 (1996),

49.

11 “l’arraisonnement” —TOQ.

12  Ernst Jünger, Der Kampf als inneres Erlebnis  [Battle as Inner Experience ] (Berlin:

Mittler, 1922)—TOQ.

13  Ernst Jünger, Sturm  [Storm ] (written 1923) (Stuttgart: Ernst Klett, 1978)—TOQ.

14  Ernst Jünger, Das Abenteuerliche Herz: Aufzeichnungen bei Tag und Nacht  [The

Adventurous Heart: Sketches by Day and Night ] (Berlin: Frundsberg, 1929).

15  The following Appendix is section one of the original lecture, followed by the

last paragraph of section three—TOQ.

16  Ernst Jünger, Typus—Name—Gestalt  (Stuttgart: Ernst Klett, 1963).

17  In Ernst Jünger, Strahlungen  [Emanations ] (Tübingen: Heliopolis, 1949). In English:

The Paris Diaries: 1941 –1942 , trans. M. Hulse (London: Farrar, Straus &  Giroux,

1992)—TOQ.

18  Ernst Jünger, “Sizilischer Brief an den Mann im Mond” [“Sicilian Letter to the

Man in the Moon”], in BlКtter und Steine  [Leaves and Stones ] (Hamburg: Hanseatische

Verlagsanstalt, 1934).

19  The first volume of Oswald Spengler’s Decline of the West  (1916) already bore

the subtitle: Gestalt und Wirklichkeit  [Form and Reality ]. “Gestalt ,” writes Gilbert Merlio,

“is the Form of forms, what ‘informs’ reality in the manner of the Aristotelian

entelechy ; it is the morphological unity that one perceives beneath the diversity of

historical reality, the formative idea (or Urpflanze !) that gives it coherence and direction”

(“Les images du guerrier chez Ernst Jünger” [“The Images of the Warrior in

Ernst Jünger”], in DaniПle Beltran-Vidal, ed., Images d’Ernst Jünger  [Images of Ernst  Jünger], [Berne: Peter Lang, 1996], 35).

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