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NOTES AND DISCUSSION

MY OWN PRIVATE SWABIA.

ON THE IDIOCY OF
HEIDEGGER’S NATIONALISM

Robert Savage

The following reflections were stimulated by James Phillips’s Heidegger’s Volk.

Between National Socialism and Poetry (Stanford University Press, 2005)

In April 1933, Martin Heidegger was elected unopposed to the rector-

ship of Freiburg University. Given the events that were to follow, and the
seemingly endless debate they have occasioned on the relationship between
Heidegger’s thought and his politics, it is worth revisiting his own account
of the decision-making process that culminated in his election. Trying to put
the best spin on the whole sorry affair some 12 years later, Heidegger main-
tained that even on the morning of the election, he still held grave doubts
about his fitness for the task and had wanted to withdraw his candidature.
He was not a member of the Party, had no connections to government, and
had never before dabbled in politics. Only at ‘the urging of many colleagues,
in particular the deposed rector von Möllendorff’ (Heidegger, 2000a: 374),
did he relent, swayed by their argument that if he were to pull out, the Nazis
would move to impose a far less suitable candidate of their own. The
decision to nominate for the rectorship was thus not the expression of a will
to power. On the contrary, at the time Heidegger still entertained the hope
that, as leader of the university, he might be able to contribute to an ‘over-
coming of the metaphysics of the will to power’ that held the West in its
thrall, before belatedly coming to the realization that the German revolution
whose course he had sought to influence was but the latest manifestation
of that metaphysics (Heidegger, 2000a: 376).

Thesis Eleven, Number 87, November 2006: 112–121

SAGE Publications (London, Thousand Oaks, CA and New Delhi)
Copyright © 2006 SAGE Publications and Thesis Eleven Co-op Ltd
DOI: 10.1177/0725513606068780
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Savage: My Own Private Swabia 113

A few months later, Heidegger made another momentous, albeit far

less controversial decision, this time to turn down the second offer of a pres-
tigious professorship at Humboldt University in Berlin, perhaps the highest
recognition the state could bestow upon his work. In effect, Heidegger was
declaring his intention to stick out the remainder of his career in provincial
Freiburg, which he felt offered him a more congenial working environment
than the big city. Again, Heidegger composed a written account of the
process by which he arrived at the decision. In an article initially broadcast
on Berlin radio, and subsequently printed in the local Nazi Party news organ,
Heidegger relates how, upon receiving the offer, he retired to his hut in the
countryside to ponder his response:

I hear what the mountains and the forests and the farmyards have to say. I go
up to see my old friend, a 75-year-old peasant. He has read about the call to
Berlin in the papers. What will he say? He slowly fixes the unwavering gaze
of his clear eyes on mine, holds his mouth tightly shut, carefully lays his faithful
hand on my shoulder and – almost imperceptibly shakes his head. That is to
say: implacably No! (Heidegger, 1983: 12–13)

Adorno would spend the best part of a lecture poking fun at this
passage, and it is not hard to see why he found its glorification of rural
backwardness, its ‘laudatio to the simple, rustic life’, both nauseatingly
kitschy and ideologically suspect (Adorno, 1973: 152). Clearly, taciturn hill-
billies can be relied on to give better advice than smooth-talking university
professors, for there is no doubt in Heidegger’s mind that his No to Berlin,
unlike his Yes to the rectorship, was the right choice, nor that he has glossed
the peasant’s tremulous gesture correctly – perhaps because it confirms what
he has already been told by the ‘voice of the friend’ which, according to
Being and Time, every Dasein carries in its ear (Heidegger, 1977: 217). In
both cases, the decision seems to have been taken out of his hands by
those around him, requiring only his consent to what is presented to him
as a fait accompli. But two very different kinds of idiocy are involved here,
which I am tempted to classify according to the well-worn Heideggerian
schema of the ‘authentic’ and the ‘inauthentic’. On the one hand, there is
what Heidegger privately referred to as ‘the greatest stupidity’ of his life, a
failure to speak up at a critical moment that severely compromised his
personal and philosophical integrity, earned him a ban on teaching in the
immediate aftermath of the war, and was eventually to spawn a minor
academic industry. On the other, there is the eloquent idiocy that derives
from ‘a centuries-old, irreplaceable Alemannian-Swabian rootedness in the
soil’, an unspoken and unspeakable attunement to one’s native land and
its people which city folk, mired in ‘chatter’, tend to mistake for slow-witted
reticence (Heidegger, 1983: 11). The task that confronts any serious investi-
gation of Heidegger’s politics is to explain how these idiocies relate to one
another.
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114 Thesis Eleven (Number 87 2006)

We can readily discern, behind the features of Heidegger’s peasant, the

animating presence of Socrates’ daimon, who likewise intervenes only to
prevent the philosopher from embarking upon a foolhardy course of action.
In Republic 496c, Socrates credits his daimon with having deterred him from
throwing himself into the hurly-burly of political life: ‘Weighing all these
considerations [the philosopher] holds his peace and does his own work,
like a man in a storm sheltering behind a wall from the driving wind of dust
and hail.’ Why then did Heidegger’s daimon, which was to stand him in
such good stead just a few months after the election, desert him at the
moment when he was most sorely needed? When Heidegger, quoting from
a little further on in the Republic, declares at the end of the rectorial address
that ‘All that is great stands in the storm’ (497d), he suggests that the
calculated recklessness with which the philosopher abandons his shelter –
a recklessness which may appear idiotic in retrospect – forms the pre-
condition for his entry into the realm of the decision. Precisely the fact that
this is, as James Phillips notes, an ‘infamously inaccurate translation’ on
Heidegger’s part (Phillips, 2005: 132), one which interpolates the storm into
a Greek passage which speaks only of what is at risk (tá . . . megála pánta
episphale), gives occasion for reading it as a defiant and pointed response
to Socrates’ own refusal to commit himself to the tumult of the polis. Fools
rush in where daimons fear to tread; sure enough, Heidegger was to hand
in his resignation after barely a year in the job, disillusioned by the
movement’s failure to live up to its ‘inner truth and grandeur’. But would
he have acted any differently had his old friend been available for consul-
tation on the morning of his election? And would the peasant, when he read
about the election in the papers the following day, have shaken his head in
approval or disbelief?

THE VOLK RISES

Such questions take us to the heart(land) of Heidegger’s Volk, the
subject of Phillips’s masterly study. Volk is a difficult word to translate into
English, and Phillips sensibly chooses to leave it in the original. The
Australian Aboriginal term ‘mob’, used to designate an extended family
network or community, comes close; it shares with Volk connotations of
homeliness and belonging, along with a degree of abstraction from one’s
immediate kith and kin. Yet the mobility from which the mob takes its name
is inappropriate to Heidegger’s Volk, which ventures abroad only for the
sake of returning to its cherished homeland – this the ‘law of becoming
homely’ parsed in several of the wartime lectures. The village elder is obvi-
ously one of Heidegger’s mob, as is Hölderlin, the poet to whom he would
turn after his resignation from the rectorship, while Heidegger himself is its
self-appointed spokesperson, a kind of Swabian philosopher for indigenous
affairs. Hitler, on the other hand, is not one of the mob, although for a time,
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Savage: My Own Private Swabia 115

blinded by his quixotic scheme to ‘lead the leader’ or swabianize Berlin,

Heidegger thought that he might be.
Phillips stresses that the notion of Volk which dawns in §74 of Being
and Time and reaches its zenith in the speeches and lectures held under
the Third Reich, before evanescing in the crepuscular gloom of the late Trakl
interpretations, withdraws from the understanding of Being as presence with
which Heidegger reproaches the entire Western metaphysical tradition. Just
like the peasant who is its spirit incarnate, the Volk is always already lost
for words, unable to speak for itself because it is never at one with itself in
the first place; not so much a cohesive ethnic unit whose expansive tenden-
cies are held in check by lines on a map as the abyssal ground which imparts
to the world that lived-in thickness which makes it ever our world, the world
of an historical people. An important corollary is that, for Heidegger, the
German Volk is not characterized by any identifiable properties that could
be used to distinguish it from other Völker, least of all by a putative prepon-
derance of blond hair and blue eyes. His nationalism, if such it may be
termed, is thus ‘irreconcilable with the biologism of National Socialism’,
concerned as it was with ‘the preservation of breeding lines in the ahistor-
ical manipulation of genetic material’ (Phillips, 2005: 15, 3).
For Heidegger, what is special about the German Volk, and what the
Nazi regime betrayed through its covertly ‘liberal’ conceptualization of that
Volk as a mass of individuals to be brought into line and marshalled for
combat by a triumphant will, is the impossibility of its being represented in
any forum where its notional attributes could be put on show, respected,
defended, or murderously enforced. The incessant movement of self-
determination by which the Volk poses itself as a question – a question that
can never be disentangled from its answer – tolerates no such artificial
constraints. That is why, even after falling out with the regime, Heidegger
applauded Germany’s withdrawal from the ‘sham community’ of the League
of Nations (Heidegger, 2000a: 333). Indeed, he was quick to condemn any
institutional delimitation of what it means to be German, regardless of its
democratic legitimacy, for feigning to drag the Volk from out of the conceal-
ment that is proper to it. ‘The nationalism to which Heidegger could be read
as exhorting the people of the centre’, Phillips writes, is ‘less the assertion
of a given people’s distinct identity among the distinct identities of neigh-
boring peoples than the assertion of the nonuniversality of a people against
global anonymity’ (Phillips, 2005: 32). It is thus hardly fortuitous that
Heidegger’s peasant, as the truest ‘representative’ of his people, failed to
turn up at the very moment when Heidegger took it upon himself to speak
in that people’s name. Not just the frailty of a septuagenarian, but the essen-
tial inconspicuousness for which he stands as cipher would, one suspects,
have prevented him from marching alongside SA troops in one of the torchlit
processions held throughout the Reich to celebrate the rising of the Volk.
By making an ontological virtue of the political immaturity which had for
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116 Thesis Eleven (Number 87 2006)

so long kept Germany, the ‘delayed nation’ (Plessner), from enjoying its
place in the sun, Heidegger set himself at odds with the regime which sought
from the beginning to annex that place for the master race; to that extent,
one may argue for the incompatibility of the philosopher’s ‘private National
Socialism’ with Party doctrine (Phillips, 2005: 99).
Yet before we jump to the conclusion that Heidegger’s daimon should
have prevented him from putting his name forward for the rectorship – a
conclusion that would force us to dismiss Heidegger’s engagement for
National Socialism as an (in)excusable inconsistency or error of judgment
on the part of a thinker who ought to have known better – we would do
well to consider the highly idiosyncratic understanding of the daimonic that
informs Heidegger’s telling of the anecdote. The topic receives its fullest
treatment in the 1942/3 lecture series on Parmenides, where it is reproduced
in German as the uncanny (or the monstrously unfamiliar: das Un-geheure).
The daimonic, for Heidegger, names the intrusive shining into the accus-
tomed realm of beings of that which pertains to Being as such. A daimonic
gaze – the unwavering gaze of the peasant, for example – is one which
silently and attentively gazes into its own ‘appurtenance to Being’
(Heidegger, 1992: 114). ‘The Socratic-Platonic talk of the daimónion as an
inner voice’, Heidegger explains, ‘signifies only that its attuning and deter-
mining do not come from the outside, i.e., from some being at hand, but
from invisible and ungraspable Being itself, which is closer to man than any
obtrusive manipulable being’ (Heidegger, 1992: 117). Accordingly, the daimon
who counsels Heidegger to remain in the provinces is not in the first instance
to be construed in the customary sense of the term, as a divine signal which
flashes up in warning whenever the philosopher seems likely to make a
faux pas. Rather, he is an ambassador of ‘Being itself’, and the setting of
their meeting is a daimónios tópos, that is, ‘a “where” in whose squares and
alleys the uncanny shines explicitly and the essence of Being comes to
presence in an eminent sense’ (Heidegger, 1992: 117): the Alemannian-
Swabian homeland.
The peasant, it will be recalled, did not need to be told of Heidegger’s
call to Berlin because he had already read about it in the newspaper. This,
his sole concession to modernity, seems to situate him in the fallen world
of everydayness against which he was invoked in the first place. ‘One’ reads
the newspapers, one reads Being and Time, and that is enough to condemn
the ones who read them to inauthenticity (Heidegger, 1977: 169). Crucially,
however, the site of the peasant’s reading is not the locus communis
occupied by the masses, a featureless terrain flattened out by cartographers
to render it always and everywhere the same, but the daimónios tópos of
the people of Being, the ‘creative landscape’ to which professor and peasant
co-respond through their wordless agreement. The ‘initially rhetorical calls
for self-sacrifice’ proclaimed by the Nazis were accepted by Heidegger at
face value, indeed eagerly reaffirmed, because he recognized in them a
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Savage: My Own Private Swabia 117

promise to lead the Germans into that singular idiocy where they would be
sealed off from the commonplaces so thoughtlessly exchanged and inter-
changed by other peoples (Phillips, 2005: 55). In his own mind, then,
Heidegger remained faithful to his spiritus rector even and especially as he
was aspiring to the rectorship of the German spirit. His No to the
(metro)polis entailed the Yes to Hitler; it did not preclude it. The ‘greatest
stupidity’ of his life, however much he may have rued it in later years and
however far removed it may appear from the peasant’s unfathomable
wisdom, still attained a measure of greatness unequalled by both the criminal
foolishness of those to whom he pledged his allegiance and the average
intelligence of those who stayed under cover while waiting for the storm to
pass. Heidegger’s two decisions from 1933 demonstrate precisely the indis-
tinction of idiocy and stupidity in his thinking of the mission of the German
Volk.

THE VOLK FALLS

Heidegger’s Volk disappears after the war. It goes to ground in much
the same way that a people intimately familiar with the lie of the land can
sometimes vanish before an advancing army, leaving the baffled soldiers to
poke about in the empty huts. Shirking a pitched battle with the enemy, the
unbridled technocratic rationalism assumed to have seized possession of the
entire planet since the stillbirth of the German resistance movement known
as National Socialism, Heidegger’s Volk falls back to its remote hideaways
and impenetrable dingles, there to await the god who will bring salvation.
Having asserted itself with such forcefulness in 1933, it is henceforth
nowhere to be seen – which is not to say that it has been eradicated alto-
gether. Rather, it has fallen under the self-imposed prohibition on patriotic
speech pronounced by Hölderlin in one of his late fragments: ‘Of the Most
High I will keep silent.’ Heidegger had first quoted this interdiction soon
after resigning from the rectorship; only now, with the rhetoric of Volk and
Vaterland grown filthy from years of officially sanctioned abuse, is he
prepared to take it at its word. In the final chapter of his book, Phillips
shows how the Volk mutates, almost beyond recognition, into the Geschlecht
(race, gender, family) of the Trakl interpretations of the 1950s. It was to
emerge from its seclusion on a single further occasion, during an interview
with Der Spiegel whose publication was, at Heidegger’s insistence, held back
until after his death. ‘Do you accord the Germans a special role?’ he was
asked. His answer was succinct: ‘Yes, in this sense: in conversation with
Hölderlin’ (Heidegger, 2000a: 679).
With the help of the extant documents, we can reconstruct the process
by which the Volk sank into its postwar oblivion, and so get a better sense
of what this conversation between people and poet might entail. The process
gets underway in a dialogue whose final words were penned, as Heidegger
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118 Thesis Eleven (Number 87 2006)

notes at the bottom of the manuscript, ‘on the day the world [sic] celebrated
its victory and did not realise that it has for centuries been the vanquished
of its own rebellion’ (Heidegger, 1995: 249). This dialogue, conducted
between two German inmates of a Russian prisoner of war camp, recapitu-
lates much of what Heidegger had said and thought about the Germans’
collective Dasein since his resignation. The poets and thinkers are ‘those
who wait in the most noble manner’, and ‘insofar as we become those who
wait, we first become Germans’; the Germans, that is to say, are originally
and futurally the people of poets and thinkers. This Volk, the prisoners add,
is also the most endangered, ‘not through threats from outside’, but since it
‘tyrannised itself with its own unknowing impatience’ in the belief that ‘it
had to wrest recognition from other peoples’, whereas in fact – and here
Heidegger adapts to the national calamity of 1945 the tirade against Auslän-
derei launched by Fichte after the national calamity of 1806 – ‘this overhasty
sham essence remains only the eternally clumsy imitation of the foreign’.
Trapped in a bad mimesis, the Germans succumbed to foreign influences
and paid insufficient attention to their own historical essence. By identify-
ing the Nazi dictatorship with a slavish devotion to un-German ways of
thinking, Heidegger posits an original and uncontaminated Germanness still
to be recuperated from the global malaise of which the dictatorship was
merely symptomatic. Accordingly, Heidegger’s faith in the Volk’s unfulfilled
mission remains as strong as ever, and he sees the steadfast pursuit of that
mission as offering the only way out of the current misery: ‘And this quite
unusable people would have to become the oldest people, since no-one
would care about it and exploit its strange activity, which is a letting-be, and
thereby misuse it and prematurely use it up’. The lesson Heidegger draws
from the war is as logical as it is astonishing. If the Germans had previously
aped foreign manners in their impatient push for recognition, it is now
(1945!) Germany’s turn to teach the foreigners a thing or two: ‘That is why
we must learn to know the necessity of what is unnecessary and teach it,
as learners, to the peoples’ (Heidegger, 1995: 232–7).
By the time Heidegger came to write his next dialogue, ‘The Occiden-
tal Conversation’ (1946–8), the Volk had been quietly expunged from his
philosophical vocabulary. The upper Danube valley, which Norbert von
Hellingrath had called ‘the most German of landscapes’ (Hellingrath, 1936:
135), sets the scene for a discussion of the poet Heidegger had called ‘the
most German of the Germans’ (Heidegger, 2000a: 333), yet the interlocutors
avoid all talk of things German, as if skirting a taboo topic. The balmy late
summer haze that wreathes the countryside through which they walk
appears likewise to shroud their memory of the recent past, for the dialogue,
unlike its predecessor, shows no trace of the geopolitical or historical circum-
stances under which it was written. Instead, the conversationalists give them-
selves over to a lyrical, apparently timeless meditation on the beauty of the
river sung forth by Hölderlin, such that their measured pacing reconfigures
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Savage: My Own Private Swabia 119

and piously re-enacts the hermeneutic process held fast in the dialogue form
itself: ‘How beautifully it dwells we learn . . . by walking along its bank and
following it’ (Heidegger, 2000b: 177).
The meaning of this silence with regard to the shared ground of their
conversation may be inferred from the revised conception of German
manifest destiny spelled out at the end of the previous dialogue. If no-one
is to ‘care about’ the German Volk, if no-one is to ‘use it up’ as it was used
up under the last regime, then it must efface itself for the sake of its eventual
self-realization. By the end of the dialogue, the veil has already descended.
The fact that the entire world – not: the rest of the world – believes it has
won the war does not imply that Germany, too, has surreptitiously joined
the victory party, but that it has slipped off the map into the shadowy utopia
where it will remain, virtually undisturbed, for the rest of Heidegger’s life.
In the valley of the upper Danube, Heidegger executes the escape plan he
had hatched in the Russian POW camp: that Germany anonymously become
the teacher of the peoples.
These dialogues show Heidegger trying to establish a safe distance
between the conditions of his thinking about the German Volk and the
concurrent breakdown of the German nation-state, a distance that, in
allowing him, Cassandra-like, to expose the hollowness of the free world’s
triumph, helps to relieve some of the anguish of German defeat. Heidegger
focuses upon this second, more optimistic consequence of his diagnosis of
the age in a letter to Rudolf Stadelmann from 20 July 1945. ‘Everyone now
thinks of downfall [Untergang]’, he observes, continuing: ‘We Germans
cannot go under [untergehen] because we have not yet even gone up
[aufgegangen] and must first see through the night’ (Heidegger, 2000a: 371).
While Heidegger’s claim that the Volk’s rise and fall still stand before it may
appear perverse, the thinking behind it is entirely consistent with his earlier
positions. Just as the rapid ascent and belligerent territorial expansion of the
Third Reich should not be confused with the advent of the true Germany –
Hölderlin’s Germany – so its disintegration, unforgettably metonymized in
the images of the capital city reduced to rubble, need not foster the mood
of apocalyptic despair that was endemic at the time. In Heidegger’s account,
the victims of the war fall silently into the cracks that open up between the
centuries-old rebellion of the West and the indefinitely postponed dawning
of the hidden Germany. What is needed, and what the Allied conquest and
occupation of Germany could never deliver, is the authentic Untergang to
be ushered in by Hölderlin, the no longer metaphysical poet, in partnership
with Heidegger, the no longer metaphysical thinker. Two months later,
Heidegger reveals to Stadelmann his conviction ‘that the Occidental spirit
will awaken from out of our Swabian land’ (Heidegger, 2000a: 396).
While ‘The Occidental Conversation’ does not fall under the purview
of Phillips’s study, its narrative strategy is aptly summarized in one of the
book’s most astute and beautifully observed passages. Phillips writes:
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120 Thesis Eleven (Number 87 2006)

‘Romanticism was never far removed from the art of the saboteur. Into the
smooth space of a Europe that revolutionary imperialism first created before
sweeping across it in conquest, the Romantics injected a fatherland inacces-
sible beneath its garbage. Germany thereby reasserted itself in its barbaric
specificity, in the idiocy by which the classical world named that which is
inviolably and unenviably one’s own. Ahead of the invading armies, the
Romantics depopulated the countryside and the people that vanished left
behind only the intractable and indigestible fragments of its superstitions.
Ludwig Tieck’s Märchen are not dissimilar in purpose to the burning of
Moscow’ (Phillips, 2005: 27–8).
‘The Occidental Conversation’, which is not dissimilar in purpose to
Hitler’s command that the Volk go down with him, places itself squarely in
this tradition. Rather than revise his one-sided philosophy of history to
accommodate the lessons of the war, Heidegger takes his leave of history
altogether. The Swabian landscape he so lovingly conjures up is a sterilized
and depopulated fiction, a bunker disguised as a paradise. The war disap-
pears into this unblemished, virginal landscape as though it had never
happened. There is no room here for the hundreds of thousands of displaced
persons who were trudging across German territory at the time in search of
a new home, nor for the millions of dead and those who mourned them.
Instead, the conversation with Hölderlin in which Heidegger invites the
German Volk to participate provides an exit from history onto a virtual
homeland where nothing ever happens. Stranded by the outcome of events
he had hoped to steer, Heidegger was left to repeat a single, plaintive mantra
to anyone willing to listen: read in reverence, dwell in beauty, wait in hope.
As the Volk speeded past on the autobahn to European integration,
‘economic miracle’ and reunification, the philosopher wandered ever deeper
into his own private Swabia in pursuit of the fugitive ‘hints’ and ‘signs’ of
the gods, formulating his insights in an idiolect few could comprehend, until
he finally joined his peasant friend at that uncanny place where words failed
him.

Robert Savage works in the Centre for Comparative Literature and Cultural
Studies, Monash University. For Thesis Eleven (2004: 78), he has also written the
review essay ‘Adorno’s Family and Other Animals’. [email: robert.savage@arts.monash.
edu.au]

References
Adorno, Theodor W. (1973) Philosophische Terminologie. Band 1. Frankfurt/M:
Suhrkamp.
Heidegger, Martin (1977) Sein und Zeit (= GA 2). Frankfurt/M: Klostermann.
Heidegger, Martin (1983) Aus der Erfahrung des Denkens 1910–1976 (= GA 13).
Frankfurt/M: Klostermann.
Heidegger, Martin (1995) Feldweg-Gespräche (= GA 77). Frankfurt/M: Klostermann.
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Savage: My Own Private Swabia 121

Heidegger, Martin (1992) Parmenides (trans. André Schuwer and Richard Rojcewicz).
Bloomington: Indiana University Press.
Heidegger, Martin (2000a) Reden und andere Zeugnisse eines Lebensweges (= GA 16).
Frankfurt/M: Klostermann.
Heidegger, Martin (2000b) Zu Hölderlin. Griechenlandreisen (= GA 75). Frankfurt/M:
Klostermann.
Hellingrath, Norbert von (1936) Hölderlin-Vermächtnis (ed. Ludwig von Pigenot).
Munich: Bruckmann.
Phillips, James (2005) Heidegger’s Volk. Between National Socialism and Poetry.
Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press.