Last Words - Ernst Jünger
[This fragment serves as an introduction to Ernst Jünger’s Letzte Worte, a collection of the last words of great men, which he collected in journals throughout his life.]
8. 2. 1961
It was an inclination for whimsical pursuits and solitary incursions that prompted me, years ago, to compile a collection of last words. More than that, it was the hope for a heavy yield of human thoughts about the meaning of the existence we have lived through. The sun is setting; once again the gaze embraces the wandered world in the evening light. At the same time, on the other side, the curtain begins to tremble; the patterns of reality woven through experience dissolve. Perhaps, behind them, a glimmer of the totally other, which our poor language is wont to call the beyond, already becomes visible to the refracting eye. Perhaps shouts, greetings, commands can already be heard when the anchors are lifted and the ropes cut so that the ship can begin the great voyage. It is worth listening through the confusion and panic of departure for those who, sooner or later, will have to take the same path, pass through the same gate.
At all times, people have listened attentively to the dying. Their words seem mantic, prophetic, almost a transmission, almost an order, like that of the exhausted runner handing over his torch.
In the family, one knows the last words of the father, and in the nations, the last words of the great men who have passed away. Biographies tend to end with them; world history is woven through with such testimonies. One takes a great journey through the millennia if one takes the last words as a guideline.
*
After spending some time on the subject, disappointment is bound to set in. There are various reasons for this, especially of a qualitative nature. The opinion that in the face of death man enters a vestibule in which his words gain a new resonance may be supported by beautiful testimonies – but far more often we encounter the trivial, the meaningless, or the utterly confused utterance. There is hardly a commonplace with which a person has not said goodbye. There is also no error, no inconsistency, indeed no maliciousness which has not insisted upon itself.
This applies above all to those cases in which a person faces death with clear consciousness and an unbroken will, and knows his hour, as before suicide or execution. He is well aware of the significance, the solemnity of the approaching transformation, and seeks to meet it in character and words, but he is still held in thrall by what the ancients called the vanity of the world. Particularly in the case of the criminal, as in that type who is more subject to the will than others, this inadequacy before the violence of death is deeply indebted.
We see the murderer who enters the scaffold with a lie or with cynicism on his lips. We hear the partisan on the wall shouting a cheer for the tyrant who has betrayed him. In particular, it is the word "freedom" that rises again and again from the fever, but attached to what meagre heroes and machinations. Yet there must be something powerful hidden behind this word, in whose call friend and foe, the just and the unjust unite, and which, in a sun-like way, gilds and illuminates the manifold.
No historian can clarify this confusion. Art can grasp it in tragedy, but only cults reach its bottom. Man is revealed as such, and at the same time as the just and unjust avenger: that is the triptych of death on the world-hill at the hour of judgement. And whatever we may twist and turn of last words, we shall find none greater than that:
"It is finished."
*
As a source in the sense of historical accuracy, the last word always remains suspect. One does well to rely neither on its originality nor on its authenticity. It is neither certain whether the deceased really spoke it, nor whether it really was his last word.
The incomprehensible will usually follow what can still be understood. In the surroundings of the dying person there is the confusion that is connected with every touch of being. The bystanders hear different things, or if they hear the same thing, they interpret it differently. The last word can be given a sublime and a trivial meaning like the famous:
"More light."
*
Where much has been said, one retains this word, another that. Then, sooner or later, a reading may be formed. It may be that the word was spoken days before the parting. It remains in the mind because it was particularly striking, particularly significant for the departed.
In this respect, the last words belong to the realm of anecdote, that indispensable tool of both historiography and characterology. In everyday life, too, we resort to the anecdote to describe an acquaintance as he or she really is or has been. Even if the anecdote is based on a fact, we will sharpen it to make it more accurate. "Se non è vero, è ben' trovato" [Even if it is not true, it is well conceived] – the word can also be interpreted to mean that good invention transcends mere reality. Every invention is at the same time a finding – a condensation of the possible. "What has never happened anywhere is true", that is, the poet takes precedence over the historian. In every great writing of history, therefore, one will detect a poetic element.
The good anecdote hits the nail on the head. It is less concerned with the deeds and works of the great man than with revealing his nature. Here the people become artists and continue to work on history as poets. It still has the power that formed the fairy tale, the myth. The simple man around the campfire, in the inn, behind the stove knows how to tell how he met the great one. The strong Grettir, the little corporal, the old Fritz, and the righteous Caliph Harun [al Raschid] – what might be hidden behind this little one who does great things, behind this old one who has magic power, and this righteous one to whom hope is attached? Behind every great thing there is something greater; that is what makes human greatness. He who has, to him shall be given; where the people suppose righteous glory, they add parable upon parable.
*
The last word has an anecdotal character; it is not so much a tradition as an identification. With some qualification we may say that it is bestowed. On the other hand, it will not be fictitious. It will stand in a necessary relation to its man and thus point to a stratum where things become both ominous and numinous. There the bystanders, like the evangelists, hear different things.
After all, good faith belongs to the rendering of last words; the obviously invented ones are eliminated. Among them are those in which the advantage of the bereaved becomes all too palpable. [After the death of the modern Greek poet [illegible], another poet, Sikilianos, hoped to succeed the famous deceased in rank and honour]. Likewise, words would break the concept as the poet puts them into the mouths of his heroes, though they are often of great beauty. Among them is that
"I contemplate a long sleep;
For the last days' torment was great."
from Schiller's Wallenstein. The poet's word has become interwoven with the historical person, but even in the drama it remains uncertain whether it is really the last. The murder is left out. "Muffled voices – roar of weapons – then suddenly deep silence."
Finally, the last word should also be imagined as spoken and not written. Of the farewell letters, what was said of the parting word at the appointed hour applies to a greater degree. The stronger and more unbroken the consciousness, the more questionable, the more meagre becomes what thought and language can offer against the majesty of death. Of course, the written word is the authentic one. The fact that it has a weaker effect than that which is spoken freely into the air in mortal distress is explained by the fact that intention predominates; and with it, through it, personhood. As we approach the last stages of the human trajectory, however, in which personhood is extinguished, the unintentional becomes more credible. From it, commonality becomes perceptible, commonality of suffering and love, of destiny and its power. What the light of the earthly day separates and divides, the holy night unites in us.
"Love is freely given,
And no more, separation."
*
It is because of the peculiarity of the subject that it cannot satisfy the mind bent on historical accuracy. Thus it comes to judgments such as that made by W. L. Hertslet in the introduction to his book "Der Treppenwitz der Weltgeschichte":
"Just as in earlier times, at the birth of important people, light appearances and other such mischief were fashionable, so later one very often put a last significant word into the mouth of the departing hero, serving, as it were, as a motto for his life, and ensured a theatrically gripping exit. Against these exclamations of the dying, unless they are particularly trivial and meaningless, one must above all be cautious; almost none can stand up to criticism."
Like many positivist judgements, this one is true only in the middle, but otherwise neither in the beginning nor the end; it is true in the visible section, but neither for the origin nor for the conclusion of our path. Where, according to the beautiful words of Léon Bloy, life enters into the substance of history, accuracy is no longer sufficient. It stands as one means among another on the historical path and is set aside until its end, like a cane.
Where history ends, man has always used the word not as a designation but as a sign, not as a minted coin for which he exchanges pensions, but as a symbol, as a reference in language to the ineffable. In this sense, it loses its exactness, it becomes multiple and ambiguous. But it reaches deeper into the cosmos and gains strength from the unspecific.
*
Despite all the criticism of the tradition, it can be assumed that there is a wealth hidden beneath the confusion of the last words. Those who study the subject for an extended time begin to notice regularities, repetitions, similarities, stylistic forms. From these, in turn, conclusions can be drawn about common features of the characters, the mood, the situation. It goes without saying that caution is called for.
The study of a large number of seemingly insignificant sayings can nevertheless be profitable – for example, by sharpening the senses. This applies to almost all collections. The great number, which on the one hand levels out, on the other hand makes not only the particular but also the generally valid stand out more sharply. On the grey surface of the sea, the eye recognises <not> only <the> angler in his boat as if engraved, but also the fine ribbing in which the current is visible.
*
The similarity and often the identity of the last words.
[Here the transcript breaks off.]
