In the name of all the devils in Rotterdam

“By late accounts from Rotterdam, that city seems to be in a high state of philosophical excitement. Indeed, phenomena have there occurred of a nature so completely unexpected – so entirely novel – so utterly at variance with preconceived opinions – as to leave no doubt on my mind that long ere this all Europe is in an uproar, all physics in a ferment, all reason and astronomy together by the ears.

It appears that on the — day of –, (I am not positive about the date,) a vast crowd of people, for purposes not specifically mentioned, were assembled in the great square of the Exchange in the well-conditioned city of Rotterdam. The day was warm – unusually so for the season – there was hardly a breath of air stirring; and the multitude were in no bad humor at being now and then besprinkled with friendly showers of momentary duration, that fell from large white masses of cloud profusely distributed about the blue vault of the firmament. Nevertheless, about noon, a slight but remarkable agitation became apparent in the assembly: the clattering of ten thousand tongues succeeded; and, in an instant afterwards, ten thousand faces were upturned toward the heavens, ten thousand pipes descended simultaneously from the corners of ten thousand mouths, and a shout, which could be compared to nothing but the roaring of Niagara, resounded long, loudly and furiously, through all the city and through all the environs of Rotterdam.

The origin of this hubbub soon became sufficiently evident. From behind the huge bulk of one of those sharply defined masses of cloud already mentioned, was seen slowly to emerge into an open area of blue space, a queer, heterogeneous, but apparently solid substance, so oddly shaped, so whimsically put together, as not to be in any manner comprehended, and never to be sufficiently admired, by the host of sturdy burghers who stood open-mouthed below. What could it be? In the name of all the devils in Rotterdam, what could it possibly portend? No one knew; no one could imagine; no one – not even the burgomaster Mynheer Superbus Von Underduk – had the slightest clew by which to unravel the mystery; so, as nothing more reasonable could be done, every one to a man replaced his pipe carefully in the corner of his mouth, and maintaining an eye steadily upon the phenomenon, puffed, paused, waddled about, and grunted significantly – then waddled back, grunted, paused, and finally – puffed again.

In the meantime, however, lower and still lower towards the goodly city, came the object of so much curiosity, and the cause of so much smoke. In a very few minutes it arrived near enough to be accurately discerned. It appeared to be – yes! it was undoubtedly a species of balloon; but surely no such balloon had ever been seen in Rotterdam before. For who, let me ask, ever heard of a balloon manufactured entirely of dirty newspapers? No man in Holland certainly; yet here, under the very noses of the people, or rather at some distance above their noses, was the identical thing in question, and composed, I have it on the best authority, of the precise material which no one had ever before known to be used for a similar purpose. – It was an egregious insult to the good sense of the burghers of Rotterdam. As to the shape of the phenomenon, it was even still more reprehensible. Being little or nothing better than a huge fool’s-cap turned upside down. And this similitude was regarded as by no means lessened, when upon nearer inspection, the crowd saw a large tassel depending from its apex, and, around the upper rim or base of the cone, a circle of little instruments, resembling sheep-bells, which kept up a continual tinkling to the tune of Betty Martin. But still worse. – Suspended by blue ribbons to the end of this fantastic machine, there hung, by way of car, an enormous drab beaver bat, with a brim superlatively broad, and a hemispherical crown with a black band and a silver buckle. It is, however, somewhat remarkable that many citizens of Rotterdam swore to having seen the same hat repeatedly before; and indeed the whole assembly seemed to regard it with eyes of familiarity; while the vrow Grettel Pfaall, upon sight of it, uttered an exclamation of joyful surprise, and declared it to be the identical hat of her good man himself. Now this was a circumstance the more to be observed, as Pfaall, with three companions, had actually disappeared from Rotterdam about five years before, in a very sudden and unaccountable manner, and up to the date of this narrative all attempts at obtaining intelligence concerning them had failed. To be sure, some bones which were thought to be human, mixed up with a quantity of odd-looking rubbish, had been lately discovered in a retired situation to the east of the city; and some people went so far as to imagine that in this spot a foul murder had been committed, and that the sufferers were in all probability Hans Pfaall and his associates. (…)”

(Edgar Allan Poe: The Unparalleled Adventure Of One Hans Pfaall, 1835)

Paris, 25. August 1943

Später stieg ich noch in das Zimmer des Präsidenten hinauf. Aus Köln zurückkommend, erzählte er, daß man in den Ruinenkellern rheinische Trinkstuben findet, in denen die Ausgebombten sich treffen und eine intensive Gemütlichkeit herrscht. Dort werden von den Zechern die alten Karnevalslieder gesungen – besonders beliebt sei: “Ja, das sind Sächelchen!” Das erinnert an die Lektüre des “König Pest” von E. A. Poe, den man ja überhaupt neben Defoe mit seiner “Pest in London” als einen der Autoren unserer Zeit betrachten kann.

(aus: E. Jünger – Sämtliche Werke, 1. Abteilung, Tagebücher III, Strahlungen II)

Dank für das Zitat an Roland Bergère. Jegliche Zeit ließe sich als unsere Zeit betrachten, da die Zeit ja eine stets nur leicht verändert auftretende Emulsion ihrer selbst (dh ihrer eigenen Zutaten) darstellt, und London und Paris, bliebe anzumerken, sind rheinische Städte, zweifellos, vielleicht die rheinischsten, die es gibt, oder zumindest idealisierte Rheinmetropolen, wie sich überhaupt weltweit viel mehr rheinische Städte und Gegenden finden, als der gemeine Daheimgebliebene vermuten mag – ein erweiterter Rhein(land)begriff ist also vonnöten und längst überfällig. Weiters in Karlsruhe (im typisch trockenen, hart am Drögen schrabbenden Stil, den sich die dortige Lokalpresse über Jahrzehnte erhalten hat) noch von den Bombardierungen der Stadt während des Zweiten Weltkriegs gelesen, wobei von Trinkstubengemütlichkeit und Karneval (respektive Fastnacht) keine Rede war, wohl aber von Tagen gereizter Stimmung und Tagen ungemeiner Solidarität. Als zeit- und volksmundtypische Figur blieb der “Bombenkarle” haften, ein einzelner Alliierter, ein Bomberpilot, der offenbar Überstunden schob und auch außerhalb der organisierten Verbandsflüge hartnäckig die Stadt im Alleingang angriff und den die Karlsruher mit “Karle” attributierten, was soviel wie eine Mischung aus “Kerle” und “Karl Arsch” bedeutet, weil es so einen erdigen (und lokal/real häufig vorkommenden) Namen darstellt – auch in meiner Schulklasse war einst ein Karle und potenzierte das badentypische in seinem Ruf- wie Nachnamen, noch dazu in seiner Person. Der Bombenkarle wurde also durch seine Karlsruheisierung zu einem der “Hiesigen” gemacht und dadurch entschärft, wenn auch nicht gleich bewundert. Über seine Abschußerfolge stand nichts zu lesen.