Stones
First edition as a private print 1966 in "Gestein" by A. Renger-Patzsch
It was during a holiday hike through the Eder Valley. We had closely followed the meandering middle course of the river and had not avoided the steep, slate-covered banks in which it was embedded. Moving just above the flowing waters, we made our way from handhold to handhold and from foothold to foothold along the narrow ledges. Coming from the plains, where natural rock formations are only encountered in outcrops, this was a novel pleasure for us.
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.