1 It is not the answer, but the spirit in which we answer, that gets it right; and with this we are not saying enough: the spirit in which we respond is what allows us to «answer without depending on the answer»1.
It precedes even intention, which, formed «in its entirety» by «the will to power of different instincts, includes the relation each instinct has to the others.»
2 In this respect, definition should not be separated from «staking out a claim in search of gold»2; anyone who still does so is being romantic, decadent, and pedantic, since intransigence and dogmatism have more to do with our dependence on what we define than with a separation between them. When one separates them, what one is doing is abdicating one's rights, prerogatives, and responsibility.
3 Let’s not make things as easy for ourselves as the separatists do, since that way we make them impossible for ourselves. «We must not split the world in two»; that is to deny the nature of things, the innate, our duty, and the true challenge.
4 Whoever sets things in place but does not depend on what he sets in place is, at the same time, the one who can not only «correctly divide and define»3, but also the one who can remember the spirit in which he defined things.
5 It is precisely conquering them that this freedom makes possible. This shows an obvious relation, but one we often pass over (over, here, means on the surface), between «originality, honesty, authenticity, and speaking from the heart,” «and» having prepared ourselves well for something.
6 By remembering the spirit in which we define something, we free ourselves from materialism. This is very important, since it shows the depth of that human principle that, by «starting well, ends well.» It is also where the strength of goodwill comes from, and it makes clear that nothing is less generous than superficial, belated goodwill: it aspires to little and gives little back.
A situation is made still worse when someone who aspires to little, spent, disillusioned, and tired, can now only «wring something out of others.» There are few things clumsier than overvaluing the answer.
7 The other is not only a friend or an enemy; he is also the brother of our answers.
8 «Distinction» belongs to the spirit: to it falls, as a preeminent and firstborn singularity, the title of nobility that every human being carries within them.
9 «Respect and distance»: with these goods one also asks forgiveness—they are the condition for getting out of a bad situation.
“A noble philosopher described architecture as frozen music and, so to speak, had to endure many gestures of disapproval. We believe this beautiful idea can be recovered in no better way than by calling architecture music that has melted into silence. Let us imagine Orpheus when he was assigned a great deserted plot of land to build on: cunningly he settles in the most suitable place and, through the life-giving music of his lyre, brings a great square into being around him. The rocks, quickly detached from their enormous blocks by the powerful summons and gentle seduction of the music, are driven, in their enthusiastic approach, to form an artistic, well-crafted structure, and to arrange themselves in a proper order of rhythmic walls and buildings. And so one street may be added to another. Nor will strong protective walls be lacking. The sound of the music dies away, but the harmony remains. The inhabitants of such a city walk and work surrounded by eternal melodies; the spirit cannot decline, activity cannot grow drowsy. The eye takes on the function, the work, and the task that belonged to the ear, and even on the most ordinary day the citizens feel they are living in an ideal state. Without reflecting on it, without asking after its causes, they enter a state of elevation. Get used to walking back and forth through St. Peter’s Basilica and you will feel something analogous to what we have dared here to put into words. The inhabitant of a badly built city, by contrast, where chance seems to have swept the houses against one another with a slack broom, lives without knowing it in a desert of gloomy conditions. A stranger entering it feels as if he were listening to bagpipes, whistles, and tambourines, and as if at any moment he might come upon dancing bears and leaping monkeys".
“Architecture for the pursuit of knowledge.— Someday, and probably soon, we will need to recognize what our great cities lack above all: quiet, broad, spacious places for reflection. Places with long cloisters and high ceilings for days of bad weather or excessive sun, where the shouting and noise of carriages do not reach, and where good manners would forbid even priests to pray aloud; buildings and spaces that, as a whole, express the greatness of reflection and withdrawal. The time has passed when the Church held the monopoly on reflection, when the «vita contemplativa» had to be, above all, a «vita religiosa»; and everything built by the Church expresses that idea. I do not see how we could be content with those buildings, even if they were stripped of their religious purposes. The language they speak is too rhetorical and not free enough: they remind us that they are houses of God and ostentatious monuments to some dealings with a supraterrestrial world. We, who have no god, could not think our thoughts in such surroundings. We want to see ourselves translated into stone and plants; we want to walk within ourselves when we pass through those buildings and gardens.
10 The value of architecture rests on the fact that the fruit hangs from the branches; without that overall vision of things «already defined», which characterizes the architectural part of every work of art, its value is not truly appreciated.
References
- Ernst Jünger — Pasados los setenta, Diario V (1991 -1996)
«In this regard one wonders whether thought cannot attain a force akin to music, one that submits to the art of measurement without needing it. Calculators, fortress plans, musical instruments then arise “in passing”.»
- Ernst Jünger — La Tijera
- Socrates o Platón — De una cita de Emerson
- Goethe — Máximas y reflexiones
A noble philosopher described architecture as frozen music and, so to speak, had to endure many gestures of disapproval. We believe this beautiful idea cannot be more aptly restored than by calling architecture music that has melted into silence. Let us imagine Orpheus when he was assigned a great deserted plot of land on which to build: with cunning he settles in the most suitable spot and, through the life-giving music of his lyre, causes a great square to rise around him. The rocks, quickly detached from their huge blocks by the powerful call and gentle seduction of the music, are driven, in their eager approach, to form a well-wrought artistic structure and to arrange themselves in a proper order of walls and rhythmic forms. And so one street may be added to another. Nor will strong protective walls be lacking. The sound of the music dies away, but the harmony remains. The inhabitants of such a city walk and work surrounded by eternal melodies; the spirit cannot decline, activity cannot grow dull. The eye takes on the function, the work, and the task that had belonged to the ear, and even on the most ordinary day the citizens feel they are living in an ideal state. Without reflecting on it, without asking after its causes, they enter a state of elevation. Make a habit of walking back and forth through St. Peter’s Basilica, and you will feel something analogous to what we have dared here to express in words. The inhabitant of a badly built city, by contrast, where chance seems to have swept the houses against one another with a limp broom, lives without knowing it in a desert of gloomy conditions. A stranger entering it feels as if he were hearing bagpipes, whistles, and tambourines, and as if at any moment he might come upon dancing bears and monkeys leaping about.
- Friedrich Nietzsche — La gaya ciencia