CHAPTER ONE
The Mediated War
Karl Krausâs The Last Days of Mankind
My business is to pin down the Age between quotation marks.
What has been proposed here is nothing less than a drainage system for the huge swamps of phraseology.
KARL KRAUS, Die Fackel1
Act 1, scene 1. The stage directions read, âVienna. Ringstrasse at Sirk Corner. Flags wave from the buildings. Loud acclamation for soldiers marching by universal excitement. The crowd breaks up into small groups.â The newsboys with their âExtra, Extra,â announcing the outbreak of war, are interrupted by a drunk demonstrator who shouts, âDown with Serbia! Hurrah for the Habsburgs! Hurrah! For S-e-r-bia!â and is immediately kicked in the pants for his mistake. A crook and a prostitute exchange insults, as two army contractors, talking of possible bribes the rich will use to avoid the draft, cite Bismarckâs words, in the Neue Freie Presse (Viennaâs major newspaper at the time of the assassination of the archduke in Serbia), to the effect that the Austrians deserve kissing. One officer tells another that war is âunanwendbarâ (of no use) when he really means, as his friend points out, âunabwendbarâ (unavoidable). A patriotic citizen praises the coming conflict as a holy war of defense against âencirclementâ by hostile forces, and the crowd responds by making up rhymes (in Viennese dialect), denigrating the enemy:
STIMMEN AUS DER MENGE: Serbien muĂ sterbien . . . A jeder muĂ Sterbien!
EINER AUS DER MENGE: Und a jeder RuĂâ
EIN ANDERER (brĂŒlend):âein GenuĂ!
EIN DRITTER: An StuĂ! (GelĂ€chter)
EIN VIERTER: An SchuĂ!
DER ZWEITE: Und a jeder Franzos?
DER DRITTE: A RoĂ! (GelĂ€chter)
DER VIERTE: An StoĂ!
ALLE: Bravo! An StoĂ! So is!
DER DRITTE: Und a jeder Trittâna, jeder Britt!
DER VIERTE: An Tritt!
ALLE: Sehr guat! An Britt fĂŒr jeden Tritt! Bravo!
VOICES IN THE CROWD: Serbia must die. . . . Each one must die.
MAN IN THE CROWD: And every Rusky
ANOTHER: (shouting): Fun for usky!
A THIRD: What a hoot! (laughter)
A FOURTH: In with the boot!
THE SECOND: And every Frog?
THE THIRD: Dies like a dog. (laughter)
THE FOURTH: Kick him!
ALL: BRAVO! Kick him!
THE THIRD: Kick after kickâfor every Britt!
THE FOURTH: Attention!
ALL: Terr-ific! A Britt for every kick! Bravo!2
If this dialogue, written in 1915, strikes us as cleverly mimetic of street slang, think again. For the rhymed insults of the Russians, French, and British were actually taken from a German cartoon postcard (August 25, 1914), in which two soldiers wearing spiked helmets (here designated as Willi and Karl) are attacking the enemy (figure 2).3
Reframed, the verses appear in what is probably the firstâand perhaps the most remarkableâdocumentary drama written: Karl Krausâs devastating Die letzten Tage der Menschheit (The Last Days of Mankind). Krausâs dialogue, as in the scene above, sounds colloquial and nothing if not ânatural,â representing as it does a variety of linguistic registers based on social class, ethnicity, geographical origin, and profession. But a large part of the play is drawn from actual documents, whether newspaper dispatches, editorials, public proclamations, minutes of political meetings, or manifestos, letters, picture postcards, and interviewsâindeed, whatever constituted the written record of the World War I years. âThe most improbable deeds reported here,â writes Kraus in his preface, âactually took place. . . . The most implausible conversations in this play were spoken verbatim; the shrillest inventions are quotationsâ (Russell, 20; LTM, 9). The technique is montage: quotations from Shakespeare and Goethe are interspersed with cabaret song, patriotic ode, tableau vivant, vaudeville, puppet play, and, in the later acts, even photomontage so as to create a strange hybridâpart tragedy, part operetta, part carnival, part political tractâin which âhighâ and âlowâ come together in a new blend. âA document,â as Kraus puts it, âis a character; reports rise up as living forms while the living die as editorials; the feuilleton gains a mouth and delivers its own monologue; clichĂ©s stand on two legsâsome men are left with only oneâ (Russell, 20â21; LTM, 9). And throughout, the comic, the hilarious, the grotesque, the surreal dominate. âIn Berlin,â as Kraus had famously quipped, âthings are serious but not hopeless. In Vienna, they are hopeless but not serious.â4
In his analysis of the role the media play in disseminating the case for war, Kraus is startlingly contemporary: turn on CNN at this moment and you find yourself witnessing the spin familiar to readers of Krausâs devastating exposures of mediaspeak in his own famous paper Die Fackel (plate 4) as well as in Last Days of Mankindâa spin made possible, as Kraus knew only too well, by the simple fact that journalists are never held responsible for the accuracy of their reports, much less their predictions. When, for example, CNNâs Anderson Cooper was covering the Egyptian uprising of January 2011, he couldnât say enough about the marvels of the Arab Spring with its âFacebook Revolutionâ and ostensible thirst for âdemocracy.â Today, with the el-Sisi military dictatorship in full command, Cooperâs evening dispatches almost wholly ignore the Egyptian situation (thereâs now ISIS and Syria to cover!), as if the CNN anchor had always known the Arab Spring was doomed. How information is disseminated in a world where truth is subject to the daily news cycle: this is the condition Kraus tackled with uncanny prescience.
The large-scale reliance on citation and documentary âevidenceâ distinguishes The Last Days of Mankind from its avant-garde counterparts in Russia, Italy, and France. Unlike the zaum (beyond-sense) poetry of the Russian avant-garde, unlike the parole in libertĂ and âdestruction of syntaxâ of Italian Futurism, or the fragmentation, hyperbolic ânon-sense,â and elaborate verbal play of Dada, in both its French and German incarnations,5 Krausâs writing opts for the seeming transparency of coherent sentences and ânormalâ paragraphs. His political manifestos in Die Fackel are written in straightforward prose rather than experimenting with innovative typographical page design as do F. T. Marinetti and Tristan Tzara. But Krausâs satiric vision depends as much as theirs upon the technology and dissemination of printed matter only recently made available to poets and artists of his moment, and he made the most of it so as to convey what Karl Kraus called the unimaginableâa world of war whose purpose was never really defined and yet which literally shattered the lives of the empireâs citizenry. Indeed, rupture for the citizens of the Dual Monarchy was much more extreme than for Germany, which did not, after all, forfeit its basic identity: its geographic and ethnic prewar contours, like those of France and Great Britain, remained essentially intact.
The unimaginable had been anticipated by Kraus as soon as the war broke out in August 1914. In Die Fackel for December 5, 1914, the lead article was called âIn dieser groĂen Zeitâ and begins as follows:
In this great Time
which I still remember when it was so small; which will become small again if there is enough time, and which, because in the realm of organic growth no such transformation is possible, we prefer to address as a fat time and also a hard time; in this time where the very thing happens that one could not imagine, and in which that must happen which one can no longer imagine, and could one imagine it, it wouldnât happenâ; in this serious time which died laughing at the possibility that it could become serious: which, surprised by its tragedy, longed for distraction, and which, catching itself engaging in some new action, searches for words; in this loud time, which threatens to disclose the horrible symphony of deeds, to bring forward reportsâreports that lead to action: in this time you should not expect a single word from me. . . . Let him who has something to say come forward and be silent.6
The unimaginable war is not mentioned once in this anti-manifesto, which generates mutations on the word time (Zeit), repeated here eight timesâa time that from Krausâs particular perspective was entirely out of joint. His, it should be noted, was a wholly atypical reaction to the Great War: from Rainer Marie Rilkeâs patriotic âFĂŒnf Gesangeâ (âFive Songsâ), which begins with the words âZum ersten Mal seh ich dich aufstehn / hörengesagter fernster unglaublicher Krieger-Gottâ (For the first time I see you stand up / you legendary most distant unbelievable Warrior-God), to Hugo von Hoffmansthalâs âĂsterreichâs Antwortâ (Austriaâs Reply), the initial response of Austrian writers to the outbreak of war was enthusiastic support. Even Robert Musil, later to take such a different stance, wrote in 1914,
A new feeling was born. . . . A stunning sense of belonging tore our hearts from our hands. . . . Now we feel gathered into a ball, fused together by an inexpressible humility, in which the individual suddenly counts for nothing besides his elementary task of defending the tribe. This feeling must always have been present: it has now awakened . . . a bliss; and over and above its earnestness, a huge security and joy.7
Here and elsewhere Austrian writers echoed their German counterparts, the most famous (or perhaps infamous) example being Thomas Mann, whose 1914 essay âThoughts in Wartimeâ (âGedanken im Kriegeâ) argued that the resort to war was entirely justified, a tremendous creative event that would bring about national unity, moral elevation, and the values of genuine âculture,â as represented by Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, and Wagner, vis-Ă -vis the shallow âcivilizationâ of a corrupt France and England.8
When, in the late war years, artists and writers began to understand the very real horror of the Great War, they turned their attention from politics and culture to the ordeal of those who had actually fought in the trenches. Here the most striking German work was Ernst JĂŒngerâs The Storm of Steel (In Stahlgewittern) of 1920, with its graphic account of frontline combat. By the time Eric Maria Remarqueâs pacifist All Quiet on the Western Front (Im Westen Nichts Neues) was published in 1928, the mood had shifted completely. âThis book,â says Remarque in a headnote to what was to become an international best seller and later a celebrated film, âis to be neither an accusation nor a confession, and least of all an adventure, for death is not an adventure to those who stand face to face with it. It will try...