It is not a monologue in which the intellect tests itself against matter and carries itself beyond it — no: the matter answers. The hand shapes the tool, and the tool shapes the hand. A third thing is always present. The call and its echo; neither would be possible without the rock face and the air.

The testimonies that remain — the bones, the shards, the ruins of temples and palaces — offer no more than clues. They resemble snapshots taken in the bustle of a marketplace. Only a single moment of its abundance has survived. And even if these fragments were complete, if they formed an unbroken series of skulls, or the layers of Knossos or Troy, we could merge them only into a rigid mosaic, and however countless the moments might be, they could be animated only into an artificial life. We comb the canyons for the bones of the dinosaurs, the graves for the mummies of kings, we decipher the oldest writings — yet they do not betray to us the secret of time. The knowledge remains fragmentary: bark, anatomy. The urn holds ash; the wine of the amphora has evaporated. This becomes especially clear in the moments when we sense the kinship concealed behind the transformations. Anyone who has ventured into the gamble of history is familiar with that pain.

Stone also answers. There is no form of matter so suited to history as stone; it belongs among its prerequisites. Wherever events became history, it is stone that bears witness above all. Cultures without metals are possible, but none without stone. Stone stands for endurance; it preserves the law. Even ore may be regarded as a kind of stone, a vein within the rock.

Since the earliest days, since the first dawn, stone has answered. The questions posed to it, the tasks demanded of it, are inherited and transformed with the cultures; it serves as hand axe, as cathedral, as repository of uranic energy. It has belonged to the human inventory ever since the first flake was struck from it. Fire, too, has burned on from the beginnings in which it was tended — no matter what dishes were cooked upon it.

With tools, with the hearth, with clothing, human beings appropriated functions that cosmos and nature bestow upon creatures as part of their endowment. The knowledge needed to procure these things is certainly developed and cultivated with labor, yet it first presupposes a new level of understanding.

The extraordinarily long and arduous development of knowledge and the abilities linked to it stands on a different side than the lightning-like flash of insight, yet on the same page. As a comparison, we might imagine ourselves sitting in a dark library that is suddenly illuminated. We now see the walls lined with books, all at once. Let us also assume that we already know how to read letters, just as the hominid knows how to use a club or a hand axe. But the texts are new: manuals for technical or even magical operations; even the rudiments would, in a pinch, require a thousand years of study. Yet they are readable, because light is present.

The lightning had to come first, the dazzling intrusion of light into time. In an instant, one sees and receives — through intuition in the spiritual realm, through conception in the maternal realm. Intueri means: to look at something in a special way, or also (Cicero): to regard with wonder. It presupposes that an object appears to the observer. Concipere means: to receive, to become pregnant, to take in.

Tools, fire, and clothing are obtained and at the same time withdrawn from nature; in the Garden of Eden they were not needed. Need, and with it necessity, began in the moment the fruit of knowledge was touched. That in the beginning there was perfection is a common assumption; among the Greeks the golden age is followed by the silver and the bronze. Their myths, however, attribute the creation of human beings partly to the gods and partly to the Titans. In part they are thus closer to Genesis, in part closer to our science. The creatures of Prometheus are struck by need from the very beginning. They dwell in sunless caves where they drift along in a dreamlike state until their creator and protector steals fire from heaven for them. With that, he incurs guilt; his role is similar to that of the serpent in Genesis.

That need provided the impulse for technological development is one of the standard explanations. But need alone cannot have sufficed to account for the unique character of human existence, because, bound as it is to life itself, it governs the actions not only of human beings but of all creatures. Nature grants them what is necessary of its own accord, yet need persists; it is always redistributed anew. It explains much, but not the special position that humanity has conquered. Certainly there is development here as well, yet some kind of divergence must have preceded it, through which a part of natural history was transformed into intellectual history, and moral aspects began to accompany the mere struggle for existence. With this, a fan unfolded that extended far beyond what was necessary, indeed came into contradiction with it. The granting of the necessary would not have required knowledge. The care for an existence like that “of the lilies of the field” lies within the domain of nature.

If, as we may assume, there were epochs of uniform earth warmth, something like an Amazonian climate, then body warmth must also have been constant. Hibernation, fur, feathers, brooding were unnecessary, as was the complicated apparatus that guarantees birds and mammals their blood warmth independent of external temperature. These were responses of life to harsher conditions of nature; yet they did not go beyond its bounds. They may explain ascents from the inconspicuous and great downfalls like that of the dinosaurs, but not the first fire, the first tool, to say nothing of the first moral doubt.

There is a difference between nature clothing human beings with a pelt and human beings providing themselves with one. Here a gap yawns open between nature and spirit. The study of behavior, especially of primates, can only widen this gap, not fill it. This is the basis of the aversion Goethe and Nietzsche felt toward apes; it resembles the discomfort before a distorted mirror image. It is the same in families: the closer the kinship, the more painfully one becomes aware of what is amiss. This sense of estrangement can be observed everywhere apes are put on display.

Nature has approached spiritualization in other, bolder attempts; puzzlingly, it was precisely here that the spark leapt across, igniting the torch. The subtle speculations tied to this proceed from human anatomy. Upright gait, opposable thumb, the formation of the speech organs—these are all taken from an inexhaustible arsenal and belong among the tools. They may exist without any spiritual performance, as in the idiot, or be at the service of the highest cultivation. And it is equally conceivable that this performance could make use of entirely different organs in order to realize itself. That would still remain within the sphere of technical experience and untouched by the supposition of an absolute spirit that is independent of organs.

It may be true that out of billions of possibilities the species humana came into being and that fortunate coincidences aided the process. Yet this still leaves open the question whether the lottery was fully drawn, and whether it does not contain other, perhaps even better winning numbers. Corresponding to this is the suspicion—indeed the conviction—of human beings that they have drawn a poor lot, the constant lament that accompanies their kind, which already found expression in the Ninetieth Psalm. Hence the longing for completion, which reason hopes for from the future and faith from the beyond.

Stone answers. When it first began to flake into obsidian points and blades, or to nestle into the hand in moss-green polish, spiritualization must already have progressed far. Illnesses announce themselves this way, as do stages of life, such as puberty. They bring new sufferings, new knowledge. What previously appeared as brother and sister deepens in a powerful way. At the same time a loss is felt, heralding itself as suffering, grief, guilt. Origen holds that creation is a precipitation from a higher into a lower state of being.

When a path within nature goes astray, destruction threatens. Life withers or languishes. In the state of knowledge, going astray is felt as guilt; this sense of guilt accompanies, more or less, every Promethean act. It must be atoned for through sacrifice. This is also the question posed today in relation to the environment.

The great dawns are difficult to grasp; the curtain has not yet risen behind which perception moves in different layers. They are more akin to dreams than to day.

In his commentary, Delitzsch describes Genesis as “an inexhausted sea of knowledge,” and one might add: indeed an inexhaustible one. It deserves this because it has always convinced the faithful, inspired artists, given scholars much to ponder, and because, like an abyss into which the intellect scarcely dares approach, it awakens fear and terror.

The vision of a Dante, Michelangelo, Milton, Klopstock, Handel comes closer to the mystery than the problematic that, since antiquity, has repeatedly been brought to Genesis by laymen and theologians, the orthodox and the enlighteners, enthusiasts and eccentrics, philologists, historians, mythologists, and textual critics—each according to the aims and aversions of their time.

Much ingenuity has been devoted to the documentary hypothesis, whose modern founder, Astruc, the personal physician of Louis XIV, entered the history of textual criticism. He was, as Goethe put it, the first to “apply knife and probe to the Pentateuch.” In a treatise published in Brussels in 1753, he sought to demonstrate that Moses composed Genesis out of two main documents, supplemented by ten additional versions.

This documentary hypothesis, which also occupied Herder, was placed alongside the fragment hypothesis, which regarded the Pentateuch as a mosaic of fragments by various authors. The supplementation theory attempts to arrange this diversity chronologically by assuming an original “source” that experienced revisions and additions. This seems all the more plausible since a temporally indeterminable succession of oral traditions must have preceded the fixing of the text in writing.

In contrast, Delitzsch, like Ranke, appeals to the living unity of Scripture. Before its compelling force, dates and orientations grow pale. This is the standard that also determines the relationship between any great work of art and its critics. As everywhere doubt arises, Hamann proves unshakable here as well. In many places, particularly in connection with Revelation, he discusses the relation of origin and science, as in the following:

”Just as all forms of unreason presuppose the existence of reason and its misuse, so must all religions have a relation to the faith in a single independent and living truth, which, like our existence, must be older than our intellect, and therefore cannot be known through the genesis of the latter, but only through a direct revelation of the former.

Because (still used in the sense of ‘while’) our reason draws the material of its concepts merely from the external relations of visible, sensible, unstable things — the ground of religion lies in our entire existence and beyond the spheres of our cognitive powers, which, taken together, constitute the most accidental and abstract modus of our existence. Hence the mythical and poetic vein of all religions, their folly and aggravating appearance in the eyes of a heterogeneous, incompetent, ice-cold, scrawny philosophy, which brazenly ascribes to its educational art the higher purpose of our dominion over the earth.”

In the letters falsely attributed to Pope Clement I, which are especially instructive because of their Gnostic influences, Moses’ authorship of the Pentateuch is denied; the books are said to have been composed five hundred years after him, repeatedly burned, repeatedly edited, and falsified.

These falsifications, though attributed to the devil, were nonetheless sanctioned by God “so that the disposition of men might be revealed.” For everyone finds in Scripture what is appropriate to them and is thus recognized. The cunning of this arrangement is entirely credible in a Master who tends the tree of knowledge and the serpent in his garden. This was a stumbling block for many, which they only imperfectly overcame. Pseudo-Clement seeks to solve the problem by assuming interpolations inserted into the holy texts through satanic guile.

It is more likely, however, that Moses himself produced the contradiction by imperfectly issuing the documents. The “stumbling block” would then have remained in the text as a witness to an older world. The impression of “rumor,” from which we cannot entirely free ourselves even today, would be caused by elements he left intact. Thus colors shine through overpainted images.

Such ideas were especially advanced by the Gnosis, the highly branched movement of early Christianity, which interwove oriental imagery and philosophical—especially Platonic—problems with Scripture. Studying its numerous sects is like walking through a gallery of images; Flaubert spent years on it. Time and again, one encounters the Demiurge, the master craftsman. He works on coarse material, which remains beset with imperfections. Gnostics like Marcion therefore attributed to him the origin of evil.

The Demiurge, then, does not act as the true Lord, but as an intermediary, at best as a steward who does not master the secret of the garden.

It is not surprising that individuals and sects arose who interpreted the Fall as a misstep of the gardener. The freedom granted by the tree of knowledge is difficult to reconcile with perfection. That such ideas arose precisely in the early Christian centuries is no coincidence, for it was then that the innocence once extended to the gods, along with their faults, was lost; this applied not only to Olympus and the hierarchies bordering the Mediterranean, but also to the Lord of the Old Testament.

Through such reinterpretations, the serpent in particular found its justification. Various Gnostic sects took it up. It was venerated in mystery cults—materially as earth and goddess mother, spiritually as a symbol of the world-spirit winding through all physical and dialectical opposites. That it taught humanity the distinction between good and evil, the Ophites praised as an invaluable service.

On the other hand, the terror its image evokes is incomparable; and it is clear that the natural snake must serve as its proxy. Even the harmless snake inspires an inexplicable, profound fear.

Did Moses, besides the documents that reached him by whatever means, also benefit from the general rise of the flood of images that characterized the era? The personal intercourse of gods with humans is peculiar to the mythical age—“Christ, however, is the end” (Hölderlin).

We must regard the Pentateuch, with de Wette, as “the theocratic epic of the Hebrews,” and Yahweh as equal to the Homeric deities. This view is also approached by G. A. H. von Ewald, one of the “Göttingen Seven,” Orientalist and theologian, a congenial figure to Hammer-Purgstall. Already at twenty he published his Composition of Genesis.

“That the divine appears actively and visibly in history is precisely the peculiarity of the Hebrew myth; it is of no use to deny that the Hebrew saga thereby approaches the manner of pagan mythology.”

A breath of the epoch, especially of its manifest force, must have touched Moses. Just as mountains seem closer before a föhn wind, so there are times when images draw near. Yet the otherness—or indeed the uniqueness—of Moses is unmistakable; it sets him apart from the infinite fertility of the worlds of the gods and their mythical retinues, even in late antiquity and contemporary India.

In contrast, what astonishes and terrifies about Moses is the captivating power that denies all contradiction. The law is received on stone tablets in the desolation of Sinai.

The monolithic rigidity is a hallmark of the ancient Orient, already present in the black diorite stele erected by Hammurabi half a millennium before Moses. It reappears in pyramids and obelisks, intensified by a special atmosphere, the impression of a vacuum. It is not a stylistic form, but the transformation of rock, immediately before it begins to speak or to yield water. The purpose is the same: magical stillness during the incantation, tense expectation before the curtain rises.

In lapidary art, there is less a style than a fundamental stage of spiritual evolution. It is expected that the stone will respond from a kind of puppet-like repose. This can happen “late,” as before the Kaaba, or “early,” as in Aztec Mexico. Presumably, the arrival of the “White Gods” there affected the imprint of one of the great civilizations, yet more profoundly undermined its generative power.

The extraordinary aspect of Moses is not so much his power to transcend time as his power to bind it. The staff transforms, and it enchants. The serpent moves and injects venom. It kills in motion, yet whoever lifts their eyes to its image remains unharmed. This enters into the fate of the people: the Red Sea ebbs and flows according to how Moses raises his hand. The sun stands still at Gibeon.

The serpent freezes: “Then he stretched out his hand, and it became a staff in his hand.” This is a true initiation, the triumph over time. The staff will guide through the Red Sea; it will strike water from the rock.

Time can be bound. This does not yet mean the overcoming of death; death is not conquered, it is suspended. Were the Jews no longer a Semitic people, they would long since have been absorbed into the melting pot of the Near East. That they are more than this—that has always been valued by themselves and their enemies. They are not only a Semitic people; they are the Mosaic people.

A great beginning simultaneously sets a significant end; every gain is reflected on the side of loss. The lapidary quality of Moses’ figure is also evident in the fact that with him a standstill is imposed. From the great host of gods, one becomes sovereign: “You shall have no other gods before me.”

If one accepts the idea that Moses benefited from a turning point in time—namely, that in which gods appeared in human form and interacted with heroes—then, on the other hand, one must not overlook his claim to sole rule. By choosing, he limits. The other gods are not yet denied, but they are negated. This signifies the pruning of the infinite abundance of the mythical world to a single eye, a mighty drive.

In this sense, Moses is the first demythologizer, a spirit who began his work with extraordinary force and carried it through, not only against the resistance of foreign peoples but also of his own. The journey to the Promised Land is a story of miracles and relapses.

The relapses: these are the uprising of images against the spirit. One must imagine the presence of images along the Nile Valley as immensely strong. Yet it was not through them that the people relapsed; they were not intrinsic to them. Their idol was not the bull, as venerated in Memphis, but as it was sacred in Ugarit, Tyre and Byblos, Nippur and Babylon.

Aaron knew immediately, when the people demanded a visible god, how it should be formed. Remarkable is Moses’ behavior after discovering the sacrilege: he crushes the Golden Calf into powder, scatters it on water, and gives it to the people to drink. This recalls procedures in modern medicine, for example vaccination: disease is prevented through the administration of traces of its own substance.

If we imagine the power of images and contrast it with the triumph gained over them, this allows a conclusion about the force of the encounter that must have preceded it. It cannot be attributed solely to a progress in abstraction.

Even the patriarchs were familiar with dealings with their Lord. He remained within the bounds of the pastoral life, of which similar accounts are still reported today. Only Jacob’s nocturnal wrestling with the deity at the ford of the Jabbok can be regarded as a preliminary flood. Mosaic is the mighty influx of pneumatic power. It creates the claim and the separation that are experienced as a grievance by foreigners, until Titus disperses the people. As a god among gods, Yahweh was no problem for the Romans, but as the only one, he was.

The peculiarity of the Mosaic law lies in the close connection of pneumatic and spermatic characters; grace and mission remain restricted to the chosen people. Christianity broke through the spermatic barrier, as the dream of Peter concerning the consumption of unclean animals so vividly demonstrates. Thus, on the basis of the Mosaic, a second, Christian demythologization begins, the now worldwide overthrow of gods.

“God himself became a Jew,” said Nietzsche. “Christ, however, is the end”: Hölderlin.

At Sinai, the claim of the Father becomes absolute. Here he is the sole God; elsewhere he appears with a great retinue of gods, heroes, and mythical figures. Like Zeus, and if one were to place an equal alongside Moses, then Heracles. Although vastly different in form, they are epochally related.

Both are thoroughly patriarchal. Both are conquerors of serpents: Heracles already crushes the snakes sent by Hera, daughter of the Earth Mother, against him in the cradle. Both are conquerors of bulls; this is especially evident in the seventh labor of Heracles: the seizure of the favorite bull tended by King Minos in Crete. Both are rams in the astrological sense. Heracles sets out with the crew of the Argo to capture the Golden Fleece in Colchis, where Jason tames the fire-breathing bulls of the volcano.

The “horns” of Moses are said to be due to a translation error: facies cornuta instead of coronata—this may be correct, yet one should not simply assume a gain through error. We also find such echoes in nature and language, although they cannot be justified either historically or spiritually. They connect, as in dreams, without reason, not as stages of development, but as motives of composition. In any case, the horns belong to Moses, and specifically those of the ram, ideally just emerging from the forehead, as art has often depicted them.

“Heracles is like princes.” Just as Moses precedes the prophet and the Messiah, so Heracles precedes kings and the Caesar. Power and knowledge as princely and priestly mandates—these are the two great, widely branching, and often intersecting, yet rarely united veins that myth pours into the historical world. When they run dry, events too must change the meaning in which they were once history.

The course of the word is from the mouth to the ear; it is spoken, heard word. We also hear the word where we use the eye for assistance, as when reading, or the sense of touch, as with Braille. We always read "by detour" through hearing – that is, when we skim over lines and pages, we mentally voice the content. This also applies to ideograms; in countries where pure pictorial writing is used, one can see how the reader silently moves their lips.

That communication could also be possible through other senses is proven by the educational successes with the deaf and mute; Diderot's Discours dedicated to this topic is still worth reading. For Helen Keller, blindness was added – meaning she was entirely dependent on the sense of touch for her education. Even in this, the superiority of this sense over all others is revealed.

Language through pure optics, signaled or sign language, always remains a tool. It is promoted in times of emergency, as well as in periods and spaces where oppression prevails. It is no coincidence that gesturing is so well developed in Sicily. Silent communication carries a demonic character; it contradicts the human norm. In the encounter of armies, there was a tense prelude, during which signals guided the formation. With automatism, the formation and use of signs increases. Many of them signal danger or death. In silent films, extended contexts were to be understood through visions, but they had to be musically accompanied, as the impression of silent events was ghostly.

When we still speak of a language of images, it is a term broadened by extension. Language is the spoken, heard word. Just as the sense of touch is the foundation for all perception, hearing is the foundation for understanding. What we mentally grasp from the impressions of the other senses, we translate into language and thus for the ear.

Reason, as the highest intellectual relation, is what is heard. The formation of this expression is characteristic of the German language; most neighboring languages use ratio as the root. A word of wide scope is the Greek logos; it encompasses in many meanings both objective and subjective reason, spirit as cosmic and as human power.

Agreement prevails where reason governs. For forms of high agreement, images from the acoustic domain are often chosen: the powers act in unison, in concert, in harmony, in accord.

To understand, although coming from different roots, is essentially to hear; "Do you understand me?" means: "Do you hear my voice?" and, more insistently: "Do you hear my word?"

"I hear" is a formula of intellectual presence, as is "J’écoute" in the French telephone language. Correspondingly, the listener, the one who lends us their ear, is in a state of heightened attention. Listeners grant intellectual power. A circle of listeners can be mobilized faster than a readership, based on the fact that with spoken words, the transmission from eye to ear language is eliminated. However, a circle of readers is more reliable and lasts longer. There is not only an inner eye, but also an inner ear, that resonates during reading; both are more incorruptible than the physical organ.

The arrangement from mouth to ear is immediate; it goes back to elemental relations. This becomes apparent when the old orders fall and the cards are reshuffled. For a moment, people become equal to each other. But then, one sees them regroup: they align around the leaders. The power of the speaker is never greater than in areas that have been chaotic or leveled. In every revolution, speech is the primary means. It forms groups in the manner of sound figures; the content is less important than the diction. Already here, limits are placed on egalitarianism. Expropriation must be limited to goods acquired by tradition, meaning through the handover from hand to hand. It remains powerless against elemental means of power. These include eloquence, with its sometimes fantastic influence through diction, that is, the transmission from mouth to ear. In cases of nearly equal possession, some individuals hold immense power.

Reason is connected to hearing, but also to agreement. The rule of reason is based on conviction, much like piety is dependent on faith. Speaking and listening, commanding and obeying, are aligned with each other. In the face of imminent danger, in the circle of the elements, language takes on a commanding tone, as on ships in a storm or in armies in battle. Commands are formulas designed to be executed, not considered. In this sense, the order of commands, the "maneuvers," has an automatic character attached to it.

In this state, the freedom of the individual is abolished, much like how an electrical current directs matter in the atoms. In its place, orders emerge within which movement becomes both instinctive and rational. Elemental life grows with the mechanical. The state, res publica, in which everyone has a voice, transforms into the dictatura, where one only hears the captain, just as on ships. An order purely based on command will never be dispensable in times of crisis. The Romans knew this, but even then, freedom appeared as a mistress because it summoned and dismissed violence as needed. It is the difference between dico and dicto that defines this. Dictare is the intensification of dicere. In this verb lies the strong spell, the formulaic character that language can acquire. The will of the speaker is enhanced by the notion that the listener is forced to write it down, thus immortalizing it. The pactum, the conventum, the agreement, where things are handled, that is, taken care of from hand to hand, contrasts with the dictatum, the command from mouth to ear, given by the master to the obedient. Dictated peace and peace dictated are therefore contradictions in terms; peace is concluded, meaning it is founded on reciprocity, or it is not peace.

Among the arts, music addresses the ear. The name itself already indicates that musical life is primarily felt within it. Of the nine Muses, it is Euterpe who presides over it, especially the art of playing the flute. But one must also place Erato and Terpsichore by her side, the Muses of dance and song, whose images and statues are adorned with the lyre, with Terpsichore’s being seven-stringed and Erato’s a larger, nine-stringed one.

Poetry has much in common with music. Both meet in rhythm, meter, and euphony. Poetry is assigned language, from which music is independent. However, they unite in song. There is also no poet who does not know the wordless foundation of language.

Music and architecture are often compared; architecture has been called "frozen music." This judgment belongs to those that root themselves over time, though upon closer inspection, their necessity is not always apparent. Commonalities in structure, composition, and harmony connect music equally with all other arts. Pure experience teaches, however, that musicality and plastic creativity often meet in a person, and many musicians are also found among doctors. The tertium comparationis lies here in the sense of touch, for one is neither a musician, nor a doctor, nor a sculptor without a sense of touch. There is also abundant evidence for the kinship between painting and poetry, already noted by Simonides – the French, for example, are a nation of painters and writers.

On the other hand, music and metaphysics are twin disciplines. They are both branches of reason, that is, of the sense of the world, which takes the ear as its gateway. The difference lies in the fact that music keeps the eyes closed, while metaphysics opens them, as it depends on insight.

Metaphysics is centered in the conscious, while music is centered in the unconscious world. The former is assigned to the head, although the body "thinks along," while the latter belongs to the whole body. We saw that language, when mentioning the foot, often intends to refer to the whole body, as in "head and foot." In this sense, melody in dance moves the whole body, not just the foot. In lands where dance reaches deep into the primal, one will experience how irresistibly the melody can enchant the people. There, one will also encounter the relationship between rhythm and ecstasy, the connection to the cosmic reason. Here, distinctions melt, and dances accompany the celebrations of war and love, as well as the course of the festive year. This scarcely stirs the surface anymore; priesthoods who danced had already become rare in antiquity, and they only appear as isolated instances in our time.

Just as simple figures always underlie such relationships, here it is the swarm. Swarming time is high time, a festive union of life. Occasionally, on the shores of lakes or in bee gardens, individuals unite into higher forms, into clouds, columns, or circles, and this does not merely mean a summation, but also a new, higher reality. The buzzing of wings, which instrumentalizes these dances, becomes finer and finer, like the vibration of strings that stretch, and the swarm ever more intimately transforms into a large body that rises and falls, pulsating and breathing. The wings are not just organs for elevation and music-making; they are symbols of ecstasy. Often, they are sexual markers; in some species, they are used solely for swarming and are discarded like wedding trains when the flight ends. This loss recalls the falling of petals, which follows pollination.

Finally, attention should be drawn to the musicality of the snake, the creature entirely shaped as a foot. Beautiful, how it, struck by the power of sound, rises and seeks a higher form.

So much for language and the ear. The senses are like the rings in Nathan the Wise – they testify to a sense in their limitations. What we perceive is only a fragment; our reason is small. Admiration, veneration, and the silence of humans have, therefore, always been directed toward the whole, of which their thought can only grasp a part.

After boiling water, it began to rain; we had to seek shelter. The village we turned to was peculiar in that its days were numbered. It had to be abandoned once the construction of the dam was completed. Soon, water would fill barns and pantries; it would rise above the rooftops of houses, above the church tower, even above the graves.

It felt like a sentence had been passed. We saw the peaceful scene, with its imminent end embedded within it—a finality beneath a glassy ceiling; even air to breathe would no longer exist there. Where chickens now scratched, algae and water moss would grow; where swallows circled, fish would stand motionless in the still water.

We had all read Quo Vadis? with enthusiasm; such books fascinate with their perspective: like archaeologists, they lift vibrant life from oblivion. The viewpoint here was similar: we saw a Vineta before its demise.

At the time, we did not know—nor could we, nor were we allowed to know—that the fate of this village held more than just a fleeting episode. Yet perhaps we sensed it. Here, an early symptom heralded imminent and profound changes. Only a few more years, and each of us would walk not just through villages but even through cities and landscapes doomed to destruction sooner or later. And precisely this—the consecration that, foreshadowing transience, both casts a shadow and glorifies—was something we encountered here in everyday life for the first time.

The great flood, alongside the great fire, is one of the forces that execute turning points and end times. Here, we felt its first stirrings. Soon, it would reveal itself in its vast and ever-expanding context—as a geological transformation.

That something exists and will soon cease to exist—perceiving this affects us more intensely, more dreamlike, more painfully in youth. Fate weighed heavier in this small village than it would later before temples and images of gods threatened by the same doom.

In that image, all the characteristics and contrasts of future conflicts were already united; it was as much symbolic as it was symptomatic: down below, the old world with its deep-rooted history; up above, the constructive planning, the mighty accumulation of energy. A new light awoke there—bringing with it new shadows.

It was a Sunday afternoon. Outside, the rain was now falling in heavy strands. The innkeeper sat at the table with her daughter. A few farmers kept her company; they drank their beer and schnapps slowly and would stay until it was time for feeding. After handing over our coats to dry, we joined the group.

At this hour, villages are quiet and drowsy. Fatigue comes with stillness, the hard work of the week still lingers. On the other hand, idleness leads to questions that do not arise in daily life. We had to explain where we came from and where we were headed, and in turn, we learned details about the dam’s construction, the resettlement that was still far off, and the foreign workers. Finally, the conversation turned to more general matters, and one question in particular has stayed with me ever since:

"Do big stones come from small ones, or do small stones come from big ones?"

The innkeeper’s daughter had posed the question, which was then considered long and thoroughly. The farmers not only had practical experience but were also keen observers, and our guide was a secondary school student who could contribute theoretical insights. I no longer recall the details of the discussion, but I do remember its conclusion:

"Most of the time, small stones come from large ones, but sometimes it’s the other way around."

We could have defended this statement before any academy—both claims can be well supported. They describe two ways in which stones can form, though there are others as well.

I am reminded of this early conversation every time my journey takes me from Lugano to Milan. Barely settled in the train compartment, massive layers of Nagelfluh appear to the right. Fluh is an old word for a rock face, appearing in many place names in some variation. The name Nagelfluh was given by the ancients to a rock that looks as if it were studded with nail heads. One could hardly find a better name—like so many others, it attests to the poetic power of early language.

Looking at this rock formation, which forms vast structures, it becomes clear that it is composed of a great many small stones. These stones provided the "raisins" that were cemented together by fine-grained molasse. Despite this mixture, the mass possesses remarkable hardness.

The "nail heads" are polished smooth, undoubtedly rounded by the same forces we still observe today in whirlpools and breaking waves. Each pebble is a sample, broken from the parent rock and worn down by natural forces.

Thus, the sight of Nagelfluh reveals both processes: the large stone, formed through the contribution of many smaller ones, which in turn originated from even larger fragments. The wall was rebuilt from its own ruins.

Once again, this process does not stop at mere formation: at the base of the towering cliffs, we see boulders that have weathered out of the rock. Earthquakes, collapses, and melting ice cause large fractures; frost, heat, and the explosive force of roots contribute as well. And humans also take their share—Nagelfluh is quarried and used as building stone.

This rise and fall, this growth and decay, has captivated anyone interested in the history of the Earth. It is natural to first think of water—its ebb and flow, its pulsing power. We find its rhythm in living things and recognize its shaping force in the inanimate world. Every pebble bears witness to it.

Once we sharpen our awareness of this, we recognize a Neptunian force at work—unceasingly breaking down and dissolving the solid structure of the Earth. And wherever this attack has taken place by purely mechanical means, it has left behind immense quantities of ground-up rock.

The adjective steinreich (literally "stone-rich"), which we use to describe immeasurable wealth, is clearly linked to pebbles—not only because of their inexhaustible abundance but also due to their smooth, polished roundness, often so uniform that they seem as if they had been minted like coins. This connection becomes even clearer in the phrase Kies haben (to have "gravel," meaning to have money), which corresponds to the French avoir de la galette. Le galet—the pebble.

Where mountain valleys widen, we gain our first sense of this wealth. In summer, as the rivers shrink and dry up, their beds glow like pale, stony veins in the sunlight. There rests the supply, sifted and tumbled in the whirlpools. No matter how vast it may seem, it is merely a thin layer. Far and wide, wherever we dig in the lowlands, we encounter gravel banks hidden beneath the topsoil. These form a counterpart to coal seams: here, meltwater from the ice left its mark, while there, the fire of mighty summers did the same.

The grinding process is most vividly displayed at the seashore. Along some coasts, one can walk from sunrise to sunset over pure pebble ground. Often, these expanses spread out widely unless confined by rocky cliffs.

Banks dappled with pools line the Plage des galets near Antibes. Across vast stretches, the pebbles are round and smooth, resembling gray and white imprints. Among them are darker stones, veined with quartz so fine it resembles palm lines.

The pebbles from the red cliffs of nearby Cap Esterel already differ in shape and color. Each type of rock resists the surf in its own way. The smoothing of shale is gentler than that of unlayered stone. Yet none is so hard that the waves fail to shape it. In the Ligurian ravines, marble is rounded into spheres, some granites resemble the speckled eggs of large shorebirds, and even ore fragments that break from steep cliffs acquire a polish no file could ever achieve.

Not only the eye but also the ear perceives these differences—a fine limestone polish echoes the play of the waves with a lighter sound than gravel from ancient rock. The speed of this transformation is evident when we observe familiar objects altered by the sea—for example, the bottom of a bottle, now turned into a green pebble.

Even when the waves barely skim the surface in calm seas, we hear the fine scraping as they turn and pull the stones along. When the surf rises, each crashing wave is followed by a rolling and clattering sound, as if marbles were striking the ground. In rough seas, massive boulders are hurled against reefs and rocky shores like cannon fire. During winter storms, deposits are pushed forward in great masses; collapses and landslides reshape the coastline.

This spectacle seems inexhaustible in its variations, whether we observe it from land, aboard a ship, or from the air as we follow the endless surf lines along the coasts. The pebble we pick up on the beach may have once been part of a mountain peak; its veins can be found again when we shine a mining lamp against the walls of a shaft. It was shaped by great and small but always circular motions—eddies, whirlpools, rolling and tumbling revolutions.

Again and again, these rotations strive to form an oval; when we come across a perfectly round sphere, we see it as an exception. It must have been created in a place where water swirls in a continuous cycle, such as in glacial mills and rock basins.

If we throw our pebble back into the sea, the water will continue its work, breaking it down into sizes we call gravel, then sand, and eventually grinding it to dust.

All these terms describe transitions—from mighty boulders to river sand—phases and forms in which the world of rock appears, metamorphoses in a cosmic mill. We witness how matter is worn away in one place and built up in another. Sand becomes mortar, and mortar turns back into sand. A wall crumbles here, while another rises there. Constant in its essence, stone merely changes form. Forms are mere settings. The essence of stone—the philosopher’s stone—remains untouched.

We walk around this mystery as pilgrims circle the Kaaba in Mecca; we touch it with our hands, yet we do not comprehend it.

That not only do small stones come from large ones, but also large stones from small ones, is vividly demonstrated by Nagelfluh—though in a crude manner, as if a giant had built cyclopean walls from fieldstone and mortar. Here, on an enormous scale, we see a process of formation that is repeated in microscopic structures. This, incidentally, explains why buildings constructed from Nagelfluh may be architecturally sound but not aesthetically pleasing. The impression of titanic labor is disconcerting; the pattern is too coarse.

When the innkeeper’s daughter posed her question back then, she was not referring to this type of formation. The common folk have long believed that stones grow—and in a particular way, by which the Earth's wealth increases. This growth is regarded as akin to that of living things and is scarcely distinguished from it: "The fir tree greens, the ore grows."

Poetic intuition has once again sensed connections that knowledge has since confirmed, refined, and made measurable. The universe is a vast mill, grinding both coarsely and finely—suns and grains of sand alike. A constant supply is always required. Matter must form, layer, harden, settle, and accumulate, tirelessly replenishing what is lost to erosion, keeping pace with its ceaseless assault.
Growth occurs more slowly and imperceptibly than destruction, even though only the smallest, most dramatic part of destruction is visible. This is the nature of things: an oak tree that has steadily added branch upon branch, ring upon ring for a hundred years can fall in an instant. A great empire with a long and glorious history collapses in days of turmoil or in the hours of a single battle.

When we hike early in the Alps, along a limestone wall newly touched by sunlight, we hear the sharp clatter of stones loosened overnight by frost. We do not know the eons during which the rock formed, layered, and was then folded. Fossilized imprints of marine creatures, like the seals of Solomon, bear witness to this ancient past.

To grasp how stones grow, we must descend into the Earth's depths or dive to the ocean floor. There, in hidden chambers, the work is done.

In a cave in the Franconian Jura, I once stood for a long time before a mighty stalagmite, whose age experts estimated at a million years. This accumulation, built from the faintest traces, is striking not only because of the giant it produced but also for what it reveals about its surroundings: the cave that nurtured it must be even older. And in all that time, little must have changed—for the colossus could only form because the drops fell, unchanging, onto the same spot. That single motion disturbed the stillness of the grotto.

The manner in which material diminishes—whether mechanically or chemically, through erosion, fragmentation, dissolution, biological processes, or otherwise—ultimately manifests elsewhere as accumulation: in marine and aeolian sediments, coal seams, deposits, reefs, and countless other formations that build up grain by grain, layer by layer. Just as tree rings reveal the passage of time, certain geological cross-sections and cores display both large and small rhythms of this process.

Above all, the water cycle drives this constant transformation. We have observed the work of waves upon stone. As we approach the mouths of great rivers, we traverse waters stained with the soil of entire continents long before the coastline itself comes into view. From a moderate altitude, the extent of erosion becomes unmistakable: brown, yellow, and red plumes filter through the darker currents, tracing the land’s gradual dissolution.

Equally powerful, though invisible in motion, is the cycle of salt within the Earth’s system. Dissolved from the soil here, it is later precipitated into rock formations elsewhere. Marginal seas condense the excess. No less significant is the contribution of life itself, which possesses a geological force of its own. This process bears a striking resemblance to stalagmite formation: matter is extracted from solution and deposited as structure. That organic and mechanical growth appear so similar suggests an overarching principle at work.

Here, the stone becomes alive, and there, life turns into stone; we can choose, as we hold a seashell in our hand. But we can also reject the decision. For:

Nature has neither core nor shell,
She is all at once.

Vast riches, the water of life, lie hidden in the dead stone. No time will exhaust it.

There are fossilizations that rival the beauty of marble and even crystals, integrating these elements into their structure. In the Alps, for example, ammonites are found within a jasper-like rock. The growth lines are preserved in white quartz; in cross-section, the original design of a turbine is revealed.

Where ores or quartz fill out life forms, formations arise in which the organic harmony is not only preserved but also accentuated and intensified by the mineral’s structure. In these shapes, such as those of corals or five-pointed stars, the symmetry of early divisions still speaks. When they crystallize, the geometric rigor increases, and the eye senses the laws of the numerical world that transcend life and death.

In this lies the true allure of snail shells and mussel shells: visible order radiates from the hidden. It remains a wonder that such a gray, inconspicuous creature can form such great beauty. And this beauty is only its garment.

In well-preserved fossils, we see the sarcophagus, along with the being enclosed within it. Here, the material itself is the artwork, much like the garments in an embroidered tapestry. Like this, such minerals also belong to the splendid adornment. Goethe, for example, had a panel made of Olddorf marble, whose gray base was filled with ammonite upon ammonite. He concluded from its craftsmanship that it had once adorned royal chambers, for as he adds, “it deserved this honor.”

We can already perceive the contribution of life to the layering in our garden. We participate as gardeners. Plants transform into humus and grow out of it. Ephemeral clouds rise from the earth and fall back into it. Throughout all seasons, an army of burrowers works, feeding off the earth and contributing to its nourishment.

The daily and yearly rhythms, in which the skin of the earth renews and transforms, correspond to the vast time spans in which organisms contribute to the framework. Here, a firmer preformation is required, as provided by the protective and supporting parts of animals and plants. But even wood, lime, and silica must undergo special impressions to petrify: infiltration, pressure, chemical influences. These elevate the fleeting formation into a different order of time. It is still subject to change, but now, having become "stone old," it participates in the becoming and perishing of the stony realm.

Everything we call history is heavily dependent on stone. This applies to the history of the Earth, nature, and the world in the broadest sense, including the formation of the planet, the emergence of plants and animals, and the development of humans, including their prehistory and history up to the present.

Just as we only know the creatures of the past through fossils, we know far more about the lost civilizations that worked with stone than about those who built with wood. Stone temples, stone graves, and tablets of law.

It is not so much the material itself that creates historical peoples, but the sense of time associated with it, which, not coincidentally, chose stone to immortalize itself with and in it. This awareness has a documenting power; it sets landmarks, like obelisks, by which the past can be measured. What we know, not in mythical but in historical terms, about the Germans, we owe to Roman records.

With the weapon and tool made of stone, humanity begins its separation from the narrower natural world, and with the carving or painting of rocks, it astonishingly begins its art. Had the caves and grottos, where, as in temples and churches, a slower passage of time reigns, not handed down their testimonies to us, we would know nothing about these ancestors.

Organs that particularly withstand the wear and tear of time during their life are predestined for fossilization. They are already like stone, yet not fossilized, and for many discoveries, it is almost impossible to determine whether they belong to fossiliferous layers or the present day. This is especially true for species that appeared early in nature and have changed little until today. I once saw, near Porto Torres, that the shells of heart cockles were partly washed out from ancient breccia and partly brought up from the depths. Indistinguishably, species from two geological ages mixed on the shore.

Among the hardest of organs are teeth; it is no coincidence that we speak of the "tooth of time." Fossilized ivory is nearly as easy to work with as today's. Wrangell mentions in his travel reports Siberian hills filled with mammoth bones and teeth. The arrowhead-shaped teeth of large sharks are as hard as glass; vast areas of the deep sea are strewn with them. Perhaps they will be found again in the molasses of future mountain ranges.

It is impossible to predict how many ages it will take for such accumulations of traces to become significant. This touches upon cosmic proportions. Saint-Exupéry describes landing on a never-before-trodden rock plateau, where, over millions of years, meteor impacts formed patterns.

An invisible snow falls into the deep sea: the flakes are even more beautiful and diverse than those we observe in our winter: the shells of plants and animals, whose finest structures we have only recently come to know, stand as artworks that withstand every refinement of our optics. Where such formations pile up into mountains, the Earth seems to transform into pure treasure ground—we sense a wonderful force down to the monad.

Even in a geological sense, the large accumulations are ancient—stone age-like. Coral islands rise from the deep sea. Since corals only thrive at a narrow level, the seafloor must have sunk over millennia. Darwin’s theories on this remain valid even today.

Once again, the ground can rise high above sea level—coral reefs can be found here in Swabia; in Sinai, I passed through a desert that was littered with coral blocks.

The rough break is already managed by the surf at the atoll. The wind also plays its part, returning the unsorted coral sand to the ocean.

Why is it that, of the four elements, water seems the closest, the most familiar to stone? They are not related, like stone and earth; they are distant, yet they complement each other in a special way. The water in the clay pitcher, in the marble fountain, in the rocky streambed, at the island and mainland coasts: here, two beings seem to be shaped in form and content for one another. Two times may also be at work. Youth and age measure their forces; the water transforms, while the stone endures.

Things change when fire is brought into the equation. For the Neptunist, whose view focuses on constant growth and layering, this becomes unsettling. We see him cling to his theories even when they contradict appearance—such as in the persistent debate over basalt.

In such disputes, like those found in the Xenien, there is more at stake than just theories; they reflect the struggle of the elements themselves. This wrestling should be viewed similarly; it belongs, to quote Helmut Hölder, to the fate of knowledge, just as basalt belongs to the fate of the Earth.

Early on, humans took refuge in caves and grottoes; they found not only physical security there. Even today, in times of great danger, they seek shelter in the earth, and still today, they venerate in underground vaults, Byzantine crypts, and Far Eastern rock temples.

In shafts, mines, and tunnels, man ventured much later—seeking ores and gemstones, then salt, and finally coal and all kinds of minerals. It is likely that when a deposit appeared, he followed it and dug, burrowed, and later, once knowledgeable, deduced hidden veins from surface signs. The miner was considered one of the learned, also one of the revenants; in legends, he appears as the successor of the subterranean beings, the elves, dwarfs, goblins, and earth spirits.

We enter his realm when we follow E. T. A. Hoffmann into his “Bergwerke zu Falun” (Mines of Falun). This novella is masterful in more ways than one; we may also view it as one of the great documents of volcanicist sentiment or, even better, volcanic temperament. Hoffmann, an electric, crackling spirit with a sanguine character, reveals himself here as a true Salamander. His protagonist, Elis Froebom, a sailor on an East India trader, is not born for the sea; the ocean fills him with aversion. The earth spirit, in the form of an old miner, allows him to glimpse the beauty and horror of the underworld; Elis quits his job and becomes a miner at the great pit of Falun.

Hoffmann’s description of the crevices leading from the mouth of the day into the ore mine belongs more to geomancy than to geognosy. One will find similar themes less among geologists than among the Romantics—such as in “Le Centaure” by Maurice de Guérin or in the “Mergelgrube” by Droste-Hülshoff, works in which the rock begins to live.

Here, poetry has both the first and the last word: this is something both Romantics and Classicists agree on, and there is evidence for it. For instance, Goethe speaks about the "Higher Chemistry of the Elementary" in 1826:

"When one speaks of primal beginnings, one should speak in a primal manner, that is, poetically; for what our everyday language affords—experience, understanding, judgment—does not suffice. When I delved into these desolate rock clefts, it was the first time I envied the poets."

This passage is thought-provoking because it raises the question: how can a prince of poets envy the poets themselves? We may interpret this as referring to Orpheus, who achieves the unspeakable and the unreachable. But just as the stone does not reveal its final secret, the word, too, must fail: it does not penetrate the innermost essence of nature.

This interpretation is supported by statements where Goethe deals with the shaping of the earth's crust, as seen in the Maximen und Reflexionen (Maxims and Reflections):

"Stones are silent teachers; they render the observer silent, and the best one can learn from them is not to share it."

In Neptunism and Plutonism, as mentioned, not only geological opinions meet. With them, deep currents of the human soul surface. The debate over water or fire brings into play classical and romantic temperaments, evolutionary and revolutionary tendencies, political and national inclinations. Goethe had to view the world of rocks with different eyes than Hoffmann. In France, Neptunism could not convince, while in Germany, long after the death of Surveyor General Werner, stubborn retreats were fought. The way in which Goethe not only fought for basalt but also for granite is admirable. We will see that something more than mere obstinacy is hidden within this.

Neptunism has long been considered overcome, yet what emerged from the undifferentiated mass and solidified into belief will always remain. This flows through the elements. Just as in human nature, the characters remain while knowledge changes, so too is the stone harder than anything that can be thought about it.

Today, we know more about granite, but nothing more valid than in Goethe's time. Much could be said about this, but it suffices to quote the judgment of a modern geologist who dealt with the question of granite formation. In 1955, he said: "We should not assume that every granite we examine requires a statement about its origin. Today, most granites are probably of indeterminate nature. From a psychological standpoint, we must learn to live under somewhat schizophrenic conditions, so that a premature decision does not lead us into even greater blindness. What is strange is not the current disagreements among petrographers about the origin of granite, but that we are able to cling so passionately and rigidly to opinions that exclude each other."

Thus spoke the American Walton. This judgment applies not only to the world of rocks; it touches the human tragedy as a whole. It deserves attention in that it also signals a critique of positivism, from a standpoint that was barely imaginable less than a human lifetime ago.

Just as my sight of the conglomerate at the Milan stretch always brings to mind the early discussions about the growth of stones, so my walks at the southern tip of Sardinia every time remind me of these ancient disputes, and especially of Goethe’s famous treatise of 1784 Über den Granit ("On Granite").

Down there, at Capo Carbonaro, is a true granite paradise. Multicolored varieties were quarried on the slopes and shipped around the world for the construction of roads, docks, dams, and fortifications. There are still dedicated ports for shipping the stone near the quarries, though plastic has reduced the demand. Locally, the stone is still used; it even replaces wood in some cases, much like in Ticino—such as for fencing or supporting vines in vineyards. Since I not only visited the granite workers during their labor but also stayed with them, I learned a lot about the stone. Many of them had earned their bread as masons and stonecutters in many Mediterranean ports. Some had even worked in Aswan and, around the turn of the century, on the Nile dam. They were also familiar with the famous rose granite from the area, which has been quarried since the time of the Pharaohs. It can be used as a gem for a signet ring or as a pillar for a palace.

I also heard from them that the best types of granite can be split in three directions, and it takes much experience to determine the most favorable one. Goethe would surely have listened to this with particular pleasure, as any news that confirmed the law of the amorphous. This inclination also lies behind his opinion that not only gravity, but another force, which he calls the "side stroke," acted in the primeval sea. This points to granite.

It is also said regarding the origins: "We must think of all the elemental forces more energetically, with higher chemistry and stronger attraction of the Earth."

Such a statement should not be confined to force and material; it belongs more to poetry than to geology, more to being than to history, and leads to an ever-valid harmony.

The fact that there are granites and granite varieties is made clear step by step there. In some places along the shore, one can see it transformed into coarse gravel, and right after that, at Porto Giunco, it appears as a hard, greenish rock. If you continue from there toward Torre Vecchio or climb Monte Mereo, you cross large banks where the grain is so loosely fitted that your step becomes unsteady. As if a mighty net had been cast over these areas, these surfaces are divided by white quartz streaks.

Unconsciously, our thoughts turn to the nature and origin of this diversity, whether it pertains to large-scale form, that is, the mountain, or to something smaller, a hand-held piece. Everywhere there are traces of the sea, but also nearby, volcanic lava flows and scorched clay beds.

How do we separate the basic substance from its metamorphoses, the true granites from the pseudogranites or granitized formations? Was the primordial fire active here, or did later fires melt already solidified rock? Did fire come again and again, like the tide after ebb, or, later, in gentler alternations, heat after the ice ages? What are the differences between half-cooked and well-cooked, slowly and quickly cooled rock? What was created through direct or nearby magmatic forces, and what through layering and stratification, the impact of giant meteors, or by the movement of rigid masses, pressure, uplift and subsidence, tension, compression and torsion, accumulation, or any other mechanism? Finally, when and how did chemical influences accompany the transformation of forms?

If we now turn to geologists with such questions, we will find them equipped with more extensive material than their predecessors two hundred years ago, yet they will still be even less inclined to make a decisive determination. As Wegmann noted in 1935: "The strict separation between magmatic and non-magmatic rocks ceases as one goes deeper."

Such a judgment not only raises questions in geological terms but also in cosmogonical ones; it touches on theories that seemed as solid as mountains, and it is based on facts. Isotope geologists claim to have discovered the oldest rock on Earth on the St. Paul's Rock, an island rising from the middle of the Atlantic. The fact that its composition resembles that of meteorites supports the speculation that the Earth might have formed "by cold means." This would not so much disprove the plutonic arguments as lead to a new instance. We must come to terms with the fact that, in the old dispute over the "primordial sea" or the "primordial fire," not logical but indivisible and recurring figures appeared, which we would now call "archetypal"; and within time, the recurring is stronger than the final. Every "last word" is a penultimate one.

If something truly new is emerging in this field today, it lies rather in the perception of the extent to which psychic forces contribute to the formation of theories. For our journey through the world of rocks, the conviction that all four elements, regardless of the extent and order in which they operated, were active in their formation and continue to be so, is sufficient.

With Hoffmann, we enter the telluric workshop, where the rock becomes alive, where it begins to stir and transform under the weight of the vault. There is danger, but there also rest and grow the treasures for blacksmiths and goldsmiths: ores and gemstones. Power and wealth, jewelry and knowledge, the Earth holds them ready for its sons and daughters. As ore, the stone appears in a higher potency. Following the stone blades and axes, weapons of bronze, iron, and steel emerge, ever more powerful. Already Lamech, who is regarded as the inventor of the sword, boasts that while Cain should be avenged sevenfold, he, Lamech, should be avenged seventy-seven times.

Whoever descends into the depths to find something always has to pay a price. Even Odin must give an eye as an entrance fee before he can draw from Mimir's well. Elis Froebom also wanders through barren rock and deaf passages before he dedicates himself to the Earth spirit. But then, the scales fall from his eyes, and he sees the wealth of matter glowing:

"How it was, as he saw the trapway in the deepest depths clearly and distinctly, so that he could recognize its strips and falls. But as he focused his gaze more and more on the marvelous vein in the rock, it was as if a blinding light passed through the entire shaft, and its walls became transparent like the purest crystal. He saw the virgins, he beheld the noble face of the mighty queen."

Every Plutonist is particularly a Vulkanist: the existence of volcanoes confirms and strengthens his theory. In them, the Earth's fire reveals itself, which would otherwise only be suspected, whether through speculation or in the face of the slag from archaic world fires. This fire, however, must be imagined differently and more powerfully than the visible flame through which it merges with the atmosphere.

Volcanoes point to cosmic affinities. In them, the Earth is typical of the stars or groups of stars in general. We observe with our telescopes solar eruptions, craters on the moon; and since astronomy accompanies the explosive development of physics, new and more precise insights are forthcoming.

However, we still know little about volcanoes, not even about the rhythm of their activity. It would seem logical to compare them to a fire that gradually dies out. Yet, this is contradicted not only by our historical experience but also by the findings in the Earth's crust. The Vesuvio was considered extinct before the eruption described by Pliny, and even in our time, terrifying eruptions like those of Mount Pelée and Krakatoa, which claimed tens of thousands of lives, occurred.

All observers agree that the sight of an active volcano is one of the greatest spectacles. The titanic unfolding reaches a scale that is otherwise not perceptible in our era. It evokes both admiration and fear, sometimes accompanied by disgust. Goethe, when describing his second ascent of Mount Vesuvius, calls the mountain a "monster" that "not content with being ugly, also wanted to be dangerous." Even more drastic descriptions can be found in Weininger's letters from Syracuse about Mount Etna.

Indeed, foreign and even eerie signs affect us in a volcanic landscape. This is true even in places where the Earth has long since settled into calm. On volcanic islands, black sand lines the coast, as on the Azores, and the rocks have razor-sharp edges, as on the Galapagos. Closer to the fire are the hot springs, geysers, solfataras, and soil from which sulfurous fumes rise. Eyewitnesses report fire bursts splitting the mountain, lava flows boiling the sea, the emission of glowing gases that, like at Mount Pelée, burned the inhabitants of a town, or ash clouds that suffocated and buried them.

La Bruyère, in his Characters, says: "When the people are in motion, one cannot understand how peace could return, and when they are peaceful, one cannot see how it might cease." This is something the people have in common with the Earth. A volcano in the midst of a peaceful landscape always invites reflection, like a frozen beacon.

When we walk through the streets of the resurrected Pompeii on a beautiful morning, before the crowds of visitors arrive, our gaze often drifts over the walls where lizards bask in the sun, falling upon the grim cone rising from the sky. Here, both earth and world history coexist in the same frame, in the same image. Just as the skull reminds the monk in his cell, the burnt hill in the fertile land not only recalls the fate of cities and peoples but also the processes of becoming and passing away in general. The stone bears witness: here finely hewn in the building, there unseparated in the element. It is the true medium of history, whether we apply the word to humans, to living nature, or to the Earth itself.

Whether we observe a temple column, the imprint of an extinct animal, or a piece of granite: they all speak of events and history, and of the triumph of time. Eventually, the clock hands will fall, and the stone, whether in water or fire, will dissolve.

The artist sees this: so does Hokusai, for it is no coincidence that the two great motifs of this master—the sacred mountain of his homeland and the wave of life—resemble each other strangely, even in the snow on the peak and the foam of the wave. This means seeing through time.

Being, or as Goethe called it, the "inner nature," always remains distant; it is always just as near. The miracle is not at the beginning; it hides within time. This is also true for the stone.

To make definitive statements about the stone seems more difficult than ever today. Knowledge provides new answers to old questions, but it also brings new problems. With the change in our intellectual standpoint, the material itself alters its statements.

As we conclude our journey through the world of rocks and look back at the classical debate among geologists, it seems that all the conditions for an extreme Plutonism, even Vulkanism, are in place. This belongs to the Uranian era. The pebble we pick up from the shore has lost its contour; we now hold a dense bundle, a collection of energies in our hand. With this perspective, which, incidentally, we do not owe to our instruments, we enter into another scale of magnitude. In the new construction of the world, the elements must also be re-conceived.

Where there is stone today, water or fire may be tomorrow. In the stone itself flows infinite power. This has been known since ancient times—even when Moses struck the rock in the desert to bring forth water. Yet, with each great shift, the insight into the depth of the universe surprises us anew, an expanse no thought can fathom.

In every language, there is a treasure of words that define its essence. Poetry lives from these words. Like the ringing of a bell, they evoke a resonance in the human spirit. One such word is "tree."

The tree is one of the great symbols of life, perhaps the greatest. Throughout time, it has been admired, honored, and even revered by people and nations. Its height and depth, centuries-old age, majestic, sheltering growth, all appeared venerable.

Persian kings adorned old plane trees with golden chains and assigned caretakers to their service. In ancient oaks, the Germanic peoples worshipped the All-Father, viewing the universe as an ash tree. From the crowns of the winter oak, the druids cut the mistletoe leaves with a golden sickle to crown the horns of white bulls; the yew tree, as the tree of the dead, shielded the graves of Celtic cemeteries. In the rustling of the sacred grove of Dodona, the priestesses heard the voice and counsel of Zeus, the supreme god. They praised him as they circled around:

"Zeus was, Zeus is, Zeus will be, O mighty Zeus, you!"

Even today, in a world stripped of its gods, we feel a sense of awe when we hear the wind's coming and going in the forest, sometimes barely rustling the leaves, and then playing upon the tall trunks as though on the strings of a weather harp. Something ancient and long forgotten awakens in us, touched even more deeply than by the sound of an organ.

Above the treetops, the coming and going drifts

like a breath drawing in and swelling full and roaring,

and moves on –

and becomes still –

and rushes.

So wrote Peter Hille, a homeless and long-forgotten poet who often sought refuge in the forest, the "mossy dreamer." Like many before and after him, he sought comfort and freedom in the woods during his life. Brother Human has often left us, but Brother Tree never has.

What was it that comforted us in this rustling? In vain we try to recall the consolation, when "over all the hilltops" there is peace and the song is silenced. We search in vain in the bright light to interpret the dream; we do not find the solution. We must descend again into the night — it waits for us there. The poet senses it:

"Wait a while: soon
you too will rest."

Does the tree belong to the paternal or maternal world? This cannot be answered in a single sentence. Just as we attribute height to the father, we may attribute depth to the mother. Beneath the crown, we find shelter, but in the network of roots, we find security. The branches spread like arms reaching towards the sky, while the roots take hold in the earth.

To the eye, what breathes in the light is visible, while what feeds on the earth’s juices remains hidden. Yet it is the power of the same being, gaining height here and depth there. What we see in the height and what the depth conceals both stem from one point and share the day and night like image and reflection.

Image and reflection seek to reveal a miracle in their unfolding; they point to a being that defines dimensions. When we walk through the forest, when we contemplate an old tree, there is always a third presence that unites image and eye, height and depth.

Since ancient times, humans have taken the tree as a model when reflecting on their coming and going. When remembering those who came before, we descend in spirit to the roots. There dwell the ancestors, whose image soon fades into myth and then into humus. Where the fathers and ancestors are honored, so too is the tree nurtured.

When a person sees the light, a new eye opens on the tree of life. Many came before him, resting in the earth, and many will strive for the light after him. Soon, he too will join the ancestors, becoming an ancestor and progenitor himself, for the life of the individual is short, as the Psalms lament; it is like grass mowed in the evening or a grain of sand that falls through the hourglass. Yet in him, the family tree and the genealogy intersect as roots and branches of the great lineage that fades into the darkness of time.

The tree of life, like the hourglass, is a symbol of time intersecting with the timeless—there lies the waist, the root collar. That is the point we call the moment; we see the past spreading below and the future above.

In the tree, we admire the power of the archetype. We sense that not only life but the universe expands in time and space according to this pattern. It repeats itself wherever we look, down to the design of the smallest leaf, down to the lines on the hand. Rivers follow this model as they flow from the watershed to the sea, as do the currents of blood in light and dark veins, crystals in fissures, and corals in the reef.

In the archetype, the incomprehensible is intuited, which unfolds in appearance. The moment holds and conceals the eternal, much like the material axis of the wheel hides the mathematical one. The abundance of time is nourished by the timeless, and change is fed by the motionless. Thus, the unfolding of even the smallest seed is ultimately organized around something without dimension—not around a spermic, but a pneumatic point. Only from this point do up and down, right and left, network and branch, life and death arise. This is a miracle that can only be grasped through analogy, like the parable of the mustard seed.

The tree as an archetype appears not only as the tree of life but also as the world tree. We see it in all elements: in stone, in the river, in fire, and even in the starry sky.

It is therefore not surprising that, in the plant world, the tree does not represent a crown achieved through long and arduous ascent. Humanity, perhaps all too humanly, is seen as the pinnacle and crown of the living world.

No, many species aspire to the tree and represent it in their own way. The oak, the pine, the dragon tree, the eucalyptus are "trees in themselves"; they are trees by essence, not by species, more related in spirit than in blood. Essentially, every plant contains the potential to become a tree. Even in the mushroom, which sprouts overnight from the mycelium, the principle is embodied. Plant families that we only know as herbs, like ferns and horsetails, produce or once produced trees and forests in other regions or times. Grasses like the papyrus reed can easily be imagined as trees. Some woody plants, such as lilacs and pussy willows, grow as either shrubs or trees. In a garden near Jericho this spring, I was surprised by the sight of a large tree cascading with violet blossoms. It was a bougainvillea, which I had only known as a climbing plant. Furthermore, in deserts, mountains, or the far north, trees shrink into bush or dwarf forms, as our birch does in the Lapland bogs. Finally, gardeners can transform shrubs into trees by pruning the side shoots, or conversely, turn trees into shrubs by trimming their tops.

If we still maintain a clear concept of a tree despite all this, it is because our imagination aligns with nature. Our idea of a tree is closely tied to what the ancients called physiognomy. We see the tree as a form in which nature gains individuality or, better yet, personality; its growth testifies to life in a higher sense than the purely vegetative or even zoological. With this, the perception of dignity and the reverence it commands immediately arise.

Botanists continued to distinguish trees and shrubs from herbs and perennials until the end of the 17th century. It was only the keen insight of Linnaeus that, like many other distinctions, recognized this separation as insignificant. In neither his natural nor artificial system did he acknowledge tree growth as a defining characteristic of a species.

This does not affect the physiognomic distinction. We instinctively know what to recognize as a tree and what not. The tiny pine, which the Japanese cultivates in a dish from ancestor to grandchild, is a tree—yet the towering shaft in the bamboo thicket is not. The Italian poplar is a tree, even though it divides into multiple branches at ground level, like flames from a fire. Even where the tree doubles or multiplies above the root collar, it maintains its individuality in contrast to the shrub. We refer to its trunks as twins or brothers. Such formations are well-known in every landscape. Just as certain waterfalls are known as "The Seven Sisters," trees in forests or fields are often famous as "The Seven Brothers."

The question of the ideal form of a tree yields as many answers as there are trees in the forest. Psychology has made this one of its games. However, it would be better here, as with any physiognomic judgment, to speak of characterology, for the question of one's chosen tree is essentially a question of its inner growth and nature. The person chooses their totem image.

Here, too, it is possible to miss the forest for the trees. There is no ideal form of the tree; every species carries its own ideality within. If this were not the case, there would be no style in art. The human tendency and preference for certain plants and animals reveals a deeper statement than art itself—unless one sees art as the statement through which humanity represents its being. The essence of art remains anonymous. Whether one chooses height, depth, youth, age, grace, dignity, defiance, or sorrow; whether they are drawn to the crown, the canopy, the bouquet, the lance, the dome, or the pyramid; whether they choose the towering poplar, the alder by the swamp, the pine in the barren sand, the weeping ash, or the oak struck by lightning—all remain symbolic statements that reach down to the undifferentiated. There, the chorus of voices unites into the great echo of "That is you."

There are monoecious and dioecious trees: those that bear both male and female flowers simultaneously, like the alder and the chestnut, and others where the sexes are divided between the trees, so that one can speak of male and female individuals.

In the date palm, there is even a kind of individual affection. A female palm will long for a specific male palm and begin to wither, even though other male palms may be closer to her. The Arabs, who are as familiar with this tree as they are with their horses and camels, will not only hang male flower clusters carrying ripe pollen on the female palms but will often connect both trunks with a rope.

In addition to male and female flowers, nature also knows hermaphroditic flowers, and all these forms are combined and separated in various ways in the tree world. Botanists therefore distinguish several sexual variations from hermaphroditism to polygamy.

This is noteworthy as a reminder that gender belongs to secondary determinations and not to fundamental characteristics, as is confirmed not only by graphology and astrology but also by genetics. The tree, as such, is rooted deeper; it bears genders but is not itself gendered.

For this reason, no conclusive arguments can be drawn from the fact that the tree is masculine in some languages and feminine in others. While this is not entirely coincidental, much like the gender assigned to the sun or the moon, it reflects the people's expression of their nature, similar to how an individual chooses the ideal form of a tree. The assignment of gender in transitioning from one language to another is also revealing. For instance, images arbor becomes images arbre; this is particularly remarkable given the close relationship between the two words, and the fact that the Romans perceived the feminine aspect of the tree so strongly that they extended it even to species whose names ended in the masculine form.

Whoever thinks of the tree must not only consider the roots but also the forest. The forest is an extension of the tree; thus, one can imagine a tree without a forest, but not a forest without trees.

However, the forest is not just a mere multiplication or simple gathering of trees; it changes the form and life of the individuals. While composed of trees, it in turn influences their development. The selection process becomes more rigorous, as it does in the wild; particularly in primeval and mixed forests, species struggle for space and light. For every thousand pollen grains, only one fertilizes, and for every thousand seeds, only one becomes a tree, and even that one remains threatened for a long time. In the dense fir forest, one might sometimes come across a young beech tree, which, having grown tall, bends its crown down to the ground. The image recalls a youth, a student, who has been overwhelmed.

On the other hand, the forest also provides safety. The crowns unite to form a canopy, which, although allowing rain to pass through, protects the ground from the sun. The trunks lose their side branches and grow straight upwards. This influences the overall appearance. For instance, a freestanding beech tree forms its crown close to the ground, whereas in a beech forest, the branches only begin to spread at a great height, resembling the pointed arches of Gothic columns reaching towards the leafy roof. Only the trees at the forest's edge extend their branches outward, down to the ground, forming a barrier alongside hedges against the wind, which sweeps over forests like it does over domes. Some forest islands, especially in the tropics, resemble a mighty tree themselves.

The forest thrives, giving back to the earth more than it takes. Year after year, blooming, it sheds leaves, branches, and eventually even trunks, weaving them into the humus where the heat of immense summers is stored. We still warm ourselves by the abundance of forests whose splendor no human eye has ever seen.

Only rarely does the forest's generosity concentrate in a single species, as with the Andean llama or the breadfruit tree of the South Seas, in such a way that the peoples sharing their homeland with these trees are nearly relieved of life's burdens. This reminds one of Hesiod's Golden Age, when the work of a single day sufficed to meet the needs of an entire year.

It is said that three breadfruit trees are enough to feed and clothe a family year-round, not to mention providing timber for huts, boats, and tools. There are other trees, like the date palm and the coconut palm, that make deserts and islands habitable, and still others without which entire lands and coasts would be impoverished — not for nothing was the olive tree considered a gift from the gods.

Yet more than the wealth and abundance of fruits, under which the branches bend, more than the gifts of wine, bread, sugar, and oil from the trees, humanity owes to the quiet growth that year after year, ring by ring, forms the tree's trunk. In wood, the protective and sheltering qualities of the tree are most openly revealed.

It is sometimes said that a "Wood Age" preceded the Stone Age. However, it is difficult to make such a distinction, for once the inventive spirit awoke in humans, everything had to become a tool to meet their needs: branches, pebbles, bones, horns, seashells, and fish bones. Wood and stone were early combined into simple tools, often with wood taking the leading role and stone providing the harder, more durable function. We can see this in the spears, arrows, axes, and knives of those early times. This pattern repeats in larger constructions, such as timber-framed buildings, where wood forms the framework and stone serves as the filling.

Just as animals clothe humans with their fur and wool, so wood not only warms us with fire but also envelops us with a protective covering. It serves as tables, boats, beds—where people rest, are conceived, born, and die—as cradles, and finally as coffins.

Even today, we feel truly "sheltered" in wood, whether in a paneled room with its old furniture or in the far north, where houses are still built from wood in the winter nights. Only there do we truly grasp the life of wood, its forest and tree spirit, its sylvan magic, which even the axe cannot destroy. It awakens in the fireplace, where the rings of the wood peel away like the pages of a nameless book above the glowing embers. At such moments, human memory reaches deep into the realm of the barely comprehensible, the undifferentiated.

Along the coasts and in the mountains of the forest-rich north, in its boathouses and alpine huts, memories also awaken of times when humans did not yet know how to cut wood and used fire to shape it instead. In those days, there were neither boards nor veneers, only the unsawn and unplaned trunk, used for blockhouses, dugout canoes, or coffins.

Wood weathers, but it does not lose its vital, giving force. For many, it seems more fitting as a final garment, a last covering, than the stone sarcophagus. In the phrase "Nos habebit humus" ("The earth will have us"), the trace of the human being is lost in a more anonymous and comforting way.

Yet, something imperishable remains. In ancient times, the coffin was called bara, a bier. The word is double-edged, as it not only refers to something that is carried but also to something that carries and bears. For this reason, among various distant peoples, the coffin was seen as a boat, a vessel for the cosmic journey.

In isolation, individuality stands out. If one wishes to admire a tree and its growth, like the Jupiter oak in the forest of Fontainebleau, one must allow it space.

In nature, all transitions from dense to less dense formations can be found—from the impenetrable primeval forest to the open grove, the forests of river plains, dry steppes, prairies, and savannas, to the scattered copses of the foothill regions, as described by Felix von Hornstein in his work on our forests and their history.

Perhaps the tree achieves its most beautiful effect among its kind in the sunlit clearings, where centuries-old stands have been preserved. There, the forest rises to a new power, uniting old experience and triumph. A sense of space- and time-conquering strength becomes palpable, much like in a senate or an assembly of kings.

Where the tree is spared in small groups with its undergrowth amid the fields, the cultivated land is invigorated. Here, we are often surprised by the sight of plants and animals that still find shelter, food, and protection in these last islands of wilderness.

The row is less a transition to isolation than its intensification. Its appearance evokes the idea of a boundary, often a protected one. In nature, we find such boundaries where chains of poplars, alders, and old willows line the streams and rivers, or in the delicate fringes of coconut palms that greet us from afar along tropical coasts.

As a builder, humans use the row to mark their territory and property. Napoleon marked bridges and military roads by planting poplars. Stately tree rows lead to castles, pilgrimage churches, and places where the people of great cities gather for leisure and entertainment; they cut through parklands and shade the avenues. Some of these avenues are famous for their length, age, and fourfold arrangement; often, they connected, like the Lindenallee of Herrenhäuser, the capital with the residence gardens.

In such arrangements, the idea of utility recedes. They belong to the princely aspect of humanity and its orders. Their purpose is to give the tree's appearance and grandeur space and to lead humans to places where greatness and festivity await, where they can be revered or find joy.

Since the tree demands reverence, it has the strongest presence where humans create the free space it deserves through their art. This cannot happen overnight. When someone plants a tree, they think of their grandchildren and great-grandchildren. This involves a caring intention that extends beyond daily consumption and quick use, reaching even beyond one’s own life and death. It continues to exist; we feel it in the tranquility and peace that blesses us in an old park. Our ancestors thought of us. We enter their realm, distancing ourselves from the circles of hunting, threatening time. We sense peace, even in decay. Nuthatches and woodpeckers nest in the hollow trunks; mushrooms inhabit the decaying wood, and reddish-brown dust trickles from the wormholes. We caress the bark of the old brother; he has witnessed tournaments and was already majestic when Columbus prepared the caravels. There is a stronger, dreamier life there, and our own life, with its temporal worries, becomes a dream. What may remain of them before another century passes?

When we protect and care for the tree, especially the old tree, after a time of unrestricted use, we are merely fulfilling our duty. This service is not akin to that of caring for an invalid, whom we grant a number of good days in the hospital before he rests. In essence, it is not we who protect the tree; it is the tree that grants us its protection. We are allowed to enter its realm. The old oak, the ancient lime, the old ash that we honor are symbols representing not only the tree of life but also the world tree. By refraining from touching them, we testify that the untouchable is honored and endures. This then gives our world and life order meaning and justice. Therefore, sacrifices had to be made in the past before a tree could be felled.

The protective power felt in the tree has been preserved where gods and ancestors are honored. In memory of a great person or a turning point in fate, we plant a tree. When we notice the crown of an old lime from afar, as here in Upper Swabia, we can be certain that it shades a statue of a saint or a crucifix and that it will fall victim to the storm or lightning before the axe.

Myths grasp both unity and opposition. They encompass the whole without neglecting details like science does. We must therefore see them stereoscopically. This applies where they attribute the tree alternately to the father and the mother, to the earth and to the gods. Both perspectives hold their meaning.

The tree is the son of the earth; hence, the priestesses in the grove of Dodona incorporated their praise of the supreme Zeus with that of Mother Earth:

Gaea brings forth fruits; therefore, honor the earth as our mother!

Humanity has always tried to understand becoming and passing through the analogy of the tree—not only its own fleeting life but also that of princely and divine lineages, hierarchies and dynasties, peoples and great empires. All this is driven forth by the eternally young earth, and everything returns to her. It is the great pattern through which the cycle of "die and become" is observed and by which Spengler approaches his comparative study of cultures. They sprout, bloom, bear fruit, age, and die inexplicably as thousand-year-old trunks, and the earth calls them back.

There is a reason we live in a time hostile to trees. Forests are dwindling, ancient trunks are falling, and this cannot be explained by economics alone. The economy is merely a contributing factor, acting in concert with a time of unprecedented waste. This corresponds to its two great tendencies: leveling and acceleration. The lofty must fall, and age loses its power. The tree in its height belongs to the father, and with it, many things valued by the father fall: the crown, the sword of war and justice, the sacred boundary, and the horse.

However, myth recognizes in the tree not only the tree of life but also the world tree. Rooted in the primordial ground, blooming in the cosmos, it brings forth stars and suns. Here, father and mother are united in eternal brilliance. This is the wood of life in the center of the Eternal City, where there is no separation, no sanctuary. Therefore, the ash Yggdrasil, under whose shade the gods gather daily to counsel, must not fall with them: it endures beyond destruction.

Power is organized force, the connection of force with an organ. The universe is teeming with forces that, in order to become power, are in search of organs. Wind and water are forces; through their effect on a mill or a pump, which serve as their tools, they become power.

This distinction between force and power explains authority in the state. The people are the force, and their government is the tool; their connection creates political power. If the force is separated from its tool, the power vanishes. When the tool is destroyed but the forces remain, there is only twitching, convulsion, or fury; and when the people separate from their tool, that is, from their government, there is revolution.

Authority is sustaining power. The formation of authority presupposes power. Now, power, as the unity of the tool with the force, can only exist within the government. The people possess only forces, and these forces, incapable of sustaining anything once they have separated from their tool, turn toward destruction. The goal of authority, however, is preservation; and therefore, authority does not reside in the people, but it endures in the government.

An empire cannot be reshaped overnight.

Law is the marriage of light with force. From the people comes the force, from the government comes the light.

Rights are goods founded on power. As power diminishes, so do the rights.

The people require tangible, not abstract, truths.

The strikes of kings are like lightning bolts in their momentary force, while popular uprisings are like earthquakes, whose tremors propagate into unpredictable distances.

Discipline should weigh like a shield, not like a yoke.

The people grant their favor, but remain fickle.

The most civilized nations are no further from barbarism than the finest iron is from rust. Both peoples and metals are only polished on the surface.

Philosophy, as a late-ripened fruit of the mind and the autumn of life, should not be offered to the people, who remain perpetually in childhood.

Revolutions are fostered by a combination of widespread ignorance with a small amount of enlightenment.

One must aim to counter opinions with equal arms, for rifle shots are useless against ideas.

The will is a robust slave, at times serving the passions, at others serving reason. Too often, it channels the sum of our energies toward the passions, to which it is intimately bound, while easily abandoning reason. Pleasure, cruelty, and ambition command; reason pleads or orders. Women live entirely within currents of will. Weak willpower is called velleity. When one advances from the age of feelings and passions to that of ideas, the will diminishes, but it is precisely then that political judgment is gained.

The state belongs to those entangled, ambiguous concepts to which one must become accustomed: in truth, we know no others. Humanity is inconceivable without land, and the state is inconceivable without land and people. A rider cannot be imagined without a horse, and the concept of horsemanship includes both horse and rider. The form of the bridle is determined by the measurements of both horse and rider, just as the form of government is determined by the relationship between territory and population.

It may be that conspiracies are sometimes instigated by brilliant minds, but they are always carried out by beasts.

Where the army depends on the people, eventually the government will depend on the army.

A government bad enough to incite rebellion and weak enough to fail in suppressing it is followed by revolution, as naturally as disease appears as a last resort of nature—yet no one has ever proclaimed disease as a virtue.

Harmony in the state is based on a hierarchy of rivalry and competition, from the laborer to the capitalist and from the common soldier to the field marshal. On the dual ladder of rank and wealth, each strives to emulate the person directly ahead, separated only by a degree of dignity or wealth. Such ambition is reasonable—but philosophers have abruptly linked the extremes, setting the soldier against the marshal and the worker against the wealthy man; the backlash has brought everything crashing down.

The state reaches into the dead hand of the past. In this sense, everything is rent and usufruct, and thus it was once said: "The king remains forever a minor, and crown property is inalienable."

Philosophers like to base equality on anatomical similarities. They argue that since the nerves, muscles, and outward appearance of two citizens are similar, they must be equal—but when similarity is confused with equality, one falls into a disastrous error.

A people is always full of desires, many of which contradict the welfare of the state—for peoples never outgrow their childlike state. If, like the Jews of old, they leave their land and follow a leader into the wilderness, it requires magic to enchant them, and miracles to save them.

When a people chooses a general or a king, this great act contains no more politics than is fatefully necessary to select a leader. However, the choice between one or another, as dictated by preference, is often under an ill-fated star.

Perfect security and inviolability of property and person: that is what true social freedom looks like.

Freedom outside of society does not include security, which cannot be conceived without either freedom or society.

People often ask whether kings were made for the people or the people for the kings. The answer is simple: the people were made for the state, of which they form the body, while the government is the head. Both exist for the whole. The hand of a clock is no more made for the gears than the gears are for the hand; both are made for the clock.

If the prince is devout, the confessor must be a statesman.

Despotic states wither from a lack of despotism, just as cultivated people wither from a lack of culture.

One must sharply distinguish between the arithmetic and the political majority in the state.

Nature forces us to slaughter a chicken or starve; this is the basis of our right. The origin of political authority is as follows: needs establish rights, and rights establish authority. In France, however, the people have been granted authorities to which they are not entitled, and rights they do not need.

As superstition diminishes among the people, the government must increase vigilance and pay stricter attention to authority and discipline.

In England, the mind is overall healthier, whereas in France it is more elegantly shaped; hence, in England, the people as a whole are better, while in France, one is more likely to encounter better individuals.

For a subordinate, politeness is a sign of their station, while for a noble, it is a mark of education. Thus, despite the revolution, the nobleman has retained good manners, since they reflect his upbringing. The common man, however, becomes rude to prove he has changed his status. He curses and insults because he once obeyed and flattered; this is how he understands equality.

The absolute ruler can be a Nero, but sometimes he is also a Titus or Marcus Aurelius. The people, however, are often Nero and never Marcus Aurelius.

In peaceful times, reputation is determined by hierarchy. During revolutions, it depends on the mob; that is the time of false greatness.

It is well known that, from our vantage point on Earth, the movements of other planets appear irregular and chaotic; thus, one must imagine standing at the center of the sun to understand the system's order. Similarly, the private individual judges the state in which they live less accurately than the one at the helm.

The order of nature is marvelous. Yet, just as insects are crushed in its machinery, so too are individuals crushed by states.

A great misfortune for both individuals and nations lies in remembering too strongly what they once were but can no longer be. Modern Rome adopted consuls and tribunes. Time is like a river; it does not return to its source.

A great people in passionate turmoil is capable of nothing but massacres.

There are times when the government loses the trust of the people, but rarely times when it can trust the people.

A perfect government would be able to allocate reason to power in equal measure, just as it would balance force with wisdom.

It would be foolish and cruel kindness to consult with children about their future. We must decide for them and spare them the indecision that would rob them of their confidence in us, rather than increasing their strength. The same is true for peoples and their governments.

On the Revolution: Of all the French, we were the first to wield the pen against the Revolution, even before the storming of the Bastille. Burke himself acknowledged this in his excellent letter to my brother, which was later published, and we are proud of it. Not without peril, but with confidence in the reward we would find in our convictions and conscience, we dared to fight at a time when everyone still saw the Revolution as the great benefit of philosophy, the high harmony, the fruit of enlightenment. The National Assembly, whose power was based on the king's weakness and whose arrogance was rooted in the capital's insubordination, intoxicated by its successes and the incense burning for it in the provinces and abroad, indulged in excesses and, in its blindness, foresaw neither the fruits of its sowing nor the successors it was cultivating.

In vain, we spoke and wrote for religion, morality, and politics in the name of humanity and the experience of all centuries. Our voice was lost amid the colossal collapse; we fell silent.

Our "Political Journal" is limited to the first six months of the Revolution. The major blows had already been struck. Reason had already become a crime, having first become superfluous. The king was imprisoned in Paris, the nobility and clergy were scattered and fleeing. Laws gave way to decrees, coins to assignats; the Jacobins were in permanent session. What resources remained for honorable hearts and good minds in a state where hope and prospects were reserved only for madmen and brigands? Thus, we had to leave France while the Jacobins still preferred our escape to our death, and we carried our misery to princes and peoples who tolerated us.

At the same time, the fate of the nation was reflected in the army. Despite their noble status, the officers more or less desired change. Their soldiers had formerly been mere automatons, and when they became democrats, the officers reverted to aristocrats, as if they had only supported the revolution to be destroyed by it. Almost universally, the clergy, nobility, and parliaments, like all prominent figures, had wished for the revolution when the nation at large was still slumbering—but when the masses rose up at their urging, they fled or mounted the scaffold. I disapproved of emigration and did not leave my homeland until 1791. The king desired it: my pen could be of service to his brothers. I am prepared for ingratitude in return.

If the revolutionary course were to repeat itself, the oppressed would still not seek valuable lessons from our writings, and the wrongdoers would find their model in the machinations of the Jacobins. In 1789, I saw members of the Legislative Assembly eagerly studying Clarendon, whom they had never before read, to learn how the Long Parliament dealt with Charles I.

Incidentally, I believe that, since self-interest and passions are indestructible, neither kings nor peoples learn from history, and if Louis XVI were to have successors from his lineage, his misfortune and mistakes would not even serve as a warning to them.

Instead of proclaiming human rights, it would have been better to establish principles of statecraft. That was the duty of the Constituent Assembly, which, as we know, constituted nothing but our misfortune. However, in this realm, they feared criticism, so they preferred to arm the passions, especially vanity, by taking up the subject of human rights without considering that no constitution is possible under that title. Within it lies not only the Revolution, but also the seeds of all future revolutions, and a constitution founded solely on human rights condemned itself from the outset to impotence against them. All powers, including the king, were swallowed up because they clung to the letter of the constitution against the spirit of the Revolution. The Constituent Assembly, instead of saying "Hoc est jus" ("This is the law"), said "Jus esto" ("Let there be law"), and from then on, it equally violated its own constitution and the monarchy.

The great metaphysician Sieyès, with his nonsensical axiom of universal reason as the world's ruler, reversed all the principles of metaphysics: he disregarded both the theory of passions and the power of foolishness.

One must distinguish between property and sovereignty. Kings used possession and rule formulas in their decrees that were more absolute than reality allowed. All this was based on the right of first occupation and on the fact that they gradually extended the tone they had adopted in their personal rule to the entire kingdom. And finally, as people developed, the words became too strong. The rulers should have strengthened their authority while yielding in form. This was also the folly of the revolutionaries: they should have concealed their power from the people, restraining it with reverential forms towards the sovereign, and these forms would have, in turn, concealed the king’s weakness.

If one had investigated the will of all French people before the convening of the Estates-General, one would have discovered that everyone wished for a small part of the Revolution. Fate seems to have gathered these desires to realize them in full. Now, each person secretly thinks, "This is too much."

According to the philosophers, this is not a mere dispute between men, nor a clash of passions and parties, but a great event within the human spirit. One should take them at their word. In that case, the Revolution would be a great experiment of philosophy, in which it loses its case against politics. Revolution comes from "revolvere," which means "to turn the upper down."

The French preferred liberty over security. Yet, man left the forests, where liberty outweighs security, to move into cities, where the opposite holds true.

There was always a majority of the envious and a minority of the ambitious within both the nation and the National Assembly—since the highest ranks are unreachable for the majority, and only a few have a legitimate claim to them. Ambition seeks to grasp its goal, while envy seeks to destroy it, and the majority’s will to destroy has triumphed.

The true speaker in the people's assembly is passion.

The misfortune of the noble Bourbon lineage and the misery of the émigrés brought immense joy to foreign courts. Frederick of Prussia remarked, "We kings of the North are petty nobles; the kings of France are great lords." Thus, envy led to hatred, and perhaps, to crime.

The foreign powers in 1789 were like colonists who comfortably gossiped about the Revolution in Paris without foreseeing it in Saint-Domingue.

At the start of the Revolution, the minority said to the majority, "Submit to order," to which the majority replied, "Let us be equals." This has now been terribly avenged.

Voltaire claimed that the more enlightened people became, the freer they would be. His followers, however, preached to the people that the freer they were, the more enlightened they would become. This has destroyed everything.

The aristocracy forgot the principle that things must be preserved in the same way they were created. The aristocrats fought with the sword for their spirit and with the pen for their status.

There is a striking similarity between the English and French revolutions: the Long Parliament and the death of Charles I, the Convention and the death of Louis XVI, then Cromwell and Bonaparte. Should there be a restoration, would we see another Charles II die in his bed and another James II flee his kingdom, followed by a foreign dynasty? There is nothing extraordinary in such predictions, but rulers should be advised to consider them. Charles I and Louis XVI completely neglected this; despite their virtues, they died on the scaffold. The virtues of princes must not be those of private men: a king who limits himself to being an honorable man inspires pity.

If Louis XVI had fallen with weapons in hand on August 10, his blood would have fertilized the lilies more richly than it has done. His death on the scaffold, under the silence of the people, will always remain a mark of shame – for the nation, for the throne, and even for the imagination.

Bonaparte carried out on the 13th Vendémiaire what Louis XVI was falsely accused of after August 10. He succeeded Robespierre and Barras, which was not difficult.

Bonaparte governs because he let his troops shoot at the people and because he truly committed the crime of which Louis XVI was wrongly accused. France plunged from cliff to cliff toward the abyss. It sought to cling to bayonets; a handful of soldiers was already enough. Moreover, Paris had completely changed; there was no longer any public opinion. It had become merely a large hideout with a police force.

Our poets wished to see in Bonaparte a new Augustus – under the delusion that they would transform themselves into Virgil and Horace in the process. But he has less spirit than Augustus, especially less order in his thinking. His speeches have always harmed him – he should have an officer in his entourage who admonishes him to be silent.

Weary of order, the French began to massacre one another; and tired of the massacres, they submitted to the yoke of Bonaparte, who allows them to be slaughtered on the battlefield.

The best proof that Bonaparte is superior to Lannes, Ney, Soult, Moreau, and Bernadotte lies in the fact that they serve him instead of disposing of him.

The overwhelming power suddenly granted to a citizen of a republic creates a monarchy, indeed more than a monarchy. If one inherits the power of the people, one becomes a despot.

Bonaparte has an unfortunate hand in his hatreds and friendships. The regicides and revolutionaries will bring him to ruin if he draws them to himself. He has more power than dignity, more splendor than greatness, more audacity than genius, and it is harder to praise him than to congratulate him.

Had the revolution occurred under Louis XIV, Cotin would have had Boileau guillotined, and Pradon would have taken his revenge on Racine. Through my emigration, I escaped the vengeance of some Jacobins I had portrayed in my Almanac of Great Men.

The French have always had a preference for foreigners, which betrays their jealousy of one another. Examples include: Ornano, Broglio, Rose, Lowendhal, Marshal of Saxony, Necker, Besenval, and Bonaparte.

The despotism of Titus, Trajan, and Marcus Aurelius was not less than that of Tiberius, Nero, and Domitian. With a nod of their heads, they moved the known world from the Euphrates to the Danube: they were despots but not tyrants, as Montesquieu has mistakenly claimed.

When I was asked in 1790 about the outcome of the revolution, my answer was: "Either the king will have an army, or the army will produce a king." I added: "We will see some fortunate soldier emerge from it, for revolutions are always concluded by the sword: Sulla, Caesar, Cromwell are examples."

The allies were always a year, an army, and an idea behind.

It would be a spectacle to see philosophers and atheists one day gritting their teeth following Bonaparte to mass, and the republicans crawling before him. They had indeed sworn to overthrow anyone who coveted the crown. It would be a sight to see him one day bestowing grand crosses to honor kings, appointing princes, and binding himself to a royal house through marriage... But woe to him if he does not remain victorious.

Every thinker who ponders constitutional questions is pregnant with a Jacobin: this is a truth that Europe must never forget.

Politics resembles the Sphinx of the fable: it devours all who cannot solve its riddles.

The earth is the playground for political entities. The full realization of the state depends on the correct relationship between population and territory. In North America, where settlement in space vanishes, the state has not yet reached its highest development. In contrast, in Europe, where population and surface area correspond optimally, the states are at the zenith of power. In China, where an excess of people crowd into too small a space, the state deteriorates.

States always begin anew; they live on remedies.

The state resembles a tree that, in proportion to its growth, needs both the earth and the heavens.

A people without land and faith would wither like Antaeus suspended between heaven and earth.

Reason encompasses truths that must be spoken and those that must be kept silent.

Gold is the king of kings.

Princes must never forget that, since the people never grow out of childhood, governance must always be paternal.

The king's person is like the images of the gods: only the first blows strike the god, the last fall on shapeless marble stone.

War is the judgment of kings; victories are its verdicts.

For the mob, there is no age of enlightenment. It is neither French nor English nor Spanish; it is the same at all times and in every land: always cannibalistic, intent on devouring its fellow man, and when it takes revenge on the government, it punishes crimes that are not always proven with open acts of disgrace.

When the people are more enlightened than the crown, the revolution is at the door. Such was the case in 1789 when the brilliance of the throne was extinguished in a flood of light.

To the agitators: When Neptune wishes to calm the storms, it is not the waves but the tempests that he conjures.

A government that is considered infallible like Providence must, like it, don a despotic form.

If the government of a large and highly developed empire wishes for the people to be represented, this can happen through supporters of the existing power, who will regard the people as their enemies, or through their opponents: then a revolution will ensue.

In every country, border cities enjoy less freedom than those that lie inland: thus, the security of freedom takes precedence.

In the hierarchy of nature, between two people like Voltaire and a water carrier, what they have in common is admirable and significant, while what distinguishes them is hardly noticeable.

The existence and duration of a state are guaranteed solely by fear, as it is the most powerful of passions. It ensures welfare when it operates mutually between the people and the king. For when the people fear the king, there are no uprisings, and when kings fear the people, they refrain from oppression. However, there will always be anarchy or despotism if fear is one-sided.

The parable of the shepherd and the flock is politically useless. Religion has only seized upon it because it is God who turns to humanity. A shepherd among his sheep is a person surrounded by provisions: this is not an image of kingship.

The state begins to ail when kings behave like owners and owners act like kings.

The state has, as mentioned, needs, rights, and powers. However, the relationship between these three principles is such that the people can never derive a right from things they are not capable of. Thus, the fact that they cannot gather and cannot be unanimous means that they can neither make a decision, determine the form of government, nor be sovereign.

The representative constitution assumes that all representatives can gather in one room, no matter how large the realm is. It must also be considered that the majority of the people may consistently be in the minority in parliament. It is the parliamentary majority that governs.

A constitution has been given to the uprising; however, fever does not correspond to human constitution. It is often unavoidable, but it must always be pushed back.

It remains the privilege of nature to link reward and punishment in each of its laws, as its commandments are also drives. Society cannot proceed so magnificently: its laws threaten and chastise.

Since princes form the visible part of the government, their private lives—their games, their habits, their pleasures—should only be open to those who are initiated into this symbolic relationship. It must be closed to the people. This applies even more strictly to the popes.

Benedict XIV, esteemed by the intellectual elite, enjoyed no respect among the Roman people.

With the words "order" and "freedom," one will repeatedly lead mankind from despotism to anarchy and back from anarchy to despotism.

A courtier replied when Louis XV asked what time it was:

"It is as late as Your Majesty wishes."

In the notorious necklace affair, there were two guilty parties: Madame de la Mothe and Monsieur de Breteuil. One was driven by a lust for intrigue and by necessity, the other by revenge. There were also two victims: the queen and the cardinal, but the queen was more innocent.

In France, one could no longer have success at court unless one possessed some charming quirks or rendered oneself bearable through complete insignificance.

It is now so fashionable to speak ill of princes that one comes under suspicion of knowing them intimately when one praises them.

Just as Rousseau undermined the monarchy through his writings, one could also say that he prepared sources of support for the émigré nobility by having his nobleman learn the carpenter's trade.

The first parliament deprived the king of the kingdom, the second deprived the kingdom of the king, and the third liquidated both the king and the kingdom. The Constituent Assembly subjugated the king, Paris, and the army. It was in turn subjugated by Paris. Finally, the Jacobins decimated Paris, the army, and the Convention.

The Constituent Assembly destroyed the royal dignity; the death of the king had to follow. The Convention killed only the man. The first assembly was royalist, the second was parricidal. The victim was already prepared; the Jacobins only had to strike with the axe.

As a king, Louis XVI deserved his misfortune because he did not understand his craft. As a man, he did not deserve it. It was his virtues that alienated him from the people.

An army used for oppression must first be subjugated itself. The hammer must endure as many blows as the anvil.

Louis XIV illuminated all areas of administration so well that, if the word is permitted, his installation lasted until 1789. His decrees and the reports of his intendants testify to this. Our uniformly excellent administrative heads lived off the traditions of their predecessors. During the revolution, the branches of administration resembled well-kept forests, where everyone plundered without fear or scruple. This is the origin of colossal fortunes whose sight provokes disgust.

The peoples can lament like Dido that they have become enlightened.

The task of every government lies in protecting society; and society could have no other goal since its beginnings than to ensure safety and property. This clear, sharp, and comprehensive definition would have excluded any contradiction had the ambiguous and contentious word "freedom" not been clumsily added as a pleonasm.

If we had not obtained a ruler after the League, it would have been the end of the House of Bourbon. The Fronde could have been extremely dangerous, but the young king grew into his stature, and everything returned to order. What kind of Bourbon would consequently follow our terrible revolution? It is foreseeable that sooner or later legitimacy will unite the kings and destroy Napoleon.

We live in a time when insignificance protects more than laws and provides a better conscience than innocence.

Courts sometimes devote themselves to great minds, much like the godless in times of need call upon the saints, and just as ineffectively. There is no medicine against stupidity.

France needs a strong hand more urgently than any other state. The sovereign people will kill any king who wears the crown in front of his eyes instead of on his forehead.

One could compare society to a theater: the box seats require a higher admission.

With his statement, "There is no monarchy without nobility," Montesquieu has taken a weak position; there is something vague and arbitrary about it, making it polemical material.

Was he thinking of a powerful nobility or of a nobility that only represents?

For the nobility, there are four possible modes of existence. It can be sovereign like in Germany, feudal like in Poland, constitutional like in England, or form a sacred caste like in India. In Spain and France, the nobility was hardly more than a pleasant way of life.

"La récompense des hommes est d’estimer leurs chefs."
— René Quinton
[The reward of men is to esteem their leaders.]

Humanity after Victory.
— From Nelson’s Prayer

Horatio Nelson, born as the fifth son of an English country parson, serves as an example of the well-regarded warrior with far-reaching, focused activity. Throughout his life, he had a delicate but resilient constitution. At nine, he lost his mother, and at twelve, he went to sea. This was not considered unusual. What a midshipman had to endure at that time is familiar to us from biographies and novels. It was a case of "eat or die!"

“What has poor Horatio done wrong,” wrote his uncle, Captain Suckling, who arranged his position, “that this frail boy must now endure the harshness of a seaman's life? But perhaps a cannonball will take off his head in the first battle, and then his troubles will be over.”

His head was not lost, but his right arm and an eye were, and there was no shortage of bruises, wounds, and illnesses. Remarkably, his health returned quickly, along with his raptor-like striking force and immense energy. Even as an admiral, he would get seasick at the start of a new voyage. Before he turned forty, in the "Year of Glory," his once straw-blonde hair was nearly white.

There are plants that break stones as they grow, yet are moved by the slightest breeze. In them, hardness and softness combine; their fibers are both strong and flexible. Since these qualities fundamentally contradict each other, they rarely come together in human character and, when they do, they produce extraordinary effects.

Nelson's admirable qualities also included disappointments and struggles, severe injuries, and an early death. We must view his life as a whole, like a work of art – the question is whether it succeeded, not how much detail it contains or how long it occupied the artist.

The peak and end of his life came together at Trafalgar; triumph and death intertwined as rarely happens in a great life, at least in history – it evokes mythological ideals. Wellington lived much longer than Lord Nelson, but the decades that followed the day of Waterloo added nothing to his fame. He offers an example of the organic hardening of the conservative, whose perspective narrows with age. The portrait by d’Orsay, painted thirty years after the decisive battle, bears witness to this: the noble features appear to have become rigid, marked by an unyielding determination at any cost. We must view this beyond good and evil; it was precisely what gave him the strength to endure the great day to its end.

Wellington was eleven years younger than Nelson; he met him only once, in 1805, when he had already made a name for himself in India. Both waited in the anteroom of Lord Castlereagh, the Secretary of State for War and the Colonies, and entered into a conversation, which Wellington, then still Sir Arthur Wellesley, found little pleasure in. He was apparently put off by one of the great man’s weaknesses, which others had also noticed: his vanity.

Nelson then went out, likely to inquire with the office clerk about the name of his companion, and returned completely transformed. “Everything that had seemed like empty chatter had fallen away from him; he now spoke about the state of Great Britain and the political and military prospects on the continent with such sharp understanding and well-founded knowledge that I was at least as surprised this time, though in a positive way, as I had been during the first part of our conversation. He now spoke truly like a statesman and an officer.”

This account also offers a glimpse into the waiting room of the Colonial Office at that time, where two men of such significance found time for such an extended conversation. Wellington remarked many years later: “I would not have believed it possible for a person to change so suddenly and thoroughly.”

We hear of a similar transformation from Lady Spencer, who sat next to Nelson at a meal shortly after his return from Tenerife and found that “at first, in all his mannerisms, he came across as a fool. This impression was so strong that I was completely taken aback and listened spellbound as his wonderful mind suddenly unfolded in conversation.”

Such testimonies suggest a contrast between being and appearance, which today we might describe as the distinction between genotype and phenotype, and which we often encounter when a great spirit resides in a frail body. This contrast must have struck contemporaries even more strongly, given the mutilations that had diminished his physical appearance – what Erasmus referred to as "my little body." This is why Nelson had a strong need for external compensation, for prestige through titles and honors. In the youthful portraits, such as that of the eighteen-year-old second lieutenant by Rigaud, the sword appears too large, and in most of the later portraits, up to the one in Westminster Abbey, the decorations are too numerous and oversized. A popular print depicting the briefing before Trafalgar shows him among his captains as the only one richly decorated and wearing a large hat, under which his narrow face appears ghost-like. The fascination he inspired is evident from the abundance of his portraits; they are found on plates, mugs, tobacco boxes, and wall tiles.

Among the portraits, the one painted by Abbot in October 1797 stands out significantly. It shows the “Rear Admiral of the Blue Squadron” after the loss of his arm; the stump is still not healed. This is reflected in his face: partial death, which has been overcome. "Maladie de relais": new youth takes hold. Like many amputees, Nelson claimed to still feel pain in the arm he had lost; to him, this served as a confirmation of his belief in immortality, even though he did not need such validation.

After Aboukir, the commanders of his squadron wanted to own a portrait of Nelson and commissioned a painter, who, however, kept delaying the work. Finally, the painter admitted he was unable to complete it: “In these features, humanity and ambition are paired in such a distressing way that I do not feel capable of undertaking the portrait.” Of course, one might also suspect that the painter's talent was insufficient to capture in a work of art two qualities that, though they contradict each other, do not exclude one another. However, both the common man and the nation were capable of this, and we owe Joseph Conrad the statement: “It is to the Navy's credit that they understood Nelson.”

Nelson acted and presented himself in a way that was pleasing to the people and the common man, and he reveled in it: “I am a child of other people's opinions.” By this, he meant that his sense of life depended on his fame, and he contributed to its promotion himself. It pleased him when he was enthusiastically surrounded by crowds in the cities. He had all the qualities of a national hero, in whom his people could see themselves and recognize their own reflection. These included a simple education with its strengths and weaknesses, an unwavering belief in the orders of this world and the next, a naïve joy in outward things, immediate kindness and severity, and a heart for the "lower deck."

The national hero must appeal to the undifferentiated, indefinable masses; he must have a strong connection to the people. If that connection is too finely woven, anecdotes must help facilitate understanding. In this respect, Nelson, born under the sign of Libra, strikes a happy medium between commanders like Frederick the Great and Prince Eugene on one side, and Blücher or Suvorov on the other. The sympathy he arouses penetrates without loss through the social and intellectual strata of the nation, and, even more remarkably, it is enduring. He is one of those figures who continually attract both artists and historians. Even after World War II, which cleared away not only the living but also extinguished many old glories, the two beautiful biographies by Carola Oman and Oliver Warner appeared—testimonies to the fact that Nelson’s star retained its brilliance, even at a distance and despite a clouded atmosphere.

The humanity of such a spirit is indivisible; criticism can only do it justice in its entirety. There is an unmistakable sign of its stature: it grows with the demands placed upon it. The higher the hurdle, the easier and freer the leap with which it is overcome. Humanity becomes stronger the more the next person needs help. This is certainly less urgent in a meeting room or at a banquet than in times of danger.

On the evening of Aboukir, struck in the forehead by a fragment of a grenade and blinded by the blood flowing from the wound, Nelson believed he was mortally wounded. "Now it's over—give my regards to my wife!" He was brought to the dressing station, where the ship's surgeon, who was busy with another wounded man, immediately turned to him. “No, no, continue your work; you don’t need to prioritize me over my brave soldiers!” After the explosion of the French flagship, he hurried to the deck and led the rescue of the drowning.

The actions he undertook that night and the following day verge on the incomprehensible, especially considering that the battle had been preceded by a week filled with sleeplessness and unbearable nervousness. We also learn in passing that he suffered from excruciating toothache. It was a night of incredible exertion. On both sides, the gunners were so exhausted that they fell asleep during the firing. After a brief, death-like sleep, they jumped back to the cannons as if they had been lying in wait, continuing the barrage. Passion had drained nature to its limits.

In the days of sailing ships, battles between the main fleets often lasted longer than in our century and were more stubbornly fought. We even know of a four-day battle. In the long night of Aboukir, both sides fought with superhuman dedication. Even literature has left traces of this terrifying night, such as in Alfred de Vigny’s The Misery and Grandeur of Military Life. There, he mentions a captain who, fatally wounded, in order to command longer and not bleed out so quickly, had himself placed in a tub of bran. Is it an error or poetic license on de Vigny’s part that he attributes this act to Admiral Brueys, the supreme commander? The glory of this deed belongs to the commander of Le Tonnant, Captain Dupetit Thouars, who, just before his death, had the flag nailed to the mast.

Brueys, too, already wounded three times, refused to leave the deck and commanded while leaning on a box of ammunition until a fourth blow tore him to pieces. It was part of Nelson's luck that this admiral, as de Vigny says, was "as stubborn as a mule." He wanted to fight and was jealous of the army. "Do they think we are ferrymen?" Thus, he remained anchored and engaged in the battle, even though, as he had told Bonaparte on the way to Alexandria, he believed this was a grave mistake. “But,” as de Vigny says, “if he made mistakes, he atoned for them gloriously.”

The Battle of Aboukir heralded one of the great turning points in European history. It occurred almost exactly six years after the cannonade at Valmy and represents a positive counterpart, as it was the first real response to the French Revolution. The news had an electrifying effect not only in England but across all of Europe. This victory not only thwarted the Egyptian expedition and made England master of the Mediterranean, but it also gave the European powers the impetus for the War of the Second Coalition. The day of Aboukir can therefore be placed alongside that of Trafalgar, which secured English naval dominance for a long time; as a bold endeavor, it was even more significant. Off Cape Trafalgar, a classical encounter developed, where the fleets spotted each other from afar on the open sea. Lauvergne, a senior surgeon in the French Navy and author of The Last Hours and the Death, in which he describes naval battles as "such a monstrous thought that one cannot comprehend how humans could ever conceive of it," also depicts the approach: "The fleets silently draw nearer to one another; like mighty sea monsters about to engage in a battle of annihilation, they observe each other, measure each other, trying to use their sailing skills to harness the wind and waves until the signal to attack appears on the admiral's mainmast."

At Aboukir, the threat wasn’t just the enemy's guns but the proximity of land, something sailors fear more. The victory there was a masterpiece, a daring piece of precision in a confined space—demonstrated by the grounding of the Culloden. "Such a race had never been run before," remarked Lady Hamilton. "Honor est a Nilo," a successful anagram dedicated to the hero of Aboukir, emerged during those weeks when people adorned themselves "à la Nelson." The excitement triggered by the news was overwhelming—people fainted upon hearing it, including the Queen of Naples and the First Lord of the Admiralty. In such tense environments, enemies are magnetically drawn to each other. Nelson had no doubt he would find the French; he pursued them like a bloodhound. "With the first favorable breeze, we set sail. When I return, I will either be crowned with laurel or lying stretched out under cypress trees," he wrote from Syracuse to the Hamiltons.

"When the enemy was in sight," said Captain Berry, "everyone was overjoyed with exuberant excitement; the happiest of all was probably the Admiral himself." He repeatedly stuck his head out of the cabin window, partly to estimate the distance and partly to soothe his terrible toothache in the wind, overhearing a sailor saying to his comrade at the gun beside him, "Look at them, the damned rascals, there they are at last. I tell you, Jack, if we don't thrash them, they'll thrash us."

"Yes, I knew what kind of men mine were made of, so I dared to open the battle with only a few leading ships." The trust that united him with his captains and crew was so strong that, as Berry notes, signals were almost unnecessary. Such trust is always mutual, and René Quinton, one of the last great warriors, recognized it as the secret of victory itself: "The bravery of the leader multiplies the valor of the troops. There are troops without leaders, but there are no exhausted troops."

Nelson embodies everything ever praised about courage, from individual behavior in the face of danger to the inspiration that a crew, a fleet, or even a nation can draw from him. "Danger creates genius." Another quote from Quinton applies to him: "It happens that a hero, just to test his strength, exposes himself." Thus, we find Nelson in places where a commander has no business being; more than once, his impulse leads him beyond the rules of warfare. From Gibraltar, he writes to Fanny that he is in cheerful company, "although it would be better if we were alongside a Spaniard." On another occasion, after he failed to restrain his temperament, she replied, urging him to leave boarding actions to his captains; similar restraint would have been wise during some of the land assaults he participated in, competing with the infantry. At barely fifteen, as a coxswain on an Arctic expedition, he sneaks ashore with a comrade to hunt a polar bear; the musket misfires. "A blow with the butt, and we've got him!" Fortunately, the bear fled.

In Nelson, we see the unmistakable mark of a born warrior: the weather clears when the cannons begin to speak. Such warriors do not need to be urged into battle; they do not need the shout of "To the cannons!" like Grouchy's soldiers at Waterloo. Nelson needed more restraint than encouragement; he was magnetically drawn to the fire. He did not ask about the enemy’s strength, only where to find them. "Hard work," he said to Colonel Stewart before Copenhagen, "but believe me, I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else for thousands."

Furthermore: "If signals are not seen, a commander certainly does no wrong by engaging the enemy." Nelson was particularly poor at seeing retreat signals. This was the case before Copenhagen when things began to look grim, and Admiral Parker, the commander-in-chief, raised the signal to break off the engagement. That seemed to agitate Nelson more than the Danish fire – he was seen running across the deck, waving his arm stump: "Damn if I would do that – I only have one eye, and I have the right to be blind sometimes." He asked for the telescope and held it to his damaged eye: "I really don’t see the signal."

The era benefited the sailor Nelson just as much as it did the revolutionary generals on the battlefields. In both cases, new forces shattered rigid lines. However, the good old ships were still dependent on wind and weather. From shipbuilding in the docks to maneuvers, everything was still a pure craft, overseen by masters, and apart from firearms, the telescope, and the compass, the technology remained at a level comparable to antiquity. Hourglasses were still in use. "We fought eight glasses," the diary of the Minotaur on August 1, 1798, the day of the Battle of Abukir, states. Battles could still be overseen from a single point with no aid beyond a telescope. It would be over twenty years before, at Navarino, fleets would meet for the last pure sailing battle. In 1862, during the American Civil War, the first duel of ironclads occurred at Hampton Roads between the Merrimac and the Monitor.

The age of engineers had begun, and there were already photographs of both crews. Königgrätz coincides with Hampton Roads in the same decade. From then on, steam power had to be considered in every movement, both at sea and on land. Command became more sober, more mathematical. However, this should not be blamed on the soldiers, as Valéry attempts to do in his Conquête méthodique when criticizing Moltke, whom he portrays as a "man without lips." The greater predictability of the factors leading to battle follows a law.

Nelson was no longer confined to the strict line, from which deviation in both land and sea battles was not just considered a tactical error but a serious offense. Yet even further off was a future where ships would be controlled as floating outposts from land-based command centers. Nelson could still ignore signals from the flagship, and Jellicoe, at the beginning of the Battle of Jutland, could cut off radio communication: "I am in action"—today, that’s no longer possible. In the movements of the Bismarck in 1942, direct command had already been minimized. This is even more pronounced in the cabin of a spaceship. The 19th century could no longer produce figures like Frederick and Eugene, and the 20th century no Napoleon, despite the vastly expanded scope of operations. Yet names hardly leave a lasting impression anymore. One possible aspect is that homo faber increasingly triumphs over homo ludens and his values.

For Nelson, the old saying holds true: the sailor is a child of nature and duty. He can balance great contrasts, weight and counterweight within himself. He follows both his education and his heart, conservative in principles yet liberal in human relations, both to their possible extremes. Traits of utmost severity and astonishing kindness can be observed in him. When he says that Sunday is as good a day as any to hang a mutineer, provided there is no delay, this must be understood against the backdrop of the iron discipline typical of sailing ships. Insights into such details can be found in the reports of the mutiny on the Bounty and how it was punished. The same Nelson, during his time as a post captain, managed to save the life of a deserter who had been sentenced to death but was evidently treated unjustly. The man had been held in cramped conditions "without tobacco" for months before his trial.

The mental calm that Nelson maintained after severe wounds, even when mortally injured, gives the impression that he observed himself from the outside, detached from his body. After the failed attack on Santa Cruz, when he came aboard the Theseus with his arm shattered, he was shown all the customary honors, which he correctly returned. He refused any assistance. "Leave me be, I still have both legs and a healthy arm besides. Tell the doctor to hurry and prepare the instruments. I know I will lose my arm, so the sooner it's gone, the better." His right arm hung limply, and with his left, he pulled himself up the ship’s ladder. During the operation, he felt the coldness of the metal more acutely than the cuts themselves, and so he ordered that, in the future, hot water be provided before every battle to warm the instruments.

In battle, the unity formed during the long, peaceful periods at sea became visible. The Victory resembled a floating fortress in the harbors and even more so during observation and blockade missions, where, despite the hard work, there were also some comforts. There was the daily duty with its endless watches, maneuvers, issuing orders, and maintenance, but also the hearty meals, with roasting spits and ovens for the sailors’ beloved plum pudding, the band, and the drummer announcing the admiral’s dinner with the melody "The Roast Beef of Old England." From these weeks and months, a loving artistry has been preserved, focusing on the revered, almost legendary man. It helps us understand why the fleet came to life when his flag was raised, and why after his death, "everyone shuffled about like jellyfish." They risked their lives for him; in one boarding skirmish, the boatswain Sykes just managed to deflect a blow aimed at Nelson’s head with his bare arm, losing his right hand in the process.

Not only Lady Hamilton was "Nelson-crazy" at that time. The fame the admiral enjoyed during his lifetime is best evidenced by the fact that while the English did not accept his relationship with her, they tolerated it with affectionate indulgence. It caused enough scandal, not only among those directly involved, like Fanny and Sir William, not to mention the fact that the behavior of two lovers almost always becomes a nuisance to society.

Emma Hamilton’s influence on the admiral was considerable; it extended even to major state matters. He left the advantageous station off Marittimo to intervene in Naples, whose royal couple were friends of the Hamiltons. If a Shakespeare had been Nelson’s contemporary, he might have gifted us a counterpart to Antony and Cleopatra.

Curious to a modern soldier, for whom cover and camouflage have become second nature, is Nelson’s calm pacing on the quarterdeck during battle. This not only exposed him to greater danger from the heavy cannon fire but also made him an easy target for sharpshooters during close engagements. The fatal shot at Trafalgar was fired by one of the topsail marksmen aboard the Redoutable, peering down onto the deck of the Victory from the rigging. This happened after the dreadful hour Nelson had spent pacing and conversing with his flag captain Hardy. At one point, the cannons of the enemy ships were so close that their muzzles touched, and the Victory was almost boarded before the deck was nearly swept clean by gunfire. Nelson remarked, "It’s too hot here to last much longer." His secretary was torn apart by a cannonball and thrown overboard without hesitation by the sailors. "Was that poor Scott?"

A man who could love, and thus was loved by all. Even as he lay below deck in the hell of Trafalgar with a shattered spine, his thoughts circled around Emma Hamilton. "How dearly people cling to life," he murmured to himself. Then, speaking to Hardy, who had come down to say goodbye, he said, "Take care of Lady Hamilton. Yes, Hardy, take care of Lady Hamilton. Kiss me, Hardy."

"Nelson's death" became a significant subject for artists, a focal point for dramatic compositions. The walls of naval museums are covered with such depictions. A. W. Devis, who boarded the Victory after it docked in Portsmouth and heard eyewitness accounts on the spot, chose to forgo a panorama of burning ships and drowning men; instead, the setting of his Ecce homo is a gray, dimly lit berth, sparsely illuminated by the glow of ship lanterns, with rough beams overhead. The dying man lies beneath a pale sheet; the doctor feels his pulse, and the chaplain rubs his chest. The admiral's coat with its medals is crumpled at his feet, alongside his bloodstained shirt. The painting is restrained in color, despite being intended as the centerpiece of a red, roaring hell. The fire seems to fade and diminish, as if the ship were sailing away. The admiral is leaving the ship. "After victory, humanity.

The lecture was based on the following guiding principles:

1. Modern imperialism has developed new methods of control and exploitation that avoid open political annexation (protectorates, mandates, lease agreements, and intervention treaties). Applying these methods to peoples and parts of peoples of European culture and education would be no less an injustice than outright coercion through political annexation.

2. Civic loyalty and a legal mindset are only possible where state power is clearly and unambiguously defined with its authority and responsibility. Government systems that abolish state authority, establish permanent rule by mixed commissions, and employ other forms of erosion and concealment destroy both the possibility of civic-mindedness and the Christian concept of authority.

It is painful to speak of the Rhineland as an object of international politics. However, the danger that the Rhineland could fall into such a state, and that the Rhineland people could be reduced to a mere annex of an object, still exists. Throughout our thousand-year history, the shadow of this danger has often fallen upon us. The terrible separatist period and the crisis of autumn 1923 are still fresh in everyone's memory. At that time, not only did the possibility of a separation from Germany arise, but also the deep immorality of a situation that occurs when state authority disintegrates and a people are driven into political despair. Today, many believe that the worst has been fortunately overcome. Other plans and combinations, whose realization would no less turn the Rhineland into an object of foreign politics, may seem harmless to us today compared to those grim months, mere empty projects that arise by the dozens in turbulent times. But we must not abandon our caution and must keep an eye on these plans and intentions as well.

We hear of efforts to separate the demilitarized zone established by the Treaty of Versailles, essentially the Rhineland, from the rest of Germany through special arrangements and controls and to create a legal distinction between the two; to establish a special regime through a system of permanent international commissions, with extensive powers of influence and control, thereby more or less eliminating German state authority; to turn the Rhineland into a kind of extended Saar territory, or finally, simply to transform the land and people into material for security measures through an indefinite occupation. How much of these plans will be realized will be shown in the coming months and years. Here, it is necessary to remind of such pending projects because they all share a common feature: to make the Rhineland an object of international politics and to organize and legalize this object status, after these lands have already become a kind of pawn due to the occupation.

It is part of the political consciousness, to which a history of a thousand years obliges and entitles us, that we clearly understand the particular, new, and, if I may say so, modern nature of this danger. The forms and methods by which a country and a people are made objects of international politics have changed and are no longer the same as in the 19th century. Old words and habits of thinking persist and can easily obscure political reality. A good-natured person might believe today that no European country could ever feel more secure than it does right now. For the long history of the struggle for the Rhine was a history of the struggle for the political annexation of Rhineland territories, just as the struggle for Alsace-Lorraine was a struggle for annexations. But today, no one speaks of annexation anymore. In the name of freedom and the right to self-determination of even small peoples and nations, the world fought a war for four years. Numerous new states have emerged on the basis of the right to self-determination and the principle of nationalities. Strange disruptions and shifts of natural boundaries and affiliations have been justified by this principle. Wilson declared on February 11, 1918, in response to the German statement on peace, "that peoples and provinces are not to be bartered about from sovereignty to sovereignty as if they were mere chattels or pawns in a game," and furthermore, "that every territorial question arising out of this war must be settled in the interest and for the benefit of the populations concerned and not as a matter of mere adjustment or compromise of claims among rival states".

In the proposals and drafts of the French delegates at the Paris Peace Conference in the spring of 1919, it was repeatedly demanded that Germany's western border should coincide with the Rhine, but it was always emphasized that the left bank of the Rhine was not to be annexed. The public opinion of the entire world seems to be outraged at the thought that a people could be made the object of an annexation. Hearing so much about the right of peoples to self-determination, one could easily believe that today no people could ever again become an object of international politics, for self-determination surely means that a people, as a subject, determines its own political and state existence, which is the opposite of becoming an object.

But let us stick to what our thousand-year history so emphatically teaches us: our caution. Today, when a politically educated person hears that the great naval powers have convened a disarmament conference and decided to limit the construction of giant warships, the so-called capital ships, they might easily suspect that this disarmament, which is certainly very welcome, only affects outdated types but unfortunately not the truly modern weapons that matter, namely air fleets and submarines. Similarly, this cautious person, when they see how generously ideal principles are being granted, might not suppress the suspicion that the renunciation of annexations is perhaps a renunciation of a method that is no longer relevant because other, more effective and advantageous methods have been found. Indeed, the old continental European method of political annexation, as exemplified by the struggle over Alsace-Lorraine, appears from the perspective of modern world politics to be quite outdated. In the age of imperialism, other forms of control have developed, which specifically avoid open political subjugation and allow the country to be controlled to remain a state. Indeed, if necessary, a new independent state is created, whose freedom and sovereignty are explicitly proclaimed, so that it seems to be the opposite of what might be termed the degradation of a people into an object of foreign politics.

This development can be seen in several examples. Initially, in the 19th century, the great powers gave the so-called protectorate a new content and primarily controlled semi-civilized states whose populations they could not grant citizenship rights. This was done by taking over the external political representation of the state, establishing a kind of guardianship while allowing the "protected" state a certain degree of independent internal political existence. This method needs only to be mentioned here. It concerns states that are not civilized in the European sense, such as Tunisia, Morocco, and the Malay protectorates. This could reassure a European greatly. Additionally, the development in the Balkans, particularly since 1878, has felt its way towards national independence through so-called protectorates. Romania, Bulgaria, and Serbia became free states in this manner. In the case of Bosnia and Herzegovina, which had been under Austro-Hungarian administration since 1878, there was an outright annexation in 1908. Thus, one might conclude from this development in the Balkans that a European people must either achieve national independence or be openly annexed. How justified this optimism regarding the form of a protectorate is, unfortunately, can remain undecided, not only because Danzig's foreign representation has been politically transferred to Poland — this can only be referred to as a real protectorate based on superficial analogies — but especially for another reason: the form of the protectorate is itself already outdated and has been replaced by a new procedure, which consists of allowing the state to be controlled to maintain its capacity for external action, explicitly recognizing it as free and independent, even granting it the label of sovereignty, but securing control under the guise of "supervision" through the occupation of key points, economic exploitation, or peculiar rights of intervention.

Today, England rules over Egypt, even though the English protectorate was formally abolished in 1922 and Egypt was recognized as a free sovereign state. England's rule is legally based on four reservations made at the time of recognition, which grant England the right to intervene: the defense and protection of the Suez Canal by England; protection of foreign interests in Egypt by England; protection of Egypt against foreign attacks by England; administration of the Sudan, i.e., the upper Nile, by England. This suffices as a legal basis to make an Anglo-Egyptian conflict appear as an internal matter of England, as happened in November 1924 (following the assassination of an English officer). It was also sufficient to dissolve, within 12 hours of its convening, a parliament that was not agreeable to the English in March 1925. A concept like "protection of foreign interests," due to its vagueness, is particularly well-suited to give an intervention right based on it the character of true control.

The so-called control of the United States of America over Cuba, Haiti, San Domingo, and Panama should also be mentioned here. The "controlled" state is described as free, independent, and sovereign, even though its entire political existence is determined by the United States in crucial cases. The four instances of this U.S. control differ significantly from one another. The characteristic feature is that a legal form of control has developed, which consists of combining a right of occupation with a right of intervention. The right of intervention means that the intervening state decides on certain vague concepts essential to the political existence of the other state, such as the protection of foreign interests, protection of independence, public order and security, compliance with international treaties, etc. With all these rights of intervention, it is always important to note that, due to the vagueness of such terms, the controlling power decides at its discretion, thereby retaining the political existence of the controlled state in its hands.

Lastly, it should be briefly noted that, according to the Treaty of Versailles, the German colonies were not annexed by the Allied powers or taken over as colonies; instead, they were given the form of so-called mandates, exercised in the name of the League of Nations. For the so-called A mandates (Syria, Palestine, Iraq), it is even stated that these communities have reached such a stage of development "that their existence as independent nations can be provisionally recognized, subject to the condition that the advice and assistance of a mandatory will guide their administration until such time as they are able to stand alone" (Article 22 of the Treaty of Versailles). Nevertheless, it must be said that Britain effectively rules over Palestine and Iraq, and France over Syria, because the mandatory itself decides what constitutes security and order in these territories, the extent of their independence, and how far they are capable of self-governance, etc.

To understand the purpose of these new methods that avoid open political annexation or incorporation, we must first ask what interest prevents the ruling power from pursuing annexation. The most immediate interest is very clear and simple: it aims to prevent the population of the controlled territory from acquiring the citizenship of the ruling state. This interest in keeping undesirable new citizens away shows how much conditions have changed over the course of the 19th century. In traditional European politics, the idea prevailed that an increase in population equaled an increase in power. This was possible in the age of cabinet diplomacy and absolute governments. However, a democratic constitution forces states to be cautious about population growth, as obviously not every population can be granted equal citizenship rights. In states that adhere to the nationality principle and are pure nation-states, segments of the population of foreign nationality are often very undesirable. This tendency to keep foreigners away is even more evident in an imperialist state, as such a state wants to dominate the world economically but, of course, does not want to share the benefits of this dominance.

There are additional reasons why open political annexation might be seen as disadvantageous. According to the international legal doctrine of so-called state succession, i.e., the principles to be observed when a territory changes state control, in the case of acquiring a territory, not only would the population of the acquired territory have to acquire the nationality of the acquiring state, but this state would also have to assume some of the obligations of the predecessor state, including taking over national debts, either wholly or in part. Here again, avoiding political annexation has the advantage that, legally speaking, the consequences of state succession are avoided. Instead of such succession, a system of intervention rights is created.

The result of this method is that words like independence, freedom, self-determination, and sovereignty lose their old meanings. The political power of the controlled state is more or less hollowed out. It no longer has the ability to decide its political fate in a decisive conflict. It can no longer dispose of its economic resources. It does not matter if the right of foreign intervention is only exercised in exceptional cases when all goes well. What matters is that the controlled or dominated state no longer finds the decisive norm for its political actions in its own existence, but in the interests and decisions of a foreign power. A foreign power intervenes when it appears to be in its own political interest, to maintain what it defines as security and order, the protection of foreign interests and private property (i.e., its financial capital), or the observance of international treaties. It decides on those vague concepts on which its right to intervene is based, and because of their vagueness, it has limitless power. The self-determination of a people thereby loses its substance. A foreign power dictates what it finds of interest and determines what "order" is; the uninterested remainder is gladly left to the controlled people under names like sovereignty and freedom.

We must never forget what an expert from the United States said at the Paris Peace Conference in 1919 during the discussions on the Saar region—his name is Dr. Haskins, a name we should also not forget: he stated with the utmost self-evidence that controlling a country’s natural resources does not fall under its right to self-determination. Thus, the ground can literally be taken from under a people's feet, even though they still bear the name of a free and even sovereign people.

These modern methods, which avoid the word "domination" and prefer "control," differ in a crucial way from the old-style political annexation. Through political annexation, the annexed entity was incorporated into the ruling state. This is by no means being defended here as an ideal, but it did at least have the advantage of being open and visible. The victor took on political responsibility and representation along with the land and its people. The annexed territory even had the possibility of becoming a part of the new state, merging with it, and thus escaping the humiliating situation of being merely an object. All of this is missing from modern methods. The controlling state secures all the military and economic benefits of annexation without its burdens. An English jurist, Baty, articulates a particularly interesting consequence of modern methods as follows: the population of such territories has neither real citizenship rights nor the protections enjoyed by foreigners and outsiders. What appears as state authority within the controlled country is more or less dependent on the decisions of the foreign power and is merely a facade for its rule, which is made invisible through a system of treaties.

In the previous examples, European peoples were not discussed. Protectorates and mandates are even officially considered forms of rule over semi- or uncivilized peoples. With edifying words, Article 22 of the League of Nations Covenant speaks of peoples "who are not yet able to stand by themselves under the strenuous conditions of the modern world" and therefore "must be placed under the tutelage of a mandatory." But the world is small, and most importantly, the old, traditional notion that still largely dominated international law practice in the 19th century—the division of humanity into Christian and non-Christian, which formed the basis of respect for European peoples—has disappeared. A chasm separates us from the time when international law textbooks still spoke of Christian international law and the rights of Christian nations. The greatest step on the path to this dethronement of Europe was the Treaty of Versailles. I do not mean to say that it abolished Germany's sovereignty. But if that is not the case, if Germany still has the possibility of pursuing a German policy within a modest framework, it is due partly to the number of adversaries it submitted to in this treaty and also to developments in recent years, but not to the treaty itself.

The intention here is not to criticize this instrument. It is only necessary to point out that the treaty contains several of those dangerous, vague terms that could become the basis for constant interventions if their full implications are not immediately recognized. They could turn all of Germany into a political object. These terms particularly concern the Rhineland, which is, for all such endeavors, the most immediate object and the given stage.

Here belong the following terms, which are often mentioned and each of which could determine Germany's fate: reparations, sanctions, investigation, and occupation. The scope of reparations, as outlined in the Treaty of Versailles, was so limitless that it essentially meant perpetual subjugation for Germany. Only after long and agonizing efforts was the current arrangement of the Dawes Plan reached, which at least provides an overview of the extent of Germany's obligations.

The right of sanctions can also entail a complete and renewed subjugation of Germany, especially if it is interpreted unilaterally and arbitrarily. Under such an interpretation, any allied power, citing either Article 18 of Annex 2 to Part VIII, Section 1 of the Treaty of Versailles, or a general, limitless right of reprisal, could militarily occupy German territory and seize German industry. The investigative right granted to the League of Nations over Germany, as per Article 213, as long as the Treaty of Versailles is in effect—the so-called right of investigation, which can be exercised by a majority decision of the League of Nations Council—also opens up the potential for unlimited interpretations. This is especially concerning when one considers that modern warfare is conducted not only with military means in the narrow sense but also encompasses the entire industry and economy of a country.

Regarding occupation, specifically the occupation of German territory, whose main stage is the Rhineland, both the strength of the occupying forces and the authority of the occupation authorities are extraordinarily broad. When these authorities are empowered to do whatever they deem necessary for the "security and dignity of the occupying forces," we again encounter one of those vague concepts, like the protection of foreign interests, that can undermine the state authority of the occupied territory and, in critical times like the autumn of 1923, eliminate it altogether. The durations of the occupations are also described in such a way that they suggest the possibility of a unilateral interpretation. For example, if the Cologne zone is to be evacuated after five years on the condition that the treaty has been "faithfully fulfilled" (Article 429), the immediate question arises: who decides on the faithful fulfillment? And are the countless pretexts and ambiguities that such phrases give rise to subject to the political discretion of one of the contracting parties?

Finally, the well-known thesis of Poincaré, that the occupation periods, including the one of 15 years, have not even begun to run yet, should be mentioned briefly here. It shows the whole abyss of uncertainty of which Germany can fall victim under this treaty. The consequence of all these systematic uncertainties is dreadful. After all, a peace treaty is supposed to have the purpose and intention of ending the war and establishing a state of peace. However, these uncertainties leave the boundary between war and peace itself indeterminate, and fundamental concepts such as war and peace—without whose clear distinction coexistence among nations is impossible—lose their simple meaning and dissolve into a torturous intermediate state.

We live, therefore, in a world where old words and names are losing their meaning, and old political and state relationships are becoming confused. Up until now, we have discussed the specific new political dangers of such a situation. Even more important, however, and with unforeseeable consequences, are the moral dangers that arise from it. No human society can exist without open and clear authority. Lawfulness and decency in everyday life become impossible if honest respect for political power and state law is no longer possible because both have become mere facades for other, invisible forces. Every honest person submits to the lawful authority of their country. Only in this way are integrity and loyalty in all aspects of public life possible. However, no civilized people could demonstrate feelings of loyalty and fidelity to a mere construct calculated to obscure reality, a government apparatus functioning in the service of foreign powers. This is a fundamental social fact and a moral given. Christian moral theologians demand, as a genuinely moral duty, that one must show respect for authority, both external respect, reverentia externa, and internal respect, reverentia interna. This is part of the general Christian duty to be subject to authority because "all authority comes from God" (Romans 13:1). A great moral danger exists in this modern development where the Christian concept of authority could disappear altogether.

One might argue here that our concepts of the state and state authority have often changed throughout history; even in the Middle Ages, political relations were highly unclear, a colorful mix of feudal and corporate connections. Moreover, there have always been political lies and complex political entities, joint dominions of various kinds, vassal states, multiple sovereignties, rival kings, military occupations, and revolutionary transition periods. However, these do not represent the modern, systematic hollowing out of politics and its use to obscure real power. During a revolution, the struggle for political power may remain undecided for months; during a war, unbearable conditions may arise in the occupied country. All these are indeed actual difficulties and dangerous conditions with specific moral and legal questions. However, they do not concern the concept of authority itself. There is no tearing apart of state and actual power, nor is state authority used as a facade to obscure true power. It is not the case that real power deliberately remains hidden and is exercised by people who have no intention of stepping out of the irresponsibility of private life and openly representing the state power of the country over which they rule. Instead, they prefer to make political power their agent. As for medieval conditions, they were by no means ideal; nevertheless, given the personal character of all social relationships, the individual generally knew to whom he owed loyalty and obedience, and the liege lord openly demanded this loyalty for his person and not for an anonymous consortium.

Hence, the numerous theological and legal discussions of the Middle Ages and the 16th and 17th centuries do not know our modern problem. They speak of the limits of obedience owed to authority, the abuse of authoritative power, and the right of resistance against authority. In doing so, they tacitly assume as self-evident that authority presents itself openly as an entity with the full force of political will. They speak of the "tyrant." The tyrant abuses his power, but he also exposes himself as a political entity with all the risks of politics. He demands obedience and loyalty, rightly or wrongly, but in any case, for himself, in full openness. He claims sovereignty and represents it. The publicity inherent in this representation is assumed as self-evident. It truly belongs to the concept of authority. However, modern methods aim to conceal actual power and turn the public presence and representation of state life into an empty facade. Today, we are witnessing the first highly dangerous attempts to transfer methods of modern industrial and financial practice to political and state life, hiding the real power relations in a system of shell companies and dummy corporations and keeping them invisible. The characteristic of our time is that the real power holder wants to remain hidden, does not wish to rule anymore, but only to "control." There is less and less talk of authority and more and more of freedom and independence, even though today there is no less domination and subjugation than in many other times.

In the field of international law concerning the occupation of foreign territories, the old legal and moral principles are still officially recognized. This entire doctrine of military occupation in war and peace is governed by the perspective that such occupations are only temporary, a provisional arrangement of relatively short duration. An occupation does not create a new authority to which one owes loyalty; rather, the old, legitimate state authority remains in place until a definitive resolution is reached. A renowned French textbook on international law, Bonfils-Fauchille, emphasizes that officials of an occupied territory should not forget that the interest of the district, province, or municipality is secondary to the overall interest of their homeland. While the occupying authorities must be obeyed in matters related to the occupation, this obligation is distinct from the duty of loyalty to the legitimate state authority. Such a state can, by its nature, only be temporary and of short duration; this is what makes it legally and morally bearable. However, difficult situations and conflicts can indeed arise, posing a serious moral danger to the legal sense of the population of such a territory. Yet, theoretically, the distinction remains clear: the aforementioned moral duties owed to the legitimate state authority do not apply to the occupying power or its authorities.

The danger becomes even more pronounced when the concept of occupation is transformed into one of those intentionally vague terms used to obscure political purposes. If an international commission were to act as a state authority, it would represent the extreme culmination of modern methods, turning a country and its people into an object of international politics. This is because an international commission cannot be a subject of rights and duties as derived from the Christian concept of authority.

International commissions are inevitable and very useful in an age of intensive inter-state relations. For the purposes of joint consultation and handling administrative and technical matters, they hold great importance. They have long proven their worth, as exemplified by the famous European Commission for the Danube. Many international commissions function effectively in this manner. It need not be said that such organizations are not in question here. The danger and moral unacceptable nature of the situation arises when an international commission presents itself as a bearer of sovereign authority and state power over a European people. Every European nation with some national consciousness would be outraged by the thought of being ruled and governed by foreigners. This outrage reflects a profound moral sentiment, as the state and nation are among the natural communities upon which human coexistence is based. However, the moral outrage is even deeper and greater when the rule is not exercised by a single foreigner, but by a consortium of different foreigners. Imagine Italy, instead of experiencing simple foreign dominations throughout its history, being ruled by a consortium of foreigners, such as an Englishman, a Frenchman, a Czech, and a Chinese! The enormity of such a foreign rule is greater than that of a single foreigner who openly acknowledges his rule. The feeling of being oppressed by a foreigner combines with the horror of international oppression and the sense of being not just an object of simple domination but simultaneously an object of a compromise between different powers. What Wilson specifically condemned as immoral, that nations are made the subject of balancing and compromising competing states, finds its specific organizational form in the rule of an international commission. A people governed in this manner faces a functioning government apparatus that embodies not a particular foreigner but a relationship between foreigners, adding the deceit of anonymity to the wrong of foreign rule. The horror of this state of affairs would spread even if individual delegates and members of such a commission were filled with the best intentions. What belongs to real state authority, and what even a single tyrant might be able to do—namely, that the common good of the people, the bonum commune, determines the purpose of their rule—becomes impossible due to the inter-state nature of such an entity.

If one were to subject such an international commission to the control of the League of Nations, a certain correction might be possible in detail. However, the fundamentally immoral nature of such a state would not be mitigated but rather intensified. The concealment, anonymity, and invisibility would reach their utmost degree. The League of Nations—referring here specifically to the Geneva institution that has existed for the past five years, and not to any ideals or expectations—should not be disparaged. It can be useful and might become even more so in many ways. The issue is not what positive value one attributes to it, whether one sees it as a mere alliance, a genuine federation, or a system of guarantees to protect the status quo established by the Treaty of Versailles, whether it is a highly useful mediation and arbitration body for international disputes, a permanent forum for negotiation and conferences, a clearing office, or at least an "atmosphere". What it is certainly not is a possible subject of state authority or a potential bearer of authority in the Christian sense of the term. It is not a recipient of the feelings of loyalty, devotion, and inner respect that the Christian concept of authority demands, and it would be blasphemous to say that this intricately organized consortium is "from God." Fifty-four states of various kinds, connected by a highly unclear and indefinite treaty with legal characteristics that remain ambiguous, with two very different organs, the League Council and the Assembly, whose competencies are also left undefined—such a construction cannot possess, exercise, or hold sovereignty and authority.

It is telling of the confusion of concepts and the naive and thoughtless transfer of private and commercial legal ideas to moral questions of public, state, and national life that anyone could have seriously proposed the idea of the League of Nations as a sovereign. Sovereignty, state power, authority, and legitimacy primarily presuppose clear definition of their subject. The League of Nations is a legal relationship between states, not a state authority. It is a description of the process by which the great powers seek to reach agreement on certain issues. It serves as a mode of control over specific matters like Danzig, the Saar Basin, or the mandates, though this control is highly problematic. However, to call it a sovereign would be nonsensical. The fact that mandates over former German colonies and territories like Palestine, Syria, and Iraq are exercised in the name of the League, and that it is the trustee of sovereignty in the Saar Basin, does not change this. Some legal scholars claim that the League is sovereign in the mandates because the mandate is exercised in its name. By the same logic, one could call humanity, civilization, or freedom sovereign wherever actions are undertaken in their name. For now, the Geneva League of Nations is nothing more than a system of inter-state relations dominated by various political interests, with its principal organ, the League Council, being a particularly interesting case of an international commission. No European with any sense of national consciousness would seriously be expected to extend the feelings of loyalty and respect that a sincere people would have for its state towards this body. Just like any other international commission, the League cannot be an authority in the Christian sense of the word, as it itself is merely an international commission.

In the recent past, Europe has witnessed a clear example of its remaining sense of state authority, as evidenced by the reaction to a decree from the Saar territory’s government commission dated March 7, 1923. This decree threatened imprisonment of up to five years for anyone who publicly disparaged the Treaty of Versailles, the League of Nations, its members, or the signatory powers of the treaty, or for defaming or slandering the government of the Saar or its members. The astonishment at such a severe penalty illustrates that there is still a shared European sentiment recognizing the fundamental nature of genuine state authority.

The decree’s attempt to shield the League of Nations, the Treaty of Versailles, and an international commission from any criticism reflects an effort to afford them the same respect and loyalty that one would give to one’s own state. This reaction highlights a residual awareness of the essential principles of honesty and integrity in public life. It suggests that there is still an understanding that not every administrative or international construct can be equated with genuine state authority.

Maintaining this awareness is crucial. There is hope that attempts to reduce the Rhineland to an object of international politics using modern methods will be rendered insignificant by this moral consciousness, failing to see the light of day and fading into the obscurity from which they stem. It is about preserving the possibility of honest and decent life.

As humans, Christians, Europeans, and Germans, there is a responsibility to safeguard our ancestral land and beloved homeland from becoming an arena for international politics and dealings, ensuring that our people do not lose their integrity and straightforwardness in a system of obfuscation and political agents. This is fundamentally about upholding simple, daily principles that affect every individual’s life: to live honorably, to harm no one, and to give everyone their due. These principles—honeste vivere, neminem laedere, suum cuique tribuere—are foundational to all legality and trust.

In times of danger, the practical significance of these words becomes evident. Our honor would be compromised if our land and its people became mere objects or annexes of such objects. Despite our awareness of current dangers, we hold firm to three unshakeable values: truth, freedom, and justice. What might have seemed like mere empty phrases in calmer times now gains significance as we face attempts to distort the truth, constrain freedom, and obfuscate justice through complex constructions. Amidst the confused political conditions of today, these simple concepts should guide us. Although we might appear small and powerless in the vast dimensions of today’s imperialistic world politics, our moral awareness remains steadfast. No nation is too small to remain conscious of its rights. In the face of attempts to make us political objects within various systems, we will always uphold these three fundamental and elemental concepts:

Truth, freedom, and justice!

Tasks and Methods

The plan for this book is based on the idea that it should open a series of works addressing historical issues in Asia. Consequently, I believe it is appropriate not to summarize the previous results here, as that will have to be left to the subsequent writings, but to develop the entire complex of partially or not yet solved questions, new methods, surprising perspectives, and goals, so that future research can at least overview the field in broad outlines. Therefore, I will set aside my own opinions to highlight the significance of the many prevailing opinions.

A. The first chapter would present the primitive culture of ancient Asia. The concepts of antiquity, the Middle Ages, and modern times completely vanish from the western horizon. In this era, some major cultural circles begin to clarify slowly.

1. The primordial Nordic stretch from Scandinavia to Korea, which has long emerged in the Indo-European and Altaic issues and whose internal unity will probably prove to be greater than currently believed. Once one goes beyond the language changes, racial transformations, and geographical shifts of ethnic names to internal cultural forms, a lasting and pronounced unity emerges from the finds, graves, ornaments, and customs.

2. The Southeast circle: Extending from central China and Burma to Polynesia, and equally bound to the sea as the first is to the inland. Here, questions of prehistoric sea routes to East Africa (Madagascar, via South Arabia) and America (Peru, Guanacaste) arise, which relate to ocean currents and trade winds. We also approach the moment when Indian research, which has so far been limited to philology and literary analysis, can and must compare its results with the layers of finds from the Stone and Bronze Ages. Only then would Indian history of the 2nd millennium BCE be placed on a solid and probably entirely new foundation.

3. The West circle, encompassing the areas from the Nile to the Indus and, it seems, showing a significant unity in the 4th millennium that begins to shed light on a common southern origin of Egyptian and Babylonian cultures.

In all three circles, the ancient, eternal trade routes must be investigated, partly along the coasts (origin of seafaring), and partly through the large clearings of inland forests and mountains (origin of the wheel). These routes first emerge as trade routes primarily for metals, amber, and precious weapons; once discovered and put to use, they also guide the migrations of peoples, which must proceed cautiously to avoid the dangers of starvation or getting lost.

B. By the end of the 4th millennium, the two earliest high cultures on the Nile and Euphrates begin, probably on a common Stone Age foundation with a developmental direction that seems to have an enduring effect from the south towards the Mediterranean and Black Seas. From the end of the 3rd millennium, the diffusion of mature forms (myth, astronomy, technology, economy, weaponry, art?) along the old trade routes becomes noticeable, certainly both towards the Sudan and the high north and east.

C. With the aging of these two cultures, all of Asia enters a period of powerful upheavals around the middle of the 2nd millennium. A major movement occurs from the northern circle to the south:

The horse; the entirely new mobility of small warrior tribes; a passion for adventure, chivalry, and a worldview of a ruling class that simultaneously develops into grand forms in the old clans, Indo-Iranian knighthood, and Homeric heroism.

1. In the Western world, the omnipotence of the two oldest cultures disappears during the Kassite and Hyksos periods; sea peoples, conquerors with Indian Mitanni names; collapse of the Anatolian states, the Minoan empire. New kinds of wars and war objectives: a upheaval like the migrations of peoples on the ruins of the Roman Empire.

2. In the south, the same event at the same time: the invasion of the Vedic tribes into the already Bronze Age Dravidian world.

3. In the east, the Zhou period begins in a small area of northern China, with events closely related to those of the other two. The Zhou also come from deep inland; with them, the feudal era begins. I consider the entire alleged history of China before 1500 to be a later construct. The "imperial dynasties" with real names of rulers were undoubtedly transformed into a sequence of dynasties from coexisting ruling houses, as in Babylon and Egypt.

D. These similar developments need to be traced down to around 300 BCE. However, there remains the bridge of the Central Asian-Scythian population; many dark questions about the fate of this vast region from the Danube to the Amur and Brahmaputra. What races? What languages? What changing summaries into ethnic groups? Scythians, Cimmerians (Tatars?), Tocharians, Huns?

E. Since the 4th century BCE, the three great civilizations, widely radiating and equally receptive to foreign influences (image of Hellenistic, Indian, Chinese metropolises). There is a predominance of the west-east direction.

1. The late antique world flooding the ruins of ancient Egypt and Babylon; Alexander; Gandhara art, Hellenistic empires in Bactria; creation of the plastic Buddha type. Effects reaching into China.

2. On Syrian-Arabian soil, the new culture of magical style, with ethnic forms of religious imprint and a touch of Hellenistic character. Spread of Christian, Jewish, Manichean, Mazdean teachings and peoples (both as a unit!) primarily eastwards; repeatedly the old great burial road of the Nordic Stone Age, along which the Chinese emperors build their great wall, which the Roman emperors continued in Europe. The old northern circle is thereby isolated for centuries.

3. In accordance with Hellenism, a less plastic and optical than soft-rhythmic wave of forms from India under the leadership of Buddhism. Influence of Indian ornamentation, also spiritual, on the east and southeast as far as Japan and Java.

4. At the same time, a diffusion of Chinese civilization from the Huang He basin across the Yangtze to Polynesia, with traces possibly into the interior of the Americas.

5. But now a counter wave: The Chinese empire proves to be stronger than the Roman one. Along the Stone Age burial road, people from the northern circle attempt to break into the rich worlds of the south. The Altaic-Germanic migration of peoples initiated by the Huns, having been repelled at the borders of China, moves westwards and breaks through the boundary wall of the Roman world. The intrusion of more primitive forms and views into the Sassanian Empire (already the Parthians?), into Byzantium, and finally in a broad wave through the Germanic tribes mixed with Asians into Spain and Morocco. The movement is partially prepared by magical religious propaganda (Manichaeans in southern France, Montanists in North Africa, Arians through the Ostrogoths by the Don into Italy). The inseparability of Germanic and Central Asian form in the so-called migration art, as well as the internal affinity of wooden architecture from Scandinavia and Russia to northern China and Korea. These are the ancient forms of the northern circle.

F. Conclusion. In the far west, a new culture builds upon the results of the migration of peoples. In the Near East, the conclusion of the magical culture through the summarizing force of Islam in its final form of the 8th and 9th centuries. New tremendous religious storms, which carry Islam to Spain, the Sudan, India, and China and largely absorb the older religions into it. Conclusion in the Caliphate.

As the last major event that shaped today's image of Asia, the Mongol invasion under Genghis Khan, an event probably preceded by similar ones for millennia, of which we only recognize the effects, not the causes (Cimmerians, Central Asian tribes that set the Indo-Aryans and Mycenaean peoples in motion?). The Mongol invasion brings Mongol rule to India, foreign dynasties to East Asia, sultanates in the west, and khanates in Russia. Asia becomes definitively a region littered with cultural ruins under changing rulers, while in the far west, a major historical event is being prepared.

This overview only makes sense in the planned concise form if all individual questions are addressed in the following volumes and illuminated from the state of our knowledge. Here too, the individual problems must be clarified through a small, careful selection of images and maps.

There is an anti-Roman sentiment. It fuels the struggle against Papism, Jesuitism, and Clericalism, which has driven several centuries of European history with a profound mobilization of religious and political energies. Not only fanatical sectarians but entire generations of devout Protestants and Greek Orthodox Christians have seen in Rome the Antichrist or the Babylonian Whore of the Apocalypse. This image exerted a mythical power, deeper and more potent than any economic calculation. Its effects lingered for a long time: in Gladstone or in Bismarck's "Thoughts and Memories," there is still a nervous unease when mysterious, scheming Jesuits or prelates appear. However, the emotional or even, if I may say so, mythical arsenal of the Kulturkampf and the entire struggle against the Vatican, as well as that of the French separation of church and state, is harmless compared to Cromwell's demonic fury. The arguments increasingly become more rationalist or humanitarian, utilitarian, and superficial. Only in a Russian Orthodox believer like Dostoevsky does the anti-Roman sentiment once again rise to the secular grandeur of his depiction of the Grand Inquisitor.

In all the various shades and gradations, the fear of the incomprehensible political power of Roman Catholicism always remains. I can well imagine that a Protestant Englishman feels all the accessible antipathies towards the "papal machine" when he realizes that there is an enormous hierarchical administrative apparatus that aims to control religious life and is run by people who fundamentally reject having a family. So, a celibate bureaucracy. This must frighten him, given his sense of family and his aversion to any bureaucratic control. Nevertheless, this is more of an unspoken sentiment. The most common criticism, echoed throughout the 19th century, which was largely parliamentary and democratic, is that Catholic politics is nothing more than boundless opportunism. Its elasticity is indeed astonishing. It aligns with opposing currents and groups, and countless times it has been criticized for forming coalitions with various governments and parties in different countries; for allying, depending on the political constellation, with absolutists or monarchomachs; during the Holy Alliance after 1815, being a stronghold of reaction and an enemy of all liberal freedoms, while in other countries, advocating for the very same freedoms, especially press freedom and educational freedom, in fierce opposition; how it preaches the alliance of throne and altar on the European continent and knows how to stand entirely on the side of a committed democracy in the peasant democracies of Swiss cantons or in North America. Men of the stature of Montalembert, Tocqueville, Lacordaire already represented a liberal Catholicism, while many of their co-religionists still saw in liberalism the Antichrist or at least the forerunner of the Antichrist; Catholic royalists and legitimists appear arm in arm with Catholic defenders of the Republic; Catholics are tactical allies of a socialism that other Catholics consider the devil, and even negotiate with Bolshevists, while bourgeois advocates of the sanctity of private property still see them as a band of outlaws. With each change in the political situation, all principles seemingly change, except the one: the power of Catholicism. "One demands all freedoms from opponents in the name of their principles and denies them in the name of Catholic principles." How often does one see the image presented by bourgeois, socialist, and anarchist pacifists: high church prelates blessing the cannons of all warring nations; or the neo-Catholic writers who are partly monarchists and partly communists; or finally, to speak of a different type of sociological impressions: the abbé pampered by court ladies next to the Irish Franciscan who encourages striking workers to endure. Again and again, one is confronted with similarly contradictory figures and connections.

Some aspects of this diversity and ambiguity—the double face, the Janus head, the hermaphroditic nature (as Byron expressed it about Rome)—can be easily explained through political or sociological parallels. Any party with a firm worldview can form coalitions with the most diverse groups in the tactics of political struggle. This applies to committed socialism, as far as it holds a radical principle, just as it does to Catholicism. The national movement, too, depending on the situation in each country, has sometimes formed alliances with legitimate monarchy, and at other times with the democratic republic. From the perspective of a worldview, all political forms and possibilities become mere tools for realizing the idea. Furthermore, much of what appears contradictory is merely a consequence and accompanying phenomenon of a political universalism. The fact that the Roman Catholic Church, as a historical complex and as an administrative apparatus, continues the universalism of the Roman Empire is confirmed by all sides with remarkable agreement. Nationalistic Frenchmen, exemplified by Charles Maurras, Germanic race theorists like H. S. Chamberlain, German professors of liberal provenance like Max Weber, and a Pan-Slavist poet and visionary like Dostoevsky, all base their constructions on this continuity between the Catholic Church and the Roman Empire.

Every world empire naturally involves a certain relativism towards the diverse range of possible views, a ruthless superiority over local peculiarities, and at the same time, opportunistic tolerance in matters that are not of central importance. The Roman Empire, like the British Empire, shows enough similarities in this regard. Every imperialism that is more than mere rhetoric contains contradictions within itself—conservatism and liberalism, tradition and progress—even militarism and pacifism. In the history of English politics, this has been demonstrated almost in every generation, from the contrast between Burke and Warren Hastings to that between Lloyd George and Churchill or Lord Curzon. However, by pointing out the peculiarities of universalism, one has not yet defined the political idea of Catholicism. It must only be mentioned because the feeling of fear towards the universal administrative apparatus is often explained by a justified reaction of national and local sentiments. Particularly in the strongly centralized Roman system, many may feel sidelined and betrayed in their national patriotism. An Irishman, in the bitterness of his Gaelic national consciousness, declared that Ireland was merely "a pinch of snuff in the Roman snuff-box" (he would have preferred to say: a chicken the prelate would drop into the cauldron which he was boiling for the cosmopolitan restaurant). On the other hand, however, Catholic nations owe a significant part of their national resilience to Catholicism—Tyroleans, Spaniards, Poles, Irish—not only when the oppressor was an enemy of the Church. Cardinal Mercier of Mechelen and Bishop Korum of Trier have represented national dignity and self-consciousness more grandly and impressively than commerce and industry did, and that in the face of an opponent who was by no means an enemy of the Church, but rather sought an alliance with it.

Purely political or sociological explanations based on the nature of universalism will not be able to explain such phenomena, just as one cannot explain that anti-Roman sentiment solely as a national or local reaction against universalism and centralism, even though every world empire in world history has undoubtedly provoked such reactions.

I believe that the emotional depth of this idea would be infinitely deepened if one fully grasped how much the Catholic Church is a **_complexio oppositorum_** (a union of opposites). There seems to be no contradiction that it does not embrace. For a long time, it has prided itself on uniting all forms of government and state, being an autocratic monarchy whose head is elected by the aristocracy of the cardinals, and yet containing so much democracy that, regardless of social class or origin, the humblest shepherd from the Abruzzi, as Dupanloup put it, has the potential to become this autocratic sovereign. Its history is full of astonishing adaptability, but also of rigid intransigence, capable of the most masculine resistance and the most feminine submission, pride and humility strangely mixed. It is almost unimaginable that a rigorous philosopher of authoritarian dictatorship, the Spanish diplomat Donoso Cortes, and a rebel like Padraic Pearse, who devoted himself to the poor Irish people and allied with syndicalists, were both devout Catholics. But this union of opposites also prevails theologically.

The Old and New Testaments are both upheld, answering Marcionite either-or with both-and. The Jewish monotheism and its absolute transcendence are supplemented by the doctrine of the Trinity with so many elements of God’s immanence that many mediations are conceivable. Due to the veneration of saints, French atheists and German metaphysicians who rediscovered polytheism in the 19th century praised the Church because they believed they found in it a healthy paganism. The fundamental thesis to which all teachings of a consistently anarchistic state and social philosophy can be reduced, namely the opposition between the "naturally evil" and the "naturally good" man—this question, decisive for political theory, is not answered simply with a yes or no in the Tridentine dogma. Rather, the dogma, unlike the Protestant doctrine of total corruption of natural man, speaks only of a wounding, weakening, or obscuring of human nature, allowing for various gradations and adaptations.

The connection of opposites extends to the very roots of social-psychological motivations and concepts. The Pope has his name as Father, and the Church is the Mother of believers and the Bride of Christ—a marvelous fusion of the patriarchal and the matriarchal, giving direction to the simplest complexes and instincts, leading them to Rome, to respect for the Father and love for the Mother—does rebellion against the Mother exist? And finally, most importantly, this infinite ambiguity is combined with the most precise dogmatism and a will to decision, culminating in the doctrine of papal infallibility.

From the political idea of Catholicism, the essence of this Roman Catholic **_complexio oppositorum_** lies in a specifically formal superiority over the material of human life, which no empire has ever known. Here, a substantial shaping of historical and social reality has succeeded, which, despite its formal character, has an existential ethos, full of life and yet highly rational.

This formal uniqueness of Roman Catholicism is based on the strict application of the principle of representation. This can be seen clearly in contrast to modern economic thought. But first, a misunderstanding must be cleared up—a misunderstanding born out of intellectual promiscuity, which seeks a romantic or Hegelian brotherhood with Catholicism, and, in making Catholicism one of its many syntheses, might prematurely believe it has constructed Catholicism. The metaphysicians of post-Kantian speculative philosophy were accustomed to viewing the essence of all organic and historical life as a process of eternal antitheses and syntheses. The roles can be distributed arbitrarily. When Görres presents Catholicism as the masculine and Protestantism as the feminine principle, he makes Catholicism merely an antithetical element and sees the synthesis in a "higher third." It goes without saying that Catholicism can just as easily be portrayed as the feminine and Protestantism as the masculine. It is also conceivable that speculative constructors occasionally viewed Catholicism as the "higher third." Catholicizing romantics are particularly inclined to this, although they are also reluctant to refrain from instructing the Church that it must free itself from Jesuitism and Scholasticism in order to make something "organic" higher out of the schematic externality of form and the invisible inwardness of Protestantism.

This is the basis of the seemingly typical misunderstanding, but such constructions are more than fantasies from thin air. They are, even if it sounds improbable, highly contemporary, for their intellectual structure corresponds to a reality. Their starting point is indeed a given split and division, an antithesis that needs a synthesis or a polarity that has an "indifference point," a state of problematic torn-apart-ness and deepest indecisiveness, for which no other development is possible than to negate itself in order to, by negating, arrive at positions. A radical dualism indeed prevails in every area of the present epoch; in the further course of this discussion, it will have to be mentioned in its various forms.

Its general foundation is a concept of nature that has found its realization in today’s world, changed by technology and industry. Today, nature appears as the polar opposite to the mechanical world of large cities, which lie on the earth like enormous cubist structures with their stone, iron, and glass crystals. The antithesis of this realm of technology is the wild, untouched, barbaric nature—a reservation into which "man does not come with his torment." Such a split into a rationalistically technologized world of human work and a romantically untouched nature is entirely foreign to the Roman Catholic concept of nature.

It seems that Catholic peoples have a different relationship to the earth than Protestant ones; perhaps because, in contrast to the Protestants, they are mostly peasant peoples who do not know large industries. This is generally true. How is it that there is no Catholic emigration, at least none of the grand type of the Huguenots or even the Puritans? There have been countless Catholic emigrants—Irish, Poles, Italians, Croats; most emigrants are probably Catholic because Catholic people were generally poorer than Protestant ones. Poverty, need, and persecution drove the Catholic emigrants, but they never lose their homesickness. The Huguenot and the Puritan, compared to these poor exiles, possess a strength and pride of often inhuman grandeur. They can live on any land. But it would be wrong to say they take root everywhere. They can build their industry anywhere, make any land the field of their professional work and their "inner-worldly asceticism," and finally have a comfortable home everywhere—all by making themselves masters of nature and subjugating it. Their type of mastery remains inaccessible to the Roman Catholic concept of nature.

Roman Catholic peoples seem to love the soil, the mother earth, differently; they all have their "terrisme." For them, nature is not the opposite of art and human work, nor the opposition between reason and emotion or heart, but human work and organic growth, nature and reason are one. Viticulture is the most beautiful symbol of this union, but the cities built with this spirit also appear as naturally grown products of the soil, fitting into the landscape and remaining true to their earth. In the essential concept of "the urban," they possess a humanity that remains eternally inaccessible to the precision mechanics of a modern industrial city. Just as the Tridentine dogma does not know the Protestant tearing apart of nature and grace, so Roman Catholicism does not understand all those dualisms of nature and spirit, nature and reason, nature and art, nature and machine, and their alternating pathos. Just as the opposition of empty form and shapeless matter, so the synthesis of such antitheses remains foreign to it, and the Catholic Church is by no means that (by the way, always absent) "higher third" of German nature and philosophy of history. It is not suited to either the despair of antitheses or the illusionary arrogance of their synthesis.

Therefore, it must seem like dubious praise to a Catholic if their church is made into the antithesis of the mechanistic age. It is a striking contradiction—again pointing to the curious *complexio oppositorum*—that one of the strongest Protestant feelings sees in Roman Catholicism a degeneration and misuse of Christianity because it mechanizes religion into a soulless formality, while at the same time, certain Protestants romantically flee back to the Catholic Church because they seek salvation from the soullessness of a rationalistic and mechanistic era. If the Church were to settle for being nothing more than the soulful polarity to soullessness, it would have forgotten itself. It would have become the desired complement to capitalism, a hygienic institute for the ailments of the competitive struggle, a Sunday outing or summer retreat for the city dweller. Naturally, the Church has a significant therapeutic effect, but that cannot be the essence of such an institution. Rousseauism and Romanticism can, like much else, also enjoy Catholicism—as one might appreciate a magnificent ruin or a genuine antique without doubt—and can, while sitting in "the armchair of the achievements of 1789," also turn this matter into a consumer item of a relativistic bourgeoisie. Many, especially German Catholics, seem proud to be discovered by art historians. Their, in itself, secondary joy need not be mentioned here if not for an original and thoughtful political thinker like Georges Sorel, who in the new connection of the Church with irrationalism, sought the crisis of Catholic thought. In his view, while the argumentation of church apologetics aimed to rationally demonstrate faith until the 18th century, in the 19th century, it became apparent that irrationalist currents were benefiting the Church. It is indeed correct that in the 19th century, various forms of opposition to Enlightenment and rationalism revitalized Catholicism. Traditionalist, mysticist, and romantic tendencies have made many converts. Even today, as far as I can judge, there is strong dissatisfaction among Catholics with the established apologetics, which some perceive as specious argumentation and empty schema. But all this misses the essence, because it identifies rationalism with scientific thinking and overlooks that Catholic argumentation is based on a distinct form of reasoning, one interested in the normative guidance of social human life, demonstrating with a specifically juridical logic. In almost every conversation, one can observe how deeply scientific-technical methods dominate today's thinking, such as when in traditional proofs of God's existence, the God who rules the world like a king governs a state is unconsciously made into a motor driving the cosmic machine. The imagination of the modern city dweller is filled to the core with technical and industrial concepts, projecting them into the cosmic or metaphysical. The world becomes, for this naïve mechanistic and mathematical mythology, a giant dynamo machine. Here, there is no difference in class either. The worldview of the modern industrial entrepreneur resembles that of the industrial proletarian as a twin resembles his brother. Therefore, they understand each other well when they fight together for economic thinking. Socialism, insofar as it has become the religion of the industrial proletariat of large cities, counters the great mechanism of the capitalist world with a fabulous anti-mechanism, and the class-conscious proletariat sees itself as the legitimate master of this apparatus—that is, the proper professional master—while it views the private property of the capitalist entrepreneur as an unprofessional remnant from a technically backward time. The great entrepreneur has no other ideal than Lenin, namely, an "electrified earth." Both essentially only argue over the correct method of electrification. American financiers and Russian Bolsheviks unite in the struggle for economic thinking, that is, in the struggle against politicians and jurists. In this alliance, Georges Sorel stands as well, and here, in economic thinking, lies a fundamental opposition of today's era to the political idea of Catholicism.

For this idea contradicts everything that economic thinking perceives as its objectivity, honesty, and rationality. The rationalism of the Roman Church grasps morally the psychological and sociological nature of man and does not concern itself, like industry and technology, with the domination and utilization of matter. The Church has its own distinct rationality. We are familiar with Renan's saying: *Toute victoire de Rome est une victoire de la raison* ("Every victory of Rome is a victory of reason"). In its struggle against sectarian fanaticism, the Church has always sided with common sense. Throughout the Middle Ages, as Duhem has beautifully demonstrated, it suppressed superstition and witchcraft. Even Max Weber acknowledges that Roman rationalism lives on within it, that it knew magnificently how to overcome Dionysian cults of intoxication, ecstasy, and dissolution in contemplation. This rationalism is institutional and essentially juridical; its great achievement lies in making the priesthood into an office, but again, in a particular way. The Pope is not a prophet but the Vicar of Christ. All the wild fanaticism of unrestrained prophetism is kept at bay by such formation. By making the office independent of charisma, the priest gains a dignity that seems to abstract entirely from his concrete person. Nevertheless, he is not a functionary or commissioner of republican thought, and his dignity is not impersonal like that of a modern bureaucrat; rather, his office traces, in an unbroken chain, back to the personal commission and person of Christ. This is perhaps the most astonishing *complexio oppositorum*. In such distinctions lies the rational creative power and, at the same time, the humanity of Catholicism. It remains within the human-spiritual realm; without dragging the irrational darkness of the human soul into the light, it gives it direction. Unlike economic-technological rationalism, it does not provide recipes for the manipulation of matter.

Economic rationalism is so far removed from Catholicism that it can evoke a specific Catholic fear against itself. Modern technology simply becomes a servant to any needs. In the modern economy, a highly rationalized production corresponds to a completely irrational consumption. A marvelous rational mechanism serves any demand, always with the same seriousness and precision, whether the demand is for silk blouses, poisonous gases, or something else. The rationalism of economic thought has become accustomed to considering certain needs and only seeing what it can "satisfy." In the modern metropolis, it has constructed a system where everything operates predictably. This system of unwavering objectivity can terrify a devout Catholic, precisely because of its rationality.

It can be said today that perhaps it is the Catholics in whom the image of the Antichrist is still alive, and when Sorel sees in the ability to maintain such "myths" proof of vital force, he does an injustice to Catholicism with his claim that Catholics no longer believe in their eschatology and that none of them expect the Last Judgment anymore. This is indeed incorrect, although in the *Soirées de Saint-Pétersbourg* De Maistre has a Russian senator say something similar. In a Spaniard like Donoso Cortés, in French Catholics like Louis Veuillot and Léon Bloy, in an English convert like Robert Hugh Benson, the expectation of the Last Judgment is as immediately alive as in any Protestant of the 16th and 17th centuries who saw the Antichrist in Rome.

However, it should be noted that it is precisely the modern economic-technical apparatus that causes widespread horror and dismay among Catholics. The genuine Catholic fear arises from the recognition that here the concept of the rational is fantastically twisted in a way that offends Catholic sensibilities because a production mechanism serving the satisfaction of any material needs is called "rational" without considering the essential rationality of the purpose for which this highly rational mechanism is available. Economic thinking is incapable of perceiving this Catholic fear; it is content as long as it can be supplied with the means of its technology. It knows nothing of an anti-Roman sentiment, nor of the Antichrist and the Apocalypse. The Church appears to it as a strange phenomenon, but no stranger than other "irrational" things. There are people who have religious needs—well, the task is to satisfy those needs realistically. This does not seem more irrational than some senseless whims of fashion, which are also catered to. Once the eternal lamps in front of all Catholic altars are powered by the same electricity plant that supplies the city's theaters and dance halls, then Catholicism will also become an understandable, self-evident matter to economic thinking.

This economic way of thinking has its own reality and honesty because it remains purely technical, meaning it stays focused on the material aspects. Politics, to it, seems unprofessional because it must appeal to values beyond the economic. However, Catholicism, in a highly significant sense, is political, in contrast to this absolute economic objectivity. Here, "political" does not mean the management and control of certain social and international power factors as the Machiavellian concept of politics would have it, which reduces politics to mere technique by isolating a single, external element of political life.

Political mechanics have their own laws, and Catholicism, like any other sociological force drawn into politics, is subject to them. Since the 16th century, the "apparatus" of the Church has become more rigid; despite or perhaps because of the need to digest Romanticism, it has become more centralized in bureaucracy and organization than in the Middle Ages. All of this, which sociologically is characterized as "Jesuitism," can be explained not only by the struggle with Protestantism but also as a reaction against the mechanism of the time.

The absolute prince and his "mercantilism" were the precursors of modern economic thinking and a political state that lies somewhere between dictatorship and anarchy. With the mechanistic view of nature in the seventeenth century, a state power apparatus developed, along with the often-described "objectification" of all social relationships, and in this environment, the church organization, like a protective armor, became firmer and more rigid.

This rigidity in itself is not proof of political weakness or age; the question is whether an idea still lives within it. No political system can last even a generation by relying solely on the technique of power maintenance. Politics requires an idea because there is no politics without authority and no authority without an ethos of conviction.

From the pretension of being more than just economic, the political realm derives the necessity to appeal to categories beyond production and consumption. It is peculiar, to say the least, that both capitalist entrepreneurs and socialist proletarians unanimously regard the pretensions of the political as presumptuous. From their economic perspective, they see the rule of politicians as "unprofessional." However, from a strictly political standpoint, this only means that certain social power groups—whether powerful private entrepreneurs or the organized labor force of specific industries—are using their positions in the production process to seize state power.

When they oppose politicians and politics as such, they are targeting a concrete political power that still stands in their way. Should they succeed in overthrowing it, the distinction between economic and political thinking will lose its relevance, and a new kind of politics will emerge, based on the new power rooted in economic foundations. But what they will be engaging in will still be politics, which implies a demand for a specific type of validity and authority. They will appeal to their social indispensability, to the "public good," and thus they are already invoking an idea. No major social conflict can be resolved economically.

When an entrepreneur says to the workers, "I feed you," the workers reply, "We feed you." This is not a dispute over production and consumption; it is not economic at all, but rather stems from differing moral or legal convictions. It concerns the moral or legal attribution of who is truly the producer, the creator, and consequently the master of modern wealth. Once production becomes entirely anonymous, with a veil of corporations and other legal entities making it impossible to attribute it to specific individuals, the private property of the "nothing-but-capitalist" will be cast aside as an inexplicable appendage. This will happen even though, at least today, there are still entrepreneurs who manage to assert their claims of personal indispensability.

The Catholic Church is likely to be largely disregarded in such a conflict as long as both parties think in economic terms. Its power does not rest on economic means, even though the Church may possess land and various "investments." Such holdings are trivial and idyllic compared to major industrial interests. The ownership of the Earth's oil reserves may potentially decide the battle for world dominance, but the Vicar of Christ on Earth will not participate in that struggle. The Pope insists on being the sovereign of the Papal States—what does that mean amid the loud clamor of global economies and imperialisms?

The political power of Catholicism is neither based on economic nor military power. The Church maintains an ethos of authority in its purest form, independent of these forces. While the Church is also a "juridical person," it differs fundamentally from a corporation. The latter, a typical product of the age of production, is merely a mode of accounting, whereas the Church is a concrete, personal representation of a concrete personality. Even those familiar with it have always acknowledged the Church as the supreme bearer of juridical spirit and the true heir of Roman jurisprudence. One of the Church's sociological secrets lies in its ability to master juridical form, but it possesses this power only because it also has the strength to represent.

The Church represents the *civitas humana*, continually embodying the historical continuity from the moment of the Incarnation and Christ's sacrifice on the cross. It represents Christ Himself, personally, the God who became man in historical reality. This representative function is where the Church's superiority over an era dominated by economic thinking lies.

In the present day, the Catholic Church stands as a unique, unified example of the medieval ability to create representative figures such as the Pope, Emperor, monk, knight, and merchant. Among the last four pillars Paul Bourget once listed (English upper house, Prussian general staff, French Academy, and the Vatican), the Church is the only remaining one. It is so unique that, to those who see only its outward form, it might seem to represent only representation itself. The 18th century had various representative figures, like the "legislator," and even the Goddess of Reason appeared somewhat representative compared to the unproductive 19th century.

The attempt to counter the Catholic Church with a modern scientific institution, such as Auguste Comte's positivist church, resulted in a clumsy imitation. Even though Comte's efforts are admirable and his imitation grand in comparison to other similar attempts, it fails to grasp the essence of representation. Comte recognized the medieval representative types—the cleric and the knight—and compared them with the modern types—the scholar and the industrial merchant. However, he was mistaken in considering modern scholars and merchants as representative types. The scholar was only representative during the transitional period and the struggle with the Church, and the merchant only as a puritanical individual.

Since the advent of the modern economic system, both scholars and merchants have become operators within the large machine of economic life. It is difficult to say what they truly represent. The old social estates no longer exist. The 18th-century French bourgeoisie, the third estate, declared itself as "the nation." The famous phrase "le tiers état c'est la Nation" was more revolutionary than anticipated because when one estate identifies itself with the nation, it negates the idea of multiple estates required for social order. Bourgeois society thus lost its capacity for representation and fell into the dualism of the era, manifesting as polarities: the bourgeois and the Bohemian, who only represents himself.

The concept of the proletariat emerged as a direct response. It categorizes society based on its role in the production process, aligning with economic thinking, and thus proves that its essence involves renouncing representation. Scholars and merchants have become either suppliers or leading workers. They work in their offices or laboratories and serve businesses if they are truly modern. They are anonymous, making it pointless to expect them to represent anything. They are private individuals or representatives, not representatives in the true sense.

Economic thinking recognizes only one form: technical precision, which is the furthest from the idea of representation. Economic and technical thinking demands a real presence of things. Concepts like "reflection," "radiation," or "mirroring" denote material connections and different states of the same matter. Such images aim to make the ideal clear by incorporating it into the material realm. According to the renowned "economic" historical perspective, political and religious views are ideological "reflections" of production relationships. This implies that in their social hierarchy, economic producers stand above the "intellectuals." Psychological discussions often use terms like "projection." Metaphors like projection, reflection, mirroring, and radiation seek an "immanent" technical basis.

The idea of representation, however, is dominated by the thought of personal authority. Both the representative and the represented must assert personal dignity. Representation is not a material concept. Only a person, an authoritative person or an idea that personifies when represented, can represent in the eminent sense. God, or in democratic ideology, the people, or abstract ideas like freedom and equality, are conceivable themes for representation, but not production and consumption. Representation gives the representative a unique dignity because a high-value representative cannot be worthless. Not only does the representative and the represented demand worth, but so does the third party, the addressed audience. One cannot represent machines or be represented by them. If the state becomes a Leviathan, it disappears from the world of representation. This world has its hierarchy of values and its humanity, in which the political idea of Catholicism lives, manifesting in the threefold form: the aesthetic form of the artistic, the juridical legal form, and the glorious shine of a world-historical power.

In a modern age focused on artistic enjoyment, the last aspect of natural and historical growth is the aesthetic beauty of form, which stands out prominently. From grand representation, shape, figure, and visible symbols naturally arise. The representationless starkness of the modern business world draws its symbols from an earlier era, as machines are traditionless and lack imagery. For instance, even the Russian Soviet Republic found no other symbol for its coat of arms than the hammer and sickle, which correspond to a bygone stage of technology and do not represent the world of industrial proletariat. This emblem could be viewed satirically as a reflection that the private property of economically reactionary peasants triumphed over the communism of industrial workers, and that agrarian small-scale production surpassed technologically advanced machine industry. Nevertheless, this primitive symbolism has a humane quality that the highest machine technology lacks because it possesses a language.

It is not surprising that in the era of economic thinking, the beautiful externals are the most noticeable because they are most lacking. Yet, even in aesthetics, it often remains superficial. The true essence of form involves a capacity for grand rhetoric. This is what should be considered, rather than the aristocratic garments of cardinals or the external splendor of a beautiful procession, with all the poetic beauty that accompanies them. Likewise, grand architecture, ecclesiastical painting and music, or significant poetic works are not the criteria for the form being discussed here. Today, there is a clear separation between the Church and creative art. Francis Thompson, one of the few great Catholic poets of recent generations, expressed this in his wonderful essay on Shelley: the Church, once the mother of poets as much as saints, Dante as much as Saint Dominic, now retains the glory of holiness for itself and leaves art to outsiders. "The separation has been ill for poetry; it has not been well for religion." This is true, and no one could express it more beautifully and accurately: the current state is not good for religion, but it is not a terminal illness for the Church.

However, the power of words and speech is a criterion of human life, rhetoric in its grand sense. It may be dangerous to speak this way today. The misunderstanding of the rhetorical significance is a result of the polarizing dualism of the time, manifesting as extravagant music on one side and mute factuality on the other, attempting to turn "true" art into something romantic, mystical, and irrational. It is known that a close relationship exists between rhetoric and classical esprit, recognized and described by Taine. Yet, Taine's antithesis of classical and romantic killed the living concept of the classical, and he, despite not fully believing it, sought to prove the classical as rhetorical and thus, as he saw it, as future, empty symmetry, and affected liveliness. A whole game of antithesis! In the opposition between rationalism and something "irrational," classical is assigned to the rationalistic and romantic to the irrational, and rhetoric to the classical-rationalistic. Yet, it is precisely the non-discursive and non-rational, but rather the, if one may call it so, representative speech that is decisive.

It moves in antitheses, but these are not contradictions, rather the different elements that are shaped into a complexio so that speech has life. Can Bossuet be grasped with Taine's categories? He has more understanding than many rationalists and more intuitive power than many romantics. But his speech is only possible against the backdrop of an imposing authority. It neither falls into a discourse nor a dictation but moves in its architecture. Its grand diction is more than music; it is the visible human dignity made manifest in the rationality of self-forming speech. All this presupposes a hierarchy, as the spiritual resonance of great rhetoric comes from the belief in the representation claimed by the speaker. Here, it becomes evident that, for world history, the priest belongs to the soldier and the statesman. Next to them, he can stand as a representative figure because they themselves are such figures, unlike the economically minded merchant and technician, who merely provide him with simple accommodations and confuse his representation with decoration.

A union of the Catholic Church with the current form of capitalist industrialism is impossible. The combination of throne and altar will not be followed by office and altar, nor by factory and altar. This situation may have unavoidable consequences if the Roman Catholic clergy in Europe are no longer primarily recruited from peasant populations but from the masses of urban clergy. This change will not alter the fundamental impossibility. However, it remains true that Catholicism will adapt to any societal and state order, including those where capitalist entrepreneurs or unions and works councils hold power. It can only adapt if the economically based power has become political, meaning that capitalists or workers in power take on state representation and responsibility. The new regime will then be compelled to present something other than merely economic and private legal conditions. The new order cannot be confined to the realm of production and consumption processes; it must be formal because every order is a legal order, and every state is a state governed by law.

Once this occurs, the Church can align itself with it, as it has with every order throughout history. The Church is not dependent on states where the foundational nobility or peasantry are the ruling class. It needs a state form because otherwise, there is nothing to correspond to its essentially representative stance. The behind-the-scenes rule of "capital" is not yet a form; it can indeed undermine an existing political form and turn it into a mere facade. If successful, it would leave the state "depoliticized," and if economic thinking achieves its utopian goal of creating an entirely apolitical state of human society, the Church would remain the sole bearer of political thought and political form. It would have an enormous monopoly, and its hierarchy would be closer to political world domination than ever before in the Middle Ages. According to its own theory and ideal structure, the Church would, however, not wish for such a state because it supposes the political state, a "societas perfecta," and not an interest-based corporation alongside it. It aims to live in a special community with the state, where two representations stand as partners opposite each other.

With the spread of economic thinking, the understanding of all forms of representation is diminishing. Nevertheless, today's parliamentarism still, at least according to its ideal and theoretical foundation, contains the concept of representation. It relies on the so-called "representative principle." If nothing is explicitly stated except the designation of representation, namely that of the electing individuals, it would not be particularly characteristic. In the constitutional and political literature of the last century, this term was thought to represent a popular representation, a representation of the people vis-à-vis another representative, namely the king; or, where the constitution is republican, the parliament alone represents "the nation." It is said that the Church has "no representative institutions" because it does not have a parliament and its representatives do not derive their authority from the people. It represents "from above."

German state theory of the Second Empire developed a learned mythology that is both monstrous and complicated: the parliament represents, as a secondary state organ, another primary organ (namely the people), but this primary organ has no other will than the secondary one, except what is "specifically reserved" to it. Both are only one and form two organs and yet only one person, and so on. One can read about this in Georg Jellinek's "General Theory of the State," specifically the chapter "Representation and Representative Organs." The simple meaning of the representative principle is that the deputies are representatives of the entire people and thus have an independent dignity in relation to the voters, without ceasing to derive their dignity from the people (not from individual voters). "The representative is not bound by instructions and orders and is only responsible to his conscience." This means, in the personification of the people and the unity of parliament as its representative, at least in theory, a complexio oppositorum, that is, the multitude of interests and parties into one unity, and is representative and not economically conceived.

The proletarian council system thus seeks to eliminate this remnant of a non-economic thinking time and emphasizes that the delegates are merely messengers and agents, revocable at any time, administrative servants of the production process, with a "mandate imperatif." The "whole" of the people is merely an idea; the whole of the economic process is a real thing. The intellectual consequence of anti-spiritual thinking, with which young Bolsheviks in the flood of socialism fought against the idea, against any idea at all, is impressive. As long as an idea exists, there is also the notion that something preexists the given material reality, transcendent, which always means an authority from above. A thinking that wants to derive its norms from the immanence of economic-technical processes sees this as an external intervention, a disturbance of the self-running machine. A spiritual person with political instinct, fighting against politicians, immediately sees in the appeal to the idea a representation of authority, an arrogance that does not remain in the proletarian formality and not in the compact mass of "corporeal" reality, in which people do not need a government and where "things govern themselves."

In the context of economic thinking, political and legal forms are considered both incidental and disruptive, particularly where the paradox arises that there are fanatics of this thinking. This phenomenon is most evident in Russia, where their hostility towards ideas and all non-economic and non-technical intellect becomes apparent. Sociologically, this indicates the correct instinct of the revolution: intelligence and rationalism are not inherently revolutionary.

Economic thinking, however, is purely technical; it is foreign to all social traditions. The machine is traditionless. Karl Marx's significant sociological insight was recognizing that technology is truly revolutionary, and any natural law revolution alongside it is merely archaic play. A society built solely on advancing technology would, therefore, be entirely revolutionary but would soon destroy itself and its technology. In contrast, economic thinking is not radical; it reveals its opposition to absolute technicism. The economic sphere includes certain legal concepts such as property or contract, but it limits them to a minimum and, above all, to private law.

The striking contradiction between the goal of making the economic principle a social one and the effort to remain within private law, particularly private property, can only be hinted at here. The private law tendency of economics signifies a limitation of legal formation. The expectation is that public life will govern itself, dominated by the public opinion of individuals, which is in turn controlled by a press standing in private ownership. Nothing in this system is representative; everything is private.

Historically, privatization starts at the foundation, with religion. The first individual right in the bourgeois societal order was religious freedom. In the historical development of the catalog of freedoms—freedom of religion and conscience, freedom of association and assembly, press freedom, freedom of trade and industry—religious freedom represents the beginning and principle. Wherever religion is placed, it shows its absorbing, absolutizing effect. When religion is private, the private is religiously sanctified. Both aspects are inseparable. Private property is thus sacred precisely because it is private. This barely conscious connection explains the sociological development of modern European society.

Even in this society, there is a religion, namely that of the private; without it, the structure of this social order would collapse. The fact that religion is private gives the private a religious sanction, and the absolute guarantee of private property exists only where religion is private. This is true everywhere. When the Erfurt Program of the German Social Democracy states that religion is a private matter, it represents an interesting deviation from liberalism. The theologian of this program, Karl Kautsky, thus notes (in his 1906 work on the Catholic Church and Christianity) a symptomatically significant correction in its casualness, stating that religion is less a private matter than actually only a matter of the heart.

In contrast to the liberal foundation of private matters, the juridical structuring of the Catholic Church is publicly visible. This aspect is part of its representative nature and enables it to legally embody the religious sphere to such an extent that the Protestant scholar Rudolf Sohm could define the Catholic Church as fundamentally juridical, whereas he viewed Christian religiosity as fundamentally non-juridical. The Church's integration of juridical elements is indeed extensive, and its seemingly contradictory political behavior can often be explained by its formal, juridical nature.

Worldly jurisprudence also demonstrates a certain mix of traditional conservatism and natural law-revolutionary resistance, similar to the Catholic Church. In every revolutionary movement, one can observe that it regards jurists—the "theologians of the existing order"—as particular adversaries, while jurists themselves may support the revolution, providing it with a pathos of suppressed and injured rights. From its formal superiority, jurisprudence can adopt a similar stance to the Catholic Church concerning shifting political forms, provided that a minimum level of form is met and "order" is established. Once a new situation recognizes an authority, it provides a basis for jurisprudence, which in turn forms a substantial framework.

However, the Catholic Church goes further because it represents not only the idea of justice but also the person of Christ. Thus, it claims its own power and honor, negotiating as an equal party with the state and creating new laws, while jurisprudence only mediates existing law. Within the state, the judge applies laws given by the national community, adding a more or less formal norm between the idea of justice and individual cases. An international court, independent of political instructions and bound only by legal principles, would be closer to the idea of justice. Its authority would rest on the direct representation of this idea rather than delegation by individual states, even if it were established through a treaty among states. Consequently, it would need to act as an original and universal instance.

This represents the natural expansion of the logical consequence and psychological result of original legal status. Today's concerns, expressed by powerful states' commentators in 1922, stem from the concept of sovereignty. The power to decide who is sovereign would imply a new sovereignty, and a court with such powers would be an over-state and over-sovereign, potentially creating a new order if, for example, it had to decide on the recognition of a new state. A League of Nations, not a court, should have such pretensions. This self-sufficiency would imply that, in addition to its judicial function, it might manage administration, have a budget, and other attributes, which also signifies something for itself. Its activity would not be limited to applying existing legal norms like a court, but it would also represent its own interest in self-assertion, making it more than a mere arbitrator. It would have to decide, based on its own power, what constitutes a new order or state, potentially creating a conflict between law and self-assertion. Such an institution would represent not only the idea of impersonal justice but also its own powerful personality.

In the grand history of the Roman Church, alongside the ethos of justice, stands the ethos of its own power, further augmented by notions of glory, splendor, and honor. The Church aspires to be the royal bride of Christ, representing the ruling, sovereign, triumphant Christ. This claim to glory and honor is fundamentally based on the idea of representation, which perpetuates the eternal opposition between justice and glorious splendor. This antagonism is generally human, though devout Christians may view it in a more specific, particular manner.

The Church's transformation of Christianity from a personal and inner spirituality into a visible institution is often criticized as a profound betrayal. Rudolf Sohm saw the fall in the juridical aspect of the Church, while others view it as a grand, deep-seated will to world dominance. The Church, like any global imperialism, might bring peace to the world upon achieving its goals, but some perceive this as the victory of evil, as described by Dostoevsky’s Grand Inquisitor. Dostoevsky projects his own potential atheism into the Roman Church, portraying power as inherently evil and inhumane, reflecting an anarchistic and atheistic instinct.

The great Pope Innocent III, in a sermon (Sermo XIII, Migne 217, p. 371), addressed the same temptation of Christ that Dostoevsky discusses. This sermon presents a scholastic psychology of sin that is as penetrating as Dostoevsky's vision but maintains a human touch alongside its terrifying vision. In temporal terms, the antagonism remains eternal, and only in God is it resolved; attempting to escape it would be the utmost inhumanity. A pervasive sentiment sees the institutional coldness of Catholicism as evil, while Dostoevsky’s boundless expansiveness is considered true Christianity. This is as superficial as any sentiment and feeling can be.

A French Catholic thinker, with more nuance than Dostoevsky but still encompassing the entire tension of the antagonism, found an image that captures this conflict. By formulating an appeal against the justice of God, this thinker drives the dialectic of justice to its extreme, preserving the juridical category with the forms of judgment and appeal. The scene of the Last Judgment, as described by Hello, is striking: when the judgment of the world is pronounced, a damned soul, covered in crimes, stands and, to the terror of the universe, addresses the judge with "J'en appelle" ("I appeal"). At this word, the stars fade. According to the idea of the Last Judgment, this verdict is infinitely definitive and "horribly without appeal." When the damned soul appeals from Christ’s judgment, Christ, in a terrible silence, asks: "Who do you appeal to from my justice?" and the damned responds: "I appeal from your justice to your glory."

In every one of the three major forms of representation, the complexio of contradictory life is shaped within the unity of personal representation. Each of these forms can thus also evoke a particular unease and confusion, potentially rekindling anti-Roman sentiment. All sectarians and heretics have failed to recognize how deeply the concept of representation is rooted in human personalism. Thus, it was a unique and new kind of struggle when the Catholic Church encountered an opponent who challenged it with the very idea of humanity. This opponent’s enthusiasm was of a noble fire. However, when this idea achieved historical significance, it again fell prey to the fate of its antagonism, which had already mobilized many energies against the Church.

As long as the idea of humanity retained its original strength, its proponents had the courage to impose it with inhumane grandeur. The humanitarian philosophers of the 18th century preached enlightened despotism and dictatorship of reason, i.e., their reason. They were self-aware aristocrats. Their authority was founded on representing the idea of humanity, but the secret societies—sociologically the bearers of this movement—remained secret societies, strictly esoteric associations. This esotericism, characterized by an inhumane superiority over the uninitiated, over the average person, and democracy, was intrinsic to all esotericism. Who today still possesses such courage?

It would be exceptionally enlightening to examine the fate of a particularly German monument of great humanitarian spirit, such as Mozart’s *The Magic Flute*. Is it today anything other than cozy German music, an idyll, and a precursor to Viennese operetta? It is certainly seen as a song of enlightenment, the battle of the sun against the night, of light against darkness. Up to this point, everything might seem in better order for the sentiments of a democratic age. It is more worrying that the Queen of the Night, particularly as the mother, fights against the Masonic priests. Ultimately, the terrifying masculine self-assurance and authoritative confidence of these priests, in contrast to the average person, the good family man Papageno, who is dealt with by having his wishes fulfilled and needs satisfied, is striking. This beloved opera becomes even more frightening when viewed from a grand ideational perspective. It must be compared with Shakespeare’s *The Tempest* and understood how Prospero becomes a Masonic priest and Caliban becomes a Papageno.

The 18th century still dared such self-assurance and the aristocratic concept of secrecy. In a society that no longer has such courage, there will be no more "arcana," no hierarchy, no secret diplomacy, and no real politics, as great politics always involves the "arcanum." Everything will play out behind the scenes (on a stage of Papagenos). Will there still be business and trade secrets? This type of secrecy seems to find particular understanding in economic-technical thinking, and therein might lie the beginning of a new, uncontrolled power. For now, it remains purely economic, minimally representative, and only proletarian works councils have so far thought to rebel against such secrets. One will always hear only of humanity and thus fail to see that even the idea of humanity, once realized, is subject to the dialectic of every realization and must cease to be nothing but human.

Today, the Catholic Church in Europe faces no opponent who, with the same enthusiasm as the spirit of the 18th century, confronts it as a refined enemy. Humanitarian pacifism is incapable of true enmity because its ideals of justice and peace are undermined. For many, even among the best pacifists, it amounts to a plausible calculation that war is usually a poor business, driven by a rationalistic frustration with the energy and material wasted in conflict.

The League of Nations, as it exists today, may be a useful institution, but it does not confront the universal Church as a rival nor does it act as an ideal leader of humanity. The last significant European opponent was Freemasonry. Whether the fire of its heroic era still burns within it is uncertain. Whatever ideological pretensions it may have, its commitment to consistent economic thinking is likely as indifferent to both Catholicism and the League of Nations as they are to it. This thinking regards them all as mere shadows—one perhaps a shadow of the future, the other a shadow of the past. Whether one shadow extends a hand to the other or they fight amongst themselves is quite irrelevant.

Humanity is such an abstract idea that Catholicism appears more understandable in comparison, as it can at least be of interest for aesthetic consumption. Similarly, the third form of radical economic thinking, closely related to radical communism, finds its counterpart in the practicality of economic thinkers. Neither people nor things need a "government" when the mechanisms of the economic and technical realms are left to their inherent laws. In such arguments, any political authority is rejected, making Bakunin—the great anarchist of the 19th century—seem like a naïve visionary who, in his struggle against ideas and spirits, was ahead of his time, clearing the way from all metaphysical and ideological constraints, and now attacks religion, politics, theology, and jurisprudence with a scathing force.

Bakunin’s struggle against the Italian Mazzini can be seen as a symbolic prelude to a colossal historical upheaval, larger in scale than the migrations of peoples. For Bakunin, Mazzini's belief in God, like any belief in God, was merely a proof of subservience and the root cause of all evil and political authority; it represented metaphysical centralism. Although Marx and Engels were atheists, their educational contrasts remained a crucial factor. The profound antipathy that arose between these Western Germans and the more public figures was more than a mere quirk. It became evident in their struggle within the First International.

Conversely, everything in the anarchist camp was outraged by the “German Jew” (who was actually from Trier) and Engels. What continually provoked the anarchists was their intellectualism. They had too many “ideas” and too much “brain.” Bakunin could only utter the word “cervelle” with a certain bitterness; he perceived it, rightly, as an expression of claims to authority, discipline, and hierarchy. Any form of cerebralism was to him an enemy of life. His barbaric, unbroken instinct had sharply highlighted a seemingly incidental yet crucial concept, which German revolutionaries, when they created the fighting class of the “proletariat,” had stigmatized with a certain moral pathos: the “lumpenproletariat.”

This term (both contemptuous and picturesque) can truly be seen as a symptom because it is inextricably linked with evaluations. From all sides of social thought, there are connections to this peculiar mass: the “proletariat,” which also includes the bohemian of the bourgeois era, the Christian beggar, and all the degraded and insulted. It has played a somewhat unclear but essential role in all revolutions and rebellions. Bolshevik writers have recently granted it a sort of redemption. When Marx and Engels were concerned with distinguishing their true proletariat from this “decayed” element, they revealed how strongly traditional moral and educational notions influenced them. They aimed to give their proletariat a social dignity, which could only be achieved with moral concepts. Here, however, Bakunin had the audacious courage to see the carrier of future changes precisely in the lumpenproletariat, calling upon the canaille.

Bakunin’s rhetoric is striking: “By ‘flower of the proletariat,’ I mean above all this great mass, these millions of uncivilized, dispossessed, miserable, and illiterate people whom Mr. Engels and Mr. Marx claim to submit to the paternal regime of a very strong government... By ‘flower of the proletariat,’ I mean precisely this eternal government fodder, this great popular canaille, which, being almost untouched by bourgeois civilization, carries within it, in its passions, in its instincts... all the germs of the socialism of the future, and which alone is powerful enough today to inaugurate and make triumphant the social revolution.”

Nowhere is the decisive contrast of education more powerfully revealed than in this passage. It opens the scene for what is essentially current and shows where Catholicism stands as a political force.

Since the nineteenth century, Europe has seen two major forces confronting Western European tradition and its foreignness: the militant industrial proletariat and the Russian element turning away from Europe. Both view the Western European education as barbaric, and where they have self-awareness, they proudly call themselves barbarians. Their meeting on the grounds of the Russian Soviet Republic has a profound ideological significance. This connection is not a coincidence of world history, despite the differences and even oppositions between the two elements, and the entire process is inexplicable according to previous constructions and Marxist theory itself.

I know that the Russian hatred of Western European education may contain more Christianity than liberalism and German Marxism, that many prominent Catholics considered liberalism a worse enemy than open socialist atheism, and that in its formlessness might lie the potential for a new form that could shape the economic-technological age. From the perspective of its enduring permanence, the Catholic Church does not need to make a decision here; it will still represent the essence of all that survives. It is the heir. However, there is still an unavoidable decision of the present day, the current constellation, and the current generation. Here, the Church, even if it cannot declare itself for any of the warring parties, must actually stand on one side, as it did, for example, in the first half of the nineteenth century on the counter-revolutionary side. And here I believe: in that front-line battle of Bakunin, the Catholic Church and the Catholic concept of humanity were on the side of the idea and Western European civilization, alongside Mazzini and not alongside the atheistic socialism of the anarchistic Russians.

The following draft is not meant to be definitive or perfect but is instead intended to be presented for discussion within academic circles. Aside from the scientific feasibility, which I already consider assured based on initial impressions, the plan also has very serious technical and economic aspects that will not be discussed here.

Since historical geography has all but died out in Germany and elsewhere, a deficiency has developed within historical research, along with its consequences, which we are hardly even aware of anymore. The result of any historical research is a historical image, which can be represented visually in cartographic form according to certain ideas. Maps generally disregard personal and unique details, but they emphasize the general form more sharply, allowing for a comprehensive view and understanding at a glance, in a way that no written report, no matter how clear, can achieve. The extent to which this is possible depends significantly on cartographic technique, which has its own foundations, ideas, and ingenious innovations just like any other technique.

It is a fact that the map accompanying our historical research has remained almost unchanged in substance and form for the past 50 years. In older fields such as Greek or Roman history, the map commonly included in a book lags about two generations behind the current state of research. For newer fields—Indian, Chinese, pre-Homeric, Neo-Persian history, etc.—there is no corresponding map at all. For the Aegean world, we still have nothing better than the map that treats the boundaries of Greek dialects as political boundaries, dating from a time when ancient history was a side task of classical philology. The excavations, tomb studies, and comparative ceramics have passed by this image without leaving a trace. The boundaries of the maps are outdated, the drawings are outdated, and the names are outdated.

We have long been accustomed to reading scholarly works about the Etruscans, the Hittites, and pre-dynastic Egypt without knowing how the mentioned places and names relate to each other spatially. As a result, books of this kind often become almost incomprehensible to most readers; they may contain maps of an older style that do not include the mentioned items or hand-drawn sketches that the eye cannot navigate. It often happens that the author himself falls into errors and misjudgments by combining historical facts without being "in the picture" geographically, or that he fails to notice crucial connections altogether. One must take stock of how many areas of current historical research lack a technically detailed map: for India during the Vedic period, for the Homeric period, for Italy during the founding of Rome, for ancient Egypt and Babylon, for the spread of religions and cults during the Roman imperial period. I consider it one of the most urgent tasks of German scholarship to create a new map based on the collective results of scholarly research over the past 50 years, one that adequately expresses historical realities.

But this map must be designed according to entirely different principles. We need new ideas in cartography because we have gained a new perspective on the course and meaning of history. The previous century was content to enter rivers, cities, political boundaries, and names of peoples into the map. Today, we need—within the limits of possibility—first a depiction of the terrain, insofar as it promoted or hindered agriculture, settlement, and transportation at that time; in addition to irrigation and elevation layers, sometimes even the stratification of the soil, the occurrence of metals, and rare stones; ocean currents and wind directions, which channeled early maritime traffic and thus also the migration of peoples. Further, where possible, an indication of the vegetation during the various historical periods. In early times, vast forests were the only decisive obstacle to transportation and migration. In all Nordic languages, "plain" everywhere means "clearing." The sea always connected early cultures and populations; the primeval forest separated them. It is also necessary for the historical map to account for the drying out of increasingly larger areas following the Nordic Ice Age and the subsequent forest and swamp period from the south. As rock carvings teach us, the Sahara emerged scarcely before the 4th millennium. It first began to encroach on Mauretania during Roman times. Spain was then a land of impenetrable forests. A millennium later, the Moors could only prevent desertification through artificial irrigation. But the same applies to Arabia, Babylonia, and Inner Asia. The prehistory of the two oldest cultures did not yet unfold under the impression of the isolation of both river valleys. Without understanding this, one cannot grasp the political prehistory either. Egypt originally had no natural western boundary in the desert.

Furthermore, the most important findings from zoogeography must be included in the map: the distribution of horses, cattle, and lions during different periods. An attempt has recently been made to trace the ancient migrations of the Hamites based on the distribution of African cattle breeds. This is complemented by the inclusion of archaeological finds: burial types, ceramic styles, settlement patterns, and bronze work. Without this, a map of ancient Italy is worthless today. As long as only Etruscans are mentioned and one cannot see on the map the distribution of so-called Etruscan cities by age and location and their burial layers at a glance, the meaning of the Etruscan question will never be found. The map is the only means by which the researcher in a specific field can be presented with the results of all other relevant sciences in a useful and meaningful order.

**Then the Race Question!** It is no longer sufficient to simply print the common names of peoples from various historical periods on top of and alongside one another. A map of ancient Italy or Asia Minor, for example, must include, alongside the distribution of languages and dialects, an indication of the human types (body size, physique, skull shape, facial features) that never align with linguistic boundaries. Only after this, and independently of it, should the historical names of peoples be included, with an indication of their ongoing shifts, replacements, and overlaps. This is already possible with great accuracy in many cases today, especially as one of the most important findings of recent racial research is that many physical traits persistently cling to a land and have repeatedly reasserted themselves despite all migrations since the Stone Age.

It is clear that maps of this style can only be produced through collaboration among representatives from various fields of knowledge. A single individual is no longer up to the task. However, if the geologist, the zoogeographer, and the phytogeographer first create a foundation into which the anthropologist and the prehistorian make their contributions, and finally the political and economic historian takes over, a visual material can be conceived that, by its mere presence, leads to discoveries for the eye that would remain hidden from purely book-based research. Such a project is only possible in Germany today. No other country in the world has such a well-rounded scientific foundation and such mature methods as those presumed here. If internal or external reasons prevent the plan from being realized in Germany, it will never be implemented anywhere else. Finally, historical research will falter over the obstacle posed by the lack of a geographical foundation. The only substantive objection is that research does not yet permit a definitive picture to be drawn. But this finality will never be reached; the picture changes from one generation to the next. If the preliminary picture is not sketched due to unavoidable gaps, then a more mature one will never be possible.

The scope of such a work must be measured quite differently than 50 years ago. Primitive cultures encompass the entire Earth, have used all the seas along the coasts and island chains as intermediaries, and form a living whole with their circles and currents, without which the origin and prehistory of the great cultures cannot be understood. Today, it is no longer possible to find an eastern boundary for so-called classical studies. Questions of the Homeric era extend to the Baltic Sea and the Niger; the world of forms from the migration period cannot be understood without the historical picture of Inner Asia and even China; to Egypt and Babylonia belongs the Stone Age of the northern fringes of the Indian Ocean. On the other hand, the historical boundary upwards can easily be fixed at the Crusades and the Mongol invasion. From that point on, the historical map takes on a different meaning, not intrinsically, but for our practical purposes, and the selection and method of representation accordingly follow a different tendency. Under this premise, a natural grouping of the map material emerges as follows:

1. A group of maps on the primitive world, in its full extent, across all continents, with an overview of all kinds of archaeological finds, metal deposits, and the trade routes of ancient commerce and later migrations that trace along them, with the distribution areas of religious, social, economic, and political basic forms. Such a map, by its mere existence, simplifies and resolves a whole series of problems from the earliest history. For instance, individual adventurers can penetrate wherever they wish, but entire tribes always follow a known path secured by the inhabitants in terms of provisions and loot, and therefore geographically identifiable from the plant world and settlement patterns.

2. A combined group should cover the fates of Egypt and Babylonia and the surrounding world,** starting from the earliest times of stoneworking and the Sahara, still covered in plants, and ending around the middle of the 2nd millennium BC. Here we need overviews of ethnographic divisions, the districts of Egypt, and the Sumerian principalities, the geographical distribution of cults and gods, the shifting political centers of gravity over time, and the deep connections from the Indian Ocean to deep within the northern landmass.

3. The Near Eastern world between Cyrene and Iran, the Black Sea, and southern Arabia, from 1500 BC to the Persian period.** Here fall the great streams of peoples from the vast inland regions of the north, which fundamentally altered the character and spirit of this landscape. We have today the results of excavations from Boghazköy and Amarna, Troy and the earliest Italy, the findings of comparative onomastics, cuneiform, and hieroglyphic literature, but we have nothing that could be called a representation of these results in map form. And it is precisely here that we stumble in the dark due to the lack of visual summaries, overlooking obvious discoveries, and allowing errors to grow old that the first map would never have allowed to arise.

4. The Indian world. Here, decisive discoveries are to be expected as soon as the results of the until now purely literary research are combined with those of the rapidly growing archaeological finds. The distribution and stratification of graves, weapons, and pottery forms must, once they are visually presented to the Indologist, change the entire structure of Indian history, give an idea of Dravidian culture, and thereby first illuminate the fates of the oldest Aryan world. However, I have not come across even a hint of a map of ancient India.

5. The ancient Chinese culture: Recently, some attempts have been made to geographically establish the earliest state world on the Yellow River based on historical sources. Had this been done earlier, the concept of ancient China would not still be emotionally equated with the current country, thereby casting the entire history in a false light. The state world of the early Zhou period was as small and complex as that of Homeric Greece. All these tiny states could be packed into an area the size of southern Germany, and the principalities of the earliest Vedic period were certainly no larger.

6. A cartographic depiction of the two ancient American cultures: The first inadequate attempts have been made.

7. The pre-classical world of the entire Mediterranean in the 2nd millennium BC: This extends down to Homer, with the paths of the Sea Peoples, who pushed against Egypt in the 14th and 13th centuries, and with the circles and layers of Iberian, partly deep African, Sardinian, Etruscan, Libyan, Minoan, and Mycenaean forms. The connections extend to the rock carvings of Scandinavia and the finds in Sudan, Nubia, and southern Arabia. Here lie the prerequisites for the later structure of the classical world, which has so far been reconstructed backward from written sources and thus primarily philologically.

8. The classical world itself up to the Migration Period: Its geographical image needs to be completely redrawn. We must finally see how not only the physical appearance of the population but also its density and political significance shifts, how certain core areas of Homeric culture—Thessaly, for instance—recede, while others—Latium—rise to prominence, how important cities become villages, and villages become cities. We must finally—here and elsewhere—make visible the deep inner difference between fortress, settlement, market, city, trading place, provincial, major, and global city; between tribe, people, nation; and between landscape, territory, and state. The name Etruscan, and likewise the names Hellene, Roman, Ionian, and Italic, designate something different in each century. The era of city formation around 800 BC and the dissolution of city-states into great powers around 300 BC must be developmentally portrayed in images, as must the racial conditions down to the Imperial period, where the population of individual provinces is still simply referred to by their names today, instead of by dialect, acceptance or rejection of certain cults, the disappearance or increase of the rural population, and the concentration or reduction of medium-sized cities. It is widely discernible where the valley areas have a different human type than the mountainous regions, where the pre-Indo-European population has remained en masse. This, in turn, explains the movement of the Germanic tribes: where they settle en masse and displace the natives, where they merely sit as lords over a layer of serfs, and where they only exercise formal rule. Only by seeing this can we understand the formation of the new nations and their languages, the longer duration or rapid collapse of Germanic kingdoms—the Gothic rule in Italy also failed to take root largely because there were no large river valleys south of the Apennines, while the Visigothic kingdom in Spain sat on the plateau like a fortress.

9. The darkest area of history and geography: The Middle East from Alexander the Great to the Mongol invasion. We have nothing that gives us a clear picture of Byzantium, such as the linguistic, social, and religious stratification of Asia Minor, Syria, and Egypt under Justinian. The Sassanian Empire, a crucial creation at the crossroads of four high cultures, is still a formless concept to us today. Aside from the spread of Christianity in the Roman Empire, we don't even have an attempt to trace the spread of new religions after the birth of Christ, such as the Jewish Talmudic, Persian, Manichaean, and later Nestorian religions, or the spread of so-called late antique cults of Sol and Mithras as far as Portugal and Inner Asia. We do not see in the image how these religious communities become nations that dissolve the older states; how these nations, in part, have their center of gravity in certain landscapes, where they absorb the racial characteristics of those regions until the storm of Islam, whose depiction in map form has also not been attempted, finally incorporates most of these nations—and therefore religions. This group of maps would show that it is again the ancient trade and migration routes, already indicated by Stone Age finds, along which the spread of the great missionary religions now moves.

10. Finally, a group of maps is needed: This would summarize Asia and Europe around 1000 AD as a unified area. It begins with the Migration Period, which shakes the lands from the Chinese border to Spain and North Africa and spreads a new series of political forms over this vast stretch, and concludes in the far west with the era of the Crusades, from which emerges the state world of a new culture, and from there, along the vast ancient southern border of the Stone Age northern circle, which now forms a boundary between forest and desert, through the Mongol invasion, which transforms all of Asia, including Russia, into an area where the ruins of ancient cultures are overlaid by shifting zones of power of various conquerors and tribes with their followers. From here on, the creative history of the world is essentially Western, i.e., our own history.

If I may be permitted to say a few things about the current duties of the German nobility, I must limit myself to their political aspects due to the brevity of time.

The revolution has destroyed almost everything that is essential for successful politics. This includes, above all, the social and political structure of the nobility as an organic layer within the nation. Every great country has both domestic and foreign political tasks that require the presence of a unified thinking, feeling, and acting layer, without which a consistent solution to these tasks is not guaranteed. Where this layer is missing, high-level politics quickly becomes entirely dependent on the presence of very gifted individuals. In Germany, this upper structure has been deeply shaken by the revolution—perhaps the most disastrous outcome of the upheaval. If the revolution dissolved the army, it can be rebuilt; a lost position of power can be regained; but a nation wounded from within is very difficult to heal, even if the disruption of society has not led to the dissolution of its leading layer.

History teaches that this sustaining, nurturing, and educating layer generally included a hereditary nobility as its core. A well-known example is Rome, where the racial characteristics of the people were cultivated to pure form in a number of great families. Every true nobility within a people is "race" in pure form, not only distinguished by descent but also as the embodiment of certain instincts of command, organization, negotiation, and responsibility—in short, superiority in all areas of practical national life. Nobility is a thoroughly political class—politics understood as a war with the means of intellectual and social tactics; diplomacy, both external and internal, was never anything other than a duel with bloodless weapons. Often, the fate of a people rested entirely in the abilities of its nobility. However, political defeats first affect and throw the nobility off course. This is particularly the case in today's Germany. But precisely Germany, which due to its miserable development since the Thirty Years' War has not maintained a refined bourgeois society like that of England or France, cannot do without the nobility as the center of its leading classes. Therefore, the nobility has the duty to regain its former significance, not by attempting the hopeless task of reclaiming old privileges, but through education towards inner superiority, an education that Frederick William I demonstrated as possible in himself, his officials, and officers. We cannot remain dependent on the accidental emergence of a Bismarck or a Napoleon given our political and geographical situation. England teaches us a great lesson in this regard. Over the last 200 years, England has rarely had a genius leader of the caliber of a Pitt. But all leaders of moderate rank were able to surround themselves with a group of collaborators who instinctively understood and mastered the necessary goals and means, and these could rely on the instincts of the English upper class, which was shaped and educated by the families of the hereditary nobility, especially the gentry. This was how England managed to progress on its path, even when it went decades without a great Prime Minister.

This instinct of a layer cannot be replaced by patriotic programs and views. Views are based on reasons, but the course of world history is not guided by a program, and better reasons never guarantee better success. Political instinct, however, is not learned in universities or from books and newspapers, but awakened, as in earlier centuries through the education of pages, and in today's England through social discipline and personal contact between young men and politically experienced men in the exclusive clubs. Practical success does not depend on dissecting great facts and situations intellectually, but on instinctively sensing at first glance what possibilities lie within them and what means are applicable. Every duel with a sharp weapon, every fair hunt, every game has its own emotional logic, and this, not the logic of philosophy, is also that of political success. England shows the dangers of misunderstanding these facts. In recent years, England has had two statesmen who emerged from domestic politics, if not from the labor movement, and who, under the pressure of events, managed to take control of foreign policy: Lloyd George and Ramsay Macdonald. Both have worsened England's situation in a disastrous way; that this did not lead to an outright defeat is thanks to the instincts of its society, which, even against the will of the ruling individuals, kept the general course of policy on track. When a coherent layer exists, such errors are mitigated by the persistence of what is called the "will of a country," which operates impersonally and without communication in very many individuals.

Looking at the current world situation, which has been rapidly approaching final decisions since the World War, one recognizes that, in the end, the nation with the most capable leading layer will win the race. Whether the army is defeated, the economy ruined, or overseas possessions lost or abandoned, all this pales in significance compared to the question of whether the leading layer, the backbone of the nation, remains capable. When the Romans eventually overcame all opponents and the Roman Empire was indeed Roman, they owed this not to the intelligence of the Forum, nor to the mere training of their legions, but to the layer of old families that, even after Cannae and after the civil wars of Marius and Sulla, upheld political tradition and was superior in foresight to the Carthaginians and Greeks.

We Germans are living in a present that no country has had to endure for a century. We are isolated like on an island; we are not even masters in our own land; we have to maintain a French army on German soil with German money. And yet, through superior politics, we could achieve a position that turns our geographical location from a disadvantage into an advantage: between the emerging Russia and the English sea power, which is in an internal crisis. But for that, we must educate people who, in addition to the old Prussian qualities of discipline, a sense of responsibility, and self-denial, also possess the specifically political virtues that have so far been the result of rare chance and not social breeding in our country. This is the true task of the German nobility. But precisely because of this, certain traits that still clung to all layers of our people at the outbreak of the World War must be observed with special concern. Since we no longer have colonies and hardly any German communities abroad, we think too domestically and provincially on political issues. The "native soil" is indeed the foundation of a healthy national character and particularly of a healthy nobility, but it must not represent the horizon of political considerations. With its 60 million inhabitants, Germany is a very small country on the surface of the earth and therefore a political unit that can and must only be viewed in connection with world politics. Precisely because of our current weakness, it is even more important than before the war that every politically active person maintains a constant overview of the situation and events in the Pacific, in South Africa, and in North America, and that they keep themselves informed about the moods and opinions there through newspapers and personal contacts. We can only change our fate if we constantly keep global political perspectives in mind; otherwise, the calculation will be wrong. But this is precisely what is lacking everywhere.

We became a great nation too quickly. Barely 50 years ago, in the time of our grandfathers, there were still a handful of German states and tiny regions, each with only a local policy, and world politics in the English sense was barely known by name. We are far from having overcome this narrowness. Much of what lies behind the words "folkish" and "national" is based on a complete unfamiliarity with political thinking and will outside of Germany and a disastrous underestimation of the enemy’s superiority in political means, perspectives, and methods. We became overnight a nation with a global industry, global trade, and sea power, so that there are still countless Germans who perceive the goals of economic circles and interests as unnational because their horizons extend beyond regional circles and interests. But a German policy has been possible since Bismarck only if it is anchored in the broad context of today's global connections, and if the leading class considers it their most noble duty to educate themselves for this policy of broad horizons and superior means. This, I currently see, as the great mission of the German nobility, especially the youth within it. In this respect, they do not have it easy. Every young Englishman of standing has been to the colonies and, through personal contact with the circles that govern or are economically active there, has instilled in himself a sense of the true meaning of political affairs. Our youth, before the war, ventured out far too little. Instead of India, Egypt, and America, it was lecture halls, student corps, and assessor positions. The first real contact with great politics took place abroad, where one might have gone as a private secretary to a governor or envoy in the countries with which England was dealing; whereas with us – it must be openly admitted – it was usually through patriotic books, festivals, and lectures, which certainly did not reveal, let alone allow the study of, the arduous and thankless detailed work that paves the way for success.

Today, our youth is almost closed off from foreign countries for political and economic reasons. All the more it is a duty to seize every opportunity to learn about their current state of mind, by studying their newspapers, assemblies, economic institutions, statistics, and laws, and by establishing personal connections with significant figures in the decisive circles; such political study trips should be undertaken, prepared, and utilized as often as possible, as work, not as "recreation," as the Japanese understood with us. At home, a conscious education is necessary to precisely understand the current spirit of the foreign great powers, which makes things in one's own country appear fundamentally different.

It is a good German trait to be able to immerse oneself in the spirit of foreign times and peoples, and this should be utilized. It is fundamentally wrong to express the justified feelings of the defeated towards the victor by refusing to immerse oneself in their world or to seriously engage with them at all. It should become a daily habit for the young nobility, in particular, to constantly read the leading newspapers of foreign powers carefully, comparing them, working through the most important brochures with a pencil in hand, and keeping themselves informed about political and public opinion through leading journals and correspondence. Only in this way can Germany's intellectual isolation be overcome. There is no path to the future through a return to the so-called old ideals, which play an ominous role in our national festivals and have become limited, provincial, and hopeless ideals in the midst of the 20th century. The English conservative has always distinguished himself as a politician by being more modern in his means and goals than the majority of liberals.

Therefore, in conclusion, I issue the following admonition: Let the intellectual barriers fall that separate you from the guiding principles of world politics. World politics destroys those countries that are not intellectually up to its demands. Learn from the English nobility, which in a land without peasants had a very difficult position, that there are fundamentally no obstacles or limits to success for inner superiority. Shed the last remnants of regional particularism and aversion to global horizons, global trade, and global industry. In Germany, wherever talents were systematically cultivated, we have had brilliant results: in the army, in technology, in industry, in global trade. We could achieve the same in politics. But then we must understand that politics today is something different from conservative politics of 1860 or even 1900; and above all, the nobility must become aware of the task of intellectually outgrowing the people in its political horizon in order to regain a decisive position in world politics for Germany with the unspent strength of this people.

The fact that currently dominates the global situation is the astonishing rise of France to an unquestionably leading power. On the continent, it has no more rivals. England, through a clever strategy that oscillates between persuasion and threats, is being placed in service of French plans. American wishes are coolly dismissed, and others aren't even acknowledged.

The French people, with their 39 million, march at the bottom of the great nations. They have been experiencing a low birth rate for decades. Mentally, they are very old, very refined, and very worn out. Politically, they have also aged. For 50 years, they have nurtured only one thought: retribution for a lost war. Others have organized colonial empires, created industries, and built a world of social institutions. France, however, in 1894 staged the cult of Joan of Arc as a symbol of military retribution. "We French will conquer nothing more," Zola told a visitor at the time. And now? A nation that was on the path to settling down like the Spanish after glorious centuries, a nation saved only by Anglo-Saxon bayonets and billions, today plays with the fate of these powers. It has forgotten, and the world with it, who ultimately forced victory. It has forgotten the hundreds of thousands of foreign dead in its trenches. It is convinced that it alone has won and thus claims the right to even greater successes.

For today, France is the only country whose ruling circles are always driven first by ambition—the ambition awakened by Robespierre and Danton and trained by Napoleon on the grandest scale—to place their foot on the necks of foreign nations. This tradition, which tolerates no contradiction, will always prefer loud glory to material advantage, the enjoyment of military triumphs to economic prudence, and a splendid moment to a less brilliant but significant future. France misjudges the seriousness of its own social and economic intentions. France is the only country that, since the Battle of Marengo, is ready to accept even the bitterest hardships, even a bloody civil war, as a consequence of its desire to continue exercising power in some way. The Frenchman of the 18th century, of the Rococo, died out with the victories of the Jacobin armies.

It is beyond the limits of the French character, and even more so beyond the limits of French taste, to allow conquered lands to flourish, to make yesterday's enemies into tomorrow's friends. In Africa and Indochina, the French are the worst colonizers imaginable. From the wars of Louis XIV, which laid a desert belt along the Rhine, to the mistreatment of European peoples by Napoleon's armies, which eventually led to the downfall of his empire, the French sense of victory has always remained the same. No nation, except for the Russians, has fought its revolutions with such boundless destructive fury and terrible bloodshed. Think of the systematic depopulation of the Vendée since 1792, the destruction of Lyon in 1793, and the burning of Paris's public buildings in 1871. Today, a frenzy of this kind again fills large circles of the people, who, against all expectations, have risen to the forefront of events.

And as with everything in them, their character, spirit, ambition, and expressions of power are old, so too are the current goals of this power. The entire policy is increasingly clearly a revival of Napoleonic plans. These 39 million want to be the masters of Europe and the world. What was in 1919 still a very vague urge under the impact of a sudden and unexpected success is today a plan pursued with all the clarity and energy of the French spirit. One watches with astonishment as the Rhine line is fortified, before which Germany is to lie in ruins, perhaps in the form of a Confederation of the Rhine, while the Ruhr region, as an outer fort, is to control access to the North Sea, the Little Entente the land bridge along the Danube to the Orient, and the vast possessions in Northwest Africa are to cover the route to the Nile, while air and submarine weapons secure the sea side.

Since the success in the Ruhr, which could not fail against a completely disarmed and ruined country if it remained isolated, the next opponent has been clearly identified. It is about a push against the Anglo-Saxon world, and thus a triumph of the Romanic over the Germanic world. It is in history as it is in business: with success, the ally of yesterday becomes the opponent of tomorrow. The outcome of the French elections next spring may determine the fate of the world. The current chamber emerged from a specific hope. If success on the Rhine and in the Ruhr is definitively secured, which is where all the energy of French politics is focused today, then the new elections will create a chamber of loud triumph and thus the center of a decidedly aggressive policy. This chamber will be strictly bound by the votes of its electorate in this direction, and it will similarly bind its leaders. For let there be no mistake: if the French nation, at the moment of such expectations, entrusts power to a man, it does so with an unequivocal command. Napoleon I knew very well that the first step backward on the path of military glory meant the end of his rule. That is why, since the retreat from Moscow, he was no longer able to engage in serious peace negotiations, as were repeatedly initiated since 1813 and 1814. He openly told Prince Metternich this in Dresden in September 1813. For the same reason, the Bourbons needed the war in Spain in 1816, and the Orléans in 1832 the one in Algeria. And when Napoleon III ascended the throne with the slogan "The Empire is peace," he also knew that the Second Empire would mean war if it was to sustain itself. The expedition to Mexico in 1861 occurred only because there was no prospect of a major war in Europe at the time. When Boulanger was on the verge of a coup d'état in 1886, it was primarily the announcement of war against Germany that secured his supporters' prospects. For the same reason, new elections, if they take place under the impression of a great political success, will mean war for France, and indeed, as a consequence of global political developments since 1918, war against English world dominance.

France has made it clear today that what it seeks from Germany is not primarily money, but control over the Ruhr and, beyond that, the establishment of a Confederation of the Rhine under French protection. This is a necessary step along the old Napoleonic path. The Ruhr region is precisely where Napoleon founded the Grand Duchy of Berg in 1806, which he handed over to his brother-in-law Murat, leaving no doubt about its military purposes from the start. In the following year, the Kingdom of Westphalia was established to the northeast, governed entirely by the French and whose troops became part of the French army. Furthermore, in 1810, the German North Sea coast was finally annexed by France. As early as the summer of 1923, the nationalist magazine *Vie Maritime*, associated with the French naval circles, called for the occupation of Bremen and Hamburg, and this idea has been increasingly expressed since then. There are no means in the utterly defenseless Germany to prevent the sudden occupation of the North Sea ports and their establishment as impregnable bases for French air squadrons and submarines. The significance of holding this coast for threatening England’s east coast is well known today. This would enable the Continental Blockade of 1806 to be reinstated at any moment, but with all the offensive means of modern naval and aerial warfare, and based on all the lessons learned about the effects of such a blockade. The distance from the Ruhr region to the mouths of the Ems and Weser rivers is 200 kilometers. This represents less than two days for a modern strike force equipped with automobiles and accompanied by cavalry. Germany has no interest in making significant sacrifices of its own and with no prospect of success to prevent a French attack that does not directly affect Germany but does not want to be, as before, the battleground of an Anglo-French war—alongside Holland, which in 1809 already saw an English expedition land for the same reason—and does not want the impoverished, desperate, and jobless population along the Rhine and Ruhr to be mass-recruited into the French Foreign Legion, which is being vigorously promoted under the protection of the Versailles Treaty to form the core of a white army in Africa. The immense contiguous French holdings in northwest Africa represent the new factor that Napoleon did not encounter during his expedition to Egypt and that today allows a repeat of his advance with better prospects. A new Fashoda is being prepared here. Since Germany was excluded from Africa, it has had no interest in power distribution there. But it watches with growing concern as all of Europe is threatened from there by a black army numbering in the millions. France is conducting forced conscription on a large scale in the Sudan. It is training the Negro in modern military tactics and teaching him to reflect on the limits of the power of white populations. Unlike the Germanic, the French sense of race does not oppose equality with blacks. General Mangin publicly declared—so loudly that it could be heard in Africa—that France militarily represents a nation of not 40 but 100 million people, and Colonial Minister Sarraut similarly publicly referred to the Negroes as “frères de couleur,” colored brothers. It is well known that there is no aversion to mixed marriages in France. This army of black Frenchmen is already, whenever it wants, the master of Africa. The French government has just approved the construction of the Sahara Railway, which has no economic but purely strategic significance, linking the Sudan with its vast human resources closely to Morocco and Algeria. The exploitation of the rich mineral resources already allows the extensive production of war materials on African soil. The rapprochement of Italy and Spain in this regard comes too late, and moreover, France, as the owner of the hinterland, is in a position at any moment to close the Mediterranean by occupying Tangier and thereby putting Italy in a very difficult situation by cutting off coal and food supplies. A new push towards the Nile is being prepared, but with an army that faces no equivalent in Africa, and with deployment lines from West Africa that cannot be endangered at all. The fate of India will be decided at the Nile. Napoleon knew this already.

And a third point: The increasingly open attempts to break up western and southern Germany into a series of dependent territories also correspond to a Napoleonic idea: a land bridge along the Danube to the Orient. This would completely encircle the Mediterranean from north and south and subject the entire Near East with all its access points to French control. In pursuit of this goal, Napoleon married the South German princes into his family. Today, France supports every movement there, whether communist or monarchist, that offers a chance to break up Germany. What is called Yugoslavia today was then the Illyrian Provinces. Then, as now, their purpose was to cut off Italy, dominate the Adriatic Sea, and keep Vienna in check. The final, equally old goal is an understanding with Russia, whose leaders will undoubtedly prefer an alliance with the strongest power in Western Europe to a conflict with it. This would be the northern route to India, which the Soviet Republic would open more willingly than Tsar Alexander I once did.

And now the economic-technical side: In 1923, France produced 5.3 million tons of iron ore, England only 1 million, and Germany 0.77 million. Combined with the Ruhr region, France controls 35% of Europe’s coal production. If we add Belgium and the Little Entente, particularly Poland, which today, as under Napoleon, is nothing but a French province whose military and industrial resources Paris can freely dispose of, no less than 60% of Europe’s coal production is on the French side, compared to England’s 25% and Germany’s 4%, noting that even the remaining Silesian mines are constantly threatened by Poland, and we should not forget that the reserves of the mines on the continent will last 800 years at pre-war production levels, while England’s will last barely 150 years. The same is true for petroleum. This means that France has the largest arms industry and by far the largest raw material reserves in Europe.

This is the situation in Europe during the “Age of Reparations,” and it makes no sense to treat the reparations issue today as a problem of compensation for damages caused by the party blamed for the war in the peace treaty. Certainly, there is talk in Paris of the need to balance the budget, but this budget has been thrown off balance primarily because revenues have been consumed for ever-expanding militaristic purposes. Under the armistice and the Treaty of Versailles, Germany has given up over 2 billion pounds in various forms, not including the material value of its territorial losses. This includes the enormous costs of the occupation of the Rhine and the dismantling of war material and transport means. But with the sums that Germany was forced to pay in cash under English pressure, France built its air fleet. The German Saar coal, with which France is making lucrative deals in Italy, Belgium, and Switzerland—it has set up sales offices for German coal everywhere—has enabled further army reinforcements and the granting of armament loans amounting to hundreds of millions of francs to the Little Entente. Every new billion means new air squadrons, submarines, and African regiments.

If the purpose of these payments were the restoration of the French economy, it would be incomprehensible why France seeks a German revolution with all its economic consequences. But France needs such a revolution to gain a free flank and a theater of operations in Central Europe for its further goals through the disintegration of Central Europe. The communist movement is advised by Russia and supported by France for very different reasons, but undoubtedly with the intention of achieving the same result. Moreover, as the Fuchs trial in Munich recently taught, there is no movement, whether communist or monarchist, whether that of the separatists on the Rhine or the Poles in Upper Silesia, to which France does not offer money whenever there is any hope of reshaping Germany according to French wishes.

Historians are always amazed at how little people learn from historical experiences, how even leading statesmen only recognize the goals of others once they are achieved. This allowed Napoleon’s rise, as well as Japan’s rise to the leading world power in the East. France is already in a position where it need not fear any equal opponent. In two years, it may have no opponent left who still thinks of resisting. And while this world domination, without internal preparation or justification, can only be an episode, it may yet force an era of relentless wars and plunge Europe, Africa, and Asia into chaos before it collapses. The defeat of the Revolution and Napoleon cost 20 years, 2 million lives, and billions in national wealth. The defeat of European-African France, which has resumed this role, may demand sacrifices that Europe may no longer be able to bear.

The shooters had positioned themselves along the clearing. Behind them stood the spruce thicket with black jagged edges; the branches still touched the ground. Yellowed forest grass was woven into them, holding them firmly in place. This created the impression of dark tents being pitched, shelters against the storm and cold in the deeply snow-covered land. A belt of pale reeds revealed the ditch hidden under the snow.

The forest bordered the princely estate. In summer, it was hot and stifling, with swarms of horseflies moving along the clearings. In autumn, when the spider webs flew, legions of mushrooms covered the mossy ground. The berries shone like coral on the clear-cut areas.

It had just stopped snowing. The air was delightful, as if the snowflakes had filtered it; it was easier to breathe and carried sound far, so one instinctively whispered. The fresh cover seemed to surpass every notion of whiteness; one sensed marvelous yet untouchable secrets.

The best spots were where a young forest adjoined the clearing. Barely did the green tips protrude from the snow. Here, the shooting field was ideal. Richard stood next to the novice Breyer in a crosscut where the branches almost touched, so there was hardly any view. It was a poor spot, a position for beginners. Yet the anticipation had grown so strong that he no longer thought about the details, and even his sorrow seemed to dissolve. He had hoped until the last moment that his father would give him a rifle; it was the fulfillment towards which all his thoughts and aspirations were directed. He knew no hotter or more compelling desire. He dreamed of the blue steel of the weapon, of its walnut stock, of the oak leaves engraved into the metal. How light it was, how handy, and more wonderful than any toy. In the darkness of its barrel, the grooves gleamed in a silver spiral. When you cocked it, it gave a dry click, as if reliability itself spoke to gladden the heart. You could refine the trigger with a set trigger – then it was as if a thought ignited the shot. That this jewel, this miracle, also contained fate, death, was beyond imagination. Richard felt that in possessing it, there lay a fulfillment for him, a complete transformation. Before falling asleep, he sometimes saw himself with it in daydreams in the forest – not to shoot, no, just to walk with it in the greenery as one would with a beloved. A saying came to his mind that he had read on an old tankard from which his father sometimes poured:

You and I, together Are joy enough for each other.

Even when his eyes had closed, the images continued. They sometimes led to fears: he had cocked the weapon and wanted to shoot, but an evil spell prevented it from firing. His entire will focused on it, but strangely, the more intensely he concentrated, the more thoroughly the rifle refused to work. He wanted to scream, but his voice failed him. Then he would wake up from the nightmare. How happy he was when he realized that a dream had fooled him.

On his sixteenth birthday, the miracle was to happen. It was not easy for him to be patient when he saw young hunters or novices like this Breyer, who was just under two years older and hardly taller than Richard. But now it was so quiet and clear in the forest that this consuming and pressing feeling within him faded. The world was solemnly veiled.

A fine chirping permeated the fir thicket and receded. These were the goldcrests, the tiny yellow-topped birds; they felt comfortable in the dark patches where they picked at the cones. Then a horn call echoed through the white world from the edge of the forest. Richard's heart began to beat faster; the hunt was on.

From afar, a commotion arose in the thickets. As it intensified, so did his heartbeat. The beaters, wearing heavy leather aprons, broke through the branches and knocked on the tree trunks with their axes; in between, one could hear their calls: "hurr-hurr, hurr-hurr, hurr-hurr." At first, this driving sounded distant and cheerful, then the voices grew rougher, more dangerous. They smelled of pipe smoke, fruit brandy, tavern brawls, and intruded upon the forest's mystery.

Now the rustling and shouting were very close, followed by a different kind of rustling. A shadow darted through the reeds and moved to the other cover, right between Richard and the novice. Although it flitted across the clearing like a dream image, Richard captured the details in a flash: the beaters had flushed out a large boar from its lair. He saw it leap across the path as if shot from a bowstring. The front part, with its powerful chest, tapered backward. The strong back bristles, which hunters call feathers, were raised like a comb. Richard had the impression that the small eyes glanced at him; in front of them, the strong, curved tusks gleamed. He also saw the bared canines, which gave the head an expression of furious contempt. The creature had something wild and darkly bristly about it, but there was also a redness, like fire. The dark snout was oddly curved, almost twisted; it hinted at the disgust with which this baron felt the proximity of the human pursuers and their scent. At the moment he noticed the two of them, he let out a snort but did not deviate from his path.

In an instant, this image was gone, but it imprinted itself with dreamlike clarity. The impression remained with Richard forever: the scent of power and terror, but also of magnificence. He felt his knees wobble and his mouth open, but he could not produce a sound.

The novice seemed equally disturbed; he had turned quite pale and stared after the boar with wide-open eyes. The beast had almost brushed against him. It had already disappeared into the greenery when he raised his rifle and fired a shot where the branches were still shaking.

In the dense thicket, the shot echoed deafeningly like a drumbeat. The two young men stared at each other wordlessly. Between the spruces lingered the pungent, musky scent of the boar, mingling with the smell of resin and the gunpowder smoke that spread. A second horn call sounded; it signaled the end of the drive. Only this one shot had been heard.

Then Moosbrugger, the forester, came running from the clearing, his hunting horn fluttering on a green band. His nose glowed like a carbuncle, and he had to catch his breath before he began to curse. He examined the tracks and saw, to his annoyance, that the boar had not fled across the clearing as expected but had ended up here in this remote spot. Now the count and his guests had missed out. This personally offended Moosbrugger, and Richard had the impression that it was difficult for him not to slap the young shooter. If it had been one of his hunting lads, he probably would have. Instead, he bared his teeth and asked the novice:

"Do you know what you've just done?"

And when the novice shrugged awkwardly:

"I'll tell you: you've made a blank shot."

With that, he let out a devilish laugh and turned back to the trail. Richard now felt quite satisfied with the role of spectator he had played. The unfortunate novice had turned red in the face and seemed uncomfortable in his own skin. He grumbled to himself.

"No one ever does it right for him. If I hadn't shot, he would have grumbled anyway."

He was, however, feeling guilty. First, he had been frightened by the wild boar, and then he had shot into the air. With the same fervor that he had hoped the boar would pass him by, he now cursed its appearance. He already saw the forest lord and the hunting party approaching from the clearing. His confusion was so strong that it affected Richard as well. It was fortunate that the formidable Moosbrugger had disappeared into the bushes.

At the moment the hunting lord reached them, the powerful voice of the forester rang out from the thicket:

"Boar dead! Boar dead!"

Then he blew the end of the hunt, the sound echoing through the forest. The entire group, along with the beaters, followed the horn call and stepped onto a clearing behind the belt of fir trees. There stood Moosbrugger next to the boar, which had died in the fresh snow. He was now in full triumph, declaring once more to the count, his face splitting into a terrible grin from ear to ear. He had known it all along – just two or three cut hairs and lung blood – damn it, the young ones had learned from him.

Everyone now stood in an oval around the prize, the shooters with their rifles slung over their shoulders, the beaters with their axes. The boar lay on the white bed as if sleeping, its small eyes half mockingly looking at its conquerors. The men admired the mighty head, resting as if on a pillow. The sharp tusks gleamed in grim curvature like old ivory. Where the broad neck began, the legs, which Moosbrugger called the front hammers, stuck stiffly into the air. The dark bristly hide was streaked with rust, with only a pure black band running down the back. A large bloodstain was still spreading, fading at the edges.

At this sight, Richard felt a pang of unease; it almost seemed improper that their eyes feasted on the slain animal. Never had a hand touched it. Now, after the initial astonishment, they grabbed it by the ears and legs, turning it this way and that. The boy struggled against the feeling that arose in him: that in this moment, the boar was closer, more akin to him than his pursuers and hunters.

After they had admired and touched the prey, they turned their attention to the fortunate shooter who had brought it down. The count broke a spruce branch, dipped it in the wound, and then presented the blood-stained twig on the butt of his rifle, while Moosbrugger blew the Halali. The young man stood with modest pride in their midst and pinned the sprig to his hat. Their eyes rested on him with approval. At court, in war, and among hunters, lucky chance is valued and credited to the man. It marks a favorable start to a career.

They now passed around a round bottle filled with fruit brandy, from which the count took the first sip. After shaking himself, he handed it to the novice next. They all sought to exchange a few words with him, and he had to recount, without tiring, how he had encountered the boar. It was indeed a perfect shot, as envy had to admit. He described how he had noticed the boar and how it had charged at him. Although he hadn't hit it full in the chest but slightly behind, as it had disappeared into the pines at a sharp angle, he had seen the boar clearly react to the shot. Moosbrugger praised him highly.

Only Richard felt uncomfortable, believing he was the only one who hadn't been up to the task. He listened with astonishment as Breyer recounted the event differently, and he had to believe it, for the boar lying before them was proof. For the first time, he learned that facts could change the circumstances that led to them – this shook his ideal world. The hunters' loud shouts oppressed him, and again it seemed to him that the boar was far superior to them.

Moosbrugger carefully drew his knife from its sheath and tested the blade's sharpness by running it over his thumb. Even in severe frost, the boar couldn't be left in its hide because its blood ran too hot. The hunter's expression became quite archaic, illuminated by a kind of solemn grin that drew the deeply ingrained wrinkles vertically. He knelt on one of the boar's hind legs and grasped the other with his left hand. Then he nicked the taut hide with the blade and slit it open to the breastbone. First, he removed two structures resembling shiny blue goose eggs and tossed them behind him while the beaters laughed approvingly:

"The fox will fetch those for dinner."

He then carefully followed a cord. The sharp odor surrounding the animal became acrid, and the men stepped back, cursing. Moosbrugger dug both hands into the abdominal cavity, reached into the chest, and pulled out red and blue entrails, separating the noble organs. The heart had been shattered by the bullet; the boar had managed to run ninety paces with this wound. A hunting boy cut open the stomach to wash it in the snow; it was filled with chewed beechnuts. Soon, the desecrated body had turned into a red basin, from which blood still steamed into the frosty air.

Moosbrugger looped a rope around the upper jaw behind the tusks; the beaters harnessed themselves to it and dragged the bristly carcass away. The hunters lit their pipes and, chatting comfortably, joined the procession. The hunt was over.

They now passed around a round bottle filled with fruit brandy. The count took the first sip and, after shaking himself, handed it to the novice. They all sought to exchange a few words with him, and he had to recount, without tiring, how he had encountered the boar. It was indeed a perfect shot, as envy had to admit. He described how he had heard the boar and how it had charged at him. Although he hadn't hit it squarely but slightly behind, as it had disappeared into the pines at a sharp angle, he had seen the boar clearly react to the shot. Moosbrugger praised him highly.

Only Richard felt uncomfortable, believing he was the only one who hadn't been up to the task. He listened with astonishment as Breyer recounted the event differently, and he had to believe it, for the boar lying before them was proof. For the first time, he learned that facts could change the circumstances that led to them – this shook his ideal world. The rough shouts of the hunters oppressed him, and again it seemed to him that the boar was far superior to them.

Moosbrugger carefully drew his knife from its sheath and tested the blade's sharpness by running it over his thumb. Even in severe frost, the boar couldn't be left in its hide because its blood ran too hot. The hunter's expression became quite archaic, illuminated by a kind of solemn grin that drew the deeply ingrained wrinkles vertically. He knelt on one of the boar's hind legs and grasped the other with his left hand. Then he nicked the taut hide with the blade and slit it open to the breastbone. First, he removed two structures resembling shiny blue goose eggs and tossed them behind him while the beaters laughed approvingly:

"The fox will fetch those for dinner."

He then carefully followed a cord. The sharp odor surrounding the animal became acrid, and the men stepped back, cursing. Moosbrugger dug both hands into the abdominal cavity, reached into the chest, and pulled out red and blue entrails, separating the noble organs. The heart had been shattered by the bullet; the boar had managed to run ninety paces with this wound. A hunting boy cut open the stomach to wash it in the snow; it was filled with chewed beechnuts. Soon, the desecrated body had turned into a red basin, from which blood still steamed into the frosty air.

Moosbrugger looped a rope around the upper jaw behind the tusks; the beaters harnessed themselves to it and dragged the bristly carcass away. The hunters lit their pipes and, chatting comfortably, joined the procession. The hunt was over.

That was the first evening Richard fell asleep without thinking of the rifle; instead, the boar entered his dreams.

On Methodology. A necessity for perceiving the ambiguous. Sunset is a sunrise elsewhere. Character-wise: one is either an optimist or a pessimist. Optimism can change too, through radiation.

What is "world revolution"? Visible changes are preceded by less visible ones, and those by invisible ones. Technology already rises as a modus vivendi from great depths. The precedence of spiritual change over technical, technical over political, political over strategic. A war can be politically won before it has begun. Thus, the "cold" war also brings shifts in power. One plays for positional gain with sacrifices, cosmic flanking. Gain and loss lie in the unexpected. For this reason alone, one must not lose faith too early, even in matters of power.

The book resembles the century, demanding a strong entry. Stumbling blocks, grotesque temple guardians, trapdoors. Desert wandering involves traversing inhuman landscapes.

What Burckhardt aimed for with the "Culture of the Renaissance in Italy" must also be possible looking forward – a portrait of modern man without retouching; the more extensive, the better he can orient himself. There are many perspectives towards the Leviathan. They do not define it; they locate it. One should not take one's own perspective too seriously either.

The method of viewing the world must be scientific, yet with free movement through the systems and without regard for the scientist's aversion to the scientific examination of himself.

A system is already shaken by the demonstration that it can be viewed from another angle – that there are other systems. The new approach shows that what is believed, which grounds all knowledge, is still insufficient and that the search must continue. The cosmos must not become overpowering; it must deepen in proportion as it grows.

The author, who brings news, especially to the worker about the worker, may fare like the messenger who brought bad news to the king and was beheaded for it.

The best perspective is that of the outsider. The narrator must be both inside and outside simultaneously. This is possible through differences in origin or race, even centuries, and creates not only a position between the chairs – in one direction, often in both, there is also betrayal involved. Additionally, the misfortune of having slightly less fear than others. Having sung in the fire and coming with things that people do not want to know.

Fate disguises itself in what cannot be known. Hence, the best predictions are those that surprise the author himself in retrospect.

At some dreary station, one had to board the train – as a nationalist or as a Bolshevik, as a revolutionary or as a soldier, in the service of obscure spirits or theories – the question is only how far one wants to ride. "He who does not know where he is going will get the farthest!" Those who cannot make history try to falsify it; a Paris Metro station is named "Stalingrad."

History also has a peristaltic movement in the lower depths – in palaces of coprophages, one generation after another fattens on the filth of its predecessors. One lives not only by the deeds of the fathers but also by their misdeeds.

Where stupidity reaches degrees that become incomprehensible and exclude conversation, its significance as a phenomenon grows – not only zoologically, but also demonologically – it is to be suspected that very strong forces are at work.

The decline of metaphysical capacity follows a similar pattern. A loss within the historical landscape remains relative within the larger context – the universe is a house that loses nothing. One must not hold the place, but the bench.

Nietzsche's first sentence of war practice: "I only attack victorious things" is less strong than the second: "I only attack things where I would find no allies, where I stand alone." This also only applies to phases where qualities are still visibly distinct from each other. Where things become so ambiguous that even war loses its meaning, there is no war practice anymore. In this respect, freedom grows and the number of things that can still be taken seriously decreases.

The question is where one gets stuck in the polemic. A spirit is not recognized by the opponents it finds and cannot get enough of, but by the ones it sets for itself.

Goodwill extends further; it leads beyond all disputes. "Salut au monde" even to the executioner who brings us the verdict.

One must keep an eye on the type of persecutor, not the nature of the parties. Parties change, but persecution remains. Justice follows politics like vultures follow armies. Everyone is brave against those who are down.

In an avalanche, there is either only or no decadence. By labeling something as decadence, even becoming indignant, I reveal the nature and extent of my historical dependence. Independence, in turn, must be distinguished from cynicism, and that with goodwill.

The hummingbird that kisses the hibiscus flower and the one being gnawed by worms in the gray dust are both equally distant from hidden beauty; they are subjects of the painter, not his goal. In his picture, we sense the golden explosions of the worms.

The rapid turnover, even of thoughts, within acceleration. Hence the difficulty with terminologies, which are already misused before being fully understood. Yet, do not shy away from their use: that is one more test. This way, most fools will already be eliminated. Parties do not want to know what they have in common; they want to be affirmed in their errors.

When words like "total" become fashionable, there is no shortage of thinkers who see an intellectual achievement in their usage. Negation remains within the same horizon, if not within the same set. Meanwhile, the Indians proclaim total mobilization.

The quick, comprehensive convertibility of means has nothing to do with the use of force, even avoids and prevents it. Its proof, its demonstration, is indispensable as long as power blocs exist. It must not be attempted only at focal points and not where things culminate.

Specific characters must not condense too strongly; crystallizations come at the expense of vitality. Force is bound power. Standing armies must be kept to their optimum; too much must not be invested in arsenals. This also applies to central offices, particularly large cities.

Equality is part of evolution; as long as this is not complete, new distinctions cannot credibly emerge.

Acceleration is compressed, anticipated time. It heralds long periods of calm, creative pauses.

The "Promised Land" is also just a metaphor, like all things transient.

With entry into the domain, the radiation intensifies. The great sacrifices. Was Kleist already part of this?

How does the artistic person reconcile with the worker? Incomparably more difficult than the man of science. The great theories in astronomy, physics, and biology carry a working character, dynamize without resistance. Even optics become aggressive. The "peaceful" facilities are probably more dangerous in the long run.

Leisure is not a work quality; it has nothing to do with time or free time. Where specific characters come into play, the artistic ones are weakened. This already applies to the national poet. Goethe also had a good instinct for this.

Within the specific working characters, the artistic takes on functional, technical, and finally mechanical features, becoming the material of automatic reproduction.

However, the artistic person must confront, but he must not get involved. Either perish or enter the central structure. Thus, the sufferer becomes the conductor. He doesn't fit into the plan, but he can alter the plan. His optimism extends beyond all horrors.

The final question is whether the great characters, including technology, can be subsumed into play. Only then can beauty be rediscovered. Time does not want to be negated; it wants to be complemented. Art is not anti-, it is an overhistorical power; it lives out of the timeless.

Tolstoy complements the Napoleonic era – a conciliatory light begins to shine; he transcends war and peace. Here too is Goethe's struggle for color as one of the adventures of light, for which calculating reason is not sufficient. But light itself is only an adventure of matter.

Nietzsche: "What Goethe wanted was totality: he fought against the separation of reason, feeling, will – he disciplined himself to wholeness, he created himself..."

The working world awaits, hopes for its meaning.

Not romantic rebellion, but skepticism within technology would be its cancer. At some point in the future, the natural sciences will begin to bore or take on other tasks. The veil of Maya fades.

Already in the sons and grandsons of the functionaries lies one of the dangers for the collective. Potential seeks other directions, and simultaneously, the energy for periodic purges diminishes; Shigalev's program barely extends to the third generation.

Metaphysical and artistic inclinations awaken; a new dance can become more threatening than any criticism. Hence the preference for conventional music, painting, and banal work overall. This belongs to Jacobin honesty.

From section to section, the masses overtake the avant-garde. Suffering begins when the dream is realized. Only what was superior to time remains, not what claimed temporal advantage.

Blindness of will is part of the plan. The enormous efforts of the Arctic convoys. Would they have been possible if on the bridge and before the boilers, people had already foreseen two or three further sections and known that ultimately they were strengthening Russian power? Words like "resistance" come back as boomerangs. The ultimate goals are like the last words – they are always only penultimate. The functional curve leads through the political space. Ethos illuminates actions as needed; hatred fuels them.

Mercenaries of mass murderers in the service of ideologies that consume more people than Aztec sacrificial priests, despise the soldier who raises his arm only against the armed.

The distinction between the abstract and concrete view of pain vanishes. The general who gives an order that kills thousands is simultaneously a father, insofar as his own son is among the victims. At times, everyone sees him as a father, at other times, his son sees him as a murderer. This provides inexhaustible material for portrayal.

Blake's vision: he saw murderers and their victims walking arm in arm in the afterlife. Terror and men of terror, seen from the other side. Under what circumstances do they appear and disappear? It inevitably ends with one's own liquidation. The close relationship, the identity of murder and suicide becomes evident.

There is also a kinship between the clown and the dictator, a system of mutual borrowings. Where the ruler separates himself from the fool, even kills him, his grotesque features infiltrate him. The tyrant liquidates people and classes, the clown, under certain circumstances, an era. Where the anarchistic attack reaches anonymous layers, it provokes suicidal laughter. "Chaplin bakes with dynamite."

The peculiar pleasure in intellectual combination. Who or what is being outwitted in the process? Every solution provokes new approaches, as if crystals spread on a surface. This is uncanny to the conservative person. Even within armament, progress is suspect to him.

Where the mosaic grows, the distance should also increase, at least at certain points. Then, of course, a tremendous expansion, large apparatuses can find their equivalent. Here, lever laws apply, a handful of higher types suffices; engineers, on the other hand, can never be enough. Pure spiritualization only means a change in the state of aggregation.

It's about points where the miracle can reattach.

If one wants to hold on to the word "race," one must understand it as the expression of form. It shapes the type through the ethnic layers.

If the worker perceived himself as a race in the old sense, a stable empire could be the result. However, the struggle ignites within the highest representations of the worker's form. Progress and its speed are based on this.

Transformation is preceded by the removal of old layers. The Black man with the wristwatch. His barbarism now becomes visible, as if small talismans were attached to him.

The semi-education, the half-knowledge. Disadvantages and advantages. It creates the "leading layer" for the great intellectual action. This includes the approaches to the formation of a third gender. The deception of nature is to be revised.

The accumulation and consolidation of wealth are not in the worker's interest, but rather a large, fluctuating income. Appropriate is a tax that derives from rotation, thus participating in the overall circulation. This is preceded by forms of reduction. Similarly, with the strike; where the worker rules, it becomes self-damaging.

War is a promoter of technology and science, a destroyer of the artistic world. It has long been unsettling for the warrior caste. Their disempowerment is a special case of the general conscription of class orders. They are allowed to maintain their style only in peripheral areas. "Les centurions."

The worker fights and dies in apparatuses, not only without "higher ideas" but also with their conscious rejection. His ethos lies in the clean operation of the apparatus. He does not need to think; he does not oversee the plan. The national ethos is occasionally referred to, but only as a prelude, a concession to passion.

The destruction of individual authorities by the technical plan. The diplomat becomes a recipient of orders through the telegraph, the ship through the radio a floating outpost. The combat pilot with headphones. Even watches become less necessary.

Are cities already being built with total loss in mind? A troglodyte world threatens to emerge. In terms of excavation and its automation, technical ingenuity still seems to lag behind.

The atomic bomb as the non plus ultra of philistinism. For the infantryman, just another detour. The Greeks did not let these types rise.

Calculating intelligence can be partly supported, partly replaced by machines. There is hardly any field, including bank robbery and literature, where teamwork does not dominate, hardly any person who works, acts, thinks, does good and evil unauthorized.

Characteristics of philistine work include a lack of metaphysical sense, quantifiability, group formation, and taking orders. New means, such as the hydrogen bomb, can be ordered to size and time. Not everyone can tolerate this.

But behind this lies the unpredictable, an order that the lackeys do not see. That must be shown.

On monotony. It challenges the drug. But intoxication is punished. Where are permissible relaxations found?

Monotony and monochromy. The gray camouflage. No colors are shown. Then they want to see blood.

Leveling of landscapes. In the Middle Ages, houses still had names; today, entire provinces are determined by numbers. Disguising cities with light and light arrangements. One hardly knows where one is anymore. "But tell me once: where are we in the real world now? In London, right?" Klinger, "Storm and Stress," 1775.

In the world cities, something is added to the big city mood: a sense of power, poetically felt by the masses, as if the ancient metropolises were celebrating a resurrection. Along with this, forms of melancholy. In France, the clocks run slower. Richelieu's reforms can be seen as a kind of vaccination.

The standardization of traditional human activities. Walking becomes a technical problem. The pedestrian resists. "Walking is a human right" – thus legally fixed. Simultaneously, a return to the simplest symbols, pictographic writing, modern illiteracy, street discipline, traffic signs.

Drilling is already learned in preschool. Violations are punished with warnings, arrest, even death. Traffic accidents are sacrifices – albeit.

One of the rational consequences is the pure presentation. Here, the natural trappings – covering, customs, taboos, and the like – are omitted. This accelerates consumption. But chewing coca leaves is not as devastating as, even if only sniffed, crystallized cocaine.

Among the youthful transgressions of the worker is the overestimation of anatomy. A key feature of the workshop style is quantifiability, the reduction to a numerical framework. However, a plucked chicken no more represents the bird itself than a feathered one does. One can only dispense with metaphysics where universalia in re illuminate.

The prince belongs to the people, not to the nation. He is founded more deeply, thus he sometimes remains the last link when national questions become virulent within disintegrating empires.

The forms of liquidation. Faster may be better than in nature reserves. The castles of kings, indeed even they themselves, are shown for an entrance fee, which they may personally receive if necessary.

"Better to fall like the Eastern Caesar than like those of the West."

The Tsar, even as a prisoner, did not cease his fight against the Germans; Louis XVI made it to Varennes.

The cold liquidation of the English aristocracy through taxes as a power tool. They become their own porters, also showpieces.

That the moral should be self-evident – a good word. "Self-evident" is the noble title of a person who refers to their own property, their being. From there, the moral becomes visible in their actions, but it appears even stronger in their repose. Leonardo's self-portrait.

The growing spread of moral valuation and devaluation indicates that the species is lost. The being is now referred to pure being (e.g., the differentiated person to the person in itself) – in which encounter it is either destroyed or changed. This includes pietistic experiences.

The cause of the catastrophe is to be found in the fact that the species has become untenable. This is true under all circumstances and in every dimension – even if the Earth were hit by a bolide: the catastrophe is confined to the being. Leonardo's drawing in Windsor: the end of the world in great order and beauty, like a cosmogenic blossom, viewed from a foreign star.

Leonardo's capacity is strong; it could accommodate the serpent again. From here, mutations are possible that lead beyond humans.

The rapid acceleration, with which not only society and states change but also the living and non-living nature, suggests causes that cannot be satisfactorily explained by either historical or human development. Not only the relations change, but also the common ground from which they have grown. New land emerges. Under historical disguises, powers of being come forth. Man is captured not only as a historical but also as a natural being, and with him plants and animals, the surface and depth of the earth and the seas, their atmospheric embedding. Time itself begins to change; the historical world with its cultures fills a valley that stretches between the mythical dawn and the severity of the godless world, like between Lebanon and Anti-Lebanon.

A great day has been completed, filled with names, dates, and works; we look back from the opposite slope at its bright, conscious light. What was law there no longer binds us. It is not history that begins to change its meaning, but the event is no longer history. We take knowledge with us like ghosts; however, the dream is deeper, and knowledge is not enough to interpret the signs in the night. Has it ever sufficed? Always beneath it, like the massive layers beneath the topsoil, was the self-evident.

Where gods were, spirit must enter.

Whoever adheres to the figure of the worker as the great appointee and relates to it the change of the world as the transforming, yet unassailable principle through the transformation, will find a measure that does not deceive. He will perceive that there is a power that strides through catastrophes as through fiery curtains. The sequence and acceleration of the transformation itself is the promise of a being for whom technology means realization, but not reality. The goal is the spiritualization of the earth.

The "world state" addresses the problem of the transition of the figure of the worker from planetary power to planetary order – a consolidation that can be predicted with certainty. It will conclude the age of warring states.

The word "state" should not be measured against the historical model; here it means status, condition, order in the broadest sense. The essence of the historical state is defined by the existence of other states. Protecting its borders is its foremost task. The historical state presupposes divided land; the political map differs from the physical and also from the ethnographic. Attempts to reconcile these differences are Sisyphean efforts; they never succeed completely and always only for a time.

The worker, on the other hand, is like Antaeus, the immediate son of the earth; his emergence is accompanied by shocks that can be understood as tectonic. The night before his dawn is glowing with forge fires. Divided land is as repulsive to him as an artificial garment that constricts the body.

Anyone who still disputes over the colors of flags today does not see that the time of flags has passed. The disputes at the borders become unsolvable because the borders themselves lose their meaning; they become unbelievable as the earth gains a new skin.

With the shedding of Gaia's skin, Antaeus regains his footing against Hercules, and new signs arise. The earth transforms from fatherlands back into a homeland. Matriarchal signs gain power.

Hercules is the primal prince, as Hölderlin recognized him, guardian of borders and conqueror of earth powers. That the great disputes of our century began with the assassination of a prince and were generally unfavorable to the crowns has its symbolic meaning behind the political-social constellations. It has the same meaning that the border demarcations to which these disputes led are not seen as solutions but become increasingly unsatisfactory. Growth outpaces recognition; it can no longer be restrained by classical methods.

"Type, name, form" once again returns to the core of the theme. To perceive forms or, as Goethe called them, "experiences," requires more thorough equipment than excellent optics, because seeing and describing or even painting is always only the signature of the forms, not their essence. Once the eye has taken in the signs in their vast abundance, it must rather close to get an inkling of the unity, which can only ever be approximate: a veiled and resting counter-image of the restlessly circling world. Hence Goethe's aversion to glasses, microscopes, telescopes.

If only the treetops wither, or the roots shrink, does the organ assigned to metaphysical perception rest or atrophy? Does the spirit become flatter or the ground deeper and only reachable in dreams or by atavistic, hypertrophic, drugged types? Some see without acting, others act without seeing. The splendor and misery of decadence.

Perhaps for the last time, a clear view of the historical world is allowed. Metaphysics is a luxury and has always been a luxury, especially within acceleration.

With Heraclitus, a great spring begins; the spirit dons decorative colors. This is simultaneously a robbery from the mythical world. It has continuously and up to our days rebelled against the Logos. In our disputes, mythical return has only dialectical significance; one invokes myth to compare: to show what was possible. In contrast, the form proves itself. Man cedes his freedom to unknown powers. Naming them is the true challenge of our time.

In the cosmic economy, nothing is lost; only perspectives become unimportant. The best freedom is the one least talked about. Great transformations are likely being prepared—such as from freedom into beauty or into the spiritualization of the earth. Here, too, technology changes or fulfills its meaning.

Acceleration is a final, thus also an announcing symptom. Between downfall and rise, there is only a perspectival difference. If doctors hold a consultation at midnight, it bodes ill for the father—but what about the sons? When governments change ever more rapidly, a new ruler already opens the door. Acceleration includes short-wave rhythms, tight cycles, the rapid wear of furnishings, not only in the political world but also in the world of ideas and artworks. One sees the old departing without regret and the new entering with reluctance:

Yet it is not

The time. Nor are they

Unbound.

(Hölderlin, "The Titans")

Consider, in contrast, the acceleration within the actual working world. The movement becomes ever faster, more precise, the form ever more thoughtful, unified. A flame that grows through destruction.

Here the other side emerges; technology is part of the new skin. It is merely a garment, a mutable shell of form. In contrast, the poverty of systems: during molting, the serpent is blind.

The brain as a transformer; it possesses logical, but not spermatic power. Things change—not because new thoughts enter the world; rather, because things change, the transforming capacity must grow or it will be destroyed. Then development takes a different course, and the world, like Sardinia filled with Nuragic ruins, is filled with burnt-out laboratories.

Exempt from acceleration is only that which comes from dreams. Here resides the autochthonous power with its beauty and terrors, here are the oracles at home. From here comes also the unpredictable component of the technical world, the protean power of its creation and at the same time the dissatisfaction with it. The creations solidify under the hand and no longer satisfy. The Philosopher's Stone, the perpetual motion machine cannot be achieved; it remains a collection of models.

Politics can only shape where it has form itself—thus, in the service of existential powers. These are connections that the politician does not fully understand in their depth, or that he often even misunderstands, without it affecting his work. He is penetrated by the necessary in a way that eludes his insight and that he cannot represent in his formulations or programs.

This explains the steadfastness, but also the unapproachability of the great politician, his preference for platitudes. The necessary unfolds in a sequence of stages. Accordingly, the relative value of programs, their dependence on time and circumstances. Thus, even the best politician surpasses his usefulness; his art rarely extends beyond a human lifetime.

Political action culminates in strategy. The general loses in hours what might never be recovered.

The present is the field of the politician. Even where he hesitates, he anticipates the moment. This is both his strength and limitation, which is already evident in the fact that only success determines his work, the state.

This does not apply to the works of philosophers or to those of poetic and artistic minds, nor even to state theory. Here, success is an addition. It may occur or it may not; neither says anything about the work itself. The statesman wields greater real power than the poet, whose work, in turn, surpasses his own in intellectual power and durability. The encounter between them is based on chance and often on misunderstandings. It belongs more to the realm of embellishments than to the structure of historical reality.

The prophet is of no account in his homeland; he is also of no account in his time. The dead prophet is the best; for the living one, contemporaneity is, if not dangerous, then at least untimely. This is the theme of Dostoevsky's "Grand Inquisitor"; Plato in Syracuse, Machiavelli in Florence are examples. One might also imagine an encounter between Rousseau and Robespierre, or a visit from Marx to the Kremlin. Nietzsche could have had a similar experience if he had lived to a very old age: initially, the passionate adoption of his ideas by types who were fundamentally repugnant to him, followed by the backlash from those injured under such auspices.

Nihilistic critique, the instinctive certainty in the rejection of models, combined with the naive poverty of one’s own prescriptions—these are symptoms for which value judgments based on historical comparison are inadequate.

Physical concepts are more fitting—such as the idea of superconductivity at low temperatures: molecules, genes, thoughts, behaviors associate almost without resistance. Everything must be considered possible—nil admirari, not out of affectation, but because admiration might cloud the experiment’s character, suggesting that it is nearing completion. Asceticism in valuation is worthwhile; what one saves in meaning can be invested with interest.

In practical terms, consider the example of a postal invitation from a northern German teacher for a class trip to Sicily. The accompanying color photos show him with his students, either lightly dressed or naked by southern coastal cliffs. Apparently, both parents and school authorities view this with approval, though with outdated notions such as "new morality" or "return to nature." However, the new development does not pertain to the mythical or ethical world but rather to the worker as part of one of many sociological experiments, some of which are peculiar or dangerous, with uncertain future directions. This also includes what might be termed "applied Darwinism."

Regarding egomancy: the jumping of a goat does not confer potency; further demonstration is needed.

According to Nietzsche, "the criminal and what is related to him" is the type of strong person under unfavorable conditions, lacking wilderness. If such individuals and their admirers are provided with wilderness, they will not digest it any better than others. When figures like the Schinderhannes or the Schwarze Mann appear, no one is left to see.

The criminal contains less of a forest dweller than a policeman. This becomes evident when he attains power. He is not an anarchic but a social type, even more dependent on society than ordinary people, and thus a hero of the ill-fated.

What Nietzsche also notes is true: nearly every genius undergoes a catilinarian phase in their development. There is a distinction between crime and anarchy.

In this respect, quality should be maintained, and one should not settle for mere substitutes for the middle class. If one must engage with rogues, then one should seek out Maître Villon himself; if dealing with filth, sex, and crime, then one should look to the Marquis; if toxic polemics are involved, then Léon Bloy.

It should be noted that Léon Bloy’s polemics against his fellow countrymen are nuanced. The extent to which he detests the French is far surpassed by the extent to which he respects them—and that is significant. In this sense, everyone, especially the Germans, should be thankful for being born in their homeland.

Proven types like the "hero" or the "white man" can no longer assert themselves credibly. The general decline affects paternity, and more broadly, authority, while violence increases and elemental powers advance. This includes the drive for means of ever greater power, speed, and range, as well as for determining numerical relationships. Only what can be quantified is valid.

Figures made of gold, ivory, and marble in temples, markets, and acropolises—gods who were normative as unreachable ideals. In contrast, "man" loses his outline and definiteness; he assimilates distinctions within himself. Forms blur in the melting pot.

Attempts to establish definitions and hold or create ideals in this context are always risky. They either stem from excessive self-confidence or from a misjudgment of the global situation. This explains why "fascist" approaches do not prevail. This is not a matter of value; while ideals may suffice for grand efforts, they fall short for enduring endeavors, as breath becomes insufficient within the undifferentiated flood of the world.

It is questionable whether even the mass type the Chinese could introduce would be consumed. Ultimately, anything founded on tradition and race will not suffice.

This would have applied to the "Nordic man" even if he had been accepted as a type over a broad area. The greater the claim, the lesser the programmatic value of a specific construction. Here, the differentiated must give way to the undifferentiated; this applies even more to the esoteric.

One could discuss "The Empire" as a form, though without geographical limitation. Even the old Empire had great power but not global power, hence Bismarck’s restraint regarding colonies, the navy, and worldwide engagements. In the end, the "Pomeranian grenadier" pays with his bones; this has been seen again.

The statesman must not adhere to the ideals of the poet or the ideas of the thinker, especially when events are pressing. Both are more relevant for a future world than for the current one. Courts of the muses are the courts of princes with time to spare. On the other hand, the creative spirit has not lesser authority than the active one. It is largely independent of facts and not bound to the state, the people, or any specific reality if its freedom is sufficient. It does not measure its work by events but measures events by its work.

Intellectual freedom cannot be normed; thus, where attempts are made, such as with press freedom, the limits remain contested and shadowy. Just as any freedom becomes visible only when protection ceases, so intellectual freedom begins where press freedom ends—though immediately, the glory and misery of freedom are revealed in the flash.

It is forgivable and even understandable that contemporary judgments, especially among Germans, are determined by empirical experience, which is almost universally murky. Through sooty windows, they see not only the historical but also the intellectual world.

Other distinctions, such as between specific and general situational assessments, can no longer be assumed. This distinction between practical experience and fate interpretation is intertwined. Only under this condition does the conversation begin. What are political nuances when the world is in labor?

The view of the worker must penetrate the empirical appearance. There is more at work here than historical greatness; while there may be analogies in the world of gods and heroes, there is no exact equivalent.

Old names attach themselves to the lord of the new house, which awaits and is endowed by him. As he realizes himself, he sheds polemics and theories. The sight of his enormous works and campaigns recalls the deeds of Heracles. Yet, even here, one would follow only a mere analogy. Hölderlin, an unerring judge of great measures, says, "Like princes is Heracles"—but the worker is the born enemy not only of princes but also of gods and demigods, a son of the earth and much closer to the great Titans like Antaeus, Prometheus, and Atlas than to Heracles.

The economic-social valuation of events is even less satisfying. The oppressed are always present where needed. They are rooted in the sense that the rolling wheel touches the ground. Individuals change, but the fact remains; and every victor finds his master.

Where the movement increases, it becomes difficult to distinguish between oppressors and the oppressed; theories lag behind development. They often barely conceal their shame.

Where economic dealings still prevail, one may infer provincial scope. The same applies to the uprising of colored peoples; both tendencies are not only tolerated but also promoted on a global scale, which today is the scale of the worker. These are organizational movements within the world's capacity. Here, both cooperation and opposition are accounted for. Theories are lagging behind the prevailing practices and are used as needed.

Similarly, the discussion about military armament is contradictory and unclear, being so tightly bound to fear. Viewed from the perspective of the worker, it has more functional than definitive tasks. Expansion to the total must be as possible as it is to be avoided, similar to a chemical process going through explosive stages, which are risks but not effects.

The cancerous damage of war is not in its consumptive nature but in the way it consumes victory. "The crown burns with victory." With leveling comes the loss of distinctiveness; it becomes not only harder to distinguish partners but also to differentiate programs—one fights merely to "liberate" the opponent. In the end, one is defeated by one’s own theory. Wars become equalizing and cease to differentiate.

With disgrace comes gold, as Léon Bloy observed well. The entry of a lord is evident from the increasingly stringent service—evident from the planetary workday encompassing twenty-four hours, from the extreme demands placed on body and intellect, which are highly consuming, from the rapid increase in workers, but also from the extravagant tendencies that surpass any feudal or even sacred era. Technology and science at the highest levels are the utmost luxury, more expensive than the palaces of all dynasties and more dangerous than the wars of kings. What is demanded can be measured by visiting the centers and observing people not only where they work but also where they indulge.

When describing a reality, intention must take a backseat, as it would distort the topography. The reality’s appeal or discomfort to the observer is irrelevant. This requires discipline and asceticism in relation to desired images.

In this regard, the 19th century developed an ethos that allowed for detailed descriptions of subjects like no other. Diligence, skepticism, indifference to transcendent realms, and a focus on critical and perceptive methods secured the richest harvest ever gained through thought.

Epistemological limitation had to precede this. Blinders were necessary for preparation for the great race. Kant never went beyond the precinct of Königsberg. Schopenhauer thought to complete Kantian philosophy by positing the will as the thing-in-itself, which is why he had a significant influence on classical yet atypical spirits like Burckhardt, Huysmans, Nietzsche, Wagner, and countless others now forgotten. Quoting him today is considered bad form in our intellectual mezzanine. His aphorisms, such as the notion that all fools unite when a person of superior intelligence appears, often confirm this.

One might object, but one should at least bring a modest system if one wishes to engage with a spirit that has something to offer logically and metaphysically, aside from its ethics, which might be the only one on European soil to contend with Christianity. However, it required extending far beyond our peninsula. Where does one today find a word that transcends all temporal dealings, such as:

"The torturer and the tortured are one. The former errs by thinking himself unaffected by suffering, the latter by believing he is not part of the guilt."

It is often lamented that seeing the whole has become increasingly difficult. Metaphysics must become a luxury where thought is work. To what extent this is part of the inevitable relief before a leap will be shown by the results. The secret then lies in the movement, and action speaks for itself. This also makes moral evaluation more difficult.

Overall, there is no decline, but only a network of pulsating movements. To refill the cup, it must first be emptied.

The bourgeois century has given us excellent tools, particularly a refinement of measurement techniques that even baroque minds, including Leibniz and Newton, would have marveled at. Never before have nets been set with such patience and finesse. To capture the nameless, the bow must be drawn beyond the visible. There, unexpected things also rest. Now, the possibility of being drawn into unknown constructions emerges. This is evidenced by the phantasmagoric shimmer of the workshops. They are models of a mathematically-illusionary world.

The tools are portable; they are not tied to races or landscapes. This is an advantage, as seen from the fact that untouched grounds are more favorable for the education of the new world. Thus, offshoots often grow stronger than the trunk.

Development cannot be localized but can be centered. The question remains whether the empirical characters also signify the expansion of the intelligible world behind them. Is it a prelude to genuine culture, promising great gains, or its depletion? This will be answered not only by old Europe but also by the mutations in the coming decades.

After every great defeat, the sons believe that the father was sacrificed in vain. The discontent of German youth after World War I with the "bourgeois" is not only explained by the situation. It was more or less clearly perceived that not new configurations but new principles were needed. That they were neither realized by the right nor the left is part of the German fate and confirms the experience that the great questions have always remained suspended here, as Nietzsche vehemently accused us.

Given the failure that has so obviously repeated since the Staufer period, one might question whether it is less about the properties of character than about those of the situation. Thus, the laws of the balance act differently in the center than at the edges, and more hidden. Much of what was planned, designed, discovered, and invented here was seen executed elsewhere. The great household benefits from this here as well as there.

In reality, the German has not transcended the principles of the bourgeois world, i.e., the Revolution of 1789, neither on the right nor the left; rather, despite tremendous efforts and excesses, he has achieved that he is not taken seriously within this framework. He will not catch up, especially since what happens within this framework—i.e., the practice—contradicts him ever more clearly around the world.

The "worker" was intended to surpass this, and to do so more thoroughly than had been achieved in Russia. In this sense, it is both a political and a historically significant book. But it is even more than that, as it depicts a magnitude that has emerged not only intact but more powerful than ever from the catastrophe, and whose study now seems more compelling than before. This already visible growth also gives the restoration a new meaning and altered tasks. Its museal, delaying forces now act in a shadowy, island-forming manner within the dynamic inundations. Thus, the polemic against the bourgeois has also become historical; it would distract from the topic. One does not break down open doors. However, to illuminate and preserve a turning point, an important decision missed in 1918, the passages containing them cannot be omitted.

Practically, this means that a historical outline must precede the depiction of the new world unless the existing text is to be understood and used as such.

The violence of a storm can be anticipated like a foehn or an earthquake. The phenomena—avalanches, uncovered houses, tidal floods—are surprising. This does not preclude that their underlying meaning is more clearly perceived in the overture. It provides the preliminary forms of images, whose abundance becomes confusing in the acts.

Nietzsche’s "Ecce homo" from 1888 offers more than a grand situational assessment. A fate is grasped, suffered, not only through insight but in the atoms, in an atmospheric manner. The air becomes thinner, harder to breathe, but the mountains become clearer. Grandiose misjudgments persist in style. In between, reminiscences of newspaper criticisms, a missed rendezvous. This is an earthly remnant, a human trait.

The bitterness towards contemporaries, especially Germans, is understandable for one who has something immense to say without an echo. There, the next one is considered most harshly, aside from the fact that this is customary among Germans in the higher echelons.

Regarding the horoscope, it should be noted: the strongest moments may be those in which there has been no encounter with people or things. Acting is weaving; realization is also unraveling—the constellation cannot be exhausted. Every encounter interrupts a great conversation. Hence, memory continually brings back the magic of indeterminate hours during which we were alone and pondered their significance. We then sense that we are called to more than just actions and works. Even the highest of these are parables.

The ideal of the thinker is that thoughts should directly transform into actions as if by a spell. This distinguishes the thinker from the sage, who knows that thoughts have time and that even those which find no resonance are not lost.

It has been sufficiently demonstrated that the worker, in his political manifestation, does not represent a class, a nation, or a stand. Nonetheless, during the major upheavals, nations carry out and transform the events. Whether they move more or less in accordance with the currents of the world may not change the weight of fate, but it may affect the success. The sacrifices of one are pleasing, those of the other are disreputable. For the individual, this leads to painful passages during which he must choose between his natural affiliation and the intellectual. Perhaps this is a selection in favor of more robust natures, where commonplaces lose their questionable nature and have a firmer impact. Here, too, the conscience is stronger.

Revolutions also have a mechanical side: work is achieved through leveling. This partly explains their subsequent expansion. The advance of subordinate types is accepted; almost all revolutionary figures are ephemeral.

Their evaluation remains perspective, for one cannot abstract from the pain they brought into the world, nor look into the internal workings of their time. Distance obscures and mitigates; on the other hand, it profiles the characters in a way to which poets also contribute. See Schiller's view of the French events of the 16th century and of his own time.

"Seeing blood" distinguishes the butchers. This is their magical advantage, by which they can paralyze even a thousandfold majority when they come into play, as if they were showing the head of Medusa.

Here lies one of the secrets of the death penalty: the just one shows that he will not recoil. This is a message that reaches even the darkest corners. It is not a matter of "an eye for an eye," but rather homeopathic laws: the blood of a murderer can prophylactically outweigh that of a hundred thousand innocents. When the ancients said, "The blood must not stay on the land," it was out of fear that murder might spread like a plague.

The relationship is also visible in the fact that explicitly Cainite regimes abolish the death penalty. It is opposed to murder not merely within the framework of cause and effect, but at its innermost principle. The murderer, when he comes to power, wants to kill arbitrarily; the law should not constrain him. The distinction between guilt and innocence is unimportant to him.

Assassination, on the other hand, remains unlawful; it has the opposite effect. It exacerbates suffering like a vaccine administered during a crisis.

In such annotations, pedagogical intentions should be suppressed; they can only contribute to confusion. What are viewpoints when the avalanche descends? Ultimately, one refrains, at least to the extent that prognostic considerations come into play, even from barometric readings. The readings from an electroscope or the maxima and minima of a thermometer are sufficient. One sees the one who dares not lay a finger on the thousandfold murderer as a contemporary of the other whose conscience is not troubled by the thousandfold murder—and then knows what time it is.

Here is the Salvation Army style of generals, the old-maid style of philosophers, the collection-glove style of educators in a world of violence, malice, and merciless trials—as an exact correspondence of non-action and action or of fear and terror in general. However, this without anger or bias, ultimately with goodwill and without falling into Nietzsche’s error of moralizing three times as much as everyone else as an amoralist. Before this flood, in this turning point, no one acts entirely right and no one entirely wrong. Much more important than auditing is recalculating—just as research precedes valuation, so does topographical effort precede legal order.

One must either expand a position or reach a new one in the jump; one can gain time by stretching it or by compressing it. According to Clausewitz, defense is the stronger form. However, this thesis only holds from section to section, as absolute time continues, and sooner or later, everyone must set their watch by it.

In this sense, the German has remained in the interim field; he has neither succeeded in anchoring himself in the principles of 1789 nor credibly rid himself of them and the forms shaped by them. Just as he had taken inadequate advances on them in 1803 and 1813 and failed to implement them in 1848, so in 1918, he failed to free himself from them. The last opportunity was missed in 1933. Meanwhile, it went the way of any decision delayed too long: it became irrelevant. What the landslides could not achieve happens through erosion.

This also shows that the conflict between nations no longer has a definitive but rather a functional character. The form of the worker, fundamentally changing, goes through not only individuals but also nations.

“It is another who commands; and what is to be done, is done” (Gotthelf).

That theories are not sufficient is increasingly evident in how they pale compared to the facts. Their inadequacy leads to a directionless back-and-forth of large masses in unclear fronts and directions. Although intellectual abilities are rapidly growing, they are increasingly insufficient for a satisfactory assessment of the situation.

The author must, therefore, strive for a position where he agrees with the grand course of events, even if it is contrary to him, or even threatens to surpass him. Fate is better understood the more thoroughly one disregards one's own well-being and woe. Then it becomes fascinating even in its threat: “Everything that happens is admirable.

Every political theory has a stronger relationship with activity than with reality. It is, therefore, primarily a matter of parties and their distinctions between above and below, should and have, right and left. These are movements within the state; different measures apply to the state itself, where being is concentrated. Therefore, the art of statecraft will not rely on the theorist but rather on the philosopher, who grounds more deeply, and the poet, as the presenter and creator of higher models.

The fact that today things are quite different, insofar as powers primarily rely on theories and lack credible artworks, can be seen as a confirmation in the negative—an indication that here, less genuine states appear than dynamic forces: active parties in the world citizen war. This, by the way, is one of the favorable signs.

If the theorist, in the face of an unexpected turn or even a volte, which are inevitable, opposes the course by referring to the beginnings, development will pass him by or clear him from the way. This confirms the primacy of facts. The best theorists are those on the monuments.

The real value of theory lies in guidance, in the rational leading towards an object. This means performance and limitation at the same time. Once the object is reached, the theory becomes superfluous, gains historical significance, or changes.

If we compare the acquisition of the object, such as the state, with the creation of a statue, theories are among what falls away; they remain as fragments and shards, perhaps also as relics, on the ground. But they have freed an image from the material. At the unveiling, in great jubilation, this is symbolically repeated.

This would be one possible view. The other is that the form begins to move of its own accord in the material and at the appropriate time emerges from it; it leaves the development thoughts as historical garments, as puppet shells.

It depends on the individual’s standpoint which of the two views seems more credible to him. Whether a person leads or is led, whether he changes the world from within himself or on behalf—this dispute leads to the old and eternally new question of free will.

That free will is passionately affirmed today at focal points may be necessary. The actor needs a certain naivety, which can increase through all stages of naivety up to the consciousness of godlikeness.

In hindsight, the disparity between the meagerness of individuals and the enormous changes associated with names, whose mere mention embarrasses the historian, is indeed an indication among many that his means are insufficient.

The fact that the visual arts become alien to the minds is not only due to the artist but also to the model. In the past, tailors and hairdressers could make adjustments. Rank and status symbols can hardly be displayed under museum-like aspects anymore; their appearance evokes a mood of Ash Wednesday. A camouflage net has been thrown over the world, an anonymous curtain behind which a new performance is emerging.

This also applies to the destruction of form by color on the battlefield, in painting, in architecture under flooding, swirling light. But form itself cannot be maintained; an imprecise, increasingly precise will dissolves it into a series of models. Slag remains behind it.

The old saying "Mountains are giving birth – – –" can almost be turned into its opposite – a little mouse seems to give birth to mountains. The secret lies in the suspended masses; the echo of a shot, the foot of a hare can trigger an avalanche. This does not speak against human greatness – on the contrary. The dimensions on the vast stage change, and with them, what can be considered great. The observer must come to a different judgment about freedom than the actor.

When the tide rises, the one who breaks the dikes has a greater effect than the one who preserves them. The sailor has no concern with either; he remains in his element.

The true conservative does not want to preserve this or that order but to restore the image of the human being who is the measure of all things. For this reason, every conservative approach today is questionable.

With increasing depth, conservatives and revolutionaries will become very similar because they necessarily approach the same ground. Among the great transformers, those who not only topple but also establish orders, both qualities are always evident.

Before the grand performances, there are preparations, delicate, yet foreboding overtures with slowly seeping light. The hall brightens until the new society recognizes itself brotherly in its splendor. Everything has changed – the decorations, the faces, the garments – and everything confirms the great discovery and rediscovery: to be a human being. This may last for a hundred years or longer. How everything harmonized – the rational and the irrational sounds, the actors and those who played along without commitment or reward, the images, thoughts, and events, inventions and discoveries of distant worlds – is felt solemnly in the moment, but only revealed in memory.

Whatever happens, the earth responds. It is always and for everything ready. However, it becomes eerie when the old Gaia begins to stir of its own accord. There it moves deep below the layers on which state and society thrive, deep below the crypts and cellars. The event cannot be directed or explained by humans. However, if the historian lowers his arms, if he loses his words, it does not mean he is confronted with the meaningless, but that his means are insufficient.

The fact that great plans turn into their opposite does not mean they are meaningless; rather, they follow a different plan. Then the means of the statesman fail no less than those of the historian. The art of statecraft becomes a system of makeshift solutions. If it aimed to achieve more, such as establishing something, it would soon be driven to absurdity. If one does not want to live purely as a nomad, then in an earthquake-prone landscape, the workshop style is the only reasonable, if not sustainable, yet viable approach.

With the figure of the worker, a brother of Antaeus, Atlas, and Prometheus appears rather than Heracles – a new Titan and son of the Great Serpent, whom the demigod merely depicted. Now not only the historical structures are shattered, but also their mythical and cultic prerequisites, if not the human ones that underlie everything.

The figure of the worker corresponds to no class, no rank, no nation, no culture, no belief, except perhaps belief in matter, which is more a knowledge or a secure trust. It answers like the gods of old, but stronger, even more visibly. That only the phenomena are initially recognized should not be alarming.

The light on the new stage is stronger than any light ever cast on a transformation of form, as far back as memory reaches. Not historical experience, but only inner experience conforms to it. Where thought retreats into history and myth as into a milder medium or into half-dark niches, it has not yet sufficiently emancipated itself. In crises, heroes are invoked, relics are shown, but no answer comes from there anymore.

The question of the mission is only likely to confuse the actor. “The one who goes furthest is the one who does not know where he is going.” In the Promethean workshop with its countless fires, rather telluric-plutonic than Apollonian light prevails. Divine mission, heroic ethos, paternal right will be sought in vain where a world is born in enormous convulsions. Between two contractions, fear and blindness reign – he who wishes to endure must exchange transcendental optimism for fundamental optimism. Then he will also gain the necessary forces in the real world.

Nothing can happen without the earth. Zeus must consult the Moirae, the ancient old women. He weighs the scales; and what is weighed there is heavier than will and spirit. The old and eternally young mother has survived gods and the heavens of gods, fathers, and sons. The Great Serpent: mountains and seas, volcanoes and glaciers, plants and animals are shed at every molt. In ever-new youth, she rises from the fiery bath.

From the mouth of the Pythia speaks the ascending earth spirit; Apollonian interpretation must be added. The interpretation necessarily fits all eventualities – whether this or that realm is destroyed, whether this or that of her sons falls or triumphs: the sense of the earth is fulfilled. The father sacrifices the son with pain, while the mother receives him with joy. One of the great qualities of the earth is that of the grave: everywhere a person dies, it is sacred land. Without the earth, there is no sanctuary.

Everywhere the earth burns – but where the fire becomes visible, in volcanoes, blooming spring meadows, arson, love festivals, hearth and sacrificial flames, it has already gained quality. The eye sees protuberances – the sight of the central fire, where death and life unite, is denied to the mortal. Moses saw the bush burning before he heard the voice and received the mission. The prophet is the advance guard at the furthest frontier; he has no knowledge like the priest but is in the matter. “I am certainly flame.”

Moses at Horeb, John on the shore of Patmos: there begins the undifferentiated. There, as there is only one human being, there can also be only one element. “That is you.”

This extreme simplification, the confrontation with the Absolute in the Timeless, leads to endless exegeses, processes, and expansions. The serpent moves for the span of a lightning flash and gives millennia the form by which phenomena align. Now the world becomes a mill; a new calendar begins.

“Woe, the cry of the one giving birth.” Endless calamity is announced within it. Long before the plans, long before the battles, it is heard: “Fateful disaster unfolds”; the spinner continues. The thread is still gray; the dawn will bring the colors. Everything is still a premonition. The whistle of the first siren in *Wilhelm Meister* – it touches the heart of the solitary wanderer with more and heavier than the advent of a new century. Time and again, this shadow falls across his path. Suffering is deeper than its interpretations.

The study of fate has become an obsolete field. And language lives off the remnants. What value can a higher assessment of the situation have under such circumstances?

Should we be content with the answer that here an innate noble impulse of the species seeks satisfaction? The human condition has been endangered since the beginning; in this regard, the reading of Isaiah remains always contemporary.

For the Occidental, specific curiosity is added. A fine example is the demise of the elder Pliny: scientific ethos combined with that of a magistrate.

It may seem a loss that intellectual sovereignty has become isolated and that, if one still wants to say that thought governs the world, it has become very specific thinking. The explication of Hegelian philosophy and the dominant, even fateful, significance that the exact natural sciences have gained are examples.

Thinking undoubtedly creates facts; but then these are facts that demand further thought and come closer until thinking gives way to them. It follows the events, ultimately the course of the day. Thus, philosophers accept the atom as it is provided by physicists. Nietzsche even considered, in a rather late section, whether he should study natural sciences for another ten years – undoubtedly a weak moment. One does not harness a horse by its tail.

When Overbeck said, “Nietzsche is not to be taken seriously as a scholar, but very much so as a thinker,” it was meant critically. But it is the best that can be said about a mind that feeds not on texts but from the source. Either the philosopher remains on the fundamental line of thought, of which even the strongest developments in science are only side branches, or he degrades himself to a mere tool of philistines, and eventually even political pirates. Mere knowledge cannot stand.

Intellectual freedom is not granted; it is either present or absent. Intellectual freedom is also not demanded but proven, and the world lives from that. Nothing is simpler than this proof, yet nothing is more difficult. What everyone could do, who can?

Everyone rushes to sit with Socrates on the bench of scoffers, but the ranks thin out when it comes to accompanying him like Xenophon with shield and sword, and when the cup is offered, the hall empties.

The direct and uncontrolled intervention of individual disciplines is a sign that the center of action has shifted. It can no longer be captured with classical means.

Regarding form, it is secondary work characteristics that inscribe themselves into the world. Hence, it appears as a colossal construction site filled with restless activity. Observing the processes and partial sections, even the grand state plans, does not provide a meaningful picture. Aside from the fact that they are often contradictory (and must be), the results extend far beyond the planned and intended. While this brings significant dangers and even disasters, it also allows for the conclusion or at least the suspicion that there is a comprehensive coordination and that the visible plans are to be regarded as emerging parts of an still invisible overall plan. This, in turn, suggests a goal.

This suspicion is reinforced by a series of additional observations. For instance, the fact that a global style is already spreading across the workshop landscape, transcending all the oppositions of races, peoples, and world powers. These oppositions still exist and may even intensify, but they acquire a different meaning. The eruption of global sympathy observed at Kennedy's death was the first instance of this.

Even more surprising than the mutual allocation of subfields is their sudden and unexpected blossoming, which corresponds to the desolation or loss of other disciplines. It resembles the rise from the larval stage, the unfolding of liberated wings from the pupal form. An example is the transformation of astronomy from a theological to a theoretical and finally to an applied science. It was recently considered a model for how the state also maintains chairs that bring it little or no benefit.

Only in retrospect does the plan of the embryonic formation reveal itself. The umbilical cord withers, the natal tooth is rejected, yet the lungs fill with air. All this can only be interpreted if one assumes and acknowledges a center. It should not be sought within human plans and human intelligence, which do not possess legislative power but only a, albeit significant, share in the executive.

This share in the whole must be satisfactorily excluded if the harmony between man and his fate, between freedom and fate, state and world plan, real, intellectual, and metaphysical power is to be restored. This depends on the depth to which a new, immediate, and not tradition-bound approach to being is achieved.

This is also how commonly accepted truths, such as the idea that technology changes the world, should be assessed. An extraordinary sharpness of intellect, combined with evident blindness, suggests that the influence of the unconscious is even greater than that of consciousness. The playing field is sharply illuminated amid impenetrable, eerie darkness. The ship is in order, but who knows the current that carries it? This becomes apparent when encountering the figures driving the process forward. They recall a remark by Clemenceau: that no one knew less about the "affair" than Dreyfus himself. Newton's triumph over Goethe is complete. The conversation bogs down in measures and numerical relationships, banalities of ethics and politics. "The lowest gate of hell opened" remains among the best things heard there—assuming one has thoughts about that place.

The end of the world is imminent every minute, for when a person dies, the world ends with all other people as well.

In the past, the terrors of this immense entry were better understood. Without a value gradient, without an order that features higher types, credible spirits and ideas, poets and artworks, such judgments may not change the grand course but can contribute to preventing humanity from capitulating too cheaply to it. They can confirm a dissatisfaction inherent in the technical world and dictate the mechanical progress.

In this way, they complement nihilism and its unfailing instinct. Applied knowledge inevitably gains power, for the same reason that insight into the connections between things is lost or becomes a luxury. As the snake sheds its skin, its horn becomes opaque.

Nevertheless, there remain points where even specialized characters grasp the immeasurable. Otherwise, every measurement technique would soon become absurd. Where technical capability gains a foothold, where it closely aligns with the immeasurable, the elements of will recede in favor of pure knowledge. Here, it becomes play, sublime contemplation, the perception of the subtlest vibrations of the universe and their harmony. In contrast, the consciousness of power that grants great preparations retreats into the background, easily entangled in disputes that divert from the path. Archimedes, after defending his hometown with ingenious machines, is killed while dreaming about his circles in the garden.

The leitmotif of technology is of a mathematical nature, and its historia in nuce is essentially the history of the great mathematicians. From there, the threads spin into the sciences and into practice. Where a foothold was gained, the determination or conception of numerical relationships preceded as keys that lead not only into the infinitely small and infinitely large but also upwards to the transcendent. In every great mathematician, a metaphysician is concealed.

The conquest of numbers as such is to be regarded as a prehistory, an adventure of the human mind whose trace is completely lost in darkness. Numbers are powerful abstractions from existence. We should not attribute these triumphs solely to the power of abstraction. An immediacy, a form of initiation, comes into play—not as a one-time act but continuing over millennia. It is as if, seeing himself in a bright mirror, the mind marvels at its own power. The inspiration lies beyond study and effort, just as grace lies beyond prayer. Pythagoras saw his figure in the bath, Bohr his atomic model in a bus. In his autobiography, Max von Laue notes in a section about optics that even the sharpest intelligence is insufficient for grasping fine structures; an innate ability, a kind of genuine attunement, must be added.

This is the context of sharpness and blindness in the workshop. The path is brightly illuminated but limited. These hints might shed some light on the question of technocracy. The dominance of technical thinking, particularly over economic thinking, has become increasingly apparent; this does not, of course, mean that savings are made. Nor does exploitation decrease; it becomes more anonymous and consuming—especially as the technician not only concerns himself with work but also with leisure and, through various means and ways, intrudes into the private sphere. When he gains political or even dictatorial power, the greatest danger looms.

Freedom in the classical sense—both as personal inviolability and as undisturbed enjoyment of leisure—can be spoken of less and less, even under normal conditions. Both are restricted by the growing automatism. Friedrich Georg Jünger vividly illustrated this shadow side in his "Perfection of Technology."

However, it seems that restrictions on freedom are increasingly felt less as such. This is partly because there are equivalents to these restrictions. Among them is the reduction of working hours. Those who, just a few years ago, thought that this promise of the technocrats had utopian traits have since been corrected.

This relief, of course, concerns only the specific, not the total working character and its all-encompassing presence. What individuals are subjected to daily through traffic, standardization, hygiene, and pedagogy would likely have been unacceptable in any other era. It requires not only internal consent but also a new concept of freedom, which is still awaiting formulation.

In such details, it becomes apparent how facts advance without yet being integrated into a system, and that discussions about them occur not only within the framework of obsolete concepts but also within an outdated ethics.

With the rise of the worker from the beginnings of the industrial age to the dominant type, the term "work" has also transformed, to the extent that it can no longer be contrasted with "non-work" or "leisure." This transformation is not without sacrifices and losses, but it is substantial and accomplished through a series of selections. To illustrate, consider the hunter. The hunter and his dog are always hunting, even when they rest, even when they dream; indeed, precisely then. Even in their paradise, they remain hunters: in the Eternal Hunting Grounds.

The same applies today: our daily routine is incomprehensible without a great passion or a comprehensive sense of life. Participation in a whole, in a world-dream, makes the spectacle not only bearable but also fascinating, especially where it culminates. Viewed from other times and other worlds, it might seem alarming, excessive, and absurd.

The workday counts twenty-four hours; in contrast, the distinction between work and leisure remains secondary. A person who leaves their workplace does not remove themselves from the system. They enter another function, becoming, for example, a consumer, a traffic participant, or a recipient of news. Whether they move in the network of land, sea, and air routes or within the sphere of automatic games—they remain within the system. Enjoyment and service weave into a shifting fabric. This is particularly observable where dynamics increase, such as in flying or mastering fast vehicles.

That performance within the same system can increase and individual working hours can shorten does not change its rhythm and growing speed. It even promotes it. The production of automatically generated and automatically consumed goods depends on a corresponding consumption, which requires not only time but also a significant portion of "free" time.

Similar observations can be made, though on a smaller scale, in earlier systems where elevated classes with discretionary time distinguished themselves through a consumption extending beyond mere subsistence. Manufactories and tribes of skilled craftsmen worked for them. The equivalent of this leisure was the representation of a higher and freer way of life and management, what can be considered true culture. Economically speaking, expenditure was not only deemed permissible but beneficial. In the mercantile system, the prince could spend as he pleased, provided that "wealth stayed in the land."

This "land" has since become the world, and the producing class is becoming predominantly consuming—not only of essential goods but also of those once considered surplus. A personal car, theater outings, spa vacations, pocket watches, and leisure time to enjoy all of these are no longer privileges. Previously, only a few had the luxury of a four-horse carriage, whereas now owning a significant number of horsepower is not yet considered a luxury.

Leisure is not simply a form of idleness in the old sense, as is evident. It does not belong to work in the traditional sense but rather to the world of work. Its value lies not in the sublimation of either the individual or their creations, but in the production and presentation of symbols of immense dynamic power. No cost or sacrifice is spared in this pursuit.

Economic measures are insufficient to grasp such a spectacle. The shifting fabric in which war and peace, city and country, day and night, enjoyment and work, coercion and freedom intertwine so intricately that often mere words lose their meaning, is woven from different threads.

The acquisition, distribution, and use of resources presuppose natural wealth and its exploitation. The Physiocrats were on the right track when they sought this wealth in the land's net yield. However, the exploitation of this land has not only intensified but has also been refined from the ground up. For instance, wood is no longer seen solely as a fuel and construction material but is made useful in various and unexpected ways through access to its finest structures. The earth is assumed to be more than just farmland and a treasure trove; it serves and expresses itself primarily as a source of dynamic power. This applies equally to deserts, oceans, and polar caps. Wealth is being accessed and defined in a new way.

Such changes should not be viewed merely as development unless one wishes to extend the meaning of the term. Just as streams include rapids and waterfalls, and the earth includes magma and volcanoes, upheavals and protrusions in historical development have their counterparts in both the organic and inorganic worlds.

Signs that life is entering a new house, a different order, include the fact that organs long in service are assuming a central position. For example, the mill has gained precedence in our world.

The mill, whether hand or tread-powered, driven by human and animal muscle power or the forces of nature, is the oldest mechanical device. It begins its grinding wherever the land is not only used as hunting and grazing grounds but is also cultivated as arable land; mill wheels turned long before the wheel was conceived. They are closely linked with the founding of states, particularly through water management in river valleys. For details, especially regarding the significance of the mill's schema for timekeeping and machinery, reference should be made to the discussions related to the hourglass.

The mill has been mythically anticipated as more than just a specific tool. It was seen as a symbol and mediator of cosmic abundance. One of Zeus’s epithets was "the miller"; in the Edda, the universe is viewed as a mill. The magical mill Grotta not only grinds pure gold but also war and peace, weapons and armies, everything that the insatiable guest wishes for. The early, restless toil associated with mills is also intertwined with its world. In addition to the miner, the mill slave had the darkest fate.

In the mill, human technology mimics cosmic patterns. It is a long ascent, where the principle operating here, with its rotating movement alien to the organic world, has risen above the plow. There can be no doubt about its triumph. Among the tragic consequences are the destruction of the peasant class or the transformation of peasants into workers, as can be seen in the fate of peoples and individuals around the world. Where new lands are still being opened up today, it is not the mill that follows the plow, turning the soil furrow by furrow, but settlement occurs according to technical plans, starting with the construction of cyclical facilities.

The Earth is increasingly covered with turbines and power plants, not just in river valleys. What emerges from these rotating and spiral processes becomes ever more varied, peculiar, and abstract. Materials are divided and transformed beyond the limits of imagination, titan-like powers are developed, and previously unimagined wealth is extracted from the universe. It often seems that human inventiveness is approaching the mythical mill Grotta. Yet, invention alone is not enough.

The organic world is a mere thin layer of the Earth, and apparently, organic and supra-organic forces are entering a new relationship. Telluric forces are stirring, and not only they. Human inventiveness is a higher instinct, rooted deeply in matter. Mills are focal points where this becomes visible. There is still more to come.

Unintended, unexpected, and even more than hoped-for outcomes are part of the fate’s course. In our era, this is particularly noticeable in the sudden shifts between light and darkness in the world of Prometheus. However, humans adapt to everything, and once they have done their utmost, they may content themselves with Vincent de Gournay’s motto: "Laissez-faire, laissez-passer, le monde va de lui-même."

The clock is also a mill, a time-grinding machine. It early made visible that the workday consists of twenty-four hours. The distinction between work and leisure remains secondary to this. The working style gives both their rhythm, determined by a peculiar sense of time. This awareness perceives the recognized units, from the largest to the smallest, as being in restless movement: from cosmic systems to atoms. This is also true physiologically; trees and flowers are perceived through glances that see them as workshops of incessantly circulating juices, where light and earth forces are transformed. The great and small clocks run day and night, in action as well as in dreams, and in work as well as in play.

The overlap of play and work, similar to the life of hunters or fishermen in the past, might just be the beginning, a blurring at the edges of the new world. This fact is not fully appreciated when attempting to grasp it with ethical terms, such as adherence to the categorical imperative. Rather, it seems to be layered, from which dance and music also emerge.

Work is becoming more compelling in every field, though often lighter and more enjoyable, conforming to the mood. On the one hand, even within the narrower framework of technology, there are functions that provide pleasure, and on the other hand, games that seem like hard work. At times, a world of amateurs is hinted at.

The passion for mechanical problems and relationships at all ages reveals an individualizing basic feeling in which not only the boundaries between play and profession blur but also those between play and danger.

That work and leisure, production and consumption are increasingly carried out by the same type of person is a fact to which the use of time and resources will gradually but fundamentally adapt.

Such adaptation goes through phases where it becomes ambiguous. Whether it should aim at personal comfort, power struggles, or technical precision regarding the distribution of work and leisure, production and consumption, wages and purchasing power, comfort and armament depends on the perspective of the participants.

Sentences and oppositions orbit around a center from which not only realities change, but also the words that previously described these realities become blurred. Terms like "cold war" or "free peoples" are unclear and provisional because a new status has not yet been captured by language. Both things and words, which once had an unambiguous sound, suffer from this. The common hearth from which the disturbance radiates lies deep, like that of a tectonic quake affecting not only the boundaries of the state but also its foundations.

Within the feudal order, work could be set as an ethical value, such as a moral obligation. The fact that this no longer holds, especially where ethical and economic demands intersect, is explained by the fact that the worker's role now demands substantive, not moral, claims. These demands are deeper and do not require justification; they involve the individual in a layer from which functions separate. This also casts new light on terms like "wage."

What is due to an individual depends on the overall accounting, that is, the evaluation of undifferentiated labor capacity. Wages are increasingly transforming into shares, and wage struggles into the determination of these shares. This changes the arguments; they refer to a broader budget than that of a single factory, industry, or even a state and rely on statistical calculations.

It is clear that such accounting places limits on discretion, such as shifting burdens. An employee in a department store will find both early store closing times and weekly schedules significant. This is true for him in his role as a seller, dealing with sales and distribution. As a consumer, however, he faces restrictions on access to goods during the time saved.

This is a banal example, but it seems that the distinction between sales time and the seller's leisure is not yet sharp enough. It is not contradictory for both to expand.

The fact that the workday consists of twenty-four hours extends beyond the division into work and leisure. It corresponds to a system where services, naturally with changing personnel, run continuously. This will be unnecessary in many areas but has long been customary in others, especially in transportation. The wheels turn at all hours, and a large train station is illuminated day and night.

Probably, such caravanserais are forming models for complex systems. These include increasingly rich and numerous automaton facilities. They save a significant portion of personal service and transform another part into mere controls or acts of presence.

Perfect models include network-, ring-, and stream-shaped systems that not only supply and distribute at all hours and in any quantity but also handle measurement and calculation of performance in the same operational cycle. An example of this is the automatic telephone service.

Compared to such systems, the complexity that still prevails in other areas, such as taxation, which is marked by a multitude of complicated regulations, calculations, and assessments, can be assessed. It is likely that with the ever-increasing abstraction of money and its circulation, it would only take a few good minds to fulfill the classical demand of the physiocrats: that the collection of a single tax would suffice.

The expectation that the revision will relegate the term "citizen" to a brief historical period, aside from the fact that otherwise doors would be opened, has several motivations.

First, it should be emphasized more strongly that the transition from the class state to new orders can occur both evolutionarily and revolutionarily. It should also be added that this transformation affects not only class states but also feudal states and even primitive tribes. The common denominator is not to be found in the political forms of transition but in the irresistible new style of thinking and its application. It has been sufficiently demonstrated that, for example, in the deployment of machines, symbolic values often outweigh practical, particularly economic, ones.

The citizen is the intellectual predecessor of the worker, who inherits not only the legacy of extensive scientific groundwork but also the progressive character of this work. Points where this work changes its meaning and loses its progressive nature are clearly recognizable. The individual is led to the launching pad. He not only changes the style but the nature of the endeavor, stepping out of one millennium and out of history, having to manage the unpredictable.

Whether the heir simply follows in the footsteps of his predecessors or becomes an Oedipus or Aeneas to his father are questions within the realm of appearances and their ramifications. Here, things change almost imperceptibly and naturally, as a revolution without phrase, while there, under convulsions, in tragic downfalls and hells of murder.

The question of the most favorable starting point is not easily answered. Sociologically, it is advantageous if the Third Estate unfolds in a broad and influential layer, as in Switzerland or Scandinavian countries. For technical planning, however, it is more beneficial if it encounters untouched lands and underdeveloped conditions. There, work can be done with compass and ruler.

This ambivalence must be considered if one intends to evaluate historical figures and decisions in retrospect. Catherine II, by limiting the Enlightenment to a very narrow layer, contributed to the preparation of a catastrophe that cost millions of lives. On the other hand, this very action accumulated the potential energy for a world hour.

The description of a natural phenomenon can be presented either with affection or in a scientific manner. Both are not mutually exclusive; there is a spectrum between Kleist and Clausewitz. The more a viewer is able to disregard their own national, social, and moral situation, the less their assessment of the situation will be clouded. However, only approximations can be achieved. There is a limit, which Jomini exceeds when he, during a battle, expresses the desire to be operational on the enemy’s side as well. This would be like playing chess with oneself—l'art pour l'art. Every conflict has a boundary between natural and intellectual demands that must be observed and respected.

Germany’s situation after World War I was favorable; despite the losses in people, goods, and territories, the potential energy was preserved. This is evidenced negatively by the enormous expenditure wasted during World War II. The advantageous aspect was the liberation from the medieval inheritance that had been carried over into the constitution at the founding of the Reich. Now, great things seemed possible, and there was no lack of plans and ideas to realize them. This sense explains the peculiar optimism that remained as an undercurrent despite the oppressive political and economic turmoil of the 1920s.

How did it happen that the game was led in the wrong direction from the very beginning? It seems difficult to avoid partisan considerations when reflecting on such questions, but it remains to be noted that terms like “right” and “left” branch off from a common axis of symmetry and only make sense when viewed from this axis. The right and the left, whether acting with or against each other, or alongside one another, depend on a body whose unity must become visible when a party moves from the realm of movement into that of the state. Where the party leader becomes the head of state, they must shed parts of the doctrine.

It has been part of the German fate since the Reformation that all major questions, which were resolved in neighboring countries one way or another, have remained in suspense. Particularly, the left has been unable to establish itself convincingly; this judgment can already include the Peasants' War. This is a great loss for which not only the opponents are to blame. The reasons are manifold; addressing them individually would be too extensive. In my correspondence with Ernst Niekisch, one of the few before whom I could maintain respect amid our disputes, I find the following passage touching on the subject:

“You ask why there has never been an effective left in Germany? In France, there came a moment when the fate and existence of the whole nation rested on the power of the left, the Jacobins. This has never faded from the memory of the French. German unification did not come from the action of the people but was the work of Bismarck and the military. This too imprinted itself on the memory of the people. Never has a German left been identical with the whole existence and future of the German people. In this lies the cause of its constant weakness.”

Das ist korrekt, obwohl historische Erklärungen allein nicht ausreichen. In der deutschen Geschichte gab es Momente, an denen eine grundlegende Neudatierung möglich gewesen wäre und die dem Fiasko der französischen Monarchie von 1789 in nichts nachstanden. Doch, wie es heißt: "Die eigene Art ist des Menschen Dämon" – auch dies gilt für diesen Aspekt unseres Nationalcharakters, der nicht erst seit dem von Valeriu Marcu bezeichneten Datum „Die Geburt der Nationen“ hervortritt. Dieser Zug ist eng mit der Mittellage des Reiches verknüpft. Hier wird die Entscheidung besonders schwierig: Je kürzer der Waagbalken, desto unbestimmter die Ausschläge.

Das erklärt, warum die deutschen Händel oft endlos hinausgeführt werden und schwächere Lösungen bieten als in anderen Ländern erreicht wurden. Cavour war kein größerer Staatsmann als Bismarck, fand aber leichteren Boden und günstigere Bedingungen.

Heinrich der Löwe und Barbarossa, Luther und Erasmus, Ritter und Bauern, Kaiser und Landesfürsten, Union und Liga, Paulskirche und Krone, Ost und West – alte und neue Fragen, immer zu spät oder ungenügend beantwortet und nie ohne Einbußen. Jedes Jahrhundert stellt sie auf seine Weise neu und überraschend, und die Frage unserer Zeit lautet, ob die Gestalt des Arbeiters überzeugend vertreten wird oder nicht. Auch diese Frage wurde weder 1918, noch 1933, noch 1945 hinreichend beantwortet.

Zunächst muss das Wort „Arbeiter“ neu konzipiert werden, um die Mutation zu erkennen, die viele Begriffe und Einrichtungen des 19. Jahrhunderts erleiden – eine Verwandlung, die der Entfaltung der Imago aus der Puppe ähnelt.

Es ist viel leichter, einem denkenden Menschen einen neuen Gedanken mitzuteilen als die Ansicht eines Bildes, das überraschend erscheint. Er sieht dasselbe, aber nicht auf die gleiche Art. Das gilt auch für Köpfe wie Oswald Spengler, wie ich aus einem Brief vom 25. September 1932 erfahren habe, der inzwischen veröffentlicht wurde. Spengler beurteilte den „Arbeiter“ aus einer antimarxistischen, also überholten Perspektive und berief sich speziell auf den Bauern und dessen Zukunft. Das war wohl mehr als eine Frage der Generation. Es ist ein grundlegender Unterschied, ob man Ideen oder Gestalten sieht, wie mich die dreißig Jahre seit dem Erscheinen des Buches hinreichend belehrt haben.

Der Hinweis auf den Bauern ließ mich nachdenken, da er Spenglers System und dessen Grundzüge widersprach. Jedes imperialistische Wollen muss sich zwangsläufig mit der Aufopferung des Bauernstandes abfinden. Weltmacht verwirklicht sich auf dessen Kosten, wie man es in Rom und England erfahren hat und heute nicht nur in Russland, sondern auch in den entferntesten Winkeln der Erde, in jedem Hof und jeder Eingeborenenhütte, an jedem Pflug und Pferd erfährt.

The question of who could bear the heavy labor in a world state is complex and fundamentally challenging. In a world state, there can naturally be neither colonies nor the exploitation of conquered territories in the classical sense, as was the case in advanced states of antiquity or during the colonial era. These states benefited from the yields and labor of the conquered regions due to their technical, military, and political superiority. The question, therefore, is how such a world state would organize its necessary labor without resorting to these forms of exploitation.

The model that develops from this question can be illuminated through the analysis of the American Civil War. This war demonstrates how deeply economic and social questions can influence political and military developments. Just as the Dreyfus Affair is instructive for understanding modern democracy, the American Civil War offers insights into the dynamics of society and its conflicts.

A possible solution to the problem of offloading slave labor might lie in technological development. The increasing use of robots and automation to perform tasks previously done by humans represents both a quantitative and qualitative change. This technological advancement could help reduce the need for unfree labor and increase the efficiency of labor processes. The refinement and transformation of raw materials through advanced technologies could also be a means to meet the demands of the new world.

The reduction of the peasantry and the general displacement of traditional forms of labor are expressions of a profound change in how labor is organized and utilized. This change is evident not only in mechanics but also in chemistry, which contributes to further reduction and transformation of labor practices.

Historical losses and the dilution caused by expansion and the influx of foreign elements also play a role. The conquered bring their distinctiveness, customs, cultures, and luxuries, leading to a mixing and sometimes dilution of the original society. The conquerors themselves are influenced and changed, as history shows, such as in the case of Alexander's marriage to Roxane, which symbolized the merging of Europe with Asia.

Spengler predicted severe conflicts between Whites and people of color for the second half of the century. These conflicts could arise if class struggle and racial struggle were to merge. The possibility that racial unrest could open the way for white leaders of the class struggle underscores the complexity of the social and political dynamics that could play a role in such a world state.

Today, after thirty years, it is undeniable that concrete features have emerged in these visions. What has happened and is happening in Africa, from the northern edge to the southern tip, in East and South Asia, in North and South America— in China, Algeria, India, Egypt, the Congo, Cuba, to name a few hotspots— goes far beyond a series of uprisings and liberation struggles. The fire, which can no longer be extinguished, and above all not with blood, extends beyond the dichotomy of whites and people of color. It bears all the signs of a world conflagration. It is not this or that race, or species, that is in question. The true scope of this phenomenon, from which alone correct conclusions and decisions can be drawn, was not seen by Spengler. He could not see it and, if he were still alive, he would be even less capable of seeing it today. He saw symptoms, and as these symptoms have intensified crisis-like, they would confirm his diagnosis.

When such a perceptive mind misunderstands the extent of a phenomenon, it cannot be due to intelligence; it must be due to their position. It is akin to a hunter on their stand who sees the monsters earlier than most and recognizes them with passionate sharpness. But they move in an unforeseen direction and get lost in unexplored thickets.

Nonetheless, a section of the great hunt was captured in an unusual style of thought. This is also true for Spengler's system. Cultures are viewed in succession and alongside one another, but not, as with Herder, Goethe, and Hegel, in an architectural and symphonic manner, or, as with Nietzsche, as an overture to a new world age. Decision, struggle for supremacy, age of warring states—none of this is the meaning; it is the labor pains in which the Earth closes one of its great metahistorical phases and begins another. Then the boundaries will fall, and spatially "Orient and Occident... no longer separable."

For the figure of the worker, the most powerful son of the Earth, the uprising of the colored races is an antaiosian act among others; it is akin to the conscription of a reserve army. It will only be duly appreciated in the outcome, within the overall account. It is understandable that initially, the negative entries stand out: losses and setbacks, the regression to primitive thought forms that become virulent.

This also applies to other closely related phenomena, such as the rapid growth of the Earth's population. There are reasons why China, in particular, escapes the schema of late culture outlined in "The Decline of the West." All of this can be cautiously interpreted, perhaps even influenced, but not mastered, let alone impeded.

The greater the contribution, the stronger the potential. A significant hit presupposes a multitude of attempts. This applies also to racial mixing and racial differentiation. The former is determined by blood, the latter by spirit. In this sense, the worker type transcends natural races, just as his technology initially employs and then transforms the traditional tools and weapons. His domain is the Earth, and his credential is the mastery of specific means through intellectual power.

The elimination of differences, the uniformity through the character of work, also applies to inland and port cities; one arrives here as well as there. The Neptunian signs are complemented by the lighter and stricter signs of the air and fire worlds.

Land battles take on amphibious characteristics, while naval battles have become inconceivable without air power. World power presupposes a balanced mastery of the four ancient elements. Thus, the classical sea powers are under favorable auspices.

The more restricted the layout, the more uncertain the high buildings become. National approaches have their specific measure and, where they exceed it, are not only corrected but also reduced. The storms pass over the conquered, who bow and rise again. However, the original tribe remains, as Sweden did after the campaigns of Charles XII, weakened for centuries.

Whether the Mongol storms belong to history—the question is of greater significance within classical historical prognosis than for the elemental landscape of the worker. "The path of the mill-screw, whether straight or transverse, is the same" (Heraclitus).

To give conquest durability, receptive virtues must accompany the expansive ones: transformative power through reception. This is stronger, closer to the Earth; less visible but more enduring than military might. Powerful conquerors, such as the Manchus in China or the Hyksos in Egypt, are absorbed within a few generations, adopting the language, customs, and cults of the conquered. Yang triumphs with the sword and Yin with the spindle; this is the eternal play. The left hand distributes, while the right hand cuts.

The full development of Earth's forces requires sufficient territory. This is not just a question of surface area, but also of depth and quality. The vast space cannot be created ad hoc or standardized. This has been confirmed once again in recent history by the examples of Germany, Italy, and Japan; on the other hand, the stable bases of China, Russia, and North America have proven effective.

The correspondence between spatial expansion and the loss of the law (Nomos) is particularly evident to the conservative, much to his chagrin. Theory and practice come into conflict, as seen in the curious twilight surrounding the figure of the older Cato. Even the Romans puzzled over how to reconcile the censorial discipline and dignity with land speculation and maritime insurance business.

This conflict runs through history as a red thread; without understanding it, one cannot assess the differences of the 1880s that led to Bismarck's downfall. These differences were evident both in individuals and in matters; they are confrontations between the indigenous and the emerging abstract forces that press in various forms. Even today, it is difficult to decide what would have been right, despite the libraries written on the subject. The outcome suggests that the resources were insufficient. They were adequate for great power politics but not for world power politics. This made visible what was missed in 1848 and could not be reclaimed. At the Marne, not only did the army corps that were on the railway lack, but also that part of the military power bound in the colonies and on the fleet.

Expansion needs to be considered; setbacks follow not only from the enlargement of states but also from private ventures, as both coincide in "founding years"; with prosperity comes insecurity. Ancient authors, like modern ones in Balzac and Fontane’s novels, provide ample material on this. There is a difference between dealing with inherited, saved, borrowed, or fictitious money and whether one perceives the businesses from which one profits as being distant or hanging in the air.

A constantly growing acumen is engaged in detecting the financial value of relations that nobody suspected or in incorporating steps into the flow of business that yield rent. Preventing this seems simple, but it almost always brings losses not only in enjoyment but also in freedom. Where money changers and merchants disappear, swarms of functionaries and policemen appear. A journey through the countries of our planet, even a short trip from Beirut to Damascus or Cairo, will confirm this.

Intelligent minds tend to overestimate the influence of opinion, especially the tool of irony. This is a mistake from which they are rarely or never cured—often only when they, like Chamfort, fall with the branch they sawed off.

Ultimately, the ironic process repeatedly leads back to the foundation where things are stronger than criticism. Enthusiasm, destruction, and even tabooing of commonplaces follow. Through opinion, not truths are created but realities established. Authoritarian figures often emerge from epochs of unrestricted freedom of opinion. They navigate through the changes of criticism as if through good and bad weather towards their goal. They would never reach it if truth-finding were the rule. "Exposure" does not affect anyone who has a face behind the mask or a heart under the vest. These are constitutional questions. Someone built like Clemenceau will survive even a Panama scandal.

Press freedom is dangerous for powers that are on the retreat. And there is no power that does not eventually come under attack. The coming powers use opinion and then control it. At every time and under every constitution, there is a catalog of things one must not touch.

In dictatorships, as well as where authority weakens, intelligent condottieri emerge—sometimes serving the rulers and their narrative, other times serving competing committees and private individuals. The concept of public relations originates from the First World War; it not only describes an expansion but also a transformation in the formation of opinion and its techniques. Villiers de l'Isle-Adam illustrated the "machine of fame" eighty years ago and proposed dividing the sky into rentable advertising spaces. Since then, propaganda has evolved into a science with established rules and its own techniques. Over time, substance cannot be replaced by opinion, even where the means of reproduction are controlled. Where there are no collapses, erosion works more slowly but thoroughly.

These issues are of lesser importance concerning the figure of the worker, for more significant than the diversity and spiral path of development is its unity, evidenced by the fact that no power can forgo the use of specific means even in opinion formation. From there emanates more convincing power than through statements—still undifferentiated, rhythmically surging, and illuminating potential. This outweighs the formulated opinion and its conflicts, for technology is the language of the worker; it is the universal language. What is negotiated and fought over in it does not determine the direction; victory belongs from the outset to those negotiating in this language, even if they are difficult to grasp and recognize. In this lies their power.

Whether a person, a people, a movement has a future can be discerned today by those who understand how to listen—not so much to the words and their content as to the tone and music. "Having a future" should not be understood as mere survival; the obsession with personal opportunity and the anxious pursuit of security are negative signs. After the first three sentences, one can recognize the free spirit. This holds true within any tyranny, even that of commonplaces.

Where threatening signs multiply, optimism rooted in freedom reveals inner health and power deeply rooted in nature and the universe. Such spirits affirm the world and the times. They know they were born in the right place and at the right time, and, like Ulrich von Hutten, in the right fatherland.

The conservative, if there are still forces worthy of that name, is like someone trying to impose order in an ever-accelerating vehicle, trying to keep things in their accustomed places. This very effort amplifies the catastrophe's force. Artificially secured objects become an increasing danger, especially where the nation-state's ethos and institutions are to be preserved, and in a broader sense, for the ideas of 1789. What lies before this is museum-like. This is the basis for the growing sympathy for princes, even where they still rule, and for social and historical preservation in general.

The conservative spirit's concerns about the prospect of a world state are justified; he finds the image of a three- or multi-part world more appealing. He has historical experience on his side and general considerations based on the relationship between quantity and quality. He misses the counterbalance.

To this, it can be replied that no era will lack unrest, and no power will lack a counterforce. This counterforce always emerges from the unforeseen. This applies to the global order as well; it belongs to the fundamental principles that operate before, within, and after the historical world—or, as the ancients said, to the plan of creation (Sirach 33:16).

Among the errors of utopians is their hope that the state can grant a happiness that, by its nature, it cannot provide—such as eternal peace or the renunciation of violence. Even the world state cannot achieve this. However, within the natural instinct of the state-building human lies a deeper knowledge, and thus his constructions are more than mere perfect dwellings. He sheds cities, states, and cultures like adornments that are not sufficient. The unshakeable unity is testified to but not found—perhaps hinted at through transcendent archaeology.

The leveling effect of the nation-state, compared to the pre-revolutionary order, impacts not only society and its diversity but also the arts, including military art, architecture, crafts, and every organically grown structure. This includes the homogenization of landscapes at the expense of their uniqueness, their growing dependence on central authorities, and their division by railways, canals, and highways.

This image, whose development occupied the entire 19th century, did not arise suddenly—it was preceded by the establishment of the absolute monarchy, which had excellent administrators like Colbert and Fouquet. They, as Rivarol said, installed the revolutionaries. The nation-state was pre-formed, both intellectually and institutionally. Its century, in turn, pre-forms the working world with its volcanism and titans—especially through science. Here, too, there can be no final goal; the provisional nature attests to this sufficiently. Often, as with setting up tent camps, the construction already anticipates demolition.

The suspicion that there will be great destructions still to come is based less on the violence of the means than on the stock of outdated ideas and institutions. The danger lies not in the flame but in the tinder. Both historical and primitive powers that emancipate themselves go through not only fiery zones but also phases of increased flammability. Spiritualization, which constantly accompanies the process and seeks to judge it in its entirety, is thus one of the main factors of selection.

With increasing acceleration, centralization must also increase. Both are interdependent. At the same time, individuality must diminish, regardless of where it appears—in landscapes, cities, artworks, peoples, genders, professions, or individuals. Formal characteristics diminish in favor of dynamic power. Of course, this does not imply anything regarding the undifferentiated; being passes through every phase unchanged. There is also hope that vantage points will always remain from which the scope of events can be assessed. Otherwise, it would immediately transform into a pure natural spectacle.

In the midst of a movement with no historical precedent and in the face of unexpectedly emerging phenomena, one must be particularly cautious with predictions. Above all, one should avoid drawing definitive conclusions from comparative historical research.

If recurring cycles play a role, their circulation certainly lasts significantly longer than any historically measurable period, even if we include prehistory. We must call upon myth, then geological, zoological, astronomical knowledge, and astrology as an emerging science.

The evidence and every new day teach us that acceleration will continue to increase. An insatiable hunger for space and time is a hallmark of the worker. One could only believe in a turning point if images and thoughts of a completely new kind announced it.

It is equally undeniable that the movement will eventually come to an end. Various signs indicate a final acceleration. However, reserves are being both discovered and generated to a degree that can still meet a high level of consumption. More noteworthy is that the system seems to be approaching its conclusion.

Of course, we only know the human part of the movement and do not know the extent to which other forces are involved. It could be that the effort we understand today as work ascends to another power. It would then gain a new meaning, perhaps that of a release, a door-opening, a rhythmic initiation, or even an invocation, whose result would justify the enormous effort with which it was accomplished; the technical ability would then become a higher instinct.

The best in a statesman, as in a strategist, is instinct: the extent to which he represents his office with undifferentiated humanity. Only in this way will he encounter fate at a depth to which no system and no thought can lead. What the intellect creates and organizes is transient, but "the root of wisdom does not decay" (Wisdom 3:15).

In being alone resides unshakable essence; time flows over it like through a riverbed. The substantial order shimmers fleetingly through the waves and their reflections and is conceived by the spirit as an ideal order. The one realizes itself in the existence of peoples, plant-like and dreamily; the other, at best, is approached by the will. No concept has existed that the resistance of people and things has not changed; often enough, a program is turned into its opposite.

That a considerable portion of blindness belongs to the endowment of a statesman, as to that of every active person, necessarily escapes the understanding of those acting. In times of great actions like ours, blindness must also increase.

The goal wants to be reached, be it from the right or the left, from above or below, alone or with many, by direct route or by maneuvering—it requires choice and decision, and thus exclusion. That something was missing, not included, only becomes apparent in retrospect. Soon the goal itself becomes questionable, as time continues to affect, change, or even destroy it. The great festivals, the jubilation, and victory celebrations are only a brief, joyful sigh of relief.

Here the wise and the artistic person perhaps see not more sharply, but more comprehensively; hence their aversion to political affairs or their willingness to leave them to inferior types if only they are not disturbed in their own circles.

Among aging statesmen, the skeptic is not uncommon, especially if, like Diocletian, he sees his work endangered during his lifetime. There is always something that he had overlooked, an influence that was unpredictable, a seed of resistance that now sprouts, an incompetent or malevolent successor.

All of this belongs to the nature and fate of a changing world. It cannot be avoided, least of all through violence. Seneca was therefore right when he said to Nero: "However many you kill, your successor will not be among them."

The skepticism of the aging prince, even when fortune holds, has its precedent in the Preacher Solomon, an astonishing work especially within the framework of a holy book.

Skepticism is one of the possible perspectives on any unification. "For everything that comes into being is worthy of perishing." Nevertheless, the political world is filled with the pursuit of ever larger unions, ever stronger developments. Their systems resemble rivers, which, arising from various sources and nourished by ever richer inflows, gain in power and load-bearing capacity until finally the eye can hardly discern the banks. Indeed, as every formation returns to the undifferentiated, they too will eventually flow into the sea. Sometimes this is preceded by a division, a delta formation on the alluvial ground. The Roman Empire provides a model of all this.

The world state should not be understood merely as an enlargement resulting from amalgamation, but as an organic formation in whose embryonic development we participate. The practical advantage is secondary in comparison, as is any management.

Fears of further flattening are unfounded insofar as they relate to the world state. The loss of Nomos, which we observe everywhere on the planet, is not purely a matter of losses. The new chapter demands a blank page.

In any case, the world state does not bring an expansion or even an intensification of the principles of the nation-state. The opposite is foreseeable. The territory of the world state is not just a large national territory, but the Earth itself. Its sovereign is not this or that people, but humanity as such in a unity that has been lost since the earliest appearance of the species. For the first time since the time of the wandering hunter, borders become obsolete or lose the significance of guarded markers. Thus, the Earth gains a new skin.

The state is the fatherland, the homeland the motherland. When the Earth becomes a unity, the paternal principles must retreat, along with their symbols: the border, the crown, the sword, the war.

The decline of the ethos of the nation-state, its means losing sharpness and persuasive power, is not solely explained by exhaustion. Wherever in the 20th century wars were fought with these ideas, they were lost from the outset, regardless of whether they ended with gain, loss, or a draw. The real significance of these conflicts lies in the immense work efforts. Thus, the elemental character outweighs the historical.

While the historical powers exhaust themselves, even where they formed empires, the dynamic potential grows on a global scale—not only in a raw plutonic way but also through unprecedented refinement of raw materials and interlocking of the technical apparatus.

On the vast stage, losses are still more visible than gains. At the time-wall, law and border blur; pain and hope take their place: the world of the worker will also be the homeland of humanity.

Introduction

In the Ionian philosopher Heraclitus, Greek philosophy of the 6th and 5th centuries reaches its peak—not as a school but as a series of independent, powerful thinkers who were far more mature and astonishingly creative than their time. These thinkers, unlike any who came after when philosophy moved to Athens, left an indelible mark. Greece has never produced greater individuals than these, who, following one another, created a cosmic vision not through critical analysis or strict scientific methods, but with high intuition and a profound perspective that encompassed the meaning of the world, its past, and its future. This is the context in which their achievements should be assessed. Rather than the cool precision of differentiation and dissection found in Aristotle, we find here, to use Goethe's phrase, the "exact sensory imagination"—a focus on forms and ideas, not on abstract conclusions, concepts, and laws. Heraclitus stands out as not only the deepest but also the most versatile and comprehensive spirit among them. The systems of Anaximander, Xenophanes, and Pythagoras share similarities with his. The great problems of Greek thought—such as the relationship between form and the thing-in-itself, the concept of law, the idea of the inner unity of all being or events, the origin of being, and the origin of difference—discovered during this time and condensed into naive and bold formulas, were unified in the fundamental ideas of his teachings, while others represented them individually.

It would be incorrect to see Heraclitus as a successor or imitator of these teachings. Whether there was a relationship of master to disciple between Anaximander or Xenophanes and him, or another closer connection—unlikely considering the intellectual and political independence of the Hellenic cities and the self-confident, unconventional lifestyles of these philosophers—is a question of little importance. The possibility of indirect influence exists. However, only those numerous potential stimuli from observations, experiences, impressions, and opinions of others would have worked if they met similar, already present elements. Heraclitus's independence has never been questioned, which can be confidently inferred from his character. If a similar direction in the thinking of those philosophers can be observed (like the similarity of starting points and parallel treatment of similar questions), it results from the organic unity of intellectual life within a defined cultural epoch, as history often shows (e.g., the ἀταραξία as the basis of all ethical teachings in the 3rd century, the problem of method in Bacon, Descartes, Galileo).

The idea in which Heraclitus presented a new conception of cosmic existence is an energetic one: that of a pure (immaterial), lawful process. The distance of this idea from the views of others, including the Ionians, Eleatics, and Atomists, is extraordinary. Heraclitus remained completely isolated with this idea among the Greeks; there is no second conception of this kind. All other systems contain the concept of a substantial basis (ἀρχή, ἄπειρον, τὸ πλέον, ὕλη, τὸ πλῆρες, and even Plato's world of appearances, γένεσις in contrast to the world of ideas, αἰτία τῆς γενέσεως), and the Stoics, who later appropriated Heraclitus's words and formulas, had to infuse them with a Democritean spirit to make them acceptable to the age. This, above all, explains the frequent misunderstandings in the interpretation of his doctrine—not because it is insufficiently known to us1, but because it stands in contrast to the thought processes familiar to us. The history of Heraclitus's scholarship shows how, in an attempt to assimilate a difficult, foreign thought, one resorts to all possible other ideas due to the lack of an appropriate modern exposition of the idea to cling to familiar concepts and views. One may doubt whether any of the possible explanations have yet to be attempted. Heraclitus appears as a disciple of Anaximander (Lassalle, Gomperz), Xenophanes (Teichmüller), the Persians (Lassalle, Gladisch), the Egyptians (Tannery, Teichmüller), the Mysteries (Pfleiderer), as a Hylozoist (Zeller), Empiricist and Sensualist (Schuster), "Theologian" (Tannery), as a forerunner of Hegel (Lassalle). His great thought is like the soul of Hamlet: everyone understands it, but each in their way.

The attempt to judge the ideas of a philosopher who was unfamiliar with the precise, well-practiced language of a highly developed science without this precision does not lead to the goal. Teichmüller (vol. I, p. 80) says: "Anyone who seeks exact concepts in Heraclitus is making a useless effort. In Heraclitus, philosophy consisted only in an allegorical generalization of some striking facts. If we wanted to define it more precisely, we would destroy Heraclitus's way of thinking." This viewpoint leads to severe errors due to inadequate determination of concepts and untenable analogies. One example is the application of the concept of ἀρχή, created by Anaximander for his philosophy and meaningful only within Hylozoism, to others, including Heraclitus, in whose system it is entirely irrelevant. We must be cautious, even skeptical, not only in explaining Greek thought elements themselves but especially in distinguishing them from modern ones. We must not forget that our fundamental concepts are the result of the entire development of modern philosophy since the 16th century and have absolute validity only within this framework of ideas. Thoughts that emerged within such different cultures, like ancient and modern, which already differ in their understanding of the essence of science, correspond to entirely unique concepts. Even a seemingly obvious concept like matter is not the same for Democritus and in modern natural science; for example, the cause of motion in Democritus lies in the nature of matter (τύχη), whereas in modern science, it is an independent factor, energy associated with the ether, outside of matter itself.

Another difficulty is that although Heraclitus was sure of his views, he did not always express them adequately in language. The lack of a scientific language with purposefully created expressions, and the absence of a proper polemic among these philosophers, which would have forced a sharp and careful mode of expression, are not the main reasons for this. The crucial reason is the impossibility of conveying a new understanding of nature, contrary to appearances, using familiar word symbols formed under different impressions and opinions. Goethe, whose views on nature were carried by a similar spirit, recognized this limitation well. "All languages arise from immediate human needs, occupations, and general human feelings and perceptions. When a higher person gains an intuition and insight into the secret workings of nature, their inherited language is insufficient to express something entirely removed from human things. They must always resort to human expressions in their view of unusual natural relationships, often falling short, lowering their subject, or even damaging and destroying it." (Eckermann, Conversations with Goethe III, June 20, 1831).

A comprehensive presentation of Heraclitus's entire doctrine has become impossible due to the loss of his writings. Here, only a development of the principle that this thinker made the foundation of his worldview will be attempted, which can be summed up in a few words: πάντα ῥεῖ, the idea of a pure lawful becoming. It follows from these words that the explanation must proceed in two directions: the becoming itself and its law. This separation is purely methodological. It must be emphasized that this does not correspond to a dualistic structure of the Heraclitean cosmos. All the thoughts mentioned below are the same fundamental principle, conceived as a unity, preserved only in a number of different representations as they arose from the imagination of a passionate artistic person, whether in the fragments or perhaps even in Heraclitus's book, given his aphoristic writing style.

It would be a hindrance to understanding this doctrine if we had lost knowledge of the great and tragic personality of Heraclitus. Without this understanding, we could not grasp why this philosopher made the ἀγών, the foremost custom of his time, the custom of the cosmos, or what he meant by the fire to which he attributed a dominant role in the universe. His doctrine is unusually personal for that time and for a Greek, despite the fact that he did not often speak of himself.

We see a man whose entire feeling and thinking were dominated by an unbridled aristocratic inclination, strongly ingrained by birth and upbringing, and heightened by resistance and disappointment. Here lies the fundamental reason for every aspect of his life and every peculiarity of his thoughts. Even in the energetic concentration of his system, in the avoidance and disdain of all details and trivial matters, and in writing in short, strong phrases familiar only to him, we recognize the hand of the aristocrat.

The Hellenic nobility2, whose decline was occurring during this time, created the most significant and beautiful period of Hellenic culture. It established the type of the perfect Hellene, an incomparably high and noble culture of the individual (καλοκαγαθία); it represented not only rights or interests but also a worldview and a custom (as noted by Burckhardt). It was a proud, happy, power-loving, and power-accustomed caste, proud of its blood, rank, weapons, and "antibanausia"; it held a monopoly on spirit and art. One can understand the enormous ethical power of this caste and its worldview over the individual's mind. Though the caste itself might decline, anyone who once stood under its influence could not escape it. Heraclitus possessed all its self-awareness and pride, an intense, involuntary nobility foreign to any self-reflection; he passionately adhered to its brave, healthy, joyful customs, to struggle, and to the pursuit of glory.3 This proud, unyielding man loved the distinction between rulers and the ruled; he had reverence for the ancient customs and institutions4, which were no longer sacred to democracy. He was too deep a judge of humanity to judge the people of his time simply by birth and rank. He believed in the Homeric distinction5 between the ἄριστοι, people of great and noble life views, and the masses (οἱ πολλοί), whose shortcomings he discerned with a sharp, mocking eye.6 He did not engage in attacks and disputes with the δῆμος; his taste and self-control, one of the first virtues of a noble Greek, forbade it.7 Without rage or outbursts, he judged the people from above, coldly, maliciously, with contempt and disgust, sometimes hiding his rising resentment with a sarcastic remark.

The name "the weeping philosopher," which antiquity gave him, did not arise without reason, as anecdotes8 and some of his aphorisms9 reveal a bitter, wounded tone. Tied by birth and deep attachment to an ideal of life, he was born at a time when this ideal could no longer exist. The power and customs of the nobility had declined or disappeared, and democracy began to rule. He was too stubborn and defiant to submit or uselessly complain. One of the first and most influential offices in Ephesus, which fell to him by hereditary right (that of βασιλεύς), was no longer what it should have been. He renounced it. The life of the πόλις lost its aristocratic form, and the masses began to govern.

He then left the city, where he could have been a minor ruler, and went into the mountains, into voluntary solitude, a life that seemed the most terrible to the sociable Greek, who was intertwined with the fate of his city. He remained there, unforgiving, enduring his life, which eventually, if we believe Theophrastus, brought him close to madness.10

For the Hellenes, fame—or one might say notoriety—was the highest goal.11 It raises the question of whether this self-imposed solitude and the strange traits that attracted admiring attention might have compensated for a role in Ephesus. Every Greek wanted to be known by everyone, at any cost. Herostratus is a famous example of what one might attempt for this purpose. But this is also seen in Alcibiades, Themistocles, and any other who can be considered a true Hellene. One must not forget this national form of ambition in Heraclitus, a fatal trait of the Greek character. This quality, which appears ignoble in our eyes, was not a pursuit that denied the opponent magnanimity and recognition but rather an unbridled, consuming envy—even hatred—against anyone who was more fortunate, a tormenting awareness of being less admired than others, which made the Greeks, with their vivid sensibilities, a profoundly unhappy people.

As a result, philosophy never developed into the treatment of a problem by a succession of thinkers over time. Each began anew, often from the opposite standpoint, with few gratefully accepting the discoveries of their predecessors. Instead, they emphasized the differences, sometimes exaggeratedly, and until Aristotle, each of the great philosophers looked down on the others with enough mockery. One should not expect Heraclitus, as a Greek, to acknowledge the merits of others. On the contrary, he tended to emphasize contradictions sharply in paradoxes and antitheses, and when he mentioned a famous name, it was always with a certain malice. The peculiarity of his fate increased his self-awareness as an extraordinary person and led to an overemphasis on originality, a fundamental rejection of all foreign opinions, and even the avoidance of common phrases that might have sounded trivial to him. Under these circumstances, the genesis of his thoughts should be traced, and the degree of their dependence on contemporary systems should be assessed.

For every thinking person, there exists a mode of thought that, arising from the same psychological causes as their worldview and the results of their thinking, is closely connected with them. In the broadest sense, not only as an instinctive method of logical reasoning but also as an unconscious method of selecting and evaluating impressions of all kinds, it serves as an intermediary between personality and system, sometimes even as an independent source of valuable ideas. The style of thinking and the doctrine itself are related. This circumstance is important for Heraclitean philosophy. Heraclitus was fortunate to be able to draw freely from his desires in a time of naive thinking, which had not yet matured to reflect on itself, without being limited to smaller-scale research within established directions by significant prior work in his field. This is a fortune that Goethe was aware of when he once emphasized: "When I was eighteen, Germany was also only eighteen." (Eckermann, Conversations with Goethe I, February 15, 1824.)

If Heraclitus was an aristocrat in his worldview, he can be called a psychologist concerning his entire method of thinking. Both are often observed to be related. This does not imply anything about the subject matter of his investigations but suggests a method of treatment. He does not consider nature as an object in itself, in terms of appearance, origin, and purpose; instead, his method is an analysis of natural processes insofar as they are processes, changes, according to their lawful relationships. His system can be called a psychology of world events. From this new philosophical approach comes the discovery of new problems. Heraclitus can be considered the first social philosopher, the first epistemologist, and the first psychologist. His aphorisms about humans are not ethical sayings like the maxims of Bias or Solon, but are truly observed, entirely objective remarks, avoiding a didactic tone.

Finally, let us not forget a fundamental difference that distinguishes Heraclitus and all Greek philosophy from modern philosophy. The people, whose educators were gymnastics, music, and Homer, who invented the word "κόσμος" (cosmos) for the world because they saw in it above all the sense of order and beauty, did not treat philosophy as a science (abstract scientific investigations were always subordinated to the metaphysical ultimate purpose) but as a way to create a worldview that allowed them to understand their place in the universe and as an opportunity to express their joy in shaping. It would be wrong to consider Greek thought, which emerged under the open sky, in a southern, sunny landscape, from a cheerful and lively life, as inferior to ours because of this unfamiliar closeness to art. For the Hellenes of the classical period, philosophy is formative art, the architecture of thoughts. The Hellenic plastic power, their ability to subject everything learned and self-created to a unified style, is immense. This feeling for form gives rise to the tendency to conceive philosophical systems as works of art.

Heraclitus is the most significant artist among the Presocratics. This is evidenced not only by the rich and colorful pathos of his style but especially by the ingenious plasticity of his presentation. He perceives his ideas; he does not calculate them. The intuitive nature of his thought, entirely foreign to dialectic reasoning12—such as that which underpins the opposing system of Parmenides—is supported by his always aptly chosen examples (such as those of the bow and the lyre, the mixed drink), in which he attempts to depict a tangible image before him. Sometimes, this was the only means of communication left to him, as his approach to linguistic expression posed challenges he could not always overcome, despite a strength of thought rarely found in ancient philosophy. His main idea completely contradicts appearances and habitual thinking and requires a high degree of abstraction to even be discovered. An unwavering consistency and a clear view over the field of his investigations give him an internal unity of the system, which probably has never been reached again. It is focused with great simplicity on one idea and is unassailable in its details due to its inherent logic.

Heraclitus can be described as a realist, despite the ease with which he might be mistaken for the opposite. Every concept that seems to suggest symbolic intentions can, upon closer examination, be traced back to a real basis. He has a thoroughly healthy perception of tangible realities13 and often demonstrates great subtlety in distinguishing.14 Yet, he never denies the aristocrat; his thinking has a true imperial style, employing a very summary approach, even for that time.15 Only the great, fundamental ideas are worth considering to him, with a pronounced aversion to genuinely scientific detailed research. He has a specific, strictly limited view of how one should think: one should not want to know everything, only what is valuable and great; select little, but penetrate it thoroughly. He desires depth, substance, clarity, not breadth of knowledge. Hence his polemic: "polymathy does not teach insight; it would have taught Hesiod, Pythagoras, Xenophanes, and Hecataeus" (Fr. 40). "Mathiê" is merely the acquisition of knowledge about things. The accumulation of facts without overview and understanding is abhorrent to him. It is not about knowing little: "For one must indeed be very knowledgeable in many things to be a philosopher, according to Heraclitus" (Fr. 35). "Historíê" is the deep, critical observation (not knowledge from books, as Gomperz notes in the aforementioned work, p. 1002 f.; "histor" means witness, critic, and in Homer, arbiter. See Porphyry, "De abstinentia," II, 49: "The true philosopher is a witness of many things").

A "scientific philosophy" will never arise on such a basis. However, one must distinguish between the questions lying outside the core focus and the fundamental idea itself, which is indeed exhaustively elaborated. One should not measure the logic of the thought process by the unsystematic presentation. The work is a collection of aphorisms, as a remark by Theophrastus and the fragments themselves teach. Heraclitus did not attempt to be didactic in the most modest sense, let alone popular; this is evidenced by his style, which does not consider ease of understanding, and perfectly aligns with his contemptuous worldview.

Pure Movement

I. First formulation: "Everything flows."

Cosmos as an Energy Process

The fundamental idea on which Heraclitus based his view of the cosmos is fully contained in the now-famous phrase "πάντα ῥεῖ" ("everything flows"). However, the mere concept of flowing (or change) is too vague to reveal the finer and deeper gradations of this idea, whose value does not lie in merely asserting the variety of successive states of the visible and tangible world, something no one doubts. At the outset, it is important to highlight the significant difference between the concept Heraclitus had of the course and inner character of the world process itself, which he said is not accessible to our perception, and the appearance that the world of things presents to us, which we must logically understand as the manifestation of this process and its effect on the senses. By adopting this Kantian distinction, which Heraclitus' doctrine undoubtedly contains in practice, even though it does not appear fundamentally separated in the fragments of his writings, one avoids one of the most common misconceptions in evaluating this doctrine.

If one wants to trace the occurrences in nature back to their most fundamental elements, the concept of change remains open to multiple interpretations. One might assume a substrate with the sole determination of persistence; in this case, change appears as the manner in which the persistent exists at every moment. From this cautious and unassailable standpoint, Kant described the proposition that substance persists as tautological. "For this persistence alone is the reason why we apply the category of substance to appearance, and one would have to prove that there is something persistent in all appearances, of which the changeable is nothing but a determination of its existence."16 To arrive at a simple and intuitive conception, one usually adds to that characteristic of the substrate the attributes of spatial occupation, impenetrability, and qualitative constancy, thus obtaining the concept of (physically conceived) matter, whereby its change can only be conceived spatially. This Democritean concept of the displacement of mass parts (περιφορά), which modern natural science also contains, is not found in "πάντα ῥεῖ." It is possible to dispense with the concept of a substrate altogether, whether as the persistent in the change of appearances (which can be described physically as the invariant ratio of forces acting on a body to the resulting accelerations) or as actual matter, whereby the concept of change (becoming, flowing) gains a new and richer content.

The most general basic concepts essential for the schematic illustration of natural processes, which every thinking person tends to, undergo a development over the centuries determined by the contemporary standpoint of science, so that they fully satisfy the thinking of a limited period only in content but are so necessary to it that it is not easy to free oneself from their influence to correctly and objectively grasp the differently natured concepts of an earlier epoch (in this case, Heraclitus'). When Plato in the Philebus explains the world of appearances as a product of empty space (τὸ μὴ ὄν, ἄπειρον) and mathematical form (πέρας), it is hardly possible for us to form the corresponding conception of these concepts.

Most attempts to understand Heraclitus' particular trains of thought are influenced by the view peculiar to modern natural science and many philosophers since Hobbes—not merely as a "working hypothesis" (Ostwald)—which almost necessarily divides what is given in perception into an active and a passive component. Thus, two quantities are distinguished here, matter and the independent, separate energy, whose object is matter. The second concept, unknown to Greek philosophy, must be understood as entirely substantial. As a result, the need to imagine a carrier to which this energy is bound is so strong that after its principal separation from matter, the wave theory of light led to the assumption of a second kind of matter, ether, simply because one could not imagine a quantity with these characteristics acting without a carrier. (Lord Kelvin has shown that this hypothetical ether, with properties as presupposed by the wave motion of light rays, is not viable.)

A physical carrier of movement is not necessary for the concept of action in space, the "reality." The energetic theory proposed by Mach and Ostwald is much closer to Heraclitus' idea. After the critical philosophers of the 18th century had already declared things to be coordinated complexes of sensations and thereby almost demonstrated the ultimate goal of all philosophical research, the comprehension of things in themselves, as impossible and erroneous, substance could no longer be conceived materially. Energetics recognizes this critique at least for the concept of matter and defines nature as a sum of energies (although this concept is again conceived entirely substantially). "We gain our knowledge of the external world only through the specific stimulation of our sensory organs by the objects of the same; we attribute the nature and strength of these stimulations to the 'properties' of matter. However, if we take away those properties from the objects, we are left with nothing accessible to our experiences, and matter disappears when we try to think of it by itself" (Ostwald, Chem. Energie, 2nd ed., p. 5). This approach of energetics to Heraclitus is important because it makes it possible for the first time to bring his thoughts into a modern, scientific form. What exists in space is exclusively energy: "If we think of its various forms apart from matter, nothing remains, not even the space it occupied. Thus, matter is nothing but a spatially coordinated group of different energies, and everything we want to say about it, we say only about these energies" (Ostwald, overcoming scientific materialism, p. 28). However, this substance can again be applied to the aforementioned determination by Kant that it itself persists (J.R. Mayer's law) and only its way of existing changes (the "forms" of energy, light, heat, electricity).

The Greek view is different from the outset. The concept of force was only created by Galileo and was unknown to the Greeks. Therefore, we must distinguish between motion and energy. Motion (a relational concept) presupposes only something moving and nothing else. Energy (the substantively conceived cause of motion) is itself a second quantity alongside the moving object, even if this again is to be thought of only as a group of energies. We say: "The force acts at a point." In contrast, monistic Greek philosophy knows only immanent and ideal causes of motion (ἀνάγκη, φιλία καὶ νεῖκος, λόγος, τύχη); Democritus' atoms move due to τύχη; it is in their nature to move. They need no acting energy. For Greek monism, the substance present in space (best described by Parmenides as τὸ πλέον, the space-filling) as a single and indivisible substance has become an entirely different concept. It is this concept of substance that Heraclitus denies.

The first problem of Greek philosophy, for which myth left a gap but also gave no direction, is that of the "origin" of things. The chaos at the beginning of the world, which a Greek would have defined as a qualitatively indeterminate, irregularly moving mass, gave rise to the idea of a primal substance. Ἀρχή is a substance. According to Thales and Anaximenes, the world consists of the qualitative transformations of this initially existing substance. Anaximander's significance lies in his elimination of sensory qualities for its determination. The ἄπειρον, thought of as ἀρχή, is something entirely removed from perception, whose specific effect on the senses first produces qualities and thus things. Still, a physically conceived background of sensations is assumed here. Absolute skepticism toward the concept of substance is difficult. Parmenides rightly observed that all thinking relates to being, that everything thought of at that moment acquires the property of substantiality.

Since Greek thought knows no separation of moving and moved, and Heraclitus explicitly emphasizes unity in world events—his saying ἐκ πάντων ἓν καὶ ἐξ ἑνὸς πάντα is equivalent to Xenophanes' ἓν καὶ πᾶν—the assumption of a pure, unified, continuous "becoming," which the Eleatics deny17, must exclude the concept of substance in every sense.

In the execution of the idea, the utmost difficulties of linguistic expression arise; one of those cases where we notice that language itself contains philosophical principles. Our entire philosophy is a correction of language usage, remarked Lichtenberg; "thus, true philosophy will always be taught with the language of the false." We cannot precisely express the denial of being linguistically. Οὐδὲν μένει, πάντα χωρεῖ: one feels that the subjects of these sentences already contain a substantive being. Language is Eleatic philosophy.

Heraclitus fundamentally declares things to be undergoing change in every sense: λέγει που Ἡ., ὅτι πάντα χωρεῖ καὶ οὐδὲν μένει. (Plato, Cratyl. 402 A.) This complete transformation (μεταβολή in Fr. 91, ἀνταμοιβή in Fr. 90) Plato (Theaetetus 181 B. ff.) divides into spatial (περιφορά) and qualitative (ἀλλοίωσις) change. It must be emphasized that for a Greek, there is only one real entity in the external world to find the rejection of the concept of substance in this thought. Heraclitus never uses the concept of substance, which must have been familiar to him from the philosophy of the time (ἀρχή, ἄπειρον) (Teichmüller Vol. I p. 147). He also does not know the concept of empty space, easily following from the assumption of moving matter. Heraclitus attempted to find an appropriate expression for his new idea. In the statements: συνάψιες ὅλα καὶ οὐκ ὅλα, συμφερόμενον διαφερόμενον, συνᾶιδον διᾶιδον, καὶ ἐκ πάντων ἓν καὶ ἐξ ἑνὸς πάντα (Fr. 10) and: γνώμην, ὁτέη ἐκυβέρνησε πάντα διὰ πάντων (Fr. 41. Cf. Pseudo-Linus 13 Mullach: κατ᾽ ἔριν συνάπαντα κυβερνᾶται διὰ παντός), one undoubtedly sees the attempt of an energetic formula to express pure action in space, not bound to matter.

This action is beyond sensory perception. What we see and feel is always a being, a persistent state: "θάνατός (being, unmoved) ἐστιν, ὁκόσα ἐγερθέντες ὁρέομεν" (Fr. 21). The senses deceive: This insight made Heraclitus a skeptic of knowledge. The background of the physical world surrounding us, the "becoming" acting in space, is not recognizable. Heraclitus speaks of an invisible harmony compared to the visible one in the world of appearances (ἁρμονίη ἀφανὴς φανερῆς κρείττων Fr. 54). Fragment 123 expresses the same idea: "φύσις κρύπτεσθαι φιλεῖ,"18 nature loves to hide; the deeper nature is not immediately discernible, one must first interpret the impression of the senses. Additionally, the appearance of the energetic process for us is diverse: "ὁ θεὸς ... (=φύσις, κόσμος) ἀλλοιοῦται δὲ ὅκωσπερ [πῦρ], ὁπόταν συμμιγῆι θυώμασιν, ὀνομάζεται καθ᾽ ἡδονὴν ἑκάστου" (Fr. 67).

From this theory, it necessarily follows that becoming and flowing must be uninterrupted: "ὁ κυκεὼν διίσταται [μὴ] κινούμενος" (Fr. 125). This image of the potion is an example of the mastery with which Heraclitus can give his ideas a vivid clarity. (Nietzsche draws attention to the aptness of the expression "reality.") A balance of antagonistic action would mean eternal rest. It is essential for the existence of the cosmos that different tensions constantly oppose each other, resist, and measure themselves against each other; no moment of rest must occur; there must always be a minimum of imbalance present in space.19 We must think of the eternal action as the swelling and diminishing of tensions (oppositions). An attempt to express this is Fr. 91: "ἀλλ᾽ ὀξύτητι καὶ τάχει μεταβολῆς σκίδνησι καὶ πάλιν συνάγει καὶ πρόσεισι καὶ ἄπεισι." For this thought, the almost synonymous expressions "συμφερόμενον διαφερόμενον" (in Fr. 10: "συνάψιες ὅλα καὶ οὐκ ὅλα, συμφερόμενον διαφερόμενον, συνᾶιδον διᾶιδον κτλ ... Plato Soph. 242 e: διαφερόμενον ἀεὶ ξυμφέρεται. Luc. vit. auct. 14: αἰὼν παῖς ἐστι παίζων πεσσεύων συνδιαφερόμενος." Plato Symp. 187 A: τὸ ἓν γάρ φησι διαφερόμενον αὐτὸ αὑτῷ ξυμφέρεσθαι) and "ὁδὸς ἄνω κάτω" (in Fr. 60: ὁδὸς ἄνω κάτω μία καὶ ὡυτή. Diog. Laert. IX, 8: καλεῖσθαι μεταβολὴν [vgl. Fr. 91] ὁδὸν ἄνω κάτω) are found. This notion, that the action in space, i.e., the swelling and diminishing of opposing tensions, occurs in such a way that a striving for equilibrium is always present, is known in energetics as Helm's law: Every form of energy tends to move from places where it is present in higher intensity to places of lower intensity (Helm, Theory of Energy, p. 59 ff.). The difference lies solely in Heraclitus' non-substantial conception. The attempt to give this abstract consideration a shape understandable and pleasing to the eye – a tendency Heraclitus most easily and gladly indulges in – ultimately leads to the notion of wave-like movement. (It is the only easily comprehensible concept of movement tied to place.) The Ionian, who daily gazed at the sea, had to know how much its movement, from the gently swung line to the high meandering waves, mirrors the restlessness of a strived-for and never-reached union. In this sense, half abstraction and half artistic vision, one may understand the "παλίντροπος ἁρμονίη κόσμου, ὅκωσπερ τόξου καὶ λύρης" (Fr. 51).20 The line of the ancient Greek bow is similar to that of the lyre (Arist. Rhet. III, 11 p. 1412 b 35: τόξον φόρμιγξ ἄχορδος), an evenly curved line whose ends approach each other. To get closer to Heraclitus' idea of the lines of opposing forces seeking equilibrium, one might think of the arsis and thesis of metrics and the melodic line of melodies. This avoids the error of assuming oscillating particles. This concept applies to the entire extent of the cosmos: "τὸ ἕν γάρ φησι διαφερόμενον αὐτὸ αὑτῷ ξυμφέρεσθαι ὥσπερ ἁρμονίαν τόξου καὶ λύρας" (Plato Symp. 187 A). A comparison allows the full significance of this idea to be seen: "ἣν (ἀνάγκην) εἱμαρμένην οἱ πολλοὶ καλοῦσιν, Ἐμπεδοκλῆς δὲ φιλίαν ὁμοῦ καὶ νεῖκος· Ἡ. δὲ παλίντροπον ἁρμονίην κόσμου ὅκωσπερ λύρας καὶ τόξου" (Plut. de anim. procr. 27 p. 1026). If one recalls what εἱμαρμένη, the great, everywhere and unconditionally prevailing fate, means to a Greek, one will also understand the meaning of Heraclitus' harmony (which is equivalent to λόγος or νόμος).

All these attempts to gain a new perspective on events arise from the denial of persistent being. Everything is not merely in flux—"everything" would still imply a being—but the background of appearance must be thought of solely as pure action, or if you will, as a sum of tensions.

The Fire

Heraclitus mentions fire in a way that forces us to think of it as a state of being. Thus, even for him, there are states in the world of appearances—essentially coinciding with the states of aggregation—that challenge explanation in this system where the concept of substance is rejected. The fact that there seem to be states of rest in nature (from which the assumption of persistent substances originally arose) cannot be denied. Heraclitus mentions these states (θάνατός ἐστιν, ὁκόσα ἐγερθέντες ὁρέομεν. Fr. 21) and attributes them to the deception of the senses. The eye is denied the ability to see becoming and flowing (Fr. 54 and 123. See p. 18). It appears to man under several typical forms, forms of sensory appearance (earth, fire, sea, whirlwind; these are already the elements of Empedocles), which are changing and of temporary existence. They have a purely subjective reality. Formerly, light, heat, and electricity were spoken of as natural forces. Today, they are similarly referred to as forms of energy, with the tacit assumption that they are to be considered as manifestations of "energy in itself," that unrecognizable cause of events. Heraclitus conceives fire, the sea, the earth, and the storm in this way—things that only seem to have being and duration, which they want to convince the discerning mind of, and which, removed from the eye, are nothing more than eternal restless flowing and becoming, one like the other.

Thus, the concept of fire is given: a manifestation of the cosmic process, but not yet its meaning. Heraclitus presents this natural phenomenon, which should have no precedence over others, in a mysterious way. Because of this high significance, one might believe that the main point of the whole doctrine has been found here; the idea contained in it has also been subject to many misunderstandings. The view of fire merely as a symbol of change21 can be dismissed; an obscuring symbolism is no longer attributed to this philosopher. But it is incomprehensible how the idea and designation of fire as ἀρχή could become customary with Aristotle.22 Ἀρχή is a very specific term, which due to many inseparable assumptions can only be applied in a limited way. The Ionians created it; it includes, if properly understood, the whole system of these philosophers. Above all, it contains the idea of development and transformation into a normal state. The Ionian question was: From what are things derived? A substance, both temporally and physically original, is assumed (for ἀρχή means both), which, according to Anaximander, takes on qualities while remaining itself. Despite qualitative variability, the ἀρχή has the conceptual features of a substance. According to Anaximenes, other states arise from air through a spatial (volumetric) change of this original substance (πύκνωσις, μάνωσις), a view that does not contradict that of Democritus. How could one associate Heraclitus with this problem? None of his statements relate to this question. Heraclitus does not know of a substance; that alone is decisive; he also does not know the idea of development from an original and normal state. It is impossible to ask about a primal substance in the context of his thoughts. His problem was: How does the cosmic process take place? The alleged states and substances are in reality the changing form of its appearance: πυρὸς τροπαὶ πρῶτον θάλασσα, θαλάσσης δὲ τὸ μὲν ἥμισυ γῆ, τὸ δὲ ἥμισυ πρηστήρ (Fr. 31). Thus, fire is not considered as a substance but as τροπή (ἀνταμοιβή in Fr. 90). This concept is valuable. Τροπή and ἀρχή are the strongest opposites; ἀρχή is a substance, something that exists in itself and persists, while τροπή is a metamorphosis, a form. As ἀρχή, only one of the existing substances can always be assumed, which is first present for some reason; the others depend on it. Τροπή is fire and any other appearance equally. One might wonder if Anaximander could have used this expression.

Heraclitus placed fire at the center of the equally legitimate types of appearance. The reason for this choice lies in the less scientific and more artistic character of his thinking. He was guided here by the same feeling that has made fire and the sun objects of religious veneration throughout history. This most mysterious, noble, and pure of all natural phenomena appeared to people of a distant time as something sacred, and Heraclitus's reverent and aesthetically impressionable nature was not immune to this impression. He saw here the character of the restless (πῦρ ἀείζωον) depicted most clearly. This suited his inclination for vividness. Fire is the most formidable and powerful of the elemental forces that truly govern nature. Therefore, he loved it (τὰ δὲ πάντα οἰακίζει κεραυνός Fr. 64. Πάντα γὰρ τὸ πῦρ ἐπελθὸν κρινεῖ καὶ καταλήψεται Fr. 66). No scientific reason for this preference can be found, and it is also unlikely that he wanted or could rely on such reasons.

The visible form of cosmic movement changes incessantly. Fire, as one of the possible forms (τροπαί), is, although the most beautiful and noble, not a more physically important or more original substance than a material substance, such as the ἀρχή. It is a form of appearance like any other, transient like any other: πυρὸς τε ἀνταμοιβὴ τὰ πάντα καὶ πῦρ ἁπάντων ὅκωσπερ χρυσοῦ χρήματα καὶ χρημάτων χρυσός Fr. 90). The τροπαί are in constant mutual replacement; this is one aspect of their nature. Heraclitus found a fortunate expression for this change of equivalent appearances: ζῆι πῦρ τὸν ἀέρος θάνατον καὶ ἀὴρ ζῆι τὸν πυρὸς θάνατον, ὕδωρ ζῆι τὸν γῆς θάνατον, γῆ τὸν ὕδατος (Fr. 76). One will understand the intention of this expression: The momentary dominance of one form already implies a power increase of the other, which ultimately reaches a degree that must bring about a change. In this context, fire is considered—again, not physically but aesthetically—the most perfect of imaginable forms. "According to Heraclitus, there is a gradation in the elements determined by their distance from the moving and self-living fire" (E. Rohde, Psyche II S. 146). The cosmos, the grand order of all world events, is in a certain sense really identical with fire (κόσμον τόνδε, τὸν αὐτὸν ἁπάντων οὔτε τις θεῶν οὔτε ἀνθρώπων ἐποίησε, ἀλλ᾽ ἦν αἰεὶ καὶ ἔστι καὶ ἔσται πῦρ ἀείζωον, ἁπτόμενον μέτρα καὶ ἀποσβεννύμενον μέτρα Fr. 30). In Heraclitus's opinion, the cosmos, the sublime nature, is fittingly and naturally represented by the most exalted, purest, and noblest form; thus, the cosmos is only in a state of perfection when the change assumes exclusively the form of fire, a state that regularly recurs over time (Fr. 30, 66). All other forms (solid, liquid, airy) appear inferior in comparison to the beauty and power of fire. (The words χρησμοσύνη and κόρος Fr. 65 point to this. Teichmüller [I S. 136 ff.] rightly sees here an allusion and variation of the Greek idea that appears in Aristotle's concept of entelechy, the process from potential to actual.)

"Everything flows" as a Formal Principle of Organic Nature

We come to the other, so to speak, external application of Heraclitus’s principle of change: the visible and tangible changes in nature that surround us. The fundamental idea contained in the formula "Everything flows" appears here as a formal principle of all forms of life and events. We must distinguish between the never-perceivable background of things, the actual process of becoming and acting, and its external appearance as the world of the senses. The application to the latter realm is the widely recognized and easily understandable one, most commonly associated with "everything flows."

Only the restlessness of the energetic process is invisible (as are, for example, the ether waves of light); the changes in the visible world are evident to everyone; they constitute what is popularly referred to as the "life of nature." The second distinction is more important. The natural processes lack the appearance of regularity, a strict, uniform rule. In the growth of a plant, the undulating motion of the surf, the course of atmospheric events, people do not usually perceive this impression. One cannot speak here of a uniform, or even an uninterrupted, change in all cases. In the energetic process, movement is logically necessary, even tautological; here it is possible, at most a rule. Before Heraclitus, no one had noticed a rule here. The simple appearance teaches that this life and process lack rhythm. Therefore, the artistic view of Heraclitus regards the harmony of appearance (which he still accepts) as less significant than the other, derived from a metric regularity, merely imagined (ἁρμονίη γὰρ ἀφανὴς φανερῆς κρείττων Fr. 54).

The transformation itself escapes no one; only its law is hidden. But it is there if one knows how to find it. And it is the same as that of eternal action.23 This is a profound thought. Heraclitus believed that nature is essentially under the impression of this change, which is also perfect and universal: ποταμῶι γὰρ οὐκ ἔστιν ἐμβῆναι δὶς τῶι αὐτῶι οὐδὲ θνητῆς οὐσίας δὶς ἅπτεσθαι κατὰ ἕξιν (Fr. 91). This thought has, as is typical of a general inclination towards Heraclitus, been subject to a moralizing interpretation that completely overturns the simple meaning. Schuster interprets it as "no thing in the world escapes complete destruction" (p. 201 f.), and Lassalle cites the verse24: "Everything that comes into being deserves to perish" (I, p. 374). This misunderstands the deepest aspect of the idea. Heraclitus wants to contradict a teleological view of being. He sees the "course of the world" as eternally the same, without beginning or end: κόσμον τὸν αὐτὸν ἁπάντων οὔτε τις θεῶν οὔτε ἀνθρώπων ἐποίησε, ἀλλ᾽ ἦν αἰεὶ καὶ ἕστιν καὶ ἔσται κτλ... (Fr. 30). The change of appearances is always the same, always repeating; this notion crystallized into a doctrine of eternal recurrence. Any attempt at a development idea, like that of Anaximander (biological), is entirely absent here, as is any reference to the concept of causality. There is no better image for this idea than the one Heraclitus himself chose: ποταμοῖσι τοῖσιν αὐτοῖς ἐμβαίνουσιν ἕτερα καὶ ἕτερα ὕδατα ἐπιῤῥεῖ (Fr. 12). We see the course of the world as if we were standing on the bank of a river; it continuously flows by, always the same, without beginning or end, without cause or goal. We can only understand the occurrence in the cosmos by its character, not as an event as a whole.

Heraclitus's view of life is a remarkable example of this idea: the river of generation flows so continuously that it never stands still.25 Instead of the individual living being, he considers the entire succession of a species as an individual, whose phases (the life of the individual) are merely moments and stages in a grand, uninterrupted metamorphosis. According to this more morphological than physiological perspective, life should be thought of as a change from youth and old age, from increase and decrease in strength (Ἄνθρωπος, ὅκως ἐν εὐφρόνῃ φάος, ἅπτεται ἀποσβέννυται according to Byw. Fr. 77, modified and elaborated by Diels). This idea makes the meaning of the phrase ζῆν τὸν θάνατον (to live is to die) clearer. In another saying: γενόμενοι ζώειν ἐθέλουσι μόρους τ᾽ἔχειν. μᾶλλον δὲ ἀναπαύεσθαι καὶ παῖδας καταλείπουσι μόρους γενέσθαι (Fr. 20), the term ἀναπαύεσθαι (to rest) is significant as it represents a pause between two periods of high activity, supporting this view.

A consequence of the constant change in the sensory world—which must logically be extended to the perceiving human—is skepticism about knowledge. Before Heraclitus, no one had seen this as a problem, and it is a testament to the great intellectual energy to have overcome the unconscious pride that a time in which philosophical thought is just emerging tends to rely upon. From the fundamental elements of this doctrine, a complete agnosticism could have developed, and Protagoras did indeed take this step. However, Heraclitus was too dynamic and positively inclined to let a denying attitude truly undermine his philosophy; he could not be mistrustful and rejecting in the main questions (as Lassalle might suggest through citing the Faust quote). The theory of knowledge is not among Heraclitus's primary concerns. It only gains attention in this context because it sharpens the main idea by demanding an insight into the restless, ever-changing nature of the world and overcoming the apparent. (Fr. 21: θάνατός ἐστιν ὁκόσα ἐγερθέντες ὁρέομεν: the external world appears to be at rest. Arist. Metaph. I, 6: ὡς αἰσθητῶν ἀεὶ ῥεόντων καὶ ἐπιστήμης περὶ αὐτῶν οὐκ οὔσης. This skepticism is directed only against a science that assumes permanent conditions. Fr. 107: κακοὶ μάρτυρες ἀνθρώποισιν ὀφθαλμοὶ καὶ ᾦτα βαρβάρους ψυχὰς ἐχόντων, i.e., for people who remain uncritical at mere sensory perception.)

All creations of culture—state, society, customs, and viewpoints—are products of nature; they are subject to the same conditions of existence as the others, under the strict law that nothing remains and everything changes. It is one of Heraclitus's greatest discoveries to have noticed this inner connection between culture and nature. The resistance and balancing of opposing tensions mean the same for energetic processes as war does for human existence. (Fr. 8: πάντα κατ᾽ ἔριν γίνεσθαι.) War justifies the aristocratic hierarchy that Heraclitus admired. There can be no eternal and lasting conditions; gods and humans, free and enslaved, are subject to the law of necessary change (Fr. 53). Heraclitus knew well that aristocracy in Greece had to decline.

In this chaos of transformations, there can be no lasting values; this is the ultimate consequence of such a view. This realization, against which the spirit resists the longest, was emphatically maintained by Heraclitus. We have before us a completely developed system of relativism. Indeed, where there is no stagnation and rest, the concepts of ethics and aesthetics can only apply to the individual and only be applied on a case-by-case basis. Thus, it is with evaluations of physical beauty (Fr. 82, 83), wisdom (ἀνὴρ νήπιος ἤκουσε πρὸς δαίμονος ὅκωσπερ παῖς πρὸς ἀνδρός Fr. 79), the precious, pleasant, and useful (ὄνους σύρματ᾽ ἂν ἑλέσθαι μᾶλλον ἢ χρυσόν Fr. 9; Fr. 37, 58, 61, 110–111). The values and qualities of things lie between two extremes and are only subject to subjective application.

The Formal Principle

The Idea of Form in General

The general, or rather the naive and more original conception of things focuses on grasping the substance and its inner nature. It is only through advanced analysis of the process of cognition that one learns that the world we perceive is a creation of the senses, and that the concept of substance (and energy) itself is a construct of our thinking. This highlights another element of appearance, namely form or mathematical relationship. One creates a picture of the inner structure of things through the concept of substance and the properties thought to be contained within it, aiming to fully explain natural processes. Once it is understood that it is impossible and even contradictory to unlock nature in this way, one may forgo providing a visible representation of its innermost nature. It then becomes natural to find the important and significant aspects of appearance in its mathematical measure, in its form relationships. It is even possible to completely determine natural phenomena numerically without adding a hypothesis about their "essence," and this exhausts everything that can be reliably determined through the study of the relationships between objects and the subject due to the limits of cognitive activity. (An example is Maxwell's electromagnetic theory of light, which is entirely specified by a set of differential equations.)

The Pythagoreans and Heraclitus discovered this valuable and fruitful aspect of appearance and subjected it to observation first. In this emphasis on the formal as opposed to the material, a significant distinction in the decomposition of the given in perception into its components must be noted. Materialistic natural science and most modern philosophers differentiate mass and energy as secondary quantities, like Descartes' substances and Spinoza's attributes. Heraclitus, most Greek philosophers, and also contemporary energetics distinguish between substance and form. Substance here is to be understood as the sum of everything that appears to us (mass + energy, if you will), whereas the sum of all natural laws is to be seen as "form." Aristotle similarly differentiated between ὕλη (hylē) and μορφή (morphē), while Heraclitus viewed "becoming" as the given and the λογος (logos) as its form. Substance is not divided into parts or functions; rather, besides this given entity, only its form, which is represented in a series of (numerical) relationships, is of interest.

There can be no doubt about the value of form in this sense. The lawful relationship is the only constant in natural processes. "If one could measure all sensory elements, one would say that the body consists in fulfilling certain equations that hold between the sensory elements. – These equations or relationships are thus the truly enduring aspects." (Mach, Principles of Thermodynamics, p. 423). The deeper thought penetrates nature, the more importance numbers gain over images. Form has an epistemic value. From this perspective, they learned to appreciate the Pythagoreans. Philolaus teaches: "And all things that are known have number. For nothing that is conceivable or knowable exists without it." (Stob. Ecl. 22, 7, p. 456.) For Heraclitus, whose inclinations went in different directions and whose taste admired especially the harmony of the world's processes, the aesthetic value of form—specifically, the rhythm of "becoming"—is considered.

Heraclitus identifies the concept of λόγος with μέτρον. This term does not refer to a force, let alone an intelligence, but rather to a relationship. This idea, which was lost in later Greek philosophy, has often been misunderstood due to the influence of Stoic, Christian-Hellenistic, and especially modern dualistic views. Modern dualism originates from Christian worldviews and has shaped the development of modern philosophy. It is natural that the belief in some form of world order influences the formation of metaphysical ideas. The Christian dichotomy of world-God, which dominated medieval natural philosophy, continued in a series of further dichotomies: thought and extension, intelligence and substance, matter and energy. Despite growing abstraction, the fundamental division remained the same.

The Greek perspective was influenced by a different worldview. The gods were not perceived as rulers but as friendly and helpful companions of humans, sharing virtues, weaknesses, pain, misfortune, passions, and fate. The concept of εἱμαρμένη was crucial for Greek philosophy. The εἱμαρμένη is entirely impersonal—never depicted in the visual arts—and represents an inexorable law, permanent and inescapable. While Greeks could speak of the gods with joy and satisfaction, they viewed εἱμαρμένη with quiet dread. This belief is reflected in Greek tragedy, which ultimately acknowledges this formidable power with resigned acceptance. This secret certainty—that ultimately something determines the course of events that is not human, does not have a soul, is not driven by will, reason, or feeling, and is not subject to supplication—found expression in the philosophical knowledge of ἀνάγκη (necessity) or λόγος, the absolute world law. Heraclitus's early insight into this notion, which he derived from this belief, was to recognize that there are no exceptions.

Before Socrates, no Greek philosopher knew of a personal god; θεός (theos) was a physical term in their language. For scientific insights into nature, Olympus was never considered. The Greeks knew only the visible world in which they lived, the cosmos, and nothing beyond it. There was no temptation to assume a substantial energy or world soul. The law lies in the world as a relationship, whether it is called θεός, λόγος, ἀνάγκη, or τύχη. It is important to note that all these terms for a norm and lawful cause of change stem directly from the concept of fate. The λόγος is the εἱμαρμένη, an immanent fate, not a personal cause. This was not misunderstood in antiquity: ἣν (= ἀνάγκην) εἱμαρμένην οἱ πολλοὶ καλοῦσιν· Ἐμπεδοκλῆς δὲ φιλίαν ὁμοῦ καὶ νεῖκος· Ἡ. δὲ παλίντροπον ἁρμονίην κόσμου ὅκωσπερ λύρας καὶ τόξου (Plutarch, De anima procr. 27, p. 1026).

Heraclitus conceived the world as pure movement. The λόγος is thus its rhythm, the measure of movement. In this system, which knows no persistent being, the appreciation of the metric is all the more relevant. The Greeks had a highly developed sensitivity to form, not limited to visual art but extending to all aspects of life, which occurred involuntarily within certain limits (this is the sense of καλοκἀγαθία, σωφροσύνη, αὐτάρκεια, and other similar ideals of Hellenic living). We perceive this whole culture today as a formal work of art. Heraclitus emphasized harmony in the struggle of opposites. This harmony is metric. Several sayings reflect this: Κόσμον τόνδε τὸν αὐτὸν ἁνάντων, οὔτε τις θεῶν οὔτε ἀνθρώπων ἐτοίησεν, ἀλλ᾽ ἦν αἰεὶ καὶ ἔστι καὶ ἔσται πῦρ αείζωον, ἁπτόμενον μέτρα καὶ ἀποσβεννύμενον μέτρα (Fr. 30). Ἥλιος γὰρ οὐκ ὑπερβήσεται μέτρα· εἰ δὲ μὴ, Ἐρινύες μιν Δίκης ἐπίκουροι ἐξευρήσουσιν (Fr. 94). Θάλασσα διαχέεται καὶ μετρέεται εἰς τὸν αὐτὸν λόγον ὁκοῖος πρόσθεν ἦν ἢ γενέσθαι γῆ (Fr. 31). It is evident that every kind of cosmic process contains a μέτρον. It is likely that the repeated mention of Δίκη (Dike) emphasizes the strict regularity of this relationship. For Heraclitus, the value of the mathematical form of natural processes is very high.

It is also worth considering the relationship between Heraclitus’s idea and the corresponding Pythagorean thought. Pythagoras himself, of whom nothing certain is known and who is generally assumed not to have been a writer, is mentioned by Heraclitus only for his scientific method. A relationship of dependence can never be proven. It is also unlikely and unimportant. The actual parallelism between both systems is of interest. The earliest Pythagoreanism begins with the observation of mathematical relationships in all forms and processes of nature. Number theory is a later consequence of this fact. They start from the distinction between substance and form (ἄπειρον-πέρας), very much in line with Heraclitus (τὰ πάντα, κόσμος - λόγος, μέτρον). A passage from Philolaus makes this parallelism clear: Ἀνάγκα τὰ ἐόντα εἶμεν πάντα ἢ περαίνοντα ἢ ἄπειρα ἢ περαίνοντά τε καὶ ἄπειρα· - ἐπεὶ τοίνυν φαίνεται οὔτ᾽ ἐκ περαινόντων πάντων ἐόντα οὔτ᾽ ἐξ ἀπείρων πάντων, δῆλόν τ᾽ ἄρα, ὅτι ἐκ περαινόντων τε καὶ ἀτείρων ὅ τε κόσμος καὶ τὰ ἐν αὐτῷ συναρμόχθη (harmonically ordered). The similarity of the views is recognizable, but the specific formulation is individual. The formal aspect of Philolaus, which is to be understood as the geometric-arithmetic determinability of things, is something quite different from Heraclitus’s μέτρον, which is to be seen as the measure of movement through time. The problem itself is a generally Hellenic one; the specific formulation is decidedly individual.

The Idea of Unity and Necessity

The idea of lawfulness within nature was a novel concept. Heraclitus went further, finding that a single law governs all processes in their entirety. Xenophanes had also identified the idea of an inner unity of the world and made it the focal point of his teaching. His concept of ἓν καὶ πᾶν (one and all) denoted a unity of being in the absolute sense, without specifying its content. This is fundamentally different and less precise. Xenophanes does not recognize any norm, form, or quality of being, only the world and "God" as one. His unity is both qualitative and conceptual, a very general and pantheistic idea.

For Heraclitus, who did not assume a substance, this determination can only relate to the form of the energetic process, and to assume it as consistent and regulated. The major difference is clear. Heraclitus' idea is concretely defined and clearly presented; the unity is that of the λόγος (Logos) within the movement. All changes occurring in the cosmos are subject to the same rule. We find the effects of the same eternal law in the invisible becoming, in visible nature, in life, and in culture. The law of eternal recurrence is the same on a grand scale as the cycle of life and death and the upheavals of states, customs, and cultural conditions on a smaller scale. Therefore, Heraclitus calls λόγος (Fr. 2) and πόλεμος (Fr. 80) ξυνός (common) (see also ἓν τὸ σοφόν, Fr. 32). Here again, the harmony, based on the assumption of a common rhythm in all processes, should be noted. From this assumption, which contains a common rule for all events and thus excludes any end of the world, follows the congruence of all physical, ethical, social, and other laws, as well as their necessity and logical consequence. The statement: τρέφονται γὰρ πάντες οἱ ἀνθρώπειοι νόμοι ὑπὸ ἑνὸς τοῦ θείου (Fr. 114) can be seen as proof of these far-reaching implications. All conditions and factors on which the life of individuals and entire communities depend are the same laws of the cosmos prevailing here in another form, thus equally absolute, unavoidable, and resistant to any attempt to escape them—a profound and fearsome realization fitting for this unyielding and courageous personality. There is a strong fatalism in this view. This does not contradict the Hellenic sentiment; the εἱμαρμένη (fate) is the only dogma that none of their thinkers questioned. The Greeks liked to imagine this εἱμαρμένη, which like a storm cloud silently looms over humans and gods, sending down unexpected and devastating lightning bolts at any moment, with a secret pleasure in the terrifying. This gave rise to tragedy. One can indeed have no better concept of the law governing the cosmos than by comparing it to the fate, for instance, that governs the life of Oedipus. Invisible and unavoidable, it has a silent, yet all the more impressive presence. In the idea of the Logos, Heraclitus' conviction of the existence of εἱμαρμένη (fate) is deeply ingrained in his doctrine. It is likely that he used the term εἱμαρμένη directly for λόγος (Logos). In any case, they are the same, as one sees; the equivalence of both terms was generally recognized: Ἡ. οὐσίαν εἱμαρμένης ἀπεφήνατο λόγον τὸν διὰ οὐσίας τῆς τοῦ παντὸς διήκοντα· αὕτη δ᾽ἐστὶ τὸ αἰθέριον σῶμα, σπέρμα τῆς τοῦ παντὸς γενέσεως· καὶ περιόδου μέτρον τετραγμένης· πάντα δὲ καθ᾽ εἱμαρμένη, τὴν δ᾽αὐτὴν ὑπάρχειν καὶ ἀνάγκην· γράφει γοῦν· Ἔστι γὰρ εἱμαρμένη πάντως (Stob. Ecl. I, 5 p. 178).26 Similarly, Diogenes Laertius notes about his doctrine: πάντα τε γίνεσθαι καθ᾽ εἱμαρμένην (IX, 7) and: τοῦτο (= τροπαί) δὲ γίνεσθαι καθ᾽ εἱμαρμένην (IX, 8). Finally, the term is mentioned three times as Heraclitean by Aëtius (Diels Anhang B. 8). It is therefore very likely that Heraclitus also used the term for the corresponding idea. This equivalence of λόγος (Logos) with εἱμαρμένη (fate) must make it impossible to view λόγος as a personal or at least intellectual principle. Any conceivable intelligence, whether conceived as a god, world soul, or something else, is already subordinated to εἱμαρμένη. This aligns with the Hellenic belief that places fate unequivocally at the top. In this system, there is no room for even the slightest chance. Hesiod, who believed in the foreboding of certain days, drew Heraclitus' scorn, who viewed the belief in mysterious "powers" as naïve (Fr. 57). According to his conviction, any possibility of deviating from the lawful course of events is inconceivable.

Heraclitus' worldview, taken as a whole, appears as a grandly conceived poetry, a tragedy of the cosmos, on par with the powerful majesty of Aeschylus' tragedies. Among Greek philosophers, possibly excluding Plato, he is the most significant poet. The thought of an eternally ongoing and never-ending struggle that constitutes the content of life in the cosmos, where an imperative law governs and maintains a harmonious equilibrium, is a high creation of Greek art, to which this thinker was much closer than to actual natural science. A final thought, in which he surveys the world and delights in the effortless, innocent, and pain-free aspect of its becoming and acting, has survived: αἰὼν παῖς ἐστι παίζων πεσσεύων παιδὸς ἡ βασιληΐη.27

Whoever looks back at the 19th century today and lets its great figures pass by finds something astonishing in the figure of Nietzsche, something his own time could hardly have felt. All the others, even Wagner, Strindberg, and Tolstoy, somehow carried the color and form of those years. They were somehow bound to the flat optimism of their progress philistines, their utilitarian and social ethics, their worldview of power and material, adaptation and expediency, and made countless sacrifices to the spirit of the age. Only one person makes a ruthless exception from this, and if the word "untimely," which he himself coined, can still apply to anyone today, it was Nietzsche himself. For in his entire life and the entirety of his thinking, one will search in vain for anything where he inwardly succumbed to a fashion.

He thus stands in contrast and yet also in a deep inner kinship with the second German of modern times, whose life was a great symbol: Goethe. They are the only two distinguished Germans whose existence has depth beyond and alongside their works, and because both felt so from the beginning and constantly accounted for it, their lives have become common property of their nation and an essential part of its intellectual history.

But it was Goethe's fortune that he was born at the height of Western culture, amidst a mature and satiated spirituality he represented, and that he needed only to be entirely the man of his time to achieve that formal clarity meant when he was later called the Olympian. Nietzsche lived a century later, and in the meantime, a great turn had occurred, which we only understand today. It was his fate to stand beyond the Rococo, in the midst of the complete lack of culture of the 1860s and 1870s. What kind of streets and houses did he have to live in! What manners, clothing, and furniture did he have to see around him! In what forms did social interaction take place at that time; how did people think, write, and feel! Goethe lived in a time full of form; Nietzsche longed for forms irrevocably broken and past; and while one needed only to affirm what he saw and experienced, the other had nothing left but a passionate protest against everything present if he wanted to save within himself what still worked in him as a cultural heritage from his ancestors. Both strove throughout their lives for strict inner form and formality. But the 18th century was itself in form. It had the highest society Western Europe had ever known. The 19th century had neither a noble society nor forms at all. Apart from the incidental customs of a metropolitan upper class, it knew only here and there a painstakingly maintained courtly or bourgeois tradition. And just as Goethe, as an acknowledged member of society, could grasp and solve all the great questions of his time, as taught by "Wilhelm Meister" and the "Elective Affinities," so Nietzsche could only save his task in himself in complete detachment from it. His eerie loneliness stands as a symbol of Goethe's cheerful sociability. One shapes the existing; the other broods over the non-existent - for a dominant form and against a dominant formlessness.

But aside from that, form meant very different things to them. Nietzsche was the only born musician among the great intellectual Germans. All the others were either sculptors or analysts, whether they thought, wrote, or painted. He lived, felt, and thought with his ear. He could hardly use his eyes. His prose is heard, almost sung, not "written." The vowels and cadences are more important than the comparisons. And so, what he felt in the times was their melody, their rhythm. He discovered the key of foreign cultures. No one before him knew anything about the tempo of history. A whole series of his concepts - the Dionysian, the pathos of distance, eternal recurrence - are entirely musical to understand. He felt the rhythm in what one called nobility, custom, heroism, nobility, master morality. He was the first to experience the rhythmic sequence of ages, customs, ways of thinking, races, and great individuals in the historical image that scholarly research had then built up from data and numbers, like a symphony.

And he himself had music in how he walked, spoke, dressed, felt about other people, how he formed problems and drew conclusions. What Bildung was for Goethe was for him rhythm, and in the broadest sense, social, moral, historical, linguistic rhythm, sharpened by deprivation in a time that had little of it. "Tasso" was born from suffering, like "Zarathustra," but Tasso perished in the feeling of his weakness before a present he loved and saw far above himself. Zarathustra despises his present and flees into the distances of the past or future.

This: not being at home in a time, is a German fate. We blossomed too late due to the guilt of our past and then too quickly. From Klopstock and Lessing onwards, we had to traverse a path in barely eighty years for which other nations had centuries. Therefore, it did not come to the formation of an internalized formal tradition and a society of rank as the guardian of this tradition. We adopted forms, motives, tasks, solutions from all sides and fought with them, while others grew up with and in them. Next to the beginning was already the end. Kleist discovered - as the first! - Ibsen traits while still trying to appropriate the characterization of Shakespeare. This tragedy owes German intellectuality a dense sequence of distinct personalities when France and England already had only "writers" - poetry and thought as a profession, not as fate - but also the fragmentary, unresolved, excluding the last goals and roundness.

Today we can encompass the contrast that emerged around 1800 throughout Western Europe - including literary Petersburg - with the words Classicism and Romanticism. Goethe is a classicist to the extent that Nietzsche was a romantic, but that only indicates the predominant color of their being. Each of them also possessed the other possibility in themselves, which sometimes pushed to the forefront; and just as Goethe, whose Faust monologues and West-Eastern Divan are peaks of romantic world feeling, was always striving to master this tendency to the distant and boundless and subordinate it to a clear and strict, traditional form, so Nietzsche placed his acquired inclination to the classical-reasonable, which he was doubly close to as temperament and as a philologist, at least in his evaluations, behind what he called Dionysian. They both stood at the border. Goethe was as much the last classicist as Nietzsche, alongside Wagner, was the last romantic. They both exhausted the circle of these possibilities living and shaping. After them, the meaning of the times could no longer be captured in words and images - as proved by the epigones of classical drama and the followers of Zarathustra and the Nibelungen Ring. But it is also impossible to open up a new way of seeing and saying like them. However strong shapers may emerge in Germany - as individuals and beautiful accidents - even the great line of development is over - they will always stand in the shadow of these two.

It is inherent in Western classicism that it clings entirely to the present under the control of opposing instincts and seeks to dissolve the past and future in it. Goethe's statement about the "demands of the day," his "cheerful presence," means that he absorbed every kind of past, his Greeks, his Renaissance, also "Götz" and "Faust" and "Egmont" into himself to fully incorporate them into the spirit of the present, so that we do not even think of historical foundations with "Tasso" and "Iphigenie." Conversely, distance is the true home of all romantics. They all long for what is far away and foreign from the present, into the past and future of history; none has ever found a deep relationship with what surrounded them.

The Romantic is attracted to what is alien to him, while the Classicist is attracted to what is inherent to him. Noble dreamers and noble conquerors of dreams: some have raved about the conquerors, rebels, and criminals of the past or about ideal states, future realms, and superhumans, while others understood or practiced statecraft as practice and method, like Goethe and Humboldt. The conversation between Egmont and Orange is a masterpiece by Goethe. He loved Napoleon as a figure, seeing him up close. However, he never knew what to do with the men of violence from the past when he had to represent them: his Caesar remained unwritten. Nietzsche, on the other hand, loved just such people only from a distance. Up close—like Bismarck—he could not bear them. Napoleon would have seemed crude, empty, and shallow to him, like the Napoleonic figures who lived around him—the great politicians of Europe and the power figures of the economy, whom he had neither seen nor understood. He needed a great distance between the past and the present to feel related to a reality, and therefore he created the Übermensch and, almost equally freely, the figure of Cesare Borgia. These two tendencies tragically run through recent German history. Bismarck was a classicist in politics. He only calculated with the present, with things he saw and could move, and therefore the patriotic dreamers neither loved nor could understand him until his work was completed and he could be romantically glorified as an almost mythical figure: "the Old Man in the Sachsenwald." But Ludwig II, who perished in his romanticism and never created or could create anything that promised permanence, found this love without respecting it, not only among the people but also among thinkers and artists who could have seen more clearly. Kleist is best felt among us with a shy respect that amounts to a rejection, especially where he managed to overcome the romantic in himself. He stands infinitely distant from most inwardly, in contrast to Nietzsche, whose figure and fate are close to that of the Bavarian king, who is revered even by those who never read him.

Nietzsche's aristocratic taste, lonely and dreamy through and through, is explained by his inclination to distance. The nascent classicism of the 18th century, which arose on the Thames and was then transmitted to the continent, just as Ossianic Romanticism originated from Scotland, is inseparable from the concurrent rationalism. It consciously and thoughtfully shapes, replacing free imagination with knowledge, even with scholarship: the understood Greeks, the understood Renaissance, and therefore finally the understood active contemporary world. These English classicists, all of whom were of rank, helped create liberalism as a worldview, as understood by the 18th century and by Frederick the Great, setting aside differences that one felt confident about in practice, and reasonably dealing with the facts of public opinion, which one could not eliminate or ignore. From the classicism of a noble society emerged English democracy—a superior tactic, not a doctrinaire program. It is based on the long and deep experiences of a class accustomed to dealing with the real and possible, and therefore never in danger of becoming common instead of amiable. Goethe, who was also aware of his social rank, was never an aristocrat in the passionate theoretical sense like Nietzsche, who lacked practical experience up close. In the end, he also never truly understood the power and impotence of the democracy of his time. When he rebelled against herd instincts with the anger of a sensitive soul, it arose from some historical past. He saw, in this unrelenting form, undoubtedly for the first time, how in all great cultures and epochs of the past the masses are nothing, how they suffer history but do not make it, how they are the constant victims and objects of the personal will of individuals and classes born to rule. This was often felt, but until him, this feeling had not destroyed the inherited image of "humanity," whose development seemed like the progressive solution of an ideal task, and whose leaders appeared to be the representatives of this task. Here lies the immense difference between the historiography of a Niebuhr and Ranke, which was also of romantic origin, and his way of viewing history. His gaze, which penetrated the soul of the times and peoples, transcended the mere pragmatic order of facts.

But this gaze required distance. English classicism, which also produced Grote, the first modern historian of the Greeks, a merchant and practical politician, was very much the product of a refined society. They ennobled these Greeks by feeling them as their equals, "presenting" them in the truest sense of the word as cultured, distinguished, intellectually refined people who did everything they did with taste, including Homer and Pindar, whom English classical philology preferred to Horace and Virgil. This classicism penetrated from English society into what corresponded to it in Germany: the small courts, whose princes' educators and preachers were the intermediaries; and the court circle of Weimar was ultimately the world in which Goethe's life became a symbol of cheerful proximity and rounded presence: a sociable house that became the center of intellectual Germany, a fulfillment not visible in any other German poet's life, a harmony of ascent, maturation, and fading, classic in a specifically German sense.

Alongside this path stands another, which also ended in Weimar, starting from the confinement of a Protestant parsonage, from which a large and perhaps the greatest part of German intellectuality originates, to the sun-drenched solitude of Engadin. No other German has lived so passionately as a private individual, apart from everything public and social, although they all have a tendency towards it, even if they are public figures. His dreamy longing for friends was ultimately only his inability to truly live in society, a more spiritual way of being lonely. Instead of the friendly Goethe house on the Frauenplan, there was the small, joyless house in Sils-Maria, the loneliness of the mountains, the loneliness of the sea, and finally the lonely extinction in Turin—the purest romantic life the 19th century has offered us.

Nevertheless, his need to communicate was stronger than he himself believed and certainly much stronger than Goethe's, who, despite all sociability, was one of the most secretive people. His Elective Affinities are a closed book, not to mention the Wanderjahre and the second Faust; his deepest poems are soliloquies. Nietzsche's aphorisms are never such; even the Nachtlied and the Dionysian Dithyrambs are not entirely so. An invisible witness is always present, whose eye rests on him; in this, he remained Protestant and a believer in God. All these Romantics lived in circles and schools. He invented something like this by rewriting his friends into peers or creating a circle of companions in the distant past and future, only to lament his loneliness to them again, like Novalis and Hölderlin. His whole life is filled with the bliss and agony of renunciation, the desire to give himself up and to restrain himself, to attach his life to something that was ultimately not inherent to him. Thus, his gaze developed for the soul of times and cultures, which did not reveal their secrets to a classical, self-assured person.

The works and their order, in which they appeared, explain themselves from the organic pessimism of his existence. We, who are already distant from the flowering years of materialism, should always marvel at what an achievement it was for someone in this age and this state of science in 1870 to write a book like The Birth of Tragedy. The famous formula of Apollo and Dionysus contains much more than the average person even today understands. The most important thing was not that he discovered an inner conflict in "classical" Greece, which for all others, except perhaps Bachofen and Burckhardt, was the purest revelation of the universally human, but that he already possessed the superior view at that time to see into the interior of entire cultures as living individuals. One need only compare it with Mommsen and Curtius. The others understood Greek culture only as a sum of conditions and events within a time and space. The modern way of seeing history owes its origin to Romanticism, not its depth. At that time, it was nothing more than applied philology when dealing with Greeks and Romans and applied archival research when dealing with Western peoples. It developed the view that history begins with written tradition. The liberation came from the spirit of music. From the musician Nietzsche comes the art of empathizing with the style and rhythm of foreign cultures, often in contradiction to the sources—but what does that matter! With the word Dionysus, Nietzsche discovered what excavations finally revealed thirty years later: the underworld and under-soul of ancient culture, and thus the soulful itself behind great history. Historical psychology emerged from historiography. The 18th century and classicism, including Goethe, believed in "the" culture, the one, true, moral-spiritual as the task of the one humanity. Nietzsche speaks from the beginning with the self-evidence of cultures as spectacles of nature, which at some point simply began without task, reason, purpose, or foundation, or whatever the all-too-human interpretations may be. Once—because all these cultures, truths, ways of thinking, and arts belong to a type and form of existence that emerges and then disappears forever—this is stated with such clarity for the first time in this book. That every historical fact is an expression of a soul's movement, that cultures, ages, classes, races have a soul like individual people, was such an enormous step forward in historical deepening that it was not even overlooked by him in its significance at the time.

And yet, it is again part of the Romantic's longing to escape his own nature and the fate of being born in this time that, with his second book Human, All Too Human, he forced himself to serve as a herald of the most blatant realism. These were the years in which Western rationalism ended as a farce, having begun with grandeur under Rousseau, Voltaire, and Lessing. Darwin's theory and the belief in force and matter became the religion of the cities; the soul was considered a chemical process in protein, and the purpose of the world was gathered in a social ethics of enlightened philistines. Nietzsche was utterly alien to these things. He had already expressed his disgust in the first Untimely Meditations, but the scholar in him envied Chamfort and Vauvenargues and their light and somewhat cynical way of dealing with serious matters in the tone of the great world; the artist and enthusiast was embarrassed by the massive sobriety of someone like Dühring, whom he regarded as great. As a thoroughly priestly person, more Christian than his time and more Christian than any church, he set out to expose religion as a prejudice. Now, the purpose of life was knowledge and the goal of history was the development of intelligence. He said this because it pained him, in a mocking form with which he scourged his passion, and with the unfulfillable desire to obtain a seductive image of the future in the midst of the time that contrasted with what was inherent to him.

Although the frenzy of practicality of Darwinism was as far removed from him as possible, he still extracted secrets from it that no true Darwinist suspected. In Dawn and The Gay Science, alongside a way of seeing things that should have been prosaic, even contemptible, there emerges another, shy, reverent one, penetrating deeper than that of any mere realist. Who before him spoke of the soul of a time, a class, a profession, the priest, the hero, the man, the woman, as he did? Who brought the psychology of entire centuries to an almost metaphysical formula? Who, in this history, set forth not the facts or "eternal truths" but the types of heroic, enduring, contemplative, strong, and sick life as the actual substance of events? This was a completely new kind of living forms that only a born musician with a sense of rhythm and melody could find. Now he transcends the physiognomy of historical times, of which he is and will remain the creator, to the horizon of his vision, the great symbols of a future, his future, which he needed to be completely cleansed of the dross of the thinking present, in a sublime moment, the image of the eternal recurrence, as perhaps German mystics in Gothic times had imagined, a circling in the infinite, in the night of immeasurable times, a way of losing one's soul entirely in the mysterious depths of the universe, regardless of whether these things are scientifically justifiable or not. And in the midst of this vision, that of the Übermensch and his proclaimer, Zarathustra, as the embodied meaning of the short-breathed human history of the earthly star on which he himself dwelt, all three figures of a complete remoteness that cannot be related to anything present and which therefore touch every German soul mysteriously. In every German soul, there is a corner where national ideals and dreams of a better humanity sleep. Goethe hardly needed this—therefore, he could not become truly popular. This was what was missed in him, why he was called cold and frivolous. We will never completely free ourselves from this inclination: it represents in us the unlived part of a great past.

At this height, Nietzsche posed the question of the value of the world, which had been ready in him since childhood. With this, the period of Western philosophy, centered on the question of the form of knowledge, was entirely concluded. Here too, there was a classicist and a romantic, or to say it plainly, a social and an aristocratic answer. Life is worth as much as it benefits the whole—that was the answer of the educated English who had learned in Oxford to distinguish between what was presented as an honorable view and what was done in crucial moments as politicians or businessmen. Life is all the more valuable the stronger its instincts are—that was Nietzsche's answer, whose own life was delicate and easily hurt. Nevertheless, because he was far removed from this active life, he understood its secret. That the will to power is stronger than all principles and teachings, that it has always made history and will continue to do so in the future, no matter what may be proven or preached against it, is the ultimate understanding of real history. The conceptual dissection of the "will" is irrelevant to him. The image of the active, creative, destructive will in history is everything to him. The concept has become the aspect. He does not teach; he states. So it was, and so it will be. And even if theoretical and priestly people want otherwise a thousand times, the primal instincts of life will still be the stronger. What a distance between Schopenhauer's worldview and this one! Between Nietzsche's contemporaries with their sentimental world-improvement plans and this acknowledgment of a hard fact. That he succeeded in this places this last Romantic thinker at the forefront of his century. Here we are all his students, whether we want to be or not, whether we know him or not. This view has already quietly conquered the world today. No one writes history anymore without seeing things this way.

And since life was now valued solely based on facts, and the facts taught that the stronger or weaker will to assert oneself makes life valuable or worthless, that kindness and success are almost mutually exclusive, his worldview culminates in a magnificent critique of morality, in which he does not preach a morality but measures the historically arisen moralities by their success, not by some "true" morality. This was indeed the revaluation of all values, and if we know today that he wrongly defined the opposition between master and Christian morality, stemming from his personal suffering in the 1880s, behind this lies the ultimate opposition in human existence, which he sensed and sought and finally believed to have captured in this formula. If we replace master morality with the instinctive life practice of the person determined to act and Christian morality with the theoretical valuation of contemplative natures, we have the tragedy of humanity before us, whose predominant types will always misunderstand, fight, and suffer from each other. Action and thought, reality and ideal, success and redemption, strength and kindness: these are the forces that will never understand each other. But in historical reality, it is not the ideal, goodness, and morality that rule—their kingdom is not of this world!—but decision, energy, presence of mind, practical talent. Complaints and moral judgments do not abolish the fact. Such is humanity, such is life, such is history.

Precisely because all action was so distant to him and he only knew how to think, he understood the underpinnings of action better than any great doer in the world. And the more he understood, the more shyly he withdrew from contact with it. Thus, his Romantic destiny was fulfilled. Under the weight of these last insights, the last part of his life unfolds in the strictest contrast to Goethe's, who was not foreign to action but understood his true vocation as a poet and cheerfully limited himself.

Goethe, the privy councilor and minister, the celebrated center of European intellectual life, could still in his last year of life, in the last act of his Faust, confess that he considered his life fulfilled. "Stay a while, you are so beautiful!"—the word of utmost contentment spoken at the moment when the work of active proximity is completed under Faust's command, to endure from then on—that was the great and concluding symbol of classicism, to which this life was devoted, and which led from the controlled education of the 18th century into the controlled mastery of the 19th.

But distance cannot be created, only proclaimed. And just as Faust's death concluded the classical life path, the spirit of the loneliest of all wanderers now radiates with a final curse on his time in those enigmatic days in Turin, when he saw the last mists dissipate and the farthest peaks clearly outlined in his vision of the world. It is precisely for this reason that Nietzsche's existence exerts a stronger influence on posterity. The fulfillment of Goethe's life also lies in the fact that it concluded something. Countless Germans will revere Goethe, live with him, draw strength from him, but he will not transform them. Nietzsche's influence is transformative because the melody of his vision did not end within himself. Romantic thinking is infinite, sometimes in form, never in thought. It always grasps new areas, consumes them or melts them down. His way of seeing extends to friends and enemies and from them to ever new followers or opponents, and even if one day no one reads the works anymore, this view will last and be creative. Nietzsche's work is not a piece of the past to be enjoyed but a task that demands service. It depends today neither on his writings nor on their contents, and precisely for this reason, it is a German fate. If we do not learn to act as real history intends, in the midst of a time that does not tolerate world-estranged ideals and avenges itself on their authors, in which the harsh action that Nietzsche called Cesare Borgia's alone has value, in which the morality of ideologues and world improvers is more ruthlessly restricted than ever to unnecessary and ineffective talk and writing, then we will cease to exist as a people. Without a wisdom of life that does not console in difficult situations but helps out, we cannot live, and this wisdom appears for the first time in its harshness within German thought with Nietzsche, however much it may be veiled by impressions and ideas from other sources. He showed the most history-hungry people in the world history as it is. His legacy is the task of living history in this way.

            Sovereign is he who decides on the state of exception.

            This definition alone can do justice to the concept of sovereignty as a border concept. For border concept does not mean a confused concept, as in the unclean terminology of popular literature, but a concept of the utmost sphere. It corresponds to the …

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            The concept of the state presupposes the concept of the political. The state is the political status of a people. This provides only a first description, not a conceptual definition of the state. Such a definition is not necessary here, as we are dealing with the essence of the political. We may leave it undecided as to what the state is in …

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The second edition of this treatise on the intellectual-historical situation of contemporary parliamentarism has remained essentially unchanged. This is not to suggest that it intended to transcend any discussion. Rather, there is reason for concern that an unwaveringly scientific discussion, which avoids any party-political exploitation and does…

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            This small piece of writing has emerged from notes intended for “The Decline of the West,” particularly the second volume, some of which were even the seed from which this entire philosophy has developed.^[1]

The word socialism does not denote the deepest, but the loudest question of the time. Everyone uses it. Everyone thinks of s…

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