[In the following essay, Furness presents an overview of Expressionist drama and its treatment of religion, noting that its main theme may be summed up as “the revolt of the spirit against reality.”]

In Reinhard Sorge's The Beggar, a play written in 1910 and performed some five years later, a discussion between various literati in the obligatory coffee-house turns upon a recent dramatic work which is regarded as trivial, typical of an age whose writers lack, ‘the intense confirmation from the Beyond’ and ‘the Spiritual’; the third critic puts forward the following categorical statement: ‘We are waiting for someone to interpret our destiny anew—this is a dramatist whom I would call truly great. Our Haupt-Mann, you see, is impressive as an artist, but limited as a prophet.’¹ What is needed, the critic believes, is one to interpret the symbols, a seer and prophet, instrument of mantological divination. And the protagonist of this play, ‘the Poet’ himself, as incarnation of pure feeling, will stride through various stations and experiences in his attempt to speak through symbols of eternity: imperious visions will alternate with fervent humiliation in this quest. We have in this exemplary play the rejection of art as mimesis or as entertainment and a fusion of art and theology, a heady synthesis indeed, made even more perfervid when millennial utopias are added.

It will be my intention to look at certain expressionist plays in an attempt to understand the predilection of authors commonly accepted as having been Expressionists at some time in their lives for topoi, symbols, figures and situations which have a religious dimension: whatever else Expressionism was, it was not such a radical break with the past as has hitherto been suggested, and it frequently betrays symbolist, neo-romantic or indeed romantic elements. With hindsight it may appear that it was naturalism which was a jejune impasse: with its insistence upon versimilitude, plausibility and tactile impressionism it could not for long satisfy those who sought to portray transcendental realities, the inner life, the visionary and the ecstatic. Heirs to the Romantics the Expressionists may be, not necessarily neurotic and terminally violent as a recent study has argued,² but certainly intense, subjective and fervent. We remember that John Willett's book on Expressionism had as its cover a detail from Matthias Grünewald's Crucifixion:³ the twisted agony of distortion and the intensity of religious expressiveness are here an appropriate emblem.

A good starting point for discussion would be the revival of mysticism in the late nineteenth century, the rejection of materialism and of a one-sided, mechanistic portrayal of the universe. Wagner's Parsifal is paradigmatic here, a work whose sultry religiosity appealed greatly to the decadents but which prepared the way for the consecration plays of Stefan George (The Acceptance into the Order, for example), the mystery of plays of Rudolf Steiner (The Portals of Consecration, 1907; The Testing of the Soul, 1911; The Guardian of the Door, 1912; and The Soul's Awakening, all performed in Munich) and the soul-dramas of a writer like Alfred Mombert (Aeon). Wagner's essay ‘Religion und Kunst’, published in the Bayreuther Blätter in October 1880 argued that it was the duty of art to come to the rescue of religion when the latter had ceased to have meaning for the populace, since art was able, through the manipulation of redolent symbols, to communicate an aura of mystery and wonder. Hermann Bahr's acute analysis of modernism in the Studies towards a Critique of Modernism, 1894, stressed above all the ‘powerful movement away from superficial, crude naturalism’ and the ‘febrile search for the mystical’, the need to ‘exprimer l'inexprimable’ and ‘saisir l'insaisissable’: the new writers were ‘not by chance Wagnerians’.⁴ The movement towards what may be called neo-romanticism is transparent here, but our concern is with Expressionism: the links, however, are close, and writers not normally associated with the latter movement may well have prepared the way (we think of Hofmannsthal's Everyman) for the more strident eructations to follow. The theatre as temple—this Bayreuth-Idee was adumbrated in The Beggar—or as podium for the proclamation of some kind of ‘world-redemptive vision’ (political? ideological?) would increasingly usurp the theatre as mere representation or recreation. This will become manifestly apparent.

We have mentioned Wagner; Nietzsche is of equal importance here. Sorge's fusion of visionary fervour and ruthless idealism is reminiscent of the work of Ludwig Derleth. Like Derleth he was overwhelmed by Nietzsche's ecstatic dithyrambs and composed his own Zarathustra in 1911, a dramatic ‘impression’ in which the writer arrogates to himself the right to create and destroy at will. (Odysseus, a ‘dramatische Phantasie’ of the same year, is dedicated to ‘the prophet of the Eternal Recurrence, Friedrich Nietzsche’.) Another ‘dramatische Dichtung’, Antichrist, quotes Nietzsche's last utterance as a motto: ‘Do you understand me? Dionysus against the crucified’. Guntwar, a Becoming, also of 1911, continues the portrayal of mystical Entselbstung (voiding of self) combined with a Nietzschean arrogance—this fusion of Zarathustra and Christ is a concept which fascinated many German writers at this time and is even attempted by the eponymous hero of Joseph Goebbels's novel Michael. It may be argued that any cosmogony or mythopoeic vision composed after Nietzsche's masterpiece must needs have felt the centripetal pull of that powerful creation; such was the force of Nietzsche's language that his imagery was indelibly imprinted upon the poetry of the following three decades. The declamatory and pseudo-biblical style of Also sprach Zarathustra will reverberate through literature and music before the First World War—the god-destroyer is also the god-seeker, and German expressionist theatre will provide many examples of vatic afflatus, frequently febrile. Sorge believed there was something Christ-like about Nietzsche's agony despite the latter's furious tirades against orthodox Christianity; to those starved of symbols and lacking the sustaining power of religious faith Nietzsche's own fusion of poetry, myth and cosmic vision offered a stimulating and awe-inspiring substitute. Dionysus-Christ-Zarathustra uplifted and challenged the imagination of many who found no fulfilment in the contemplation of drab social issues. After The Beggar Sorge's Catholicism became paramount: The Birth of the Soul and Metanoeite (the latter term being taken from Matthew, Chapter Three, verses 1-2 and meaning ‘repent ye’) are works of Christian apologetics couched in the form of Christian dialogues. Sorge prepared himself for the priesthood, but was killed at the battle of the Somme in 1916.

Important for Sorge and for many other expressionist playwrights was the influence of Strindberg. Strindberg had undergone a crisis when living alone in Paris and occupied himself with alchemical and occult studies: this crisis is described in Inferno, 1897. The period of reorientation which ensued, and the study of Swedenborg (the metaphysical play Beyond by Hasenclever, written in 1919, also owes much to the Swedish mystic) found expression in the plays Advent, 1899, Easter, 1900, and above all To Damascus, 1898-1901; subsequent plays which portray a mystical process of self-discovery include Ghost Sonata, 1907, and The Great Highway, 1909. I have written elsewhere of Strindberg's great importance in any enquiry into the roots of the anti-naturalistic tendency in the theatre;⁵ between 1913 and 1915 there were one thousand and thirty-five performances of twenty-four different plays by Strindberg in Germany alone, and it was in Germany that Strindberg's expressionistic direction was to be developed and modified. To Damascus portrays the soul's struggle to find and transcend itself, the ‘characters’ being mere emanations from that soul, symbolising powers with whom the Unknown One is in combat. The canons of naturalism—the demand for plausibility and inner logic—are totally ignored, and an intense subjectivity prevails. The beggar, the woman, the doctor and the madman all represent aspects of the Unknown One's psyche, and they move before him on his journey of self-exploration. They can be called symbols—the beggar is that degradation which the protagonist fears and yet which is necessary for his rebirth; he is the embodiment of the Unknown One's repressed thoughts, the reminder of the possibility of an existence towards which the hero must move (we find a similar process in the scene with the penitents at the end of Georg Kaiser's From Morning till Midnight). The woman would be the link with life, a fusion of the sexual and the sublime which torments and inspires; the doctor represents the Unknown One's arrogance and pride (he is, incidentally, based upon Nietzsche, with whom Strindberg had briefly corresponded at the time of the former's mental collapse).

The concept of life as a great highway (Strindberg's Stora Landsvagen), along which a wanderer passes through various stages of martyrdom, represents frequently a secularised mystery-play, and Georg Kaiser comes forcibly to mind, a playwright whose work dominated the German theatre between the years 1917 and 1923. In Kaiser the idea of social reform is only of secondary importance—a Nietzschean self-overcoming, a spiritual regeneration must come first before society can be changed. The Citizens of Calais was first performed at the Neues Theater, Frankfurt am Main, in January 1917. This closely-argued condemnation of war culminates in a final tableau which, assisted by the lighting, emphasises the Christ-like sublimity of the moral victor and points at resurrection and ascension. Kaiser's most famous play, From Morning till Midnight, received its première three months later in Munich. It is a Stationendrama à la Strindberg, and with each ‘station’ the grotesque element becomes increasingly apparent. Symbols of death accompany the bank-clerk's frenzied course; betrayed by the Salvation Army girl he shoots himself before a crucifix, and his dying words sound like ‘Ecce Homo’. The blasts on the trumpet which intersperse his final peroration seem to herald a last judgement. In Hell Way Earth, which was put on simultaneously in Berlin and Munich on 5 December 1919, we find a Spazierer (Wanderer) who passes through the various stages of capitalist society to found a new utopia; a bridge is crossed and the people, bathed in ‘a radiant light’, are transfigured in a luminous effulgence. At this point in Kaiser's work there is much talk of ‘Transformation’, ‘Breakthrough’, ‘Renewal’, ‘Conversion’, ‘Awakening’: the New Man, whatever else he may be, is a vision of some sort of spiritual regeneration, diffuse but intense. Kaiser is not alone here—the work of Pär Lagerkvist (The Difficult Hour, 1918, and The Secret of Heaven, 1919) shares a kindred preoccupation. And Paul Kornfeld's Heaven and Hell, 1919—the title is derived from Strindberg's Legender, where the latter speaks of Swedenborg's De coelo et inferno—has as its epilogue the Count's wanderings through the wilderness in search of Redemption. Kornfeld's essay ‘The soul-inspired and the psychological man’, a manifesto published in Das junge Deutschland in 1918, insists on an abstraction from reality and an emphasis on essential, that is, spiritual essences. A great gulf emerges between ‘Here’ and ‘the Beyond’; and the belief that, to quote Georg Kaiser, ‘Ultimate value lies beyond human affairs’⁶ becomes part of the stock-in-trade of many dramatists of this time.

Strindberg died in 1912. In that same year the German sculptor and dramatist Ernst Barlach wrote his first play, the ghostly The Dead Day. Barlach had settled in the small town of Güstrow in Mecklenburg in 1910. He was not an avid theatre-goer but had read his Strindberg and greatly admired Hauptmann's ‘Traumdichtung’, Little Hannah's Ascension (he had come across a performance, quite by chance, in the Residenz Theater in Dresden in 1894). Goethe's Faust had always overwhelmed him, particularly Part Two: Max Reinhardt had staged the complete work in the Deutsches Theater, Berlin, in 1905 and had, incidentally, been most effective in the realisation of the plays of Strindberg, successfully touring Sweden in 1911 and again in 1917. The fusion of the real and the visionary in Hauptmann's play impressed Barlach deeply; a letter refers to the sense of intoxication he experienced after seeing it, and the sensation of feeling like a spirit that has stripped off its earthly raiment, flying now on free wings above the earth. The Dead Day has six characters—three humans, and three gnome-like figures, one of whom is invisible. The action takes place in darkness or semi-darkness. The dramatic exploration of the interaction of supernatural forces, some grotesque and menacing, others benign, culminates in the knowledge of The Son that his longing for the Father-principle is a longing for transcendence. Although he perishes, the gnome Steissbart proclaims that God is the Father of Man. The next play, The Poor Cousin of 1918 (originally called The Easter-People) gives a very plausible picture of an Easter outing on the banks of the Lower Elbe, but also exemplifies Barlach's concept of ‘the growing excarnation of essential Man’. Fräulein Isenbarn becomes transfigured as the ‘handmaiden of a higher Master’, realism having given way to mystery and ultimate redemption. The Dead Day equates the Mother with earth and the Father with spirit; The Poor Cousin talks of Easter and resurrection, a tension between ‘Here’ and ‘Beyond’ in an overtly Christian manner. The sculptures of Barlach are similar in their portrayal of heavy, earthbound figures who nevertheless aspire towards visionary awareness: Der Ekstatiker is a good example here. The Dead Day, with the clash of the generations (here mother/son) is very much of its time, but in this play the conflict is sublimated into a religious dichotomy. And although Barlach is convinced of man's higher derivation there is a unity of the physical and the spiritual in his work which saves it from whimsy and bizarre eccentricity. Reality, even if it is only ‘a fart of the Lord’, is ‘still a part of Him’.⁷

It is not only in times of crisis that religious awareness is quickened: we have seen this tendency emerge long before the First World War. But the years of conflict, suffering and collapse necessarily meant an intensification. Wolfgang Rothe, in an excellent article entitled ‘Man before God: Expressionism and Theology’,⁸ discusses what he calls ‘Weltfrömmigkeit’ (world-piety) and the debasement of such words as ‘Heart’, ‘Soul’, ‘Sun’, ‘Light’, in both the poets and the dramatists in the years during and immediately after the First World War. Old Testament themes and figures are found in Friedrich Wolf, Arno Nadel and Stefan Zweig—the year 1917 saw Wolf's The Lion of God, Nadel's Adam and Stefan Zweig's Jeremias: A Dramatic Poem in Nine Scenes.

Another element, one which might be called the ‘existentialist-ecstatic’, with an emphasis on the I/Thou relationship, not merely with sexual but also religious overtones, is seen in Kokoschka's The Burning Bush, performed in 1917, and also in August Stramm's Happened, with its ‘He’, a blind wanderer who comes from somewhere beyond the stars and who dies in the arms of ‘She’: the final tableau (where ‘She’ stammers ‘I Thou You Me … We!’) is meant to represent a pietà, as is the ending of Kokoschka's play. Hasenclever's Beyond, performed in Leipzig in 1920, is little more than a staccato, passionate interchange between two symbolic characters surrounded by hallucinatory effects (dissolving walls, trees growing into windows and looming shadows) and involved in a mystical, nebulous presentation of life and death. An interest in Jewish themes was awakened after the war by the writings of Martin Buber; Karl Barth's rigorous theology similarly brought Christian themes to the fore. But the collapse of Germany in November 1918, the establishment of the Weimar Republic, the turmoil of violence unleashed upon the streets during the fighting between extremist factions, the fervent and hectic optimism and the strident cry for brotherhood, created an atmosphere in which utopias, dystopias and chiliastic visions met in zymogenous confusion. It is a convention that earlier Expressionism gave way at this time to a more active, political attitude, but it would be unsubtle to claim that politics ousted everything—if the new republic was meant to introduce a Heaven on Earth, then priests, prophets and god-seekers were not so easily exorcised.

Ernst Toller's The Transformation, 1918, is an exemplary Stationendrama, which reverberates with Nietzschean imagery and culminates, Zarathustra-like, in the market place where a vision is preached of universal love; religious ecstasy triumphs, for it is the God in Man that must be redeemed for a new millennium to dawn. Most remarkable is Johannes R. Becher's play Workers Peasants Soldiers, 1921. The title leads the audience or readers to expect ‘Agitprop’ theatre, but the subtitle ‘A People's Breakthrough to God’, and the fact that the play (or Festspiel) was meant to belong to a trilogy Um Gott gives the work an extra dimension, ‘Wandlung’, ‘Licht’, ‘Ekstase’—these familiar topoi provide yet further examples of ‘O Gott’ (rather than ‘O Mensch’) drama—or, better, an uncomfortable fusion of humanity and divinity prevails at this time. Werfel's Mirror Man trilogy of 1920 implies that expressionistic idealism could merely be a monstrous self-delusion or self-obsession; the second part very skilfully portrays the chaos of beliefs associated with the expressionist years—religious longing, according to Werfel, was fused with political activism, primitivism, quietism, Buddhism and theosophy.

Ludwig Rubiner's The Powerless Ones, 1919, is again shot through with light symbolism, as is Fritz von Unruh's Platz, 1920. The Manichean division of the world into Light and Darkness will undeniably assume a political flavour; it is the fervour with which the new age was greeted which, almost of necessity, took on a religious atmosphere of hope and transcendental expectation. But the subjectivity, mysticism, and what may be called a religious concern for the soul of man struggling to free itself not only from the bonds of capitalism but even from life itself, could not be maintained at white heat and fever pitch for long—the collapse into bathos was perhaps inevitable, and the cosmic element receded as the years of crisis gave way to a more stable form of government. Aktuelles Theater—Toller's Such is Life! of 1927 is a good example—offered a satirical and flippant view of society in the Weimar Republic, an equivalent of the Neue Sachlichkeit of G. F. Hartlaub; Hasenclever's lively comedy Marriages are made in Heaven is eight years and as many light years away from Beyond. Where are the Gottsucher now, the visionaries, the prophets of the imminent excarnation of essential man? Would they survive the trauma of 1933 to greet the ‘1000-year Reich’ as the new Millennium?

Sorge had, as has been stated, been killed at the battle of the Somme in 1916; Georg Kaiser fled Nazi Germany and died in Switzerland in 1945; Barlach died in isolation and obscurity in 1938 (his sculptures were exhibited in the Entartete Kunst [Degenerate Art] exhibition of 1937); Hasenclever fled to France where he committed suicide in 1940; Kornfeld was transported from Prague to Lodz were he died in 1942; Toller went into exile and committed suicide in 1939; Arno Nadel was murdered in Auschwitz in 1943; Stefan Zweig committed suicide in 1942. Rubiner had died in 1920; Friedrich Wolf survived the Third Reich and returned to East Germany to work in the theatre before his death in 1953. It appears that the rise of Nazism was the death knell of Expressionism, but we must be more subtle here. The Jewish element was of course, reviled, as was the left-wing utopianism, but Expressionism is a complex phenomenon and the links between it and Nazism should not be overlooked. The hero of Joseph Goebbels's Michael had argued that ‘We men of today are all expressionists, men who wish to mould the outer world from within. The expressionist builds a new world within himself. It is fervour which is his secret and his power.’⁹ The rejection of stultifying intellectualism, the praise of Van Gogh and Dostoevsky, the worship of energy and the use of images derived from Also sprach Zarathustra display obvious expressionist features. Goebbels had also written a drama Heinrich Kampfert and left parts of a religious play Judas Iscariot.

A dramatist who acted as a bridge between Expressionism and National Socialism is Hanns Johst. Johst had been very much of his time with his expressionist plays The Youthful One: An ecstatic Scenario of 1916 and the Grabbe play The Lonely One: The fall of a Man of the following year. Johst's Schlageter, performed on Hitler's birthday in 1933 and dedicated to him in ‘loving veneration and unswerving loyalty’ is blatantly propagandistic in the idealisation of the title-figure; expressionist elements are still present in the final scene of the tableau-like setting, the hyperbole and the emotional intensity; Thomas Paine, 1927, had also betrayed exaggerated and visionary elements. But of greater importance for our argument is the role of mystery plays in the theatre of Nazi Germany, Thingspiele whose cultic, festive quality owes much to earlier models (Gottfried Keller's remarkable essay ‘Am Mythenstein’, written after a visit to the Schillerfest am Mythenstein, called for a new, national, festive theatre, the resuscitation of ancient myths and legends). Some may feel it inappropriate, indeed blasphemous, to imply that any aspect of Nazism could be called ‘religious’, but totalitarian regimes have a pseudo-devotional aura about them, some cosmic reference which prefers mythology to history. The following statement is attributed to Adolf Hitler: ‘I create my religion out of Parsifal. Worship in a solemn form. One can only serve God in the robes of a hero.’¹⁰

Richard Euringer's German Passion, 1933, originally a Hörspiel (or Hörwerk), combines the tradition of the open-air stage with choric recitation, fanfares, circus-effects and mystical ‘Devotion’. Euringer conceived of the theatre as a ‘Theatre of Nature’, embracing fire, earth, water and air, the constellations and spirits of tribal deities: the people were to see presented before them an enactment of their chthonic origins. If the theatre of Weimar had concerned itself merely with ladies' underwear, sex, drunkenness, mental illness, decadence and materialism (I am grateful to J. M. Ritchie for Johst's comments here),¹¹ then the new Reich was to project cosmic, cultic verities. The characters of Euringer's play include ‘the Unknown Soldier’, ‘Worker’, ‘Hag’, ‘War Invalid’, ‘Girl’, ‘Children’ and ‘Mother’. The German people, undermined by bolshevism and international Jewry, will nevertheless be saved: the unknown Soldier rises from his grave, a crown of barbed wire upon his head. He ascends into heaven, and the Evil Spirit is overthrown.

Kurt Eggers's Play of Job the German is a similar work, where ‘the Lord of Hosts’ promises ‘the Evil Spirit’ domination over the earth if he could succeed in tempting Job the German to renounce his belief in Him: war, plague, poverty, sickness and despair test the faithful Teuton who nevertheless triumphs and is chosen by ‘the Lord of Lords’ to rule over the earth.

One further example of a quasi-religious experience is E. W. Möller's The Dice Game of Frankenburg of 1936 which, although it is based on an incident from the seventeenth century, portrays trial and atonement in the manner of Georg Kaiser (The Citizens of Calais). J. M. Ritchie has well described the première at the time of the Berlin Olympic Games.¹² To return to Euringer: his Totentanz, 1934, harks back to the ‘Walpurgisnacht’ scene of Goethe's Faust in the rhythmical, dynamic alternation of pithy stichomythia: it describes the cleansing of ‘Nihilists’, ‘Pacifists’, ‘Pimps’, ‘Bank robbers’ from the temple of life, and the triumph of Nordic man.

Let us pause here. To what extent may these choric mystery-plays-cum-oratorios be called ‘expressionist’? If Expressionism is a movement towards abstraction, towards the typical and the essential rather than the personal and the individual; if it exemplifies a predilection for ecstasy and despair, and hence a tendency towards the inflated and the grotesque; if it turns towards a mystic element with apocalyptic overtones; if the urgent sense of the here and now is seen not from any naturalistic standpoint, but sub specie aeternitatis; if there is a revolutionary fervour in it, an aspect of the atavistic, the passionate and the radical—then Thingtheater must surely lay claim to inclusion in the history of expressionist theatre.

Echoing Richard Wagner, Alfred Rosenberg claimed that ‘it is only in Europe that art becomes a true medium of transcendence, a religion in itself’.¹³ When art and religion interlock, then there indeed are some very strange hybrids. The use of massed choruses, marching, music and declamation produced a form of Gesamtkunstwerk which aimed at an all-embracing experience, a sense of communion and ritual. What was new, of course, was the nationalistic element, the fatherland elevated to mythological status, and the belief in the mysterious supremacy of Nordic man. The international, left-wing aspects of Expressionism belong, it seems, in a different category altogether. If Expressionism is the eruption of the most general emotions, passions and virtues, with love of humanity, brotherliness and willingness for self-sacrifice to the fore, then the Thingspiele, in their mystical nationalism, stand at one remove—no ‘O Mensch’ pathos, but ‘O deutscher Mensch’.

Expressionism may be defined as the revolt of the spirit against reality. The soul under stress, racked and burning in some fearful incandescence, or longing for some nebulous excarnation, are its most striking hallmarks. Sorge's young hero longed for an ultimate vision beyond reality; Hasenclever strove to portray a ‘Beyond’; Kaiser described the quest for some transcendental awareness, his heroes moving through stages of martyrdom; Kornfeld insisted on der beseelte Mensch (the soul-endowed man); Barlach sought Easter and Resurrection; Becher and others conceived of a new age with its deification of man; the Third Reich was portrayed by some in terms more appropriate to a medieval mystery play. And Bayreuth and Dornach, Thingspiel and ritual Festspiel, and Faust II provide a fascinating counterpoint. It is very much removed from our own time which is attracted above all by the (frequently aberrant) sexual daring of much expressionist writing, also by the cult of violence in many of the plays. But the god-seekers should not be forgotten, however singular the epiphanies they sought, for it is they who give to modern German literature its most distinctive voice.

Notes

1. R. Sorge, Werke in 3 Bänden, Nuremberg, 1964, II, p. 23.

2. C. Walker, Expressionist Poetry and its Critics, London, 1986, p. 167.

3. Willett, Expressionism.

4. H. Bahr, in Literarische Manifeste der Jahrhundertwende, E. Ruprecht and D. Bänsch (eds), Stuttgart 1970, p. 191.

5. R. Furness, Expressionism, London, 1973, pp. 5-7.

6. Quoted in B. Kenworthy, Georg Kaiser, Oxford, 1957, p. 101.

7. J. H. Reid, ‘The Halves and the Whole: Another look at Ernst Barlach's Der arme Vetter, The Modern Language Review, LXXII, 1977, p. 626.

8. In W. Rothe (ed.), Expressionismus als Literatur, Berne and Munich, 1969, pp. 37-66.

9. J. Goebbels, Michael: Ein deutsches Schicksal in Tagebuchblättern, Munich 1933, p. 42.

10. Quoted in J. Fest, Hitler, Frankfurt am Main, 1973, p. 683.

11. J. Ritchie, German Literature under National Socialism, London, 1983, p. 101.

12. Ibid., p. 106.

13. Quoted in U. Ketelsen, Von heroischem Sein und völkischem Tod, Bonn, 1970, p. 43.