The chief danger to philosophy is narrowness in the selection of evidence. This narrowness arises from the idiosyncrasies and timidities of particular authors, of particular social groups, of particular schools of thought, of particular epochs in the history of civilization. The evidence relied upon is arbitrarily biased by the temperaments of individuals, by the provincialities of groups, and by the limitations of schemes of thought.
The evil, resulting from this distortion of evidence, is at its worst in the consideration of the topic of the final part of this investigation—ultimate ideals. We must commence this topic by an endeavour to state impartially the general types of the great ideals which have prevailed at sundry seasons and places. Our test in the selection, to be impartial, must be pragmatic: the chosen stage of exemplification must be such as to compel attention, by its own intrinsic interest, or by the intrinsic interest of the results which flow from it. For example, the stern self-restraint of the Roman farmers in the early history of the Republic issued in the great epoch of the Roman Empire; and the stern self-restraint of the early Puritans in New England issued in the flowering of New England culture. The epoch of the Covenanters has had for its issue the deep impression which modern civilization owes to Scotland. Neither the Roman farmers, nor the American Puritans, nor the Covenanters, can wholly command allegiance. Also they differ from each other. But in either case, there is greatness there, greatly exemplified. In contrast to this example, we find the flowering time of the aesthetic culture of ancient Greece, the Augustan epoch in Rome, the Italian Renaissance, the Elizabethan epoch in England, the Restoration epoch in England, French and Teutonic civilization throughout the centuries of the modern world, Modern Paris, and Modern New York. Moralists have much to say about some of these societies. Yet, while there is any critical judgment in the lives of men, such achievements can never be forgotten. In the estimation of either type of these contrasted examples, sheer contempt betokens blindness. In each of these instances, there are elements which compel admiration. There is a greatness in the lives of those who build up religious systems, a greatness in action, in idea and in self-subordination, embodied in instance after instance through centuries of growth. There is a greatness in the rebels who destroy such systems:
they are the Titans who storm heaven, armed with passionate sincerity. It may be that the revolt is the mere assertion by youth of its right to its proper brilliance, to that final good of immediate joy. Philosophy may not neglect the multifariousness of the world—the fairies dance, and Christ is nailed to the cross.
There are various contrasted qualities of temperament, which control the formation of the mentalities of different epochs. In a previous chapter (Part II, Ch. X) attention has already been drawn to the sense of permanence dominating the invocation ‘Abide with Me,’ and the sense of flux dominating the sequel ‘Fast Falls the Eventide.’ Ideals fashion themselves round these two notions, permanence and flux. In the inescapable flux, there is something that abides; in the overwhelming permanence, there is an element that escapes into flux. Permanence can be snatched only out of flux; and the passing moment can find its adequate intensity only by its submission to permanence. Those who would disjoin the two elements can find no interpretation of patent facts. The four symbolic figures in the Medici chapel in Florence—Michelangelo’s masterpieces of statuary, Day and Night, Evening and Dawn—exhibit the everlasting elements in the passage of fact. The figures stay there, reclining in their recurring sequence, forever showing the essences in the nature of things. The perfect realization is not merely the exemplification of what in abstraction is timeless. It does more: it implants timelessness on what in its essence is passing. The perfect moment is fade-less in the lapse of time. Time has then lost its character of ‘perpetual perishing’; it becomes the ‘moving image of eternity.’
Another contrast is equally essential for the understanding of ideals—the contrast between order as the condition for excellence, and order as stifling the freshness of living. This contrast is met with in the theory of education. The condition for excellence is a thorough training in technique. Sheer skill must pass out of the sphere of conscious exercise, and must have assumed the character of unconscious habit. The first, the second, and the third condition for high achievement is scholarship, in that enlarged sense including knowledge and acquired instinct controlling action. The paradox which wrecks so many promising theories of education is that the training which produces skill is so very apt to stifle imaginative zest. Skill demands repetition, and imaginative zest is tinged with impulse. Up to a certain point each gain in skill opens new paths for the imagination. But in each individual formal training has its limit of usefulness. Beyond that limit there is degeneration: ‘The lilies of the field toil not, neither do they spin.’
The social history of mankind exhibits great organizations in their alternating functions of conditions for progress, and of contrivances for stunting humanity. The history of the Mediterranean lands, and of western Europe, is the history of the blessing and the curse of political organizations, of religious organizations, of schemes of thought, of social agencies for large purposes. The moment of dominance, prayed for, worked for, sacrificed for, by generations of the noblest spirits, marks the turning point where the blessing passes into the curse. Some new principle of refreshment is required. The art of progress is to preserve order amid change, and to preserve change amid order. Life refuses to be embalmed alive. The more prolonged the halt in some unrelieved system of order, the greater the crash of the dead society.
The same principle is exhibited by the tedium arising from the unrelieved dominance of a fashion in art. Europe, having covered itself with treasures of Gothic architecture, entered upon generations of satiation. These jaded epochs seem to have lost all sense of that particular form of loveliness. It seems as though the last delicacies of feeling require some element of novelty to relieve their massive inheritance from bygone system. Order is not sufficient. What is required, is something much more complex. It is order entering upon novelty; so that the massiveness of order does not degenerate into mere repetition; and so that the novelty is always reflected upon a background of system.
But the two elements must not really be disjoined. It belongs to the goodness of the world, that its settled order should deal tenderly with the faint discordant light of the dawn of another age. Also order, as it sinks into the background before new conditions, has its requirements. The old dominance should be transformed into the firm foundations, upon which new feelings arise, drawing their intensities from delicacies of contrast between system and freshness. In either alternative of excess, whether the past be lost, or be dominant, the present is enfeebled. This is only an application of Aristotle’s doctrine of the ‘golden mean.’ The lesson of the transmutation of causal efficacy into presentational immediacy is that great ends are reached by life in the present; life novel and immediate, but deriving its richness by its full inheritance from the rightly organized animal body. It is by reason of the body, with its miracle of order, that the treasures of the past environment are poured into the living occasion. The final percipient route of occasions is perhaps some thread of happenings wandering in ‘empty’ space amid the interstices of the brain. It toils not, neither does it spin. It receives from the past; it lives in the present. It is shaken by its intensities of private feeling, adversion or aversion. In its turn, this culmination of bodily life transmits itself as an element of novelty throughout the avenues of the body. Its sole use to the body is its vivid originality: it is the organ of novelty.
The world is thus faced by the paradox that, at least in its higher actualities, it craves for novelty and yet is haunted by terror at the loss of the past, with its familiarities and its loved ones. It seeks escape from time in its character of ‘perpetually perishing.’ Part of the joy of the new years is the hope of the old round of seasons, with their stable facts—of friendship, and love, and old association. Yet conjointly with this terror, the present as mere unrelieved preservation of the past assumes the character of a horror of the past, rejection of it, revolt:
To die be given, or attain,Each new epoch enters upon its career by waging unrelenting war upon the aesthetic gods of its immediate predecessor. Yet the culminating fact of conscious, rational life refuses to conceive itself as a transient enjoyment, transiently useful. In the order of the physical world its rôle is defined by its introduction of novelty. But, just as physical feelings are haunted by the vague insistence of causality, so the higher intellectual feelings are haunted by the vague insistence of another order, where there is no unrest, no travel, no shipwreck: ‘There shall be no more sea.
Fierce work it were to do again.
This is the problem which gradually shapes itself as religion reaches its higher phases in civilized communities. The most general formulation of the religious problem is the question whether the process of the temporal world passes into the formation of other actualities, bound together in an order in which novelty does not mean loss.
The ultimate evil in the temporal world is deeper than any specific evil. It lies in the fact that the past fades, that time is a ‘perpetual perishing.’ Objectification involves elimination. The present fact has not the past fact with it in any full immediacy. The process of time veils the past below distinctive feeling. There is a unison of becoming among things in the present. Why should there not be novelty without loss of this direct unison of immediacy among things? In the temporal world, it is the empirical fact that process entails loss: the past is present under an abstraction. But there is no reason, of any ultimate metaphysical generality, why this should be the whole story. The nature of evil is that the characters of things are mutually obstructive. Thus the depths of life require a process of selection. But the selection is elimination as the first step towards another temporal order seeking to minimize obstructive modes. Selection is at once the measure of evil, and the process of its evasion. It means discarding the element of obstructiveness in fact. No element in fact is ineffectual: thus the struggle with evil is a process of building up a mode of utilization by the provision of intermediate elements introducing a complex structure of harmony. The triviality in some initial reconstruction of order expresses the fact that actualities are being produced, which, trivial in their own proper character of immediate ‘ends,’ are proper ‘means’ for the emergence of a world at once lucid, and intrinsically of immediate worth.
The evil of the world is that those elements which are translucent so far as transmission is concerned, in themselves are of slight weight; and that those elements with individual weight, by their discord, impose upon vivid immediacy the obligation that it fade into night. ‘He giveth his beloved—sleep.’
It is well-known that an automaton once existed, which was so constructed that it could
counter any move of a chess-player with a counter-move, and thereby assure itself of
victory in the match. A puppet in Turkish attire, water-pipe in mouth, sat before the
chessboard, which rested on a broad table. Through a system of mirrors, the illusion was
created that this table was transparent from all sides. In truth, a hunchbacked dwarf who
was a master chess-player sat inside, controlling the hands of the puppet with strings.
One can envision a corresponding object to this apparatus in philosophy. The puppet
called “historical materialism” is always supposed to win. It can do this with no further
ado against any opponent, so long as it employs the services of theology, which as
everyone knows is small and ugly and must be kept out of sight.
“Among the most noteworthy characteristics of human beings,” says Lotze, “belongs…
next to so much self-seeking in individuals, the general absence of envy of each present
in relation to the future.” This reflection shows us that the picture of happiness which we
harbor is steeped through and through in the time which the course of our own existence
has conferred on us. The happiness which could awaken envy in us exists only in the air
we have breathed, with people we could have spoken with, with women who might have
been able to give themselves to us. The conception of happiness, in other words,
resonates irremediably with that of resurrection [Erloesung: transfiguration, redemption].
It is just the same with the conception of the past, which makes history into its affair. The
past carries a secret index with it, by which it is referred to its resurrection. Are we not
touched by the same breath of air which was among that which came before? is there not
an echo of those who have been silenced in the voices to which we lend our ears today?
have not the women, who we court, sisters who they do not recognize anymore? If so,
then there is a secret protocol [Verabredung: also appointment] between the generations
of the past and that of our own. For we have been expected upon this earth. For it has
been given us to know, just like every generation before us, a weak messianic power, on
which the past has a claim. This claim is not to be settled lightly. The historical
materialist knows why.
The chronicler, who recounts events without distinguishing between the great and small,
thereby accounts for the truth, that nothing which has ever happened is to be given as lost
to history. Indeed, the past would fully befall only a resurrected humanity. Said another
way: only for a resurrected humanity would its past, in each of its moments, be citable.
Each of its lived moments becomes a citation a l’ordre du jour [order of the day] –
whose day is precisely that of the Last Judgement.
Secure at first food and clothing, and the kingdom of God will come to you of itself. – Hegel, 1807
The class struggle, which always remains in view for a historian schooled in Marx, is a
struggle for the rough and material things, without which there is nothing fine and
spiritual. Nevertheless these latter are present in the class struggle as something other
than mere booty, which falls to the victor. They are present as confidence, as courage, as
humor, as cunning, as steadfastness in this struggle, and they reach far back into the mists
of time. They will, ever and anon, call every victory which has ever been won by the
rulers into question. Just as flowers turn their heads towards the sun, so too does that
which has been turn, by virtue of a secret kind of heliotropism, towards the sun which is
dawning in the sky of history. To this most inconspicuous of all transformations the
historical materialist must pay heed.
The true picture of the past whizzes by. Only as a picture, which flashes its final farewell
in the moment of its recognizability, is the past to be held fast. “The truth will not run
away from us” – this remark by Gottfried Keller denotes the exact place where historical
materialism breaks through historicism’s picture of history. For it is an irretrievable
picture of the past, which threatens to disappear with every present, which does not
recognize itself as meant in it.
To articulate what is past does not mean to recognize “how it really was.” It means to
take control of a memory, as it flashes in a moment of danger. For historical materialism
it is a question of holding fast to a picture of the past, just as if it had unexpectedly thrust
itself, in a moment of danger, on the historical subject. The danger threatens the stock of
tradition as much as its recipients. For both it is one and the same: handing itself over as
the tool of the ruling classes. In every epoch, the attempt must be made to deliver
tradition anew from the conformism which is on the point of overwhelming it. For the
Messiah arrives not merely as the Redeemer; he also arrives as the vanquisher of the
Anti-christ. The only writer of history with the gift of setting alight the sparks of hope in
the past, is the one who is convinced of this: that not even the dead will be safe from the
enemy, if he is victorious. And this enemy has not ceased to be victorious.
Think of the darkness and the great cold
In this valley, which resounds with misery.
– Brecht, Threepenny Opera
Fustel de Coulanges recommended to the historian, that if he wished to reexperience an
epoch, he should remove everything he knows about the later course of history from his
head. There is no better way of characterizing the method with which historical
materialism has broken. It is a procedure of empathy. Its origin is the heaviness at heart,
the acedia, which despairs of mastering the genuine historical picture, which so fleetingly
flashes by. The theologians of the Middle Ages considered it the primary cause of
melancholy. Flaubert, who was acquainted with it, wrote: “Peu de gens devineront
combien il a fallu être triste pour ressusciter Carthage.” [Few people can guess how
despondent one has to be in order to resuscitate Carthage.] The nature of this melancholy
becomes clearer, once one asks the question, with whom does the historical writer of
historicism actually empathize. The answer is irrefutably with the victor. Those who
currently rule are however the heirs of all those who have ever been victorious. Empathy
with the victors thus comes to benefit the current rulers every time. This says quite
enough to the historical materialist. Whoever until this day emerges victorious, marches
in the triumphal procession in which today’s rulers tread over those who are sprawled
underfoot. The spoils are, as was ever the case, carried along in the triumphal procession.
They are known as the cultural heritage. In the historical materialist they have to reckon
with a distanced observer. For what he surveys as the cultural heritage is part and parcel
of a lineage [Abkunft: descent] which he cannot contemplate without horror. It owes its
existence not only to the toil of the great geniuses, who created it, but also to the
nameless drudgery of its contemporaries. There has never been a document of culture,
which is not simultaneously one of barbarism. And just as it is itself not free from
barbarism, neither is it free from the process of transmission, in which it falls from one
set of hands into another. The historical materialist thus moves as far away from this as
measurably possible. He regards it as his task to brush history against the grain.
The tradition of the oppressed teaches us that the “emergency situation” in which we live
is the rule. We must arrive at a concept of history which corresponds to this. Then it will
become clear that the task before us is the introduction of a real state of emergency; and
our position in the struggle against Fascism will thereby improve. Not the least reason
that the latter has a chance is that its opponents, in the name of progress, greet it as a
historical norm. – The astonishment that the things we are experiencing in the 20th
century are “still” possible is by no means philosophical. It is not the beginning of
knowledge, unless it would be the knowledge that the conception of history on which it
rests is untenable.
My wing is ready to fly
I would rather turn back
For had I stayed mortal time
I would have had little luck.
– Gerhard Scholem, “Angelic Greetings”
There is a painting by Klee called Angelus Novus. An angel is depicted there who looks
as though he were about to distance himself from something which he is staring at. His
eyes are opened wide, his mouth stands open and his wings are outstretched. The Angel
of History must look just so. His face is turned towards the past. Where we see the
appearance of a chain of events, he sees one single catastrophe, which unceasingly piles
rubble on top of rubble and hurls it before his feet. He would like to pause for a moment
so fair [verweilen: a reference to Goethe’s Faust], to awaken the dead and to piece
together what has been smashed. But a storm is blowing from Paradise, it has caught
itself up in his wings and is so strong that the Angel can no longer close them. The storm
drives him irresistibly into the future, to which his back is turned, while the rubble-heap
before him grows sky-high. That which we call progress, is this storm.
The objects which the monastic rules assigned to monks for meditation had the task of
making the world and its drives repugnant. The mode of thought which we pursue today
comes from a similar determination. It has the intention, at a moment wherein the
politicians in whom the opponents of Fascism had placed their hopes have been knocked
supine, and have sealed their downfall by the betrayal of their own cause, of freeing the
political child of the world from the nets in which they have ensnared it. The
consideration starts from the assumption that the stubborn faith in progress of these
politicians, their trust in their “mass basis” and finally their servile subordination into an
uncontrollable apparatus have been three sides of the same thing. It seeks to give an idea
of how dearly it will cost our accustomed concept of history, to avoid any complicity
with that which these politicians continue to hold fast to.
The conformism which has dwelt within social democracy from the very beginning rests
not merely on its political tactics, but also on its economic conceptions. It is a
fundamental cause of the later collapse. There is nothing which has corrupted the German
working-class so much as the opinion that they were swimming with the tide. Technical
developments counted to them as the course of the stream, which they thought they were
swimming in. From this, it was only a step to the illusion that the factory-labor set forth
by the path of technological progress represented a political achievement. The old
Protestant work ethic celebrated its resurrection among German workers in secularized
form. The Gotha Program [dating from the 1875 Gotha Congress] already bore traces of
this confusion. It defined labor as “the source of all wealth and all culture”. Suspecting
the worst, Marx responded that human being, who owned no other property aside from
his labor-power, “must be the slave of other human beings, who… have made themselves
into property-owners.” Oblivious to this, the confusion only increased, and soon
afterwards Josef Dietzgen announced: “Labor is the savior of modern times… In the…
improvement… of labor… consists the wealth, which can now finally fulfill what no
redeemer could hitherto achieve.” This vulgar-Marxist concept of what labor is, does not
bother to ask the question of how its products affect workers, so long as these are no
longer at their disposal. It wishes to perceive only the progression of the exploitation of
nature, not the regression of society. It already bears the technocratic traces which would
later be found in Fascism. Among these is a concept of nature which diverges in a
worrisome manner from those in the socialist utopias of the Vormaerz period [pre-1848].
Labor, as it is henceforth conceived, is tantamount to the exploitation of nature, which is
contrasted to the exploitation of the proletariat with naïve self-satisfaction. Compared to
this positivistic conception, the fantasies which provided so much ammunition for the
ridicule of Fourier exhibit a surprisingly healthy sensibility. According to Fourier, a
beneficent division of social labor would have the following consequences: four moons
would illuminate the night sky; ice would be removed from the polar cap; saltwater from
the sea would no longer taste salty; and wild beasts would enter into the service of human
beings. All this illustrates a labor which, far from exploiting nature, is instead capable of
delivering creations whose possibility slumbers in her womb. To the corrupted concept of
labor belongs, as its logical complement, that nature which, as Dietzgen put it, “is there
gratis [for free]”.
We need history, but we need it differently from the spoiled lazy-bones in the garden of knowledge.
– Nietzsche, On the Use and Abuse of History for Life
The subject of historical cognition is the battling, oppressed class itself. In Marx it steps
forwards as the final enslaved and avenging class, which carries out the work of
emancipation in the name of generations of downtrodden to its conclusion. This
consciousness, which for a short time made itself felt in the “Spartacus” [Spartacist
splinter group, the forerunner to the German Communist Party], was objectionable to
social democracy from the very beginning. In the course of three decades it succeeded in
almost completely erasing the name of Blanqui, whose distant thunder [Erzklang] had
made the preceding century tremble. It contented itself with assigning the working-class
the role of the savior of future generations. It thereby severed the sinews of its greatest
power. Through this schooling the class forgot its hate as much as its spirit of sacrifice.
For both nourish themselves on the picture of enslaved forebears, not on the ideal of the
Yet every day our cause becomes clearer and the people more clever.
– Josef Dietzgen, Social Democratic Philosophy
Social democratic theory, and still more the praxis, was determined by a concept of
progress which did not hold to reality, but had a dogmatic claim. Progress, as it was
painted in the minds of the social democrats, was once upon a time the progress of
humanity itself (not only that of its abilities and knowledges). It was, secondly,
something unending (something corresponding to an endless perfectibility of humanity).
It counted, thirdly, as something essentially unstoppable (as something self-activating,
pursuing a straight or spiral path). Each of these predicates is controversial, and critique
could be applied to each of them. This latter must, however, when push comes to shove,
go behind all these predicates and direct itself at what they all have in common. The
concept of the progress of the human race in history is not to be separated from the
concept of its progression through a homogenous and empty time. The critique of the
concept of this progress must ground the basis of its critique on the concept of progress
Origin is the goal [Ziel: terminus]. – Karl Kraus, Worte in Versen I [Words in Verse]
History is the object of a construction whose place is formed not in homogenous and
empty time, but in that which is fulfilled by the here-and-now [Jetztzeit]. For
Robespierre, Roman antiquity was a past charged with the here-and-now, which he
exploded out of the continuum of history. The French revolution thought of itself as a
latterday Rome. It cited ancient Rome exactly the way fashion cites a past costume.
Fashion has an eye for what is up-to-date, wherever it moves in the jungle [Dickicht:
maze, thicket] of what was. It is the tiger’s leap into that which has gone before. Only it
takes place in an arena in which the ruling classes are in control. The same leap into the
open sky of history is the dialectical one, as Marx conceptualized the revolution.
The consciousness of exploding the continuum of history is peculiar to the revolutionary classes in the moment of their action. The Great Revolution introduced a new calendar. The day on which the calendar started functioned as a historical time-lapse camera. And it is fundamentally the same day which, in the shape of holidays and memorials, always returns. The calendar does not therefore count time like clocks. They are monuments of a historical awareness, of which there has not seemed to be the slightest trace for a hundred years. Yet in the July Revolution an incident took place which did justice to this consciousness. During the evening of the first skirmishes, it turned out that the clock-towers were shot at independently and simultaneously in several places in Paris. An eyewitness who may have owed his inspiration to the rhyme wrote at that moment:
[Who would’ve thought! As though
The historical materialist cannot do without the concept of a present which is not a
transition, in which time originates and has come to a standstill. For this concept defines
precisely the present in which he writes history for his person. Historicism depicts the
“eternal” picture of the past; the historical materialist, an experience with it, which stands
alone. He leaves it to others to give themselves to the whore called “Once upon a time” in
the bordello of historicism. He remains master of his powers: man enough, to explode the
continuum of history.
Historicism justifiably culminates in universal history. Nowhere does the materialist
writing of history distance itself from it more clearly than in terms of method. The former
has no theoretical armature. Its method is additive: it offers a mass of facts, in order to
fill up a homogenous and empty time. The materialist writing of history for its part is
based on a constructive principle. Thinking involves not only the movement of thoughts
but also their zero-hour [Stillstellung]. Where thinking suddenly halts in a constellation
overflowing with tensions, there it yields a shock to the same, through which it
crystallizes as a monad. The historical materialist approaches a historical object solely
and alone where he encounters it as a monad. In this structure he cognizes the sign of a
messianic zero-hour [Stillstellung] of events, or put differently, a revolutionary chance in
the struggle for the suppressed past. He perceives it, in order to explode a specific epoch
out of the homogenous course of history; thus exploding a specific life out of the epoch,
or a specific work out of the life-work. The net gain of this procedure consists of this:
that the life-work is preserved and sublated in the work, the epoch in the life-work, and
the entire course of history in the epoch. The nourishing fruit of what is historically
conceptualized has time as its core, its precious but flavorless seed.
“In relation to the history of organic life on Earth,” notes a recent biologist, “the
miserable fifty millenia of homo sapiens represents something like the last two seconds
of a twenty-four hour day. The entire history of civilized humanity would, on this scale,
take up only one fifth of the last second of the last hour.” The here-and-now, which as the
model of messianic time summarizes the entire history of humanity into a monstrous
abbreviation, coincides to a hair with the figure, which the history of humanity makes in
Historicism contents itself with establishing a causal nexus of various moments of
history. But no state of affairs is, as a cause, already a historical one. It becomes this,
posthumously, through eventualities which may be separated from it by millenia. The
historian who starts from this, ceases to permit the consequences of eventualities to run
through the fingers like the beads of a rosary. He records [erfasst] the constellation in
which his own epoch comes into contact with that of an earlier one. He thereby
establishes a concept of the present as that of the here-and-now, in which splinters of
messianic time are shot through.
Surely the time of the soothsayers, who divined what lay hidden in the lap of the future, was experienced neither as homogenous nor as empty. Whoever keeps this in mind will perhaps have an idea of how past time was experienced as remembrance: namely, just the same way. It is well-known that the Jews were forbidden to look into the future. The Torah and the prayers instructed them, by contrast, in remembrance. This disenchanted those who fell prey to the future, who sought advice from the soothsayers. For that reason the future did not, however, turn into a homogenous and empty time for the Jews. For in it every second was the narrow gate, through which the Messiah could enter.
1 from PART V FINAL INTERPRETATION in: Process and Reality: An Essay in Cosmology, 1929
2 from On the Concept of History. Gesammelten Schriften I:2. Suhrkamp
Verlag. Frankfurt am Main, 1974.
(Translation: Dennis Redmond 8/4/01. Two brief notes on the translation: Jetztzeit was translated as “here-and-now”, in order to distinguish it from its polar opposite, the empty and homogenous time of positivism. Stillstellung was rendered as “zero-hour”, rather than the misleading “standstill”; the verb “stillstehen” means to come to a stop or standstill, but Stillstellung is Benjamin’s own unique invention, which connotes an objective interruption of a mechanical process, rather like the dramatic pause at the end of an action-adventure movie, when the audience is waiting to find out if the time-bomb/missile/terrorist device was defused or not).