by Ernst Jünger
Only later did it strike me that I had immediately known who it was that confronted me. This was remarkable because the great Zapparoni, as every child knew him, did not in the least resemble the person whom I was facing here in the library. Zapparoni films had developed a picture of a benign grandfather or a Santa Claus, with workshops in the snow-covered forests, where he employed gnomes and racked his brains to find out how to amuse all the children, great and
small. “Once again and year by year――”: on this note the catalogue of the Zapparoni Works was tuned, a book which was looked forward to every October with an eagerness never enjoyed by any fairy tale or utopian novel.
Zapparoni must certainly have had a deputy to play this role, perhaps an actor, perhaps a robot. It was even possible that he employed several such shadows or projections. This is one of mankind’s ancient dreams, and has given rise to special turns of phrase; “I cannot be in four places at once,” for instance. Evidently Zapparoni not only believed it to be possible, but considered the division a profitable extension and intensification of his personality. Now that we are able to enter apparatuses and leave parts of ourself within them—for instance, our voice and our image—we enjoy certain advantages of the antique slave system without its drawbacks. If anyone understood this, it was Zapparoni, the connoisseur and developer of automatons as objects of play, entertainment, and luxury. One of his likenesses, elevated to an ideal, paraded in the Sunday supplements and on the television screen with a more convincing voice and a more genial appearance than those nature had given him; another gave a lecture in Sydney, while the Master, comfortably meditating, rested in his study.
I was slightly shaken in the presence of this unlikeness which affected me like an optical illusion and made me doubt the man’s identity. Was this the right man? But he must be, and the good grandfather was his deputy-director. His voice was pleasant, by the way.
VIII
“Captain Richard,” he said, “Mr. Twinnings has recommended you to me, and I value his judgment. He thinks that you’d like to devote yourself to better, more peaceful things, just as he has done. Well, it is never too late for that.”
As he spoke, he stepped out onto the terrace and motioned me to a chair. I sat down, dazed: the dentist’s first probe touched the sensitive nerve at its root and at the seat of the inflammation. The interview began in the most unpromising way possible.
In Zapparoni’s eyes I was, of course, a doubtful character, as I undeniably was in my own. That he had gently shown his lack of respect should not have offended me; indeed, in my present situation, it was entirely appropriate for me to be oversensitive.
But with his contemptuous allusion to my former profession he had touched an old unhealed wound. I knew that the affairs I had been engaged in were, in the eyes of inventors and builders like Zapparoni, things only one step removed from the “stealing of horses.” One would do well to dissociate one’s self from them, but I could not imitate Twinnings.
A man like Zapparoni could say what he wanted to—it sounded well. It had authority, not only because he could buy up the press, which paid homage to him in the editorial and the advertising departments, but principally because he was an embodiment of the spirit of the age. This homage had, therefore, the advantage that it was not only paid for, but that it was, at the same time, sincerely felt—it demanded nothing but wholehearted approval from both the intelligentsia and the moralists of the press.
I must, of course, admit that Zapparoni really could pass for the showpiece of that elated technical optimism which dominates our leading minds. With him, technology took a new turn toward downright pleasure—the age-old magicians’ dream of being able to change the world by thought alone seemed almost to have come true. In addition, there was the enormous effect, which any head of state could envy, produced by those photographs of him always surrounded by crowds of children.
Everything devised, constructed, and mass-produced at Zapparoni’s made life much easier. It was not considered good form to mention that these things were at the same time dangerous, but it was difficult to deny this danger. Although during the last decades, no major conflagration had occurred, a series of local crises which had flared up caused the Great Powers to make a careful estimate of the harm they were confident of bringing about. It was clearly evident then that the Zapparoni Works played a leading role on this balance sheet and that, without much alteration, all his lilliputian robots and luxury automatons could contribute not only to the improvement but also to the shortening of life. The only thing these Great Powers had in common was the disgusting habit of mutual spying—the cowardly triumph of calculating brains over courage to live.
By and large, the Zapparoni Works resembled a temple of Janus with one bright and one dark portal, and when clouds were gathering on the horizon, a stream of fiendishly devised, murderous tools began to pour forth from the dark gate. At the same time this dark gate was taboo; actually it should not have existed at all. But time and again extremely disquieting rumors leaked out of the construction department, and it was with good reason that the workshop for models was located in the innermost restricted area. The job opening was very likely connected with such matters.
I am certainly far from eager to contribute to that favorite theme: “Why do all the wrong things happen?” Eventually the worst will happen. Rather I am concerned with a particular query which often haunted me before and which I was again acutely aware of after Zapparoni’s humiliating words of welcome. My query is this: Why are those who have endangered and changed our lives in such terrifying and unpredictable ways not content with unleashing and controlling enormous forces and with enjoying their consequent fame, power, and wealth? Why must they want to be saints as well?
This question had especially bothered me when I was employed as a tank inspector. Among the few books I carried with me at that time (along with Flavius Josephus) was The Conquest of Mexico by Prescott. The fascination of this book lies in its evocation of man’s rigid taboos and obsessions during a late stone-age civilization where priesthoods and sun temples and human sacrifices abounded. We see, as through a narrow chink, impassive faces seemingly carved of stone, and the streams of blood which flow down through the grooves and drains of the altar in the Great Teocalli. No wonder the Spaniards believed that one of the vast abodes of Satan had opened up before their eyes.
But isn’t it possible that, when once again the curtain of the great world stage has fallen, no less horrified eyes may be directed on us and on our saints? We do not know how we shall appear in the history books of future centuries or at the great judgment of the dead on civilizations. Perhaps such a wizened old blood-priest will be preferred to any of our saints.
For instance, our increasing speed, which began at the end of the eighteenth century like the start of a salto mortale—how shall it be judged? At a certain point in time we can begin to speak of a dynamite civilization (it is no accident that the highest prize for cultural achievements is provided from a dynamite fund): the world is filled with the noise of explosions—from the rapid, diminutive explosions which set in motion myriads of machines, to the explosions which threaten continents. We walk through a panorama of pictures, which, if we have not fallen under its spell, reminds us of a large lunatic asylum—here we see an automobile race, in the course of which a car drives among the spectators like a missile, mowing some dozens of them down; and there, a “pattern bombing,” by which a squadron of bombers rolls up a city like a carpet, in a few minutes dissolving in smoke a work of art which took a thousand years to complete. A luxury airliner crashes to the ground, wrapping itself in red flames. Crew and passengers—men, women, and children—are charred into mummies within the blazing fuselage. Beauty and radiance, jewels, silk, and diamonds evaporate in the blaze.
And such flares illumine our planet daily. After having seen one of them at close range in all its grisly hideousness, I boarded airplanes only reluctantly. At times I was forced to participate in a flight call
ed, in professional jargon, a “flying carrousel”—a circling flight over the training fields for the purpose of observing and discussing the movements of the tanks. I was aware of the risk. But I was not adventuresome enough to put up with this risk in order to save a little time on a pleasure trip. In such a lottery, one is much more likely to draw a blank than the first prize.
We marvel at Mexico and Babylon and overlook the no less astonishing things in our own world. We marvel that a man like Caligula laid claim to divine tribute and overlook how often similar incense is offered in our day. High honors are given to those who discover a formula or contrivance which will shake the foundations of the universe. Perhaps this tendency aims at a grand prix that can be no longer conferred by human beings.
That Zapparoni should feel superior to a cavalryman and patronize him was as absurd as a shark passing judgment on its own teeth, which are, after all, its most efficient part. Horsemen have existed for thousands of years, and the world has continued to exist in spite of Genghis Khan and other gentlemen who came and went like the tides. But when saints like Zapparoni began to appear, the earth itself was threatened. The peaceful stillness of the forests, the depth of the ocean, the outermost part of the earth’s atmosphere were in danger. Even in peace they had brought about greater evils than any tyrant or warlord had ever imposed; they prepared poisons which no one before had imagined or even known by name. Each day their machines took a toll equal to the casualty list of a single battle, and the yearly toll equaled that of a war—and in what a ghastly manner.
Behind all this was a brutal and ruthless use of intellect—which basically recognized only one tendency—that which at the same time shortened, mechanically increased, and accelerated production. But could they create an olive tree or a horse? With all their enormous potentialities they could, of course, build cities, but not the smallest dwelling of the kind once built by a simple mason or a carpenter. Certain naïve souls even commissioned them to build churches, though one would not want even a garden pavilion as a gift from them. The churches they got were built in a style suitable only for pillboxes, airplanes, and refrigerators; there they celebrated their religious rites before a congregation that considered penicillin more effective than any sacrifice of the Mass.
I had admired these super-philistines long enough—these servants of forces unknown to them. As long as such admiration lasts, destruction will increase and human standards decrease. A mind that endangers worlds cannot create a fly. The huge scaffolding reveals itself as a scaffold indeed. If knowledge is power, one must know first what knowledge really is. That Zapparoni had reflected on this was clear by his look—he was an initiate; he knew. His thoughts went far beyond techniques; I saw it in his eye. Like a chimera, he looked across the gray roofs; he had flashed over the primeval forest in light blue plumage. A glimmer of the immaterial color had splintered off into our times. His scheme and ambitions were bound to aim at something higher than satisfying the ever-increasing hunger of the masses for power and luxury.
His eye had primeval inclusions. Did it recognize the inclusion of timelessness in a new cosmic moment, in the delusion of Maia with its infinite abundance of images that fall back into the basin like drops of water from a fountain? Did his eye look back with nostalgia to the immense forests of the Congo where new races are growing up? Perhaps he would return there after his bold flight into the super-worlds. Black historians would then evolve their theories about him, as we do about the palace of Montezuma.
I should have liked to discuss these questions with him, since we are all haunted by the possibility that there may be some hope for the future. A great physicist is always a metaphysician as well; he has a higher concept of his knowledge and his task. I should have liked to look at Zapparoni’s map of operations. These plans would have been more valuable to me than even the fulfilment of the request which had led me to him.
However, far from asking me to join him in his study, the great man received me as a chief Brahmin might, when, in the temple of the goddess Kali, he is asked for alms. He received me with a platitude.
IX
For a moment I had forgotten that I was here as a job applicant, but only for a moment. If anything could have lifted me out of my misery it would have been a word about our world and its meaning from the mouth of one of its augurs—a brief hint from an authority.
Zapparoni had as many faces as his work had meanings. Where was the Minotaur in this labyrinth? Was he the kind grandfather who made children, housewives, and small gardeners happy? Was he the contractor who moralized about the army and, at the same time, equipped it with ingenious weapons? Was he the daring engineer who was concerned solely with the play of the intellect and who wanted to describe a curve which led back to basic forms? Or was he simply trying to devise a new armature such as those observed in all classes of the animal kingdom, an armature by which nature harnessed the intellect, drawing upon it as means? It would explain many a naïve trait, surprising in the protagonists.
Above all—what was his attitude toward man, without whom all his work was meaningless? It originated in man and must return to him. A rose or a vine may be conceived without a trellis, but never the other way round. Did he want to dominate man, to paralyze him, or to lead him into fabulous realms? Was automation, in his eyes, an enormous experiment, a test to be passed, a question to be answered? I thought him capable of theoretical, even theological reflections; I had seen his library and had looked into his eyes.
It is a great privilege to hear from the mouth of an initiate what struggles we are ensnared in and what the meaning is of the sacrifices we are required to make before veiled images. Even if we should hear something evil, it would still be a blessing to see our task as something beyond a senseless cycle of recurrence.
But it was not for me to question—quite the contrary. Zapparoni’s first words had acted on me like a cold douche. For a short moment I was tempted to defend myself. But since this would have been unwise, I contented myself with saying: “It is very kind of Your Excellency to receive me personally.”
From Twinnings I gathered he was entitled to this form of address and to many others as well.
“Do call me simply by my name as all the workers in our plant do.” He did not say my plant or my workers. We had settled down in two garden chairs and looked out over the meadows. Zapparoni crossed his legs and regarded me with a smile. Wearing slippers of soft leather, he gave the impression of a man who spends his mornings comfortably within his four walls. But he looked more like an artist, a successful novelist, or a great composer—someone who has been without material worries for a long time and who is sure of his means and his appeal.
The hum of the plant came to us from the distance. I felt that in a moment he was going to ask me questions. I was prepared for them, but had not arranged any answers, as I once used to do for similar interviews. Surely, every applicant wishes to make a special impression, one which represents the ideal picture of himself he carries in his mind. He submits his own advertisement. In this case any such presentation was out of the question simply because I didn’t exactly know what was expected of me. Besides, interviewing techniques have made enormous progress in our time. Even though the interviewer scarcely ever finds out what the man is, he grasps with great perspicuity what he is not and what impression he struggles to give. In such a situation, therefore, it is always best to answer quite extempore.
“You came at just the right moment,” he said, “to help me clear up a detail which has struck me in a book I am reading.”
He pointed to his study. “I’ve begun to read the memoirs of Fillmor, whom you probably know—you must have been near-contemporaries at school.”
This remark was more apposite than Zapparoni supposed, unless he had meant to provoke me. Fillmor was now one of our high commanders. I knew him well; we had both been in Monteron’s class. He had served with the Parchim Dragoons and had been sent by them to the military academy. Like Twinnings he was attracted
to Anglo-Saxon manners: both were from Mecklenburg. The Court of this little grand duchy modeled itself on the English pattern, and many who came from there had a London touch.
Fillmor was very much like Lessner, but far superior to him, a typical “First”—even at that time it was taken for granted that a brilliant career was in store for him. Even Monteron, who didn’t like him particularly, never questioned that he had a first-class intelligence. In general, Fillmor had no friends; he exuded a frosty atmosphere, in which he himself felt at ease. This distinguished him from warmhearted characters like Lorenz or from bons vivants like Twinnings, whose friendship was coveted. Accordingly, Lorenz was drawn to the troop, Twinnings to the post of staff officer, and Fillmor to a commanding position.
We had started together—he, the man of success; I, the man of failure. It was easy to draw parallels, and I had often drawn them myself. How could his quiet, assured rise be explained—a rise that surmounted catastrophes as if they were rungs in a ladder? I suppose the main reason was his prodigious memory. He was a pupil who never needed to study since everything he heard became permanently fixed in his head—forever imprinted on his memory. If you read a poem to him slowly, later he could recite it by heart without a single mistake. No one learned languages more easily: all were child’s play. After he had memorized a thousand words, he began to read foreign books and newspapers, broadening the range of his historical and political knowledge at the same time. It was as though he vaulted into the spirit of a language instead of working his way into it. He showed a similar ability in mathematics, and even with large numbers, he could solve arithmetic problems in his head.
All this frequently led to clashes with our instructors when, for instance, he made an unprepared translation at sight or when he handed in given problems, having written down only the problem and the solution. The instructors suspected him of cheating, until they realized whom they were dealing with. A long passage from a difficult author, which the instructors had painstakingly chosen in order to torture their pupils, word by word, for a whole lesson—this Fillmor would have translated in one minute (had they not curbed him). Such natures are the terror of schoolmasters. Since they could not prove him guilty, they tried to change to the argumentum ad hominem. This was also difficult, since Fillmor’s conduct was distinguished by an unobtrusive superiority. Later, on Monteron’s formidable Mondays, no shadow was ever cast on him. When he had been treated unjustly, he would take his revenge by waiting patiently for a flagrant error and then reporting it, but only after politely asking permission to speak. It then became evident that the pedants were less concerned with knowledge than with showing their own superiority. But his prank had been well prepared and they began to feel uneasy. In order to ignore his superiority, they had to ignore him. So the class often presented the spectacle of a “First” who listened in silence and was never asked a question. The instructors were overjoyed when they got rid of him. But there could be no doubt about his receiving a summa cum laude.