Ce n’était pas une crise, ce n’était pas un problème concret, ce n’était pas davantage une analyse de la situation qui avait généré ces phénomènes politiques. Ils ne devaient leur émergence et leur succès qu’au seul effet de la pensée du défunt Armin Mohler. Or celui, ajoutait le rédacteur de Die Zeit, n’avait rien d’un penseur original. Car Mohler n’avait fait que recycler le « nationalisme folciste » du temps de la République de Weimar. Bien sûr, les protagonistes actuels de la « nouvelle droite » n’atteignaient plus le niveau des Moeller van den Bruck, Oswald Spengler, Carl Schmitt ou Ernst Jünger. Mais, voilà, elles avaient mûri les graines que Mohler, avec son livre Die konservative Revolution in Deutschland, avait semées.
On devra toutefois constater que Mohler n’a laissé qu’un petit nombre d’écrits réellement personnels : on citera, outre son œuvre principale consacrée à la révolution conservatrice, Was die Deutschen fürchten et Die Vergangenheitbewältigung ; mais il ne faut pas oublier, qu’à côté de ces livres-là, il y a eu toute une série d’essais qui ont sans nul doute laissé, chez leurs lecteurs, des impressions bien plus fortes comme, par exemple, Der faschistischen Stil ou Liberalenbeschimpfung. 
Si l’on cherche à expliquer ce qu’il reste de la pensée de Mohler, alors il faut laisser tomber ce qu’il a souvent lui-même (et aussi ses adversaires) mis au centre de ses préoccupations. Son « nominalisme » n’avait guère de consistence tout comme sa critique du christianisme, sa vision « technocratique » n’a nullement été une solution pour la mouvance conservatrice, son orientation « gaullienne » n’a quasi convaincu personne. En revanche, ce qui est incontournable dans sa manière de saisir le monde, c’est son analyse de « la période axiale du conservatisme ». 
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Like many of his books, Carl Schmitt’s The Crisis of Parliamentary Democracy (1923) is a slender volume packed with explosive ideas.[1] [2] The title of the English translation is somewhat misleading. The German title, Die geistesgeschichtliche Lage des heutigen Parlamentarismus, is more literally rendered The Intellectual-Historical Position of Contemporary Parliamentarism. But the word “crisis” is still appropriate, because parliamentary democracy in Weimar Germany really was in crisis. Moreover, Schmitt’s diagnosis of the cause is of permanent value, because all parliamentary democracies have the same basic weakness.
By “contemporary” parliamentarism, Schmitt specifically means “liberal-democratic parliamentarism.” Let’s define these terms.
Schmitt does not think that voting is essential to democracy. Democracy is simply the idea that a government is legitimate if it expresses the will of the people, the demos. But Schmitt recognizes that a dictator can sometimes express the will of the people better than the people can at the ballot box or their representatives can in parliament (p. 28).
This is because the will of the people is not necessarily what the people happen to want at the moment they cast their votes. Instead, it is what people really want, which basically means what they ought to want, on the Socratic assumption that what we really want is the good. If we all want the good, but some of us are mistaken about what the good is, then it is possible that someone else—say, a dictator—might know what the people want better than they do.
For convenience, I am going to call what the people really want—and ought to want—“the common good,” although Schmitt does not use this language.
Schmitt is not really clear about what is essential to liberalism. He claims that the separation of powers, open parliamentary debate, and a free press are essential to liberalism (p. 3). But these are just manifestations of the underlying liberal motive, which is the protection of individuals from state power. Liberals believe that all individuals have rights that exist prior to society and argue that individual rights should trump appeals to the common good.
Liberals have many opinions about the common good. Some deny that it exists. Others think it exists but is unknowable. Others claim that it exists and can be known, but it cannot be secured by state action. Therefore, the best we can hope is that the common good somehow emerges as the unintended consequence of individuals and groups selfishly pursuing their private interests. Still other liberals might think that the common good is real, knowable, and securable by the state, but that individual rights always have a superior claim.
Democracy is not necessarily liberal. Democracy can justify virtually any state action by appeals to the common good, especially in emergencies. Liberalism is not necessarily democratic, because monarchical regimes can also secure individual rights. For instance, Thomas Mann rejected the Weimar Republic for monarchy on essentially liberal grounds: “I want the monarchy. I want a passionately independent government, because only it offers protection for freedom in the intellectual as well as the economic sphere. . . . I don’t what this parliament and party business that will sour the whole life of the nation. . . . I don’t want politics. I want competence, order, and decency.”[2] [3]
Schmitt does zero in on the essence of parliamentarism, which is talk. The very word parliament comes from the French parler, to speak, and refers to arriving at government decisions—executive, judicial, and above all, legislative—by means of discussion (p. 5). Parliament is, therefore, essentially pluralistic, whereas a monarchical regime or a democratic dictatorship has a unitary decision-maker.
The rationale for making decisions in parliament, as opposed to reposing them in the hands of a single man, is that even the wisest man may benefit from hearing other points of view. We are more likely to arrive at the best possible decision if a number of people bring different perspectives and bodies of knowledge to the table. But the process only works if all parties are open to being persuaded by one another, i.e., they are willing to change their minds if they hear a better argument. This is what argument in “good faith” means, as opposed to merely shilling for a fixed idea.
Although Schmitt does not use this language, we can speak of parliament as an edifying institution, meaning that participation in parliamentary debate helps us improve ourselves by replacing personal opinions with common truths. But good-faith participation in parliamentary dialogue requires a constant effort to transcend selfish attachments to one’s own ego, opinions, and interests in order to serve the common good. Such public-spiritedness and objectivity are rare and precious virtues, the products of a rigorous form of education. We’re not all born that way.
Parliamentarism is not necessarily democratic, because even monarchical regimes can have parliaments. Democracies are not necessarily parliamentary, because the will of the people can be carried out by a dictator (pp. 16, 32). Parliamentarism is not necessarily liberal, because monarchies and democracies can be parliamentary without granting individual rights against the state. And liberalism need not be parliamentary, since monarchical and dictatorial regimes can protect individual rights.
Because liberalism, democracy, and parliamentarism don’t necessarily entail one another, liberal-democratic parliamentarism is a synthesis that is prone to instability and crisis. Specifically, Schmitt argues that parliamentary democracy is undermined by liberalism.
Schmitt does not openly state his own preferences, but he seems to favor the democratic idea of legitimacy. He also argues that parliamentary democracy can work, but only under certain conditions. One of the central problems of politics is maintaining the unity of society. When unity fails, we face one of the greatest political evils: civil war. Given the importance of unity, it seems risky, even reckless, to bring a plurality of voices and interests into the very heart of the state and encourage them to debate about the common good. But that is the essence of parliamentarism.
According to Schmitt, a society can risk parliamentary debate only if two important conditions are met.
First, the differences between the various parties need to exist against a backdrop of relative homogeneity, the more homogeneity the better: of race, culture, language, religion, manners, and morals (p. 9). Thus the people and their government will remain one, even if parliament is deeply polarized over a particularly thorny issue like slavery or abortion.
Second, even within largely homogeneous societies, the franchise is generally limited to a particular subgroup—such as male property owners—to increase the quality of electoral decision-making. This increases the homogeneity of decision-makers even further. In short, a society can afford to enshrine disagreement in the heart of its government only when everyone is pretty much the same, thus the unity of society is not at risk.
Schmitt argues that liberalism undermines parliamentary democracy because of “the contradiction between liberal notions of human equality and democratic homogeneity” (p. 15). Parliamentary democracy presupposes a certain kind of equality that Schmitt characterizes as “substantial,” meaning simply the homogeneity of the society at large and of the electorate in particular (pp. 9, 10, 15). Liberalism undermines substantive equality with its abstract and universal equality. Liberalism sees no reason to confine democracy to a single society or to a single stratum within a society. Thus it lobbies to abolish the distinction between citizen and foreigner and to broaden the franchise as much as possible, regardless of sex, education, age, or intelligence.
Liberalism’s abstract egalitarian zeal has never resulted in a global liberal democracy or the enfranchisement of every infant or imbecile (p. 16). Indeed, such goals are impossible. But it has undermined the conditions that make good-faith parliamentary discussions possible.
As the diversity and inclusiveness of a society increase, the voices and interests represented in parliament become increasingly diverse as well. Too much diversity, however, makes it difficult to arrive at any sort of consensus. There are too many shades of opinion to reconcile, too many interests to accommodate.
To reach any agreement at all, parliament can no longer be an edifying institution, in which people grow by exchanging opinions for truth. Instead, it must become a very different kind of institution, in which people no longer seek to transcend what economists call “given preferences.” Instead, they seek simply to satisfy their given preferences through trade (p. 6). Parliament, in effect, becomes a marketplace where agreement is based not on arriving at a common truth about the common good, but simply arriving at an exchange that satisfies the private interests of all parties. And, since in trade, the highest bidder takes the prize, the more liberal a parliamentary democracy is, the more oligarchical it becomes.
Of course, liberal democracies don’t dispense entirely with parliamentary debate. Instead, they turn it into a farce. The sordid little deals that allow liberal democracy to “work” are still, technically, “corruption” and “bad faith.” Thus they cannot be struck in public debate in the parliamentary chamber. Instead, they are made in the antechamber, the proverbial “lobby” (p. 7). Lobbying takes place behind closed doors: in secret committees, private clubs, discreet dinners, and other smoke-filled rooms. What’s more, everybody knows it, and as this cynicism spreads, the legitimacy of liberal democracy collapses, people start looking for alternatives, and a crisis is at hand.
It is important to note that the essential weakness of liberalism is not just its abstract and universalistic notion of equality. Another factor is its conception of rights and interests as essentially private and material, as opposed to the idea of the common good.
One can imagine a liberal parliamentary democracy without the reckless abstract and universalist egalitarianism that abolishes borders and standards for the franchise. But absent a robust conception of the common good, liberalism’s essentially private and material concept of political rights and interests will inevitably lead to political corruption, cynicism, and collapse, as the nation’s material patrimony is privatized and its spiritual patrimony is allowed to simply rust away and be replaced with global consumer crap culture.
Liberal democratic politicians have long been infamous for their anti-intellectualism, casual corruption, and cowardice. This follows directly from bourgeois liberalism, which conceives of all interests as essentially private and material, differing only in degree, and thus accommodatable through exchange. The idea of absolute differences of principle seems to them like a dangerous form of fanaticism, but bourgeois politicians are eager to appease such fanatics, most of whom are found on the Left. This is why bourgeois societies continually drift to the Left.
Schmitt argues that the crisis of liberal democracy opens the door to a takeover by the Left. Hence chapter 3 of his book treats “Dictatorship in Marxist Thought” and chapter 4 discusses “Irrationalist Theories of the Direct Use of Force,” focusing mainly on French syndicalist Georges Sorel. But in chapter 4, Schmitt also holds out the possibility of an equally vital Right-wing alternative to liberal democracy.
Schmitt isn’t always forthcoming about his own political preferences, but sometimes his rhetoric tips his hand. The first three chapters of Crisis are quite dry, and Schmitt’s arguments only really come into focus in the 1926 Preface to the Second Edition. But chapter 4 crackles with enthusiasm as Schmitt discusses Sorel’s Reflections on Violence, as well as Russian anarchist Mikhail Bakunin, French anarchist Pierre-Joseph Proudhon, and Spanish Catholic reactionary Juan Donoso Cortés. Then Schmitt ends by arguing that nationalism and fascism are more consistent with Sorel’s ultimate premises than are Communism, socialism, or anarcho-syndicalism.
Anarchism derives from the Greek anarchia (ἀναρχία), meaning the lack of an arche (ἀρχή ) or first principle. For Bakunin and Proudhon, anarchism is not simply a rejection of top-down political order, but a rejection of a metaphysical first principle (God) and an epistemological first principle (reason). Anarchism replaces top-down political order with spontaneous, bottom-up, social self-organization. God is replaced by the dynamism of nature. Reason and science are replaced with animal vitality, spontaneity, imagination, art, and action. For Sorel, the opposite of rational self-possession is the enthralling power of myth and the spontaneity of action, especially violence that both expresses and releases vital energies by smashing the political and economic machines of priests, kings, and capitalists. To give you a sense of his style, I am going to quote Schmitt’s summary of Sorel’s thinking at length:
. . . Its center [i.e., the center of Sorel’s theory] is a theory of myth that poses the starkest contradiction of absolute rationalism and its dictatorship, but at the same time, because it is a theory of direct, active decision, it is an even more powerful contradiction to the relative rationalism of the whole complex that is grouped around conceptions such as “balancing,” “public discussion,” and “parliamentarism.”
The ability to act and the capacity for heroism, all world-historical activities reside, according to Sorel, in the power of myth. . . . Out of the depths of a genuine life instinct, not out of reason or pragmatism, springs the great enthusiasm, the great moral decision, and the great myth. In direct intuition, the enthusiastic mass creates a mythical image that pushes its energy forward and gives it the strength for martyrdom as well as the courage to use force. Only in this way can a people or class become the engine of world history. Wherever this is lacking no social and political power can remain standing. And no mechanical apparatus can build a dam if a new storm of historical life has broken loose. Accordingly, it is all a matter of seeing where this capacity for myth and this vital strength are really alive today. In the modern bourgeoisie, which has collapsed into anxiety about money and property, in this social class morally ruined by skepticism, relativism, and parliamentarism, it is not to be found. The governmental form characteristic of this class, liberal democracy, is only a “demagogic plutocracy.” Who then, is the vehicle of great myth today? Sorel attempted to prove that only the socialist masses of the industrial proletariat had a myth in which they believe, and this was the general strike. . . . It has arisen out of the masses, out of the immediacy of the life of the industrial proletariat, not as a construction of intellectuals and literati, not as a utopia; for even utopia, according to Sorel, is the product of a rationalist intellect that attempts to conquer life from the outside with a mechanistic scheme.
From the perspective of this philosophy, the bourgeois ideal of peaceful agreement, an ongoing and prosperous business that has advantages for everyone, becomes the monstrosity of cowardly intellectualism. Discussing, bargaining, parliamentary proceedings appear a betrayal of myth and the enormous enthusiasm on which everything depends. Against the mercantilist image of balance, there appears another vision, the warlike image of a bloody, definitive, destructive, decisive battle (pp. 68–69)
Sorel claims that the myth that animates the proletariat is “the general strike” in which the entire proletariat brings the economy to a halt until its demands are met.
Schmitt then hastens to add that a similar vision of a bloody final reckoning was found on the Right: “In 1848 this image rose up on both sides in opposition to parliamentary constitutionalism: from the side of tradition in a conservative sense, represented by a Catholic Spaniard, Donoso Cortés, and in radical anarcho-syndicalism in Proudhon. Both demanded a decision. . . . Instead of relative oppositions accessible to parliamentary means, absolute antitheses now appear” (p. 69). But the tireless talk of bourgeois parliamentarians is all about evading the necessity of decision in the face of hard either/ors, about evading the existence of real enmity. “In the eyes of Donoso Cortés, this socialist anarchist [Proudhon] was an evil demon, a devil, and for Proudhon the Catholic was a fanatical Grand Inquisitor, whom he attempted to laugh off. Today it is easy to see that both were their own real opponent and that everything else was only a provisional half-measure” (p. 70). Schmitt clearly hungers for a similar clarity in Weimar and saw the rise of Fascism in Italy as the present-day nemesis of the Left.
Donoso Cortés was at heart a backwards-looking, reactionary monarchist. But Schmitt does not mention here that Donoso Cortés believed that monarchy no longer really existed. There were still kings, but even they did not believe in the legitimacy of monarchy. Instead, the fount of political legitimacy had passed to the people. Thus Europe’s remaining monarchs simply followed liberal democrats, who in turn followed the far Left: “Only in socialism did he see what he call instinct (el instinto) and from which he concluded that in the long run all the parties were working for socialism” (p. 70). Unfortunately, the Left was leading the entire world to perdition.[3] [7] Thus, Donoso Cortés embraced the idea of a reactionary dictatorship not merely to protest or retard but to reverse the “progress” of the Left. He was, therefore, something of a forerunner of modern Fascism, which Schmitt discusses in the conclusion of his book.
Schmitt closes with an immanent critique of Sorel. First, Schmitt argues that Sorel himself ultimately subordinates proletarian myth and violence to rationalism, because the goal of the revolution is to take control of the means of production. But the modern economic system is of a piece with bourgeois democracy, thus “If one followed the bourgeois into economic terrain, then one must also follow him into democracy and parliamentarism” (p. 73). This does not strike me as particularly persuasive. When Schmitt was writing, the example of Imperial Japan showed that one can have a modern industrial economy without liberal democracy.
But one can’t have a modern industrial economy without rationalism, thus: “should this economic order develop even further, should production intensify even more, which Sorel obviously also wants, then the proletariat must renounce its myth. Just like the bourgeoise, it will be forced, through the superior power of the production mechanism, into a rationalism and mechanistic outlook that is empty of myth” (p. 73). This is a much more persuasive argument, for syndicalism becomes a farce if the proletariat overthrows gods, kings, and capitalists, only to refashion itself in their image.
But how can one consolidate the victory against rationalism and disenchantment into an entirely new form of society? Schmitt’s answer is that one needs a stronger myth than the general strike: namely nationalism.
Schmitt then discusses how Marxist and syndicalist ideas became fused with nationalism. The “bourgeoisie” as a figure of contempt was “first created by the aristocracy” then “propagated in the nineteenth century by romantic artists and poets” (p. 74). Marx and Engels then picked it up and, despite the pseudo-scientific sheen of Hegelian dialectics, transformed the bourgeoise into “an image of the enemy that was capable of intensifying all the emotions of hatred and contempt” (pp. 73–74).
When the Marxist myth of the bourgeoisie migrated to Russia, “it was able to give new life to the Russian hatred for the complication, artificiality, and intellectualism of Western European civilization . . .” (p. 74). At this point, Marxism “seized a myth for itself that no longer grew purely out of the instinct for class conflict, but contained strong nationalist elements” (p. 74). This fusion of Marxism and Russia’s anti-Western national identity probably helped Communism take root in Russia first: “Proletarian use of force had made Russia Muscovite again” (p. 75).
This, Schmitt argues, “shows that the energy of nationalism is greater than the myth of class conflict” (p. 75). Moreover, Sorel’s other examples of the power of political myth include the German and Spanish wars of liberation against Napoleon which again prove that “the stronger myth is national”; “. . . whenever it comes to an open confrontation of the two myths, such as in Italy, the national myth has, until today always been victorious” (p. 75).
Schmitt doesn’t say why the national myth is more powerful than the myth of the general strike, but surely one factor is that the national myth embraces the whole of a people, not just the workers, and draws its energy from more threads of identity than just economic deprivation. As Schmitt notes:
In national feeling, various elements are at work in the most diverse ways, in very different peoples. The more naturalistic conceptions of race and descent, the more typical terrisme of the Celtic and Romance peoples, the speech, traditions, and consciousness of a shared culture and education, the awareness of belonging to a community with a common fate or destiny, a sensibility of being different from other nations—all of that tends toward a national rather than a class consciousness today. (p. 75)
This passage also throws a good deal of light on Schmitt’s remarks on the homogeneity that makes democracy possible. Schmitt, however, emphasizes that democracy requires even more homogeneity among electors, hence the limitation of the franchise based on age, sex, social class, education, and other factors.
Schmitt’s contemporary example of the superiority of the myth of the nation to that of the proletariat is the rise of Fascism in Italy:
Until now the democracy of mankind has only once been contemptuously pushed aside through the conscious appeal to myth, and that was an example of the irrational power of the national myth. In his famous speech of October 1922 in Naples before the March on Rome, Mussolini said “We have created a myth. This myth is a belief, a noble enthusiasm: it does not need to be reality; it is a striving and a hope, belief and courage. Our myth is the nation, the great nation which we want to make into a concrete reality for ourselves.” In the same speech he called socialism an inferior mythology. (p. 76)
The nineteenth century was the age of parliamentary liberal democracy. The twentieth century is the age of political myths. The rise of political myth is itself “the most powerful symptom of the decline of the relative rationalism of parliamentary thought” (p. 76). The Left may be the gravedigger of liberal democracy, but it offers no real alternative, simply modern materialism and rationalism stripped of the liberal charms of freedom and private life.
But the Left, quite unwittingly, has laid “the foundation of another authority, . . . an authority based on the new feeling for order, discipline, and hierarchy” (p. 76). A decade later, Schmitt cast his lot with the German party of national rebirth. The age of discussion was over; the age of myth had begun.
Nearly a century later, what light does Schmitt’s Crisis throw on our own? Schmitt is absolutely correct that liberalism’s mania for opening borders and lowering standards has made modern democracies increasingly dysfunctional.
As for the alternatives to liberal democracy, Left and Right versions still exist. But the myth of the general strike is completely dead. The proletariat was successfully wooed by both fascism and liberal democracy, so the Left now disdains the white working class as reactionaries and instead seeks to mobilize non-whites and sexual outsiders against the white majority. The new Leftist myth is of white guilt and non-white aggrievement. It is now so dominant that the United States is tearing itself to pieces. The American center-Right has completely capitulated to the mob. Their strategy is to do nothing and hope that the mob gets tired, so Republicans will not have to exercise courage.
The myth of the nation, however, is still very much alive. Liberal democracy and communism defeated fascism in the Second World War, but they did not defeat nationalism. Indeed, the Allies defeated the Axis only by drawing upon their own national myths. Currently, the liberal-democratic establishment is coddling the Left that is actively working to destroy it. Thus, for the time being, the nationalist Right should do nothing. Never interrupt your enemies when they are destroying one another.
But the center cannot hold. Eventually, a space will be cleared for a new confrontation of myths: the myth of white guilt, degradation, and death vs. the myth of white pride and regeneration. We call it White Nationalism. Before that confrontation comes, though, we need to ensure that our myth is the stronger.
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Notes
[1] [10] Carl Schmitt, The Crisis of Parliamentary Democracy, trans. Ellen Kennedy (Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 1985).
[2] [11] Quoted in Ellen Kennedy’s Introduction, Crisis, p. xxiv
[3] [12] See Schmitt’s fuller discussion of Donoso Cortés in Political Theology: Four Chapters on the Concept of Sovereignty (1922), trans. George Schwabb (Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 1988), chapter 4, “On the Counterrevolutionary Philosophy of the State.”
Ce fut l’idoine occasion de relire l’essai d’Ernst Jünger, qui, paru en 1930, porte précisément le nom de La mobilisation totale (Éditions Gallimard, coll. Tel, 1990), et d’en proposer quelques extraits choisis et commentés afin d’éclairer, par le recul qui tient à la distance temporelle, c’est-à-dire de manière inactuelle, la déconcertante actualité que nous vécûmes et continuons à vivre. 
N’anticipons guère, car les critères de démarcation apparaîtront bien assez tôt, mais notons ceci afin d’établir un pont avec l’actualité : comprendre l’événement, pour Jünger, ne consiste pas à répéter mécaniquement, machinalement si l’on peut dire, les analyses précédentes et les schémas explicatifs préétablis; cela consiste, tout au contraire, à cerner sa spécificité, et à poser sur lui les justes mots afin de le faire advenir en tant que tel à la conscience collective. Telle fut très certainement la première faute, de nature épistémologique mais aux conséquences politiques, du Président Emmanuel Macron et de son équipe gouvernementale qui n’eurent de cesse de parler d’un virus comme d’un ennemi et d’une épidémie comme d’une guerre, des choix lexicaux et sémantiques pour le moins malheureux qui sont à mon sens en partie responsables de comportements a priori irrationnels comme la razzia des commerces (attention, indispensable précision, par ces propos, je n’excuse ni ne cautionne en aucune manière ces agissements dignes de pourceaux dépourvus de toute faculté de juger).
Le Réseau est une chose, notre appétence et notre célérité à nous y soumettre une autre. Jünger, qui aura sur ce point très largement anticipé et influencé les développements de Heidegger dans La question de la technique, conférence dans laquelle ce dernier affirme notamment que «l’essence de la technique n’est pas la technique», met en évidence qu’aucun dispositif technique ne parvient à s’encastrer dans le tissu social, c’est-à-dire à devenir un système sociotechnique, s’il n’est précédé d’une révolution anthropologique qui, dans les mentalités et les structures de la croyance collective, légitime l’usage dudit dispositif. Pourquoi donc le confinement, présenté comme un acte de mobilisation, et désormais les règles du déconfinement, qui ne sont autres que la poursuite de la mobilisation sous une forme nouvelle, se trouvent-t-ils aussi largement respectés ? Il est vrai que la peur de la maladie et la crainte de l’amende y sont pour quelque chose, je ne le nie pas; mais c’est au fond le principe directeur de notre société qui oriente nos actions, pour les uns, qui se limitent à respecter les consignes, de façon minimaliste, pour les autres, qui n’hésitent guère à prendre directement part au combat en cousant des masques et en imprimant des visières (masques et visières, dont la pénurie annonce la future fortune de proches du pouvoir, c’est une évidence qui ne requiert aucune boule de cristal), de manière engagée voire fanatique.
Il n’est guère étonnant que Jünger tienne ses propos, lui qui assiste à l’émergence des relations publiques dont le chef d’œuvre inaugural demeure l’incroyable Propaganda d’Edward Bernays. Quant à nous, c’est la télévision et ses experts, ce sont les journaux et leurs éditorialistes, ce sont toutes ces associations subventionnées et leurs porte-paroles illuminés, qui anesthésient toute liberté d’esprit afin d’imposer la disponibilité en principe de vie. Peut-être l’opposition que Jünger dresse entre civilisation et culture suggère-t-elle d’ailleurs une issue qu’il faudrait prendre à la lettre, au mot : la campagne ne serait-elle pas la clef des champs, elle qui demeure encore un peu, malgré tout, allergique au baratin du nouveau monde ? 
Le président Emmanuel Macron le sait bien, et si vraiment il l’ignore, une quelconque huile l’aura bien averti : la colère gronde, dont l’intensité n’a d’égale que son niveau d’incompétence et d’incurie – sans compter l’irritation née de ces invraisemblables et insignifiantes envolées technico-lyriques («un été apprenant et culturel» ! : «mdr» aurait-t-on envie de rétorquer) qui circulent en boucle sur les réseaux sociaux. L’épuisement de l’opposition, non pas celle qui se met douillettement en scène à l’Assemblée Nationale en attendant que le fatum de l’alternance produise son effet, mais celle qui s’empare des ronds-points de l’Hexagone et refuse de se laisser institutionnaliser par le jeu de la représentation, l’épuisement de cette opposition-là, qui se trouve aujourd’hui mobilisée en première ligne dans les hôpitaux, les commerces et les ateliers, représente très certainement le gage d’une certaine tranquillité intérieure, c’est-à-dire de sa possible réélection, à condition, par conséquent, de maintenir l’état d’exception jusqu’à ce qu’il soit accepté comme normal et que le régime autoritaire, dictatorial, s’installe dans notre quotidien avec le statut de l’évidence. Le tout assorti de concessions qui ne le sont point : remaniement ministériel, retour de la souveraineté, tournant écologique, visions du monde d’après qui ne sera plus jamais le même, etc.
Le progrès a pour nous un statut d’évidence; non plus le progrès moral (celui qui croit au perfectionnement de l’individu raisonnable par l’éducation), non plus le progrès historico-politique (celui qui imagine la construction d’un avenir radieux par des citoyens rationnels épousant le sens de l’Histoire), mais, bien sûr, le progrès technique qui, sûr de son statut d’idole et de son implacable force, lance ses rouleaux-compresseurs mécaniques, automatiques, numériques, à l’assaut des vieilleries de la civilisation, écrase les traditions, casse les institutions et concasse les corps intermédiaires, broye le langage pour lui substituer le grincement assourdissant des rouages et le bruit diffus de l’information. Non, ce n’est pas un monde que détruit le progrès; non ce n’est pas seulement une ère qui prend fin sous les coups de butoir de la méga-machine; non, Messieurs les relativistes, notre époque ne saurait se diluer dans une histoire générale du mal et de ses manifestations. Jamais les assemblages anthropologiques qui garantissent la pérennité de l’espèce humaine ont-ils été aussi durement mis à l’épreuve; jamais une société («société» qui s’est, soit dit en passant, dilué dans le «social», dilution ou dissolution qui mériterait à elle seule un article entier) n’a-t-elle adopté, pour seul mode de reproduction, la fabrique d’êtres opérationnels. Telle est bien, au fond, l’énigme que nous laissons à nos survivants ou, hypothèse osée mais stimulante, à une civilisation extra-terrestre qui découvrirait les décombres de la nôtre. Si l’espèce humaine, je veux dire : réellement humaine, venait à survivre à cette catastrophe, alors nos descendants s’interrogeront, avant peut-être de baisser les bras devant l’insondable mystère du progrès : mais de quelle folie ont-ils été pris, nos ancêtres de la société industrielle, pour précipiter la civilisation dans l’apocalypse ? 
Celui qui émettait cette opinion, le faisait en toute honnêteté, et il n’a pas attendu bien longtemps pour démontrer, dans la zone russe de la Pologne, la véracité de ses dires, mais sa façon malhabile et emportée de proférer inopinément et souvent à contretemps de grandes phrases, lui valait souvent, en dépit de sa probité, de n’être que la cible d’innocentes plaisanteries. 
Ni estos pocos puntos ciegos, ni los extraños aspectos de la vida de Spengler, deben desviar nuestra atención de la masa de su trabajo. Este hombre sensible usaba una máscara, adoptó un estilo que no debe ser tomado directamente. Por lo tanto, los admiradores de Spengler deberían evitar confundir su verdadera personalidad con esa "máscara Cesárea" que usó en sus numerosas apariciones públicas.
« La peur est l’un des symptômes de notre temps. Elle nous désarme d’autant plus qu’elle succède à une époque de grande liberté individuelle, où la misère même, telle que la décrit Dickens, par exemple, était presque oubliée. »
« On assiste à des enchères où l’on dispute s’il vaut mieux fuir, se cacher ou recourir au suicide, et l’on voit des esprits qui, gardant encore toute leur liberté, cherchent déjà par quelles méthodes et quelles ruses ils achèteront la faveur de la crapule, quand elle aura pris le pouvoir. »
Der Sohn eines sächsischen Postdirektors erhielt seine Gymnasialausbildung am königlichen Elitegymnasium zu Dresden-Neustadt, studierte von 1907 bis 1911 in Leipzig Philosophie, Psychologie, Nationalökonomie und Geschichte, u.a. bei Wilhelm Wundt und Karl Lamprecht, in deren universalhistorischer Tradition er seine ersten Arbeiten zur Geschichtsauffassung der Aufklärung (Diss. 1911) und zur Bewertung der Wirtschaft in der deutschen Philosophie des 19. Jahrhunderts (Habilitation 1921) verfaßte. Nach zusätzlichen Studien in Berlin mit engen Kontakten zu Georg Simmel und Lehrtätigkeit an der Reformschule der Freien Schulgemeinde Wickersdorf kämpfte F. mit dem Militär-St.-Heinrichs-Orden ausgezeichnet im Ersten Weltkrieg. Als Mitglied des von Eugen Diederichs initiierten Serakreises der Jugendbewegungverfaßte F. an die Aufbruchsgeneration gerichtete philosophischen Schriften: Antäus (1918), Prometheus (1923), Pallas Athene (1935). Von 1922 bis 1925 lehrte er als Ordinarius hauptsächlich Kulturphilosophie an der Universität Kiel, erhielt 1925 den ersten deutschen Lehrstuhl für Soziologie ohne Beiordnung eines anderen Faches in Leipzig und widmete sich von nun an der logischen und historisch-philosophischen Grundlegung dieser neuen Disziplin. In Auseinandersetzung mit dem Positivismus seiner Lehrer und mit der Philosophie Hegels sollten typische gesellschaftliche Grundstrukturen herausgearbeitet und ihre historischen Entwicklungsgesetze gefunden werden. Darüber hinaus ist für F. die Soziologie als konkrete historische Erscheinung, erst durch die abendländische Aufklärung möglich geworden, Äußerung einer vorher nie dagewesenen gesellschaftlichen Emanzipation zur wissenschaftlichen Selbstreflexion, drückt deshalb als "Wirklichkeitswissenschaft" in der Erfassung des gegenwärtigen gesellschaftlichen Wandels auch den kollektiven Willen aus, ist also als Wissenschaft zugleich politische Ethik, die die Richtung des gesellschaftlichen Wandels zu bestimmen hat.
F. war ab 1933 Direktor des Instituts für Kultur- und Universalgeschichte an der Leipziger Universität. Als neu gewählter Präsident der Deutschen Gesellschaft für Soziologie legte er diese 1933 still, um eine politische "Gleichschaltung" zu verhindern. Den damaligen europäischen politischen Umbrüchen brachte F. als Theoretiker des Wandels zunächst offenes Interesse entgegen, fühlte sich der theoretischen Erfassung dieser Entwicklungen verpflichtet und war deshalb nie aktives Mitglied einer politischen Partei oder Bewegung; er wurde später der "konservativen Revolution" der zwanziger Jahre als "jungkonservativer Einzelgänger" (Mohler) zugeordnet. Die vor 1933 noch idealistisch formulierte Konzeption des Staates als höchste Form der Kultur (1925) hat F. im Lauf der bedrohlichen politischen Entwicklung revidiert in seinen Studien über Machiavelli (1936) und Friedrich den Großen (Preußentum und Aufklärung 1944) durch einen realistischen Staatsbegriff, der ausschließlich durch Gemeinwohl, langfristige gesellschaftliche Entwicklungsperspektiven und durch prozessuale Kriterien der Legitimität gerechtfertigt ist: durch den Dienst am Staat, der aber den Menschen keinesfalls total vereinnahmen darf, sowie die Prägekraft des Staates, der dem Kollektiv ein gemeinsames Ziel gibt, aber dennoch die Freiheit und Menschenwürde seiner Bürger bewahrt. Insbesondere gelang F. in der Darstellung der Legitimität als generellem Gesetz jeder Politik eine dialektische Verknüpfung des naturrechtlichen Herrschaftsgedankens mit der klassischen bürgerlich-humanitären Aufklärung: Nur die Herrschaft ist legitim, die dem Sinn ihres Ursprungs entspricht - es muß das erfüllt werden, was das Volk mit der Einsetzung der Herrschaft gewollt hat.
Zentraler Gesichtspunkt seiner Nachkriegsschriften war die gegenwärtige Epochenschwelle, der Übergang der modernen Industriegesellschaft zur weltweit ausgreifenden wissenschaftlich-technischen Rationalität, deren "sekundäre Systeme" alle naturhaft gewachsenen Lebensformen erfassen. F. weist nach, wie diese Fortschrittsordnung zum tragenden Kulturfaktor wird in allen Teilentwicklungen: der Technik, Siedlungsformen, Arbeit und Wertungen. Seine frühere integrative Perspektive einer Kultursynthese wird ersetzt durch den Konflikt von eigengesetzlichen, künstlichen Sachwelten einerseits und den "haltenden Mächte" des sozialen Lebens andererseits, die im "Katarakt des Fortschritts" auf wenige, die private Lebenswelt beherrschende Gemeinschaftsformen beschränkt sind. Jedoch bleibt die Synthese von "Leben" und "Form", von Menschlichkeit und technischer Zivilisation für F. weiterhin unerläßlich für den Fortbestand jeder Kultur, im krisenhaften Übergang noch nicht erreicht, aber durchaus denkbar jenseits der Schwelle, wenn sich die neue geschichtliche Epoche der weltumspannenden Industriekultur konsolidieren wird. F.s Theorie der Industriekultur, kurz vor seinem Tode begonnen, ist unvollendet geblieben. Sein strukturhistorisches Konzept der Epochenschwelle hat in der deutschen Nachkriegssoziologie weniger Aufnahme gefunden, während es in der deutschen Geschichtswissenschaft wesentlich zur Überwindung einer evolutionären Entwicklungsgeschichte beigetragen hat und eine sozialwissenschaftlich orientierte Strukturgeschichtsschreibung einleitete, wofür F.s Konzept der Eigendynamik der sekundären Systeme ebenso ausschlaggebend war.
Der Nachlass Carl Schmitts ist eine reiche Quelle. Fast wundert es aber, dass er so reichlich sprudelt. Denn seine Edition wurde nicht generalstabsmäßig geplant. Das lag auch an Schmitt selbst. Zwar entwickelte der zahlreiche interpretative Strategien im Umgang mit seiner Rolle und seinem Werk. Anders als etwa Heidegger organisierte er aber seine posthume Überlieferung nicht im großen Stil. Er betrieb keine Fusion von Nachlassinterpretationspolitik und Nachlasseditionspolitik, bei der interpretative Strategien kommenden Editionen vorarbeiteten. Initiativen zu einer großen Werkausgabe scheiterten deshalb auch nach Schmitts Tod. Damals wurde eine Chance vertan, denn personell und institutionell haben sich die Bedingungen nicht verbessert. Schmitts letzte Schülergeneration, die „dritte“ Generation bundesdeutscher Schüler (Böckenförde, Schnur, Quaritsch, Koselleck etc.), tritt ab und den Institutionen geht das Geld aus. Heute ist keine historisch-kritische Gesamtausgabe in Sicht. Die Zukunft ist solchen Projekten auch nicht rosig. Das gerade erschienene Berliner „Manifest Geisteswissenschaften“ etwa, ein revolutionäres Dokument der „Beschleunigung wider Willen“, plädiert für eine Überführung akademischer Langzeitvorhaben in „selbständige Editionsinstitute“.
Mais l’œuvre du publiciste de Weimar n’a pas seulement eu écho à travers les travaux d’auteurs plus ou moins conservateurs : la réception de la pensée du juriste a pour spécificité d’être étonnamment polarisée. Jürgen Habermas lui-même, l’un des plus farouches contempteurs du théoricien du politique, n’a pas manqué de reconnaître l’exactitude du constat de Schmitt qui conclut à une déliquescence de la logique parlementaire. L’histoire de l’ « espace public » suit, en effet, à la lettre l’analyse que soumet Carl Schmitt de la transformation progressive du parlementarisme [
Si en Allemagne ou en Italie, les emprunts contemporains aux théories de Schmitt peuvent prendre appui sur de véritables précédents, Zarka souligne qu’il s’agit en réalité d’un « phénomène assez nouveau en France » [
Depuis une dizaine d’années, les études schmittiennes se sont élargies à la question d’un prolongement continental et européen de la notion du « politique ». Ce phénomène naissant, encore à l’état d’un décantage initial, fut impulsé, pour l’essentiel, par les recherches de Christoph Schönberger et d’Ulrich K. Preuss [
Ce paradigme spatial apparaît très explicitement dans la doctrine Monroe de 1823. Cette théorie américaine revendique l’indépendance de tous les Etats américains, interdit leur colonisation par des Etats tiers et défend à ceux-ci d’intervenir en leur sein. Elle crée donc un corpus de règles ayant vocation à s’appliquer à un grand espace qui est l’espace américain. La difficulté réside dans le fait que la doctrine Monroe a évolué avec le temps. Elle est passée d’un non-interventionnisme catégorique à un impérialisme intransigeant, d’une neutralité à une position morale donnant le droit de s’ingérer dans les affaires des pays du monde entier. « L’aversion de tous les juristes positifs contre une telle doctrine est bien compréhensible ; devant pareille imprécision du contenu normatif, le positiviste a le sentiment que le sol se dérobe sous lui », ironise l’auteur. En fait, les américains ont modifié leur interprétation de la doctrine Monroe au fil du temps et de leurs intérêts. La raison d’Etat se passe facilement des débats juridiques car contrairement à ce que de nombreux juristes pensent, dans la lignée du positivisme juridique, le droit ne créé rien. Il est simplement le reflet d’un rapport de forces. Les marxistes le désigneraient comme étant une superstructure.
Ouvrage court mais très exigeant, Le droit des peuples réglé sur le grand espace constitue une bonne introduction à l’ouvrage majeur Le nomos de la terre qu’écrira par la suite Carl Schmitt. Ecrit dans un style toujours clair sans être universitaire, le livre présente le grand mérite d’être en avance sur son temps. A une époque où l’on réfléchissait encore en termes de nation, il anticipe largement les grandes évolutions du monde. Aujourd’hui, comment nier que le monde est traversé par une logique de blocs animés par une puissance dominante. L’espace américain est dominé par les Etats-Unis, l’espace asiatique par la Chine et l’espace eurasiatique par la Russie. Il n’y a guère que l’Europe qui ne suit pas cette évolution. En effet, au lieu de s’ancrer dans son espace culturel et religieux, elle a préféré se dissoudre dans un système technico-économique abstrait sous-tendu par les inévitables droits de l’homme. A trop nier l’espace, on finit par nier l’homme comme produit d’un enracinement culturel pour aboutir à l’homme-marchandise.
o understand this adversity that Spengler’s ideas struggle against in the academic establishment, and therefore to know why his ideas have filtered through the decades but left his name and book behind, it is necessary to do what very few academics dare to do: to explore and openly discuss the significance of Spengler’s thought. This is the project of this essay; to explain to any who have recently discovered Spengler, especially if they are a college student or college graduate, why they have never heard the name “Spengler” before, and what his thought entails at its most basic level. This discussion will deal not just with Spengler’s most famous work, Der Untergang des Abendlandes (“The Downfall of the Occident”, popularly known as Decline of the West, after C.F. Atkinson’s translation) but also with his numerous political pamphlets and subsequent works of philosophy and history. His philosophical texts include, chiefly: Man and Technics, a specialised focus expanding on the relationship of the human being and the age of technology in which we live already mentioned in Decline, The Hour of Decision, which foresees the overthrow of the Western world by what today would be called the “Third World”, or what Spengler refers to as the “Coloured World”, and Prussianism and Socialism, his first major political text, prescribing the exact form of political structure needed, in his view, to save Germany immediately after the First World War. Numerous other texts, published by C.H. Beck in Munich, also exist, compiled in two primary collections, Politischen Schriften (“Political Writings”) of 1934 and posthumous Reden und Aufsätze (“Speeches and Essays”) of 1936; these are joined by Gedanken (“Reflections”), also of 1936. His unfinished works, posthumously collected and titled by chief Spengler scholar Anton Koktanek in the 1960s, Urfragen and Frühzeit der Weltgeschichte, will not be touched upon in this brief introduction, since they are not available in the English language, but readers fluent in German are encouraged to explore them as well as Koktanek’s other works. 
If Spengler was the first to propose a World-Historical view, as he claims in the early pages of Decline, Leopold von Ranke preceded him by for the first time proposing a European-Historical view in his two-volume Deutsche Geschichte im Zeitalter der Reformation (“German History in the Age of Reformation”) of 1845/47.
The Magian requires some further discussion, since it represents for Spengler a different “mutation” (to keep with the biological sense of an organism) of the main species of Kultur-Zivilizationen. This is because of a process Spengler describes in the second volume of Decline called “pseudomorphosis”. He asserts in the first volume that the “Arabian soul was cheated of its maturity—like a young tree that is hindered and stunted in its growth by a fallen old giant of the forest,” but after critiques of the work began to circulate back to him, realised that this was inadequate to explain the unique situation that the Magian Kultur-Zivilisation finds itself.
A well-known name now, Spengler began to take a greater interest in politics than he had hitherto. He wrote to Admiral Alfred von Tirpitz in 1920 regarding the recovery of the flag from the SMS Scharnhorst, which was sunk in the Battle of the Falkland Islands in 1914, taking Admiral Maximillian Graf von Spee to the bottom with it; the flag, Spengler wrote, had fallen into the hands of an anti-German party who wished to send it to Britain to be a trophy of war, something offensive to Spengler as a German nationalist.
Spengler’s letters during this time are often brief (owing to his preference for meeting people rather than writing them) and to a wide variety of people, including invitations to tea with Erich Ludendorff and his wife, which he maintained as a regular affair until Ludendorff’s involvement in the Beer Hall Putsch in 1923. There was also an extended correspondence with the German government regarding interaction with General Jan C. Smuts, who had invited General Paul von Lettow-Vorbeck (with whom Spengler also corresponded) to a dinner for African commanders of the war.
The reason for this likely had much to do with Germany’s growing stability after 1925. Arthur Helps, who translated Spengler’s letters, suggests that Spengler left the public sphere precisely because of this; however, it is more likely that Spengler simply tired of the time he spent in the public eye—the constant assault of attention from both enthusiastic supporters and detractors of all stripes wore on the man whose sensitivity was well-known only to his sister and perhaps very close friends. He was a man who throughout his life was soft-hearted and sympathetic, ever striving to overcome the little boy whose nightmares in his bedroom in Halle haunted him vividly until he was well into his forties; the image he had inadvertently created of the hard-hearted, iron-willed prophet of doom was not an easy persona for him to fulfil on a constant basis, and put tremendous stress on his body. Fischer observes in his biographical sketch that “he agonised about his weaknesses with the same honesty as Rousseau did in the Confessions, with the difference that Spengler rarely tried to project his shortcomings on society… [he] believed that, in the final analysis, the individual has to assume responsibility for his own weaknesses”.
During all of his touring and international correspondence, Spengler did manage to make one or two forays back into political life; the first occasion was a speech in Düsseldorf before the Industry-Club titled “Das heutige Verhältnis zwischen Weltwirtschaft und Weltpolitik” (“The Contemporary Relationship between World Economics and World Politics”) in 1926, and was solicited by Edgar Julius Jung a year later to make a speech before the German Student Union, historically a hotbed for right-wing politics. 1927 also saw him begin writing on the topic again, with “Zur Entwicklungsgeschichte der Deutschen Presse” (“Toward a Developmental History of the German Press”) appearing in the Der Zeitungsverlag and “Vom Deutscher Volkscharakter” (“On the German National Character”) appearing in Deutschland the same year. After some time of soliciting his attention, Richard Korherr also finally convinced Spengler to write a brief introduction to his thesis “Über den Geburtenrückgang” (“Regarding the Decline of Birthrates”) of two years previous, which the author had dedicated to Spengler. Korherr hounded Spengler with information of the thesis, especially when it was translated into Italian by deputies of Mussolini’s in 1928.
The contents of the book are significant not just for Spengler’s life, but to his overall philosophy as well. Spengler frequently uses what critics have called “fetishistic” terms in his works like “blood”, “race”, “soul”, etc. The accusations of critics were left largely unanswered until Jahre der Entscheidung, which saw Spengler for the first time seriously take on the task of defining what he meant by “race” especially. Benito Mussolini, at the time still in his virulent anti-racist stage, received a copy of the work almost immediately after it was published, and wrote a review of the work highlighting that “Spengler clearly wishes to differentiate his views from the vulgar, materialistic Darwinism now fashionable among anti-Semites in Europe and America” (words he was in fact borrowing from Spengler) and points to Spengler’s declaration that “ ‘racial unity’ is a grotesque phrase considering that for centuries all types and kinds have mixed.”
Spengler’s final contribution while he was alive was a reply to a cable from Hearst International Cosmopolitan magazine, which at the time was still a respectable publication that gave attention to serious global political issues. The work, entitled Ist Weltfriede moeglich? (“Is World Peace Possible?”) was translated by editors of the magazine and published in January of 1936. This last work is largely ignored by Spengler biographers, but is rather his last real political offering, in which he expressed that the question was one that “can only be answered by someone familiar with world history… [which] means to know most humans as they have been and always will be.”
Les faiblesses de l’œuvre de Spengler
Bien sûr, la vie recluse de Spengler permet de telles suppositions. Il est né le 29 mai 1880, fils d’un haut fonctionnaire des postes, à Blankenburg dans le Harz (2). Ce n’était pas le père, homme paisible, qui dominait la vie familiale mais la mère, une créature à moitié folle, dévorée d’ambitions pseudo-artistiques. Elle remplissait leur grand appartement d’une telle quantité de meubles que le jeune Oswald et ses trois sœurs devaient loger dans des débarras, sous le toit !
L’inflexibilité
La vie se voit alors réduite à une rationalité moyenne, qui interdit toutes ces grandes effervescences qui entraînent soit vers le haut soit vers le bas ; l’homme se meut alors dans un cadre étroit qui ne lui propose rien de plus que la satisfaction de ses besoins physiques. Au-dessus de ce cadre, souffle un tiède ventelet d’éthique behavioriste. 
Nous ne saurions achever cette introduction au dossier Spengler sans mentionner un ouvrage récent et remarquablement bien fait sur sa pensée. Il s’agit de Spengler heute, Sechs Essays (Spengler aujourd’hui, six essais), préfacé par Hermann Lübbe, sous la direction de Peter Christian Ludz. Cet ouvrage est paru aux éditions CH Beck de Munich. Il comprend des textes de Hermann Lübbe (Historisch-politische Exaltationen : Spengler wiedergelesen = Exaltations historico-politiques : Une relecture de S.), d’Alexander Demandt (Spengler und die Spätantike = Spengler et la Haute-Antiquité), de Horst Möller (Oswald Spengler : Geschichte im Dienste der Zeitkritik = O.S. : L’Histoire au service de la critique du temps), de Tracy B. Strong (O.S. : Ontologie, Kritik und Enttäuschung = S. : Ontologie, critique et déception), du spécialiste français Gilbert Merlio (S. und die Technik = S. et la technique) et de G.L. Ulmen (Metaphysik des Morgenlandes - S. über Russland = Métaphysique de l’Orient, S. et la Russie). La lecture de cet ouvrage est indispensable pour pouvoir comprendre et utiliser Spengler aujourd’hui.