La phase du « Travailleur » a toutefois été très brève dans la longue vie de Jünger. Mais même après sa sortie sereine et graduelle hors de l’idéologie techniciste , Jünger refuse tout « escapisme romantique » : il rejette l’attitude de Cassandre et veut regarder les phénomènes en face, sereinement. Pour lui, il faut pousser le processus jusqu’au bout afin de provoquer, à terme, un véritablement renversement, sans s’encombrer de barrages ténus, érigés avec des matériaux surannés, faits de bric et de broc. Sa position ne relève aucunement du technicisme naïf et bourgeois de la fin du 19ème siècle : pour lui, l’Etat, la chose politique, le pouvoir sera déterminé par la technique, par la catégorie du « Travail ». Dans cette perspective, la technique n’est pas la source de petites commodités pour agrémenter la vie bourgeoise mais une force titanesque qui démultipliera démesurément le pouvoir politique. L’individu, cher au libéralisme de la Belle Epoque, fera place au « Type », qui renoncera aux limites désuètes de l’idéal bourgeois et se posera comme un simple rouage, sans affects et sans sentimentalités inutiles, de la machine étatique nouvelle, qu’il servira comme le soldat sert sa mitrailleuse, son char, son avion, son sous-marin. Le « Type » ne souffre pas sous la machine, comme l’idéologie anti-techniciste le voudrait, il s’est lié physiquement et psychiquement à son instrument d’acier comme le paysan éternel est lié charnellement et mentalement à sa glèbe. Jünger : « Celui qui vit la technique comme une agression contre sa substance, se place en dehors de la figure du Travailleur ». Parce que le Travailleur, le Type du Travailleur, s’est soumis volontairement à la Machine, il en deviendra le maître parce qu’il s’est plongé dans le flux qu’elle appelle par le fait même de sa présence, de sa puissance et de sa croissance. Le Type s’immerge dans le flux et refuse d’être barrage bloquant, figeant.
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Alexander Wolfheze
The Sunset of Tradition and The Great War [2]
Newcastle upon Tyne: Cambridge Scholars, 2018
£67.99 (sale price £33.99 until December 1 [3])
Of the major (and even several of the minor) European languages, the Traditionalist school of philosophy – that articulated by René Guénon and Julius Evola and their offshoots – was a latecomer in the Anglophone world. After the better part of a century of near-total obscurity, it was only thanks to the hard work of publishers such as Sophia Perennis, Inner Traditions, and World Wisdom (not to mention Counter-Currents!) that most of the writings of the Traditionalist school finally appeared in English and became known – in certain circles, at least – in recent decades.
While this has been a major step forward, there is still a dearth of original, secondary works pertaining to the Traditionalist perspective in English. And most of what has been produced in English has focused exclusively on esotericism (particularly of the Islamic variety). What has been conspicuously absent have been works dealing with history, social issues, and politics from a Traditionalist point of view.
It’s not difficult to understand why, however, given that for a long time, Traditionalists have been operating under the guise of being purely concerned with religion and mysticism, remaining silent about the fact that Traditionalism in its complete form is one of the most – if not the most – reactionary current of thought that exists in the postmodern world. This is of course a consequence of the fact that most Traditionalist thinkers today have opted for the safety of academic careers (something which Evola noted already in the 1950s and for which he expressed his contempt), and thus want to avoid being called fascists. Their cover has been somewhat blown, however, as a result of Steve Bannon’s claim that Guénon was a crucial influence on him, which has in turn led to some superficial and ill-informed propaganda from journalists using Traditionalism as a branding iron with which to mark both Bannon and Trump (by association) as fascists, by bringing attention to the connection between Evola and Guénon. (And Evola had the audacity to call himself a “superfascist,” so by the logic of the average half-witted journalist of today, that makes Bannon and Trump really fascist!) It remains to be seen what the long-term consequences of this will be in terms of Traditionalism’s reception in the mainstream, although I’ve noticed that it’s become harder to find Evola and Guénon’s books on bookstore shelves these days. It may have the beneficial effect of forcing Traditionalists out of the realm of pure scholasticism and into putting their beliefs into practice, if academia ultimately becomes a hostile environment for them – which it inevitably will, if present trends continue. Time will tell.
Alexander Wolfheze is thus to be commended for defying this trend and producing a work which openly declares the anti-modern and anti-liberal spirit of Traditionalism and applies it to the temporal world, rather than focusing on esotericism alone. The Sunset of Tradition and the Origin of The Great War, fortunately, takes a large step towards rectifying the lack of original Traditionalist literature in English, being essentially a Traditionalist historiography – or, according to the author, only the start of a multi-volume Traditionalist historiography – of the birth of the postmodern world. According to the biography included in the book, Dr. Wolfheze is a Dutch scholar who specializes in Assyriology, cultural anthropology, pre-modern epistemology, and (naturally) Traditionalism, and he has previously published studies on Near Eastern cultural history. He is also active with the Dutch Right-wing metapolitical organization, Erkenbrand [4], so clearly, unlike most Traditionalist scholars, Dr. Wolfheze is not content to merely sit on the sidelines while his civilization is destroyed, justifying it by whining about “muh Kali Yuga.” While many Rightists pay lip service to Traditionalism without actually knowing much about it, Dr. Wolfheze seems to be one who is bridging that divide.
The book’s Preface is titled “Childhood’s End,” and in it Dr. Wolfheze briefly discusses the Arthur C. Clarke science fiction novel of the same name as being symptomatic of the post-war (in this case meaning the Second World War) mentality: namely, that the rapid and dramatic progression of science and technology are leading us towards an apocalypse that we cannot yet identify, but which still fills us with a sense of dread. (Spoilers ahead; if you haven’t yet read the book but think that you might, skip to the next paragraph.) In that book, a near-future humanity is visited by an extraterrestrial civilization which helps to solve all of humanity’s problems, bringing about Utopia. The problem, as humanity soon learns, is that it turns out that it was the struggle to deal with those problems that gave their lives meaning, and having everything handed to them eventually leads to stagnation. It turns out that all of human history was merely a process leading us towards humanity’s real end, for which the aliens have come to act as midwives: evolving into a species of plain, anonymous children, all identical and part of a collective with no more distinguishing features than ants, but endowed with what we would consider to be superpowers. Ultimately, these children combine their forces and transform themselves into a non-corporeal being, destroying the Earth in the process and incidentally all of those unevolved humans such as ourselves – those who haven’t already committed suicide, that is.
As an allegory of the modern world, the parallels to the Right-wing and Traditionalist view of the modern world is clear, even if Traditionalists would deny that “progress” is leading us towards anything higher, collectively or otherwise. We, too, are fighting against the transformation of the world into a giant supermarket, where everyone is identical and meaning is to be found solely through the acquisition of material possessions.
Dr. Wolfheze does not seem to be an “orthodox” Traditionalist, in the sense that he is not nearly as pessimistic as many other Traditionalists have been about the predicament of the modern world, seeing potential amidst the devastation that is currently being wrought upon the traditional foundations of civilization:
In the second decade of the 21st Century it is clear, even to the most simple-minded and retired-living individuals, that mankind’s global natural and social habitat is changing beyond recognition – and that this change is taking place at breath-taking speed. Accordingly, culture and knowledge are being transformed at the same speed – and with it mankind’s experience of its history. Thus, a new form of audience for a new form of history is being created by sheer force of circumstances. It is this new audience, as yet un-defined and un-determined, that is addressed by this present work.
But one thing about this new audience is certain: it will not include the old audience. The old audience will cling to its complementary comforts of infotainment consumption and academic snobbery, but it will also be left behind because it is existentially unable to match the impudent curiosity and steel nerves required of the new audience. The old audience can only reject, up front and out of hand, the new realities and new concepts that will inevitably invalidate its own decades-long experience of educational indoctrination, media propaganda and political correctness – an experience that is approaching the ne plus ultra of Modernity. About the old audience little remains to be said.
This is a welcome development in Traditionalism, since it is surely the dark and pessimistic view of our era common to the scholastic Traditionalists, which in turn lends itself to apathy, that has led to Traditionalism being so marginalized among those who prefer to do more than just detach from the world around them. Dr. Wolfheze – much like the present reviewer – prefers to see what can be made of the postmodern world, even given the chance that it might all end up being futile, to just throwing up one’s hands and saying, “It’s hopeless.” For Dr. Wolfheze, the end of the Traditional world should not be seen as a cause for mourning, but rather the mark of a need for a new maturity, a desire to be a “man among the ruins,” to use Evola’s phrase, not by denying the world as it is, but by attempting to understand how it got there, and in so doing learning to stand for values that transcend it. Childhood’s end in this book thus means not “going gentle into that good night” by accepting our fate, but rather of discovering a form of maturity that gives us the power to be in this world, but not of it.
Nevertheless, I did find myself somewhat balking at the author’s own statement of purpose, which he gives as follows: “This present work, Sunset, will provide the young people of the world a tool to work towards childhood’s end.” A dense book on philosophy and metaphysics – 450 pages in length including the endnotes, with small type – might seem an odd way to attempt to appeal to young people in an age which, by the author’s own admission, the printed book has less appeal to the young than ever before; nonetheless, it is clear that Dr. Wolfheze wishes to address himself to the more capable elite among the youth, those who can straddle both the worlds of the past and the one just coming in to being, rather than attempting to reach a mass audience. And indeed, this book, while extremely interesting, is certainly not for everyone – but then Traditionalism has always been an elitist doctrine. And I myself have always been firmly convinced that there will always be things that only books can accomplish, even in the age of social media.
Dr. Wolfheze divides his critique of modernity in terms of Ten Key Concepts, which he identifies as Modernity (which he associates with “meta-history” in terms of cultural-historical perspective), the Dark Age (metaphysics), Apocalypse (religion), Materialism (philosophy), Ecocide (economics), Regression (sociology), Narcissism (psychology), Decadence (art), Anomy (domestic politics), and Imperialism (international politics). Each of these gets a chapter describing the way in which each thread developed towards and produced the Great War, and the world that came after it, in detail. The scope of the book actually goes far beyond the Great War, which the author sees as a pivotal event which witnessed the final end of the long-decaying world of Tradition that had been sustained by the ancient monarchies and empires that were swept away in the deluge, setting the stage for the coming of our own, rootless world. But the author also explores the trends which culminated and burst forth in the Great War, as well as their implications for the world since, and thus his analysis runs far afield from merely the War itself.
Engagement with history has always been a weak point in Traditionalism; the Traditionalist authors will make occasional reference to certain historical events as being indicative of the metaphysical trends they see at work in the world, but to my knowledge there has never before been a sustained analysis of modern history from a sacred, Traditional perspective, which has always seemed to me to be a major flaw in their work since it neglects to show how the forces which have produced the modern world have been at work in material and tangible ways. Dr. Wolfheze’s book thus takes Traditionalist thought in a new and welcome direction in this regard, citing very specific events that can be identified and examined, which led to the transition from the sacred world of Tradition and into the secular world of modernity. In his Postscript, Dr. Wolfheze tells us that The Sunset of Tradition – all 450 pages of it – is but a prologue to a series of books he is writing to offer “a Traditionalist history of the entire Great War,” although he also makes it clear that he regards it as a work that can be viewed as a standalone work. Given the value of this first book, it is to be hoped that he perseveres in this effort.
I intend to write a more in-depth review of The Sunset of Tradition at a later time – my primary purpose in writing this brief announcement is to make readers aware of the book, and of the special price for which it is temporarily being offered, given its hefty cover price ordinarily. The book’s publisher, Cambridge Scholars, is offering the book at a half-price discount until December 1 as part of a commemoration of the Armistice, and information on how to get it can be found on their Website [3]. For those who have found the Traditionalist perspective appealing, but who have longed for a more robust form of it which engages with real-world problems in a clear manner, this book is an important first step in this direction – and is thus for you.
The “hip” high-school English teachers of one’s youth in the 1960s and the eager, clueless assistant professors of one’s contemporary acquaintance naturally suppose, on the basis of this quasi-sonnet (in the pattern of fourteen lines established by Petrarch), that Cummings must have conducted himself as a self-congratulating liberal, meticulously thinking only approved thoughts, quite as each of them does. Devotees of Goodthink thus interpret the poem for their students catechistically, as their instructors have previously interpreted it for them, seeing in it an attack on patriotism as such, on America as such, on seriousness and high sentiment as such, and, naturally, as the indiscriminate rejection of anything established or traditional. They mistake the syntactic displacements for the “deconstruction” of something, perceiving illusorily a model of the sacrcastico-piety that passes today as humor. When one of the professoriate kens that later in life after a visit to the Soviet Union in 1932, Cummings became an ardent anti-Communist who would defend the activities of Senator Joseph McCarthy – then, as in the case of recent Cummings biographer Christopher Sawyer-Lauçanno, the discourse devolves into condescension. Cummings acquires the epithet of a “hard-line quarrelsome conservative.” Sawyer-Lauçanno also dislikes Cummings for his disdain of homosexuals. Another critic accuses Cummings of “racism” although the use of the forbidden-for-some n-word in Cummings’ published work is obviously denunciatory.
The Enormous Room provides one of the earliest accounts, outside of the French Revolution and the final half-century of Czarist Russia, of political arrest and incarceration. Like the recorders of étatist persecution in those other milieux, Cummings knows with instantaneous conviction that spying on private opinion signifies the advent of a totalitarian order the ideological rigidity and intolerance of which motivate a program of investigation and punishment. This regime directs its supervision at even the most trivial and private utterances of doubt concerning the legitimacy of the state. Such a regime must, according to the insidious logic of its principles, declare war against conscience. In so doing that regime will swiftly make hellish the nation-state it controls. From this premise about ideological-totalitarian politics comes the appropriateness of Cummings’ outstanding narrative gestures, which draw on the descent-imagery of Dante’s Inferno and the tribulation-plot of John Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress. Dante’s native Florence banished him in 1301 when the Ghibelline faction gained power in the city. Bunyan wrote A Pilgrim’s Progress during his twelve years in jail (1660 – 1672) for the offending the Church of England by the lese-majesté of unlicensed preaching.
The bureaucratic vulgarity that typifies the corporate patois of La Ferté-Macé, especially the use of political clichés of the lowest order during humiliating dressings-down and interrogations, would find concentrated expression in the quasi-sonnet ‘next to of course god america i.” The punitive regimen of La Ferté-Macé extends, however, beyond ritualized verbal abuse; it extends to les cabinots – the wet tubercular chastisement cells to which, at any time, Monsieur le Directeur might consign an inmate. Cummings calls the Director “Apollyon,” the name of the devil in A Pilgrim’s Progress. In his tiny domain, reflecting the perversions in the larger domain without, the Director is “a very complete Apollyon, a Satan whose word is dreadful not because it is painstakingly unjust, but because it is incomprehensibly omnipotent.”
In 1928 he went to Russia full of optimism only to leave the Workers’ Paradise in dour mood. In 1936 Dos Passos went to Spain ostensibly to assist in making a documentary film favorable to the Republic; when Dos Passos’ Spanish friend Juan Robles suffered arrest and execution by the Soviet “allies” of the Republic, Dos Passos abruptly lost enthusiasm for the side.
Social engineering, obliterating the individual’s personality so as to refashion it to sub-serve a dehumanizing scheme, mobilization, militarization, and smashing things, whether tangible or intangible: The novel takes these predilections as its themes. The titles of the larger sections into which Dos Passos subdivides Three Soldiers tell already of the author’s point of view: “Making the Mould,” “The Metal Cools,” “Machines,” “Rust,” “The World Outside,” and “Under the Wheels.” The eponymous soldierly trio furnishes a set of American specimens representing classes and occupations. Dan Fuselli hails from San Francisco where he has worked as stock clerk in an optical goods store. Fuselli has little formal education and a restricted intellectual horizon, his idea of success being to rise from private soldier to corporal by fitting in. “Chris” Chrisfield, a kid from Indiana, also lacks formal education. More high-strung than Fuselli, Chrisfield grows swiftly to loathe officers and orders; his disintegration under military discipline reaches its climax in a battlefield homicide. Dos Passos locates the story’s controlling perspective in John Andrews, an Easterner with an education who dreams of becoming a serious composer. No saint and prone to self-pity, Andrews nevertheless grasps what is happening, not only personally to him but also culturally and historically. His plight stands for the plight of all civilized people in a world where civilization has undertaken to see to its own disintegration in ways gross and subtle.
Like The Enormous Room, Three Soldiers develops a complicated web of literary and artistic allusions. Even so, Flaubert’s recherché theater-of-the-mind of 1874 about the Late-Antique founder of Christian monasticism (251 – 356) seems a peculiar reference. What might justify or explain it? Anthony’s “Thebaïd,” his withdrawal into the Egyptian desert, represented in the first place a spiritual response to the political and moral corruption of existing imperial institutions – and from the clash of religious ideologies that characterized Alexandrian life in the saint’s era. Famously, after many years of isolation and contemplation, Anthony experienced the visionary 
C’est encore le langage de la guerre et du combat qui prévaut lorsque D’Annunzio parle de la femme. Pour lui, elle est « l’ennemie nécessaire ». Nous verrons plus loin ce que recouvre plus exactement cette expression ambiguë. Toutefois, décrire D’Annunzio comme un Casanova de bazar ne correspondrait pas à la réalité du personnage. Ce qui ressort du livre de Serra, c’est indéniablement une sensualité exacerbée mais le personnage n’est pas, à proprement dit, un obsédé sexuel. Serra parle plutôt d’ « obsédé sensuel » car c’est bien, avant tout, de l’âme des femmes convoitées dont il veut s’emparer. Le magnétisme qu’il exerce auprès d’elles relève certainement de ce « priapisme physique et cérébral » qui émane de sa personne. Fanatiser la femme comme fanatiser la foule — la foule étant femme — semble être la finalité de l’énergie déployée pour ses conquêtes. Sa période romaine fût le théâtre de relations multiples dans lesquelles cet « homme-animal » considérait les femmes comme des proies à posséder intégralement. Cette période marqua également le début de sa carrière d’ « endetté permanent » qui ne finira qu’à sa mort, ses conquêtes et liaisons ne faisant pas l’économie d’une profusion de cadeaux et de dépenses diverses. Quelques éléments témoignent de ce rapport aux femmes qui apparaît aujourd’hui d’autant plus singulier qu’il contrevient aux nouveaux crédos que notre époque tente d’imposer. Il épouse, par exemple, à vingt ans, en 1883, une « petite duchesse inoffensive » dont il ne divorcera jamais pour ne pas être obligé d’épouser les autres compagnes qui jalonneront immanquablement et régulièrement toute son existence. Dans ce rapport aux femmes, nous retrouvons un élément typique de sa personnalité, un mélange de calcul, de contrôle de soi et d’exaltation. Belliciste et esthète à la sensibilité élevée, il est par ailleurs extrêmement attentif aux détails physiques, caractéristique qui nourrira bien entendu sa littérature. Sur le terrain des femmes, c’est donc encore sa prédilection pour la conquête et la possession qui s’exprime. La plus rétive à cette disposition toute totalitaire et à ce machisme vampirique fut Eleonora Duse, une tragédienne surnommé la Divina qui s’emploiera à ne pas abandonner ses velléités d’indépendance ainsi que son goût pour les femmes. La résistance de cette primadonna de laquelle « émane un halo sexuellement trouble » et qu’il rencontra en 1895, alors qu’elle avait entamé la trentaine, laissera d’ailleurs notre héros quelque peu dépité. Elle fut toutefois une vraie muse et nourrira la production de D’Annunzio jusqu’en 1905 quand, mû par sa logique vampirique de possession et de rejet (« ce qui a été n’est plus »), il se tournera alors vers une nouvelle proie, Alessandra di Rudini Carlotti del Garda, qu’il surnommera Niké en hommage à la divinité de la victoire. Sur l’importance de la Divina, nous pouvons lire la chose suivante : « On a calculé qu’en six ou sept ans à peine, entre 1898 et 1905, D’Annunzio a écrit vingt mille vers sous forme de poèmes et douze mille vers pour ses drames (…). Cette productivité phénoménale, même pour lui, n’a pas été toujours inspirée par la Duse, mais aurait atteint difficilement ce record sans elle. » Cette aventure passionnée irriguera également son grand roman intitulé Le Feu dont le personnage principal sera Eleonora.
D’Annunzio, ce sont donc des grandes lignes de force qui s’activent. Se détachent d’abord ce goût pour l’aventure et un sens aigu de la dramaturgie, dispositions qui verseront indéniablement dans l’emphase mais qui se contenteront de flirter incidemment avec le cliché sans jamais toutefois y succomber. Prend forme également au fil de la lecture de D’Annunzio le Magnifique, une silhouette nietzschéenne qui refuse la vie tiède et bourgeoise et prend le parti de la vie, mobilisant pour cela une énergie toute dionysiaque. Ce qui frappe c’est cette volonté de ne pas s’endormir, ne pas céder à la satisfaction, au confort. Lorsque le guette le dannunzisme, lorsqu’il atteint une sorte de maîtrise à la fois de son art et de son personnage, il cherche dans la vie même le danger, le feu régénérateur qui lui évitera d’être simplement lui-même, achevé dans un contentement de soi de ruminant. C’est ce caractère faustien qui le poussera à 56 ans à se lancer dans l’aventure de Fiume. Pour lui, s’endormir c’est se rendre vulnérable. Il est animé d’un vitalisme nourri par ce proverbe local qu’il n’oubliera jamais : « Qui se fait brebis, trouve le loup qui le dévore. » Pour ce faire, il doit créer avec frénésie, créer sa propre vie et la créer la plus extraordinaire qui soit dans un royaume à son image. Si l’on devait résumer ce qu’il est, on pourrait dire : D’Annunzio c’est Fiume, Fiume c’est D’Annunzio. Et Fiume, c’est un radical et nietzschéen oui à la vie. Et d’ailleurs, pour se définir lui-même, on l’entendrait bien dire, amusé : D’Annunzio c’est moi !
En rêve, le capitaine Nangès rencontre Timoléon d’Arc, un personnage de Servitude et grandeur militaires (1835) de Vigny. Le héros de Vigny envie le héros de Psichari. Il aurait aimé fouler en conquérant cette terre d’Afrique, pleine de charme et de volupté. Là, l’homme se purifie, s’épure, loin des « pourritures modernes ». Là, du moins, « quelque idéal reste encore ». En réponse, le capitaine Nangès évoque le mépris de la nation, le rejet du colonialisme. La métropole tient les glorieuses chevauchées des soldats en piètre estime. « Le bourgeois a la crainte de ce qu’il ne comprend pas. Il tremble aux mots d’infini, d’absolu. Le Sahara lui fait peur, comme la musique de Wagner. » Comme Ernst Jünger le décrira quelques années plus tard : « L’élémentaire réside en dehors de son monde idéal ; pour lui, l’élémentaire est l’irrationnel voire l’immoral. »
Sur les plans idéologique et moral, cette entrée en guerre a été décrite comme « une croisade nécessaire contre les monarchies militaristes et autoritaires de l’Empire allemand et de l’Autriche-Hongrie ». A cela s’ajoute la conscience d’une mission quasi religieuse et bien précise : « Rendre la monde sûr pour la démocratie ». Mais ce conglomérat de moralisme et d’idéologie à connotations puritaines était pur discours : derrière lui se profilaient des motivations essentiellement économiques. Les dettes de guerre inter-alliées, soit les dettes contractées entre Alliés et celles contractées entre les Alliés et les puissances associées, avaient pour créancier principal les Etats-Unis et comme débiteur principal la Grande-Bretagne : cette dernière avait contracté la grosse masse de ses endettements auprès du gouvernement fédéral américain. Au total, les crédits pris sur le système financier américain s’élevaient à un capital de 26,5 milliards de dollars (somme sur laquelle intérêt était dû). Une victoire des puissances centrales aurait eu des conséquences considérables sur le système financier américain. Il fallait l’éviter à tout prix. En entrant en guerre, Wilson rendait un immense service aux intérêts vitaux du secteur financier américain.
The progress of the development of world history has placed the three Germanic empires of England, North America and Germany at the apex of humanity as far as the main features of culture are concerned. Apart from their being related by blood, these three states have also a great inheritance in common. This common inheritance sets them the highest goals, but also lays on them the solemn obligation before the judgment seat of history to work peaceably together.[20]
« Ce rappeur n'a pas fait un dérapage exceptionnel. On s'est aperçu qu'à de multiples reprises, il avait par ses chansons incité à la haine des Français en traitant la France de +salle conne+, d'insulter la religion de ses habitants (...) On se retrouve là avec un rappeur qui, de façon répétée, participe à la haine et à la détestation des Français en raisons de leurs orientations sexuelles, religieuses. La bataille de Verdun est un symbole fort pour chaque Français puisque toute famille française a des noms de ses ancêtres qui sont gravés sur tous les monuments aux morts qui se trouvent dans toutes les villes et villages de France. C'est un symbole fort auquel nous sommes attachés ». 
Michel Bernard
