Goethe Prize for Ernst Jünger:

 Translated from MSZ 5-1982

FOR MERIT!

Democratic rulers—like all rulers—have always enjoyed adorning themselves with the works, or even personal acquaintance, of various artistic and intellectual luminaries. Not that they personally found the works particularly appealing. Their aim is to imbue the exercise of state power with a veneer of culture and humanity. Thus, a good German can elevate the dreariness of everyday democratic life with the certainty of belonging to a cultural nation.

Depending on its current concerns, democracy selects the intellectual figures that best suit its agenda. While during the heyday of reformist ideals, the likes of Grass and Böll were showered with honors and cocktail parties in Bonn, this year one of the republic's most prestigious literary prizes—the Goethe Prize of the City of Frankfurt am Main—went to Ernst Jünger, a World War I and II front-line officer and writer.

Contrary to rumors, this is not a misuse of the birthplace of the first German democracy, Frankfurt's Paulskirche. Rather, this setting proves worthy of a democratic lesson, in which one side clarified which kind of mindset enjoys official recognition today, while the green and spontaneous opposition demonstrates what was considered criticism in 1982.

Poet and work: From Storm of Steel, an aesthetics of power

Throughout his life, Ernst Jünger participated in the significant and less significant carnages of this century, turning each one into a book in which war—the usual interstate regulation of foreign policy—appears as the "frontal experience " of an elite individual. For his sensitive intellect, the punitive expedition of the French Foreign Legion is romanticized as "African Games," the attritional battles of the First World War are stylized as "storms of steel," and the Nazi occupation of Paris is depicted with literary flourish as "radiations" in the officers' mess. Every slaughter becomes an inner adventure for someone with a particular taste.

"Between these grand and bloody images, there reigns a wild and unexpected cheerfulness... We enter the battle-ravaged realm of the infantry. A young person writhes in a crater, the yellowish precursor of death on his features."

This callousness, through which Jünger evokes cheerful feelings in the viewer alongside death—a quality literary scholars have dubbed "magical realism"—stems from his profoundly poetic resolve to dissolve the entire world into "grand images" and to reproduce them subjectively as an artist. Whether a person dies in a trench or the English launch a bombing raid on fascist-occupied Paris, for him there is no difference:

"A great historical act. This is the transformation of the world from a utilitarian or combative object into a spectacle."

Wars and corpses suit him perfectly, allowing him to imagine himself as a spectator in a gigantic theater, interested in the entire event solely as material for his enjoyment. But what is it about the death of a young soldier that is actually enjoyable? Jünger doesn't experience "cheerfulness" simply because a person is dying, but because he sees an immense meaning in that death, a meaning he cannot deny his recognition of. While for any ordinary citizen, the sacrifice of human life is meaningful and therefore justified when it serves the political purposes of their respective state power, Jünger welcomes it from a different perspective. He is fascinated by the fact that power strikes here without hesitation. Its ruthlessness, the perfection with which state power prevails against its opponents, is what compels his admiration. The more direct, bloody, and violent the forms of power enforcement, the more ecstatically enthusiastic Jünger becomes about the "lust for blood." It is not the actual and therefore decisive successes of a state power that enrapture Jünger. West German democracy in the 1980s would certainly have offered him much in that regard. No, Jünger is so enamored with his freedom to reflect on state power in terms of his own aesthetic pleasure that he perceives violence as nothing other than a "matter of style."

How is it that a person whose works are dripping with the "ethos of blood," who "hates democracy like the plague," values democratic politicians like Wehner and Strauss as much as the seating arrangements at the court of Louis XIV and the classification of beetles and herbs into biological systems? He has developed a "penchant for systems of order," meaning that the idea that something is in order excites him, and when the true "order" of all things, the state power upon which this pious abstraction lives, strikes ruthlessly, a disciple judges this fanciful exercise of power solely according to aesthetic categories. The idiocy, celebrated to excess, of getting misty-eyed with enthusiasm in the face of the brutalities of power because of its perfection, is, on the one hand, part of the repertoire of every dutiful subject—the commentary on the recent NATO wars in the Falklands and the Middle East has provided ample illustrative material for this. Ordinary citizens always encounter state power, when it encourages them to "clean up..." or "go hard...", with a fearful respect that contains a vague sense that, as subjects of their rulers, they are by no means their equals. Jünger's achievement, however, lies in having heightened this madness to the point of megalomania: Not only does he like to judge authority like a Baron von Knigge, i.e., he glorifies the ruthlessness of violence as its virtue, but he is also so taken with his own interpretation that violence is a matter of style that his depiction of violence is devoid of any trace of fear. With utter disregard, he elevates the ruthlessness of state power to its virtue and imagines, because he is able to enjoy it so much, that he is miles above actual power. Regarding the British bombing of fascist-occupied Paris, he remarks:

So, in 1944, English bombers arrive, intending to bomb the 'Raphael,' and the disciple is sitting there with a glass of sparkling wine and a strawberry in it. These Englishmen think he's going into the bunker. But they're mistaken. "I'm not playing by those rules... I'm going to the top floor to watch the air raid. And maybe I'll even look through my glass of sparkling wine. Then it's a kind of fraternal drinking with death."

What a man! The English flew to Paris specifically to test Ernst Jünger's resolve with a bombing raid—and he was drinking champagne! With such displays of affectation, Jünger practically demonstrates his pride in being able to enjoy power and war as a spectacle. It's only logical that this man took no pleasure in the Nazis. In his 1939 novel "On the Marble Cliffs," he demonizes the armies of fascism as the crude hordes of a barbaric "head forester," destroying a republic of scholars already spatially detached from the "wooded plains." This book, lauded today as Jünger's "renunciation of fascism," testifies to the disappointment of an elitist "conservative revolutionary" that, instead of the power of the petty democratic minds he so despised, the rabble itself now holds sway. For Jünger, the Pour le Mérite recipient of World War I, for whom war, regardless of its aims, reasons, and results, was a matter of the heart and of education, a figure like Hitler personified precisely the type of "subhuman" the Nazis sought to exterminate. So great was the intellectual warrior Jünger's contempt for the high-ranking corporal that he refused to mention him by name in all three volumes of "Radiations." It was no retrospective embellishment of his own biography when Jünger, who "fraternized" with French writers in occupied Paris, read the Bible and the Talmud, and considered the Jews a highly fascinating people, declared the fascist "Final Solution to the Jewish Question" "immoral and therefore also illogical" in an interview with Der Spiegel. It was precisely from this perspective, during his time in Paris, that he viewed the entire wartime "spectacle" and imagined himself as a more competent director. For an intellectual master race, it is far too tasteless to stoop to the lowlands of real power:

"Nero, he was a man who was born to be an artist; now the poor fellow had to become emperor."

For an artist of Jünger's caliber, who still appreciated the burning of Rome as a grandiose idea, the Second World War appeared as a dilettantish undertaking, its true directors punished with contempt. In the reasoning of the author of "Radiations," "bored" by the daily news from all fronts, real violence appears as a poorly staged production, and the discerning critic increasingly revels in the fact that the lowly figures who commanded it had already done him the favor of disregarding them. With the same detached amusement with which Jünger now registers the award given to him by the Frankfurt city council and the furious protests against it, he then took pleasure in not having received a prize and not having been elected to the Academy of Arts.

"I didn't want to go in there... the whole thing didn't suit me."

The self-styled fascist Jünger was no more suited to real fascism then than he is today to his admirers, who have discovered in him a noble democrat, by professing his allegiance to the existing Federal Republic of Germany. Then as now, a man doesn't need to become a court poet whose central ideas are certainly appreciated at court because and insofar as they are useful. Such a man cannot feel completely at one with any existing state power, because he celebrates poetic masses for power and order in general from a far superior vantage point.

Democracy celebrates a revitalized author

In 1982, this man was awarded the Goethe Prize by democratic politicians who valued him as a poetic advocate of virtues that are still in demand today, and especially now—virtues that were by no means compromised by fascism, but rather that the Nazis supposedly "misused." Because Jünger values ​​the ingredients of power itself, upholds principles of order , and believes that every existing order can be disgraced from their perspective, he arrives at the following judgments about the Federal Republic of Germany:

"Between you and me, we live in a situation where you can basically get away with anything."

Although Jünger here criticizes West German conditions as lacking qualities that would make them palatable to an elitist Westerner —namely, a lack of discipline and order—the prize-givers interpret this sweeping distance from the political arena as a concrete critique of the remnants of a public consciousness in the Republic, which they intend to eradicate once and for all. The above Jünger quote could have come verbatim from Franz-Josef Strauss or from any chancellor of 1982 named Helmut—and therefore it is equally applicable to all three.

That the state does not yet correspond to the image they would like to realize is something every incumbent democrat is happy to hear and passes on to the citizens, and it is convenient that the political slogan of the day is formulated from the heights of the mind in such a "brilliant" and "literarily valuable manner".

"Jünger was a nationalist, not a National Socialist!" That's how Frankfurt's Mayor Wallmann praised the prize winner. One no longer wins a literary prize by lavishing praise on the democratic form of government. The admirer of state power is honored because democrats today place importance on presenting the nation, beyond its democratic form, as a virtue —the unquestioning subordination of all private interests to the aims of state power, as Jünger did .

While fascism staged its own celebration of power with mass rallies and pompous Nazi Party rallies illuminated by anti-aircraft searchlights, democracy allows others to congratulate it on its might. War preparations are nowadays undertaken casually and businesslike as necessary expenses of the "freedom of our global interests"; whatever political and military repairs are required to prepare the war machine are carried out. The corresponding "consciousness-raising" takes place, among other things, through the veneration of poets: the attitudes and character traits necessary for organized killing and dying are publicly and officially honored in the figure of the poet Ernst Jünger and his life's work, and thus recommended for personal emulation. The fact that "nationalist" is no longer a term of abuse is demonstrated by the awarding of prizes; that the mindset thus honored is exemplary is evidenced by the person of the recipient.

With him, what he is supposed to stand for is declared binding . Criticism of Jünger is therefore unacceptable, not least because it constitutes an attack on the current state of democracy. Wallmann:

"The board of trustees did not take the decision lightly and did not decide in the first meeting... Anyone who votes against this award is engaging in a censorship of thought and thus using fascist methods."

Anyone who still objects to Jünger is immediately labeled a potential book burner, and the dogma of democratic tolerance is blatantly presented as a prohibition against criticism. The jurors' only "argument" is that, firstly, they "thought things through," and secondly, that their decision was democratic. Of course, the militantly proclaimed respect for the freedom of poetic thought is blatant hypocrisy coming from people who, on other occasions, have dismissed the nation's poets as mere "dogs": their high regard is reserved for a sentiment they wish to honor in Jünger, and their verdict targets anyone who questions this sentiment, regardless of their arguments.

Green opposition

The awarding of the prize to Jünger has stirred up quite a bit of controversy. The Green opposition in Frankfurt's city parliament, in particular, tried to turn the "Jünger case" into a political scandal, which they saw in the fact that honoring an "ideological forerunner of fascism" makes "misanthropic and anti-democratic ideas socially acceptable again."

"Jünger worked for a reactionary revolution that would destroy democracy, the individual and freedom and build a totalitarian military state."

The Greens are by no means alarmed that the democracy they so highly value recognizes a military and political poet as a worthy champion of its current ideals; thus, they remain unmoved by democracy . Yet, a closer examination of Jünger's true motivations might all too easily reveal to them that an excessive cult of the individual and freedom has fantasized its way to its demise. Blind to the current achievements of democracy, which decrees the freedom of the individual through unconditional support, democracy is defended against supposed false friends. The democratic jurors are told that Jünger is not a good democrat, even as they are clearly stating that democracy places great value on figures like Jünger! The Greens are the only people in the republic who take Jünger's—by now somewhat outdated—ideology of antifascism seriously as the purpose of the state. Democratic politicians, by pointing the finger at fascism, have condemned it as an illegitimate and therefore doomed form of rule, thereby casting democracy in an even more honorable light. The Greens are so enamored with democracy that they fail to notice how easily it can adorn itself with fascist rhetoric. They may believe so strongly in the humane facade of this form of government that they haven't progressed beyond the standpoint of the liberal denazification campaign after World War II. Jünger's lack of commitment to democracy, his deviation from its goals, bothers them. Would he perhaps be a more welcome prize winner if they could have bought into a few of his disavowals of fascism? Not that they are doing him an injustice—but this kind of criticism demonstrates that even alternative thinkers have perfectly mastered the methods with which democrats promote their rule.

They present it, without any argument, as an unquestionable value. As if nothing mattered to them more than keeping alive the delusion of state benevolence in themselves and their fellow human beings , they see the Jünger Prize ceremony as an opportunity to highlight themselves as the most responsible politicians:

"Almost 40 years later (i.e., after World War I), a disturbing insensitivity towards fascist thinking is evident across party lines... Have we reached the point again where cultural politicians in the city council and elsewhere believe that so much water has flowed down the Main River since 1945 that a little militaristic thinking is perfectly acceptable...?"

As if "militaristic thinking " were responsible for the primacy of the military in the state! This is a rehashing of the old, foolish rhetoric about the "intellectual forerunners of fascism," a label often applied to Jünger and other intellectuals of the Weimar Republic (or, even more vehemently, as in Lukács's case, to half of German intellectual life since the time of Schelling!). While it is at least questionable whether Hitler and his followers ever read a single line of Jünger, the complete insensitivity of the masses who placed their faith in fascism to the exquisite intoxication induced by the storm of steel is undeniable, which did not prevent the German people from more or less voluntarily donning the steel helmet. And no one has yet thought to blame the democratic writers Böll, Grass, and company for the current willingness of German citizens to provide their state with all the means for World War III. Civic consciousness needs no intellectual forerunners: it reasoned its own flawed judgments perfectly well on its own. There are reasons for this, which also appear in the realm of ideology, but are not brought into the world by it.

Spontaneous sympathy

The spontaneous activists of the Frankfurt scene find the Greens' grumbling far too radical. The fathers of the "We want everything" dogma have become tame. In the Greens' lament that awarding the prize to Jünger would chip away at the ideological crown of our beautiful democracy, they detect a "pervasive whiff of censorship," because the Greens

"cultural-political tolerance..., (which) protects the much-praised difference and otherness, without which there is neither intellectual nor political freedom",

...which were sorely lacking. Hardly has any criticism surfaced before some autonomous individual in '82 dons the robes of a city official and lectures, just like the Wallmänner, that freedom has its limit in the freedom of those who think differently, even though this tone should sound familiar to them as well. Surely, at the latest on the runway, even the most simple-minded beach scribbler has been taught, or rather beaten into existence, what this democratic imperative is all about: that the 'opinion' of politicians is inviolable and, in cases of doubt, is enforced by force, while the subjects are expected to interpret their intentions as practically irrelevant opinions.

Joschka Fischer is certainly no Walter Wallmann. He doesn't become a champion of democratic tolerance simply because he wields power. He has found his own, entirely autonomous reason to see the merits of this method employed by the state. As a critical thinker, one remains fundamentally opposed to the "consensual shift" that is supposed to be reflected in the award ceremony.

"...should nevertheless grant them all the same opportunities for expression... as in all the other years before. That doesn't mean that one condones it, that one has to celebrate it and remain silent; on the contrary." Because: "Scandals can also be accomplished in other ways, without sawing off the branch on which one is, thank God, sitting."

In Frankfurt, there's a club called Batschkapp, whose cultural activities allow Joschka Fischer to confirm to himself and others that he has so much to criticize about the "conservative shift ." Because criticism is permitted in this country—which, in plain terms, means that the influential people are capable of something quite different—an autonomous grassroots individual uses this to such an extent that, in his eagerness to criticize, he completely forgets all criticism and instead launches into an ode to democracy. Out of sheer concern for protecting the branch he's sitting on from being sawed off, he saws it off himself.

Clearly, this responsibly used autonomy should not be compromised when it comes to discovering acceptable aspects of Jünger:

"Civil societies need a kind of internal war. In this, the means, the struggle, becomes perhaps more important than the goal, the victory of a party's concept of order. The forms of conflict become just as important as the content, because they must express the renunciation of wanting to annihilate the opponent... Upholding certain rules gains as much value as temporary victory. Cultivated violence does not weaken, but rather stabilizes, the civil framework... Cynical readers might conclude that the civil equivalent of Jünger's type is something similar to the Frankfurt Sponti. They might not be entirely wrong, if he still existed."

While the "Frankfurt Sponti" maintains his civility in a supposedly uncivil society, thus becoming an outsider within it, Ernst Jünger discovered, right in the heart of civilization, the allure of shedding all forms of civil life through the exercise of violence and power, and repeatedly reveled in his role as a dropout from the bourgeois consensus: one need only consider his intimate knowledge of the world of drugs! The scene striving for constructive respect, which parades the faded militancy of bygone eras as a quotation in the semi-ironic demonstration of certain affinities between its own extravagances and Jünger's lifestyle, is making a deadly serious reference to Jünger's semi-ironic assertion that rule-breaking has ultimately and always been dedicated to preserving "certain rules."

In this context, Emil Nichtsnutz casually trots out the old social studies teacher ideology that man is a wolf to man, and therefore democratic violence is a means to universal peace. Spontaneously, this reads like this: If the whole world consisted of Spontis engaging in militant dalliances with state power, then the "peacefulness of a society" would be strengthened. Thus, a Frankfurt Sponti also finds common ground with Jünger's fascist eulogies to struggle as the highest virtue: Anyone so content to be the harlequin of everyday democratic life also finds pleasure, conversely, in the fascist pride in the style of power and agrees with Jünger in the lament that

"The modern war scenario" has rendered "soldierly virtues (such as) chivalry, bravery, the willingness to serve a community at the risk of one's own death" irrelevant.

Well, now the spontaneous activists are complaining that the old virtues of war no longer apply and that, therefore, being a soldier isn't much fun anymore !

Objections based on personal taste

Literary criticism is quickly dealt with. Some deem the awarding of the prize justified because Jünger, with his "precise and brilliant linguistic technique," satisfied their aesthetic criteria of taste, and thus approve of what he wrote because of the pleasing nature of his form; Fritz Raddatz, representing others, sets about excommunicating Jünger from the lofty heights of a literary pope:

"Ernst Jünger's books describe blood, but they are bloodless... cold and kitsch..." Regarding a quote in which yet another soldier is described as being torn apart by a grenade: "Gentlemanly prose. However, a strangely bookkeeping tone predominates, no 'storm of steel' vocabulary, but rather - the tinny clang of a cash register... The book (is) permeated with sentimentality instead of feeling... What he has written is not a song, not a ballad of murder and courage, - but rather cutesy notes."

If it has to be blood-and-soil literature, then please let it be one that truly grabs Mr. Raddatz's heart, captivates him, and sweeps him away. From the standpoint of good taste (= FJR), Jünger is measured against his own aspirations and rejected. To want to grandly display himself as a fascist poet and then only manage clumsy clatter—that's what challenges Raddatz to embarrass Jünger's imagined greatness against himself. The cheap disavowal of the content, thus rendered irrelevant, is quickly made:

"...to write a hymn to struggle, hardship, and trial... would be his right. There might then be people (like me) who rejected this credo."

This leads to the truly weighty accusation: "Jünger was a pre-fascist thinker," but one who wrote "bad German," which is why, for me, Raddatz, this man is completely beyond discussion, since he ultimately fails to meet my standards as an aesthete, who demand tasteful and pleasing, pure poetry. If, instead of "coldness and kitsch," aesthetic considerations were wrested from violence in a somewhat more poignant and refined way, perhaps with the influence of Grass and Goethe, then such a critical intellectual soul would apparently be entirely satisfied.