Two things happened in 1935. Your mother died; my wife, Maria Elizabeth Wessenberg. And Heidegger, in Freiburg, no longer as Rektor, but as the unreachable philosopher and teacher that he was, read a course on the Introduction to Metaphysics. I devoured those classes. Those ideas gave me life. They made me feel, once again, that human intelligence has no limits. That in some, like in Heidegger, it is shot towards the absolute and it doesn't stop until possessing it. National Socialism was whatever he said it was. Werner Rolfe was wrong. No one understood Nazism like Heidegger. If Nazism did not reach his heights, didn't know how or couldn't manage it, that's a different matter. If Nazism blinded itself in the biologist racist texts of Rosenberg, of Bauemler or of Goebbels, if it gave a mediocre and mistaken version of the great Nietzsche, it is not Heidegger's fault at all. He, in his course on metaphysics, spoke of the greatness and truth of National Socialism, and he knew how to enunciate it. He was the one that thought our movement from ontology, from the history of the forgetting of being and not from prattle about the races. We weren't, the National Socialists, superior for being pure Aryans, for not sharing our blood with Jews and Gypsies, but for being a metaphysical people, for being in the center of the West, for carrying the burden of saving that spirit that was drowned between the tongs of North American mercantilism and Bolshevik massification. One again, I get ahead of myself.

It is, now, your mother that dies. Without knowing why, without understanding, overshadowed, suspecting, with pain or sadness or simple resignation, that death, hers, meaning nothing, which is, in the tragedy the world lives, within the massacre it is giving itself over to, a trivial matter that matters to no one, save to you and me, minor beings like her, suffocated in a universal disaster.

I expect that the master's classes had the power to rescue me from that abyss. From that anonymous vegetating in the lack of transcendence, I stopped being a somber widower and returned to my place in the West's center. In the center of Being.

Labels: The Shadow of Heidegger

¶ 5:40 AM